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‘I wouldn’t know! I, Mr Linton, am not an Indian! I am an English gentleman of good breeding.’
‘What a shame.’
‘Put something on immediately! That is an order!’
I put a finger to my arm. It came away sticky, covered with a nice, brownish extra layer. ‘I have plenty on.’
‘I meant clothing, not half-dried mud!’
‘Doesn’t that count?’
‘No!’
I smiled at him innocently. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry, I’m a bit behind on Brazilian fashion.’
‘I’m serious, Mr Linton!’
‘So am I.’ I took a step forward, still smiling. ‘You had better get used to seeing me like this. After all, we still have a long way ahead of us.’
‘What?’ He tried to glare at me without looking at me, which even for a glarer as experienced as Rikkard Ambrose is something of an impossible feat. ‘You are not travelling the rest of the way like a…like…like this!’
‘I most certainly am.’ I took another step forward, my smile slowly morphing from amused to flirtatious. ‘Don’t you like me like this, Sir?’
‘No!’
‘Liar.’
He said nothing in answer. Silence reigned in the jungle, loud and clear. I saw his throat move as he swallowed hard.
‘Why won’t you look at me, Sir?’
‘You know perfectly well why!’ Was it just my imagination, or was his voice the slightest bit hoarse? ‘Put some clothes on, right now!’
‘Actually, I don’t think I will.’ I took another step forward.
‘Don’t come any closer! I’m warning you!’
‘Why?’
He took a quick step back, right into the stream. Water splashed around his black shoes that, somehow, even here in the jungle were still shiny. ‘Because…because…’
‘No need to be afraid.’ I placed a hand on my chest, right over my heart. When I pulled it away, it left a very strategically placed bare patch. ‘It’s just me.’
‘Yes. Just you. Nothing else. That’s the problem!’ He took another step back into the stream, his eyes focused firmly on the treetops above my head. ‘And I am not afraid of a girl!’
‘Indeed?’ Another step forward. ‘Then why don’t you stop?’
‘Because…because…’
His teeth ground together in the fruitless search for an answer. He shifted, torn between the instinct to run, the instinct to fight, and the instinct to peek. I took another step forward, quite curious to see which instinct would win.
He took another step back, but only a small one. He was knee-deep in water now, and I was only a few yards away from him. It was becoming quite difficult for him to not look at me. Tension sparked through the air.
‘Mr Ambrose?’
My voice was soft. Breathy. I had come here with the intention of having a bit of fun at his expense - but now that didn’t seem so important anymore. I suddenly realised that we were alone, far away from the others, and the protective covering of mud on my skin wasn’t at all as thick as I had thought. When I had been with the others, it had almost felt like clothing. But in the presence of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, it felt like nothing more than the shell of an egg - easily shattered.
‘Mr Linton?’ His voice was cold and raw and sharp-edged, like the cliffs of a freshly calved iceberg.
