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Well, that’s distracting.
‘I am fit.’ Kind of. ‘I’m just not into walking around in circles for no good reason. In five-hundred-degree heat in the middle of the day.’
‘Then let’s go cool off.’ He flung out his arm to indicate the ominous trail ahead. ‘According to the map, there’s a waterfall this way.’
‘The map you can’t read?’
‘Yup, that’s the one.’ He waved the map in front of her face, in a gesture just guaranteed to piss her off. ‘I have it right here.’
She didn’t need to cool off. She just needed to get this over with so she could go back to the privacy of her bedroom, where the firmness of his pectoral muscles would be a lot less distracting and the word ‘bears’ would not have the same significance. ‘Having the map and reading the map correctly are not the same thing.’
‘I know how to read a map. I’ve hiked in the goddamn Hindu Kush for five days embedded with US Special Forces.’
‘I don’t care if you’re a paid-up member of the Taliban, I’m not going into the woods. It’s dangerous. There are bears and rattlesnakes and God knows what else out there,’ she huffed, scoping out the mile-high forest of mostly coniferous trees that stretched away up the mountainside, the dense vegetation broken up only by the occasional rock escarpment—which probably housed a multitude of bear caves.
‘It’s not dangerous. It’s a marked hiking trail. And, anyway, the snakes and bears will be staying the hell out of our way with the amount of noise you’re making.’ Luke dragged a bandana out of his back pocket to mop his brow. ‘Now stop moaning and look around you.’ He spread his arms. ‘This place is amazing. Let’s go and explore.’
She unlocked her jaw. ‘We’re not exploring. We’re lost. There’s a difference.’
He tucked the bandana back into the pocket of his hiking shorts. ‘I told you, we’re not lost. And, even if you don’t trust me—’ the thin smile was caustic ‘—Bill gave me a two-way radio.’ He patted his backpack. ‘So you can trust that.’
Her weeping thigh muscles disagreed. ‘What if we’re trespassing?’
‘We’re in a national park.’
‘So what? Everyone in this country has a gun. Some of them even have automatic weapons, ready to shoot down anyone who strays into their path. Especially unsuspecting English people on extreme rambling expeditions,’ she added, thinking of the bumper stickers in the convenience store they’d stopped at on their way to the resort four days ago. And the unpleasant illustration of the large, deadly-looking firearm accompanied by the slogan ‘come and take it’.
‘Most Americans do not own an AK-47,’ Luke said. ‘Round here they probably only own the odd hunting rifle. We’re not in the hood.’
‘Personally I don’t care if I get accidentally shot by a deer hunter or a gang-banger. I’d still be dead. I think we should stay on the bigger track. Just in case.’
Luke counted down his straining temper.
Humour her. You’ve handled NATO generals with secrets to hide and Washington socialites with dementia. You can handle one knackered celebrity chef from Notting Hill.
He attemped to analyse Halle’s pinched expression. It was hard to tell whether she was generally concerned about rogue gun nuts combing the woods or just trying to avoid exerting herself more. But they needed to get out of the sun. The red patch on the bridge of her nose was evidence of that.
Only one way to find out. Go on the offensive.
‘When did you become such a wimp?’
Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You really don’t want me to answer that when I’m boiling hot, jet-lagged and being eaten alive by mosquitos.’
‘Actually, I really do.’ He was so over the hands-off approach. After three days of giving her space, he felt as if he’d been tap-dancing on eggshells for days. She scuttled out of the kitchen every time he entered it. Spent most of the time in the cabin in her bedroom and had barely spoken to him during any of their bonding exercises so far. Remembering her panic attack on the plane, he decided to up the stakes. ‘You had a lot more guts as a teenager.’
The blood flowed into her cheeks, pinkening the burned patch on her nose even more. He’d seen Halle lose it before. Not heeding those burning cheeks and furious scowl would be the equivalent of pulling the pin on a grenade. He’d once been prepared to do anything to avoid the explosion. Including lying through his teeth about how excited he was to become an accidental dad at nineteen. But he wasn’t that cowardly kid any more. Because he yanked the pin out anyway. ‘I guess having Lizzie made you lose your nerve. But I never noticed that before now.’
The blood surged up to her hairline and her hand whacked across his cheek with a resounding crack. Pain exploded in his face, the force of the blow snapping his head back, and popping the muscles in his neck.
He swore and cupped his cheek to contain the fiery heat, vaguely wondering if she’d given him whiplash.
Who knew a celebrity chef could pack a bigger punch than Mike Tyson?
‘You unbelievable shit.’ The shout ricocheted off the surrounding landscape, echoing like a thunder crack. ‘It wasn’t Lizzie. It was you.’
The sheen of unshed tears added a golden sparkle to her whisky-brown eyes. Tendrils of sweat-damp hair clung to her forehead, the pale skin above the round neck of her T-shirt had gone blotchy with temper and her chest heaved as if she had just run the London Marathon.
Maybe it was a cliché, but she was even more of a stunner when she was mad.
