It Happened In Paradise

‘In Cordillera? Are you crazy?’

She gritted her teeth, then said, ‘Undoubtedly. It has possibilities as a holiday destination, admittedly, but so far none of them have been successfully exploited.’

‘Oh, believe me. They’ve got the exploitation angle covered.’

He didn’t sound happy about that, either.

‘Not noticeably,’ she replied. ‘And tourists tend to have a bit of a phobia about earthquakes.’

‘In that case they—you—would be well advised to stick to somewhere safer,’ he retaliated. ‘Try Bournemouth next time.’

‘Thank you for your advice. I’ll bear it in mind should there ever be a “next time”.’

His bad mood was beginning to seriously annoy her, a fact which, if he’d known her, should worry him. That she suspected it wouldn’t bother him in the slightest made him interesting. A pain, but interesting…

‘Meanwhile, since I’m here—we’re here—in the middle of the earthquake that happened while you were sleeping off…’ politeness, Manda, politeness ‘…whatever you were sleeping off, maybe you’d like to help me figure out how we’re going to get out of here?’

She spoke in calm, measured tones. Dealing with an idiot had the advantage of making her forget her own fears, it seemed.

He replied briefly in a manner that was neither calm nor measured. Then, having got that off his chest, he said, ‘There’s been an earthquake?’

‘By George he’s got it,’ she replied sarcastically.

He repeated his first thought, expressing his feelings with a directness that she’d have found difficulty in bettering if she wasn’t making a determined effort to play nice. Clearly, this was not the moment to point out that he hadn’t completed their introductions.

Whoever he was, he didn’t seem to have much time for the social niceties, but the silence went on for a long time and, after a while, she cleared her throat—just to get rid of the dust.

Manda heard him shift in the darkness, felt rather than saw him turn in her direction. ‘Tell me,’ he said, after what seemed like an age. ‘What, in the name of all that’s holy, are you doing in a Cordilleran temple in the middle of an earthquake?’

For a moment she considered telling him that it was none of his damned business. But she needed his help, whoever he was. So she compromised.

‘I’ll tell you that,’ she informed him, ‘if you’ll tell me what the devil you’re doing, drinking yourself to perdition in a Cordilleran temple. At any time.’

Despite the pain in his head, Jago had to admit that this woman had a certain entertainment value and he laughed.

This was not a wise move as his head was swift to remind him. But something about the way she’d come back at him had been so unexpectedly sharp, so refreshingly astringent that he couldn’t help himself. And if she was right about the earthquake she got ten out of ten for…something. If only being a pain in the butt.

Admittedly it was a very nicely put together butt…

He began, despite every cell in his body clamouring a warning, to wonder who she was, where she had come from. What she looked like.

Had he, despite his best intentions, started drinking in Rob’s bar and been so lost to sense that he’d picked up some lone female tourist looking for a good time and brought her back here with him? If so, he’d signally failed to deliver, he thought, as he searched his memory for a picture to match the voice.

His memory refused to oblige so he was forced to ask, ‘Did I pick you up in Rob’s bar?’

‘Who’s Rob?’

‘I guess that answers that question…’

‘Don’t you remember?’

Great butt, smart mouth. Tricky combination. ‘If I remembered I wouldn’t ask,’ he snapped right back, but the scorn in her voice warned him that he was on dangerous ground. And, remembering that kick, it occurred to him that insulting her might not be his best idea.

But where the hell had she come from?

Everything after Rob had thrust that bottle at him was something of a blur, but he hadn’t been in the mood to pick up a woman, no matter how warm and willing she was—and actually he was getting very mixed messages about that—but then he’d be the first to admit that he hadn’t been thinking too straight.

If only his head didn’t hurt so much. He needed to concentrate…

He had a vague memory of driving back up the side of the mountain in a mood as grim as the pagan gods that had guarded the temple and he glared into the darkness as if they had the answer.

It really was dark.

Of his companion he had no more than a vague impression, amplified by that handful of a small, perfectly formed breast. Two handfuls of neat little butt. Tallish, he thought, a bit on the skinny side, but with hair that smelled of childhood innocence…

He stopped the thought right there.

Women were born devious and he was done with the whole treacherous, self-serving sex.

He’d driven back from the coast on his own, he was certain of that, but if he hadn’t picked her up, where the devil had she come from?

He scrubbed at his face with his hands in an effort to clear away the confusion. Then, dragging his fingers through his hair, he winced as he encountered a damn great lump and a stickiness that couldn’t be anything but blood.

It seemed that the throbbing ache in his head was the result of a collision with something hard rather than the effects of Cordilleran brandy. Unless he had fallen out of the camp-bed he’d set up down here after the rest of the team had left when the rains set in. Going home to their families.

It was drier than his hut in the village during the rains. Quieter. And, without Fliss to distract him, he’d got a lot of work done.

He blinked. The lack of light was beginning to irritate him. He wanted to be able to see this woman. Was she another student backpacking her way around the globe? If so, she’d chosen the wrong day to drop in looking for work experience…

‘Okay, I didn’t pick you up in a bar,’ he began, then stopped. That was too loud. Much too loud. ‘So where—?’

‘You didn’t pick me up anywhere.’ Her disembodied voice enunciated each word slowly and carefully, as if speaking to someone for whom English was a foreign language. ‘I’m fussy about who I hang around with.’

‘Really? My mistake,’ he said, heavy on the irony. ‘So how did you get here?’

‘By bus.’

Jago laughed again and this time he was genuinely amused at the thought of this hoity-toity madam flagging down one of the island’s overcrowded buses and piling in with the goats and chickens.

Apparently she didn’t share his sense of humour.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Not a thing,’ he said, meaning it. Then, ‘What did you say your name was? Amanda…?’ The effort of remembering her surname was too much and he let it go.

‘Miranda,’ she corrected. ‘My friends call me Manda but, since I have no plans for a long acquaintance with you, whoever you are, we might as well keep it formal.’

‘Suits me,’ he replied with feeling. Then, ‘I’m Jago,’ he said, begrudgingly giving up his name at the same time as he remembered hers. Grenville. That was what she had said. The name was vaguely familiar, but he didn’t recognise her voice. Maybe the face… He could strike a match, he supposed, but really it was too much effort and, despite his desire to see her, he wasn’t ready for anything that bright. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I give up. I’ve forgotten where we met.’

‘It sounds to me as if you gave up a long time ago but I’ll put you out of your misery. We’ve never met.’

‘I may be careless, lady—’

‘Will you please stop calling me that,’ she interrupted crossly. ‘My name is Miranda—’

‘I may be careless about some things, Miranda,’ he said, with heavy emphasis on her name, ‘but I’ve given up on inviting strangers home to tea.’

‘Why is that, I wonder? Are you frightened they might steal the silver?’

He wished, but confined his response to, ‘Who are you? What are you?’

CHAPTER FOUR

GOOD question, Manda thought. One to which the people she lived and worked with could give any number of answers, most of them wrong.

‘Does it matter? I promise I won’t run off with the spoons,’ she said, pulling a face, confident that he would not see it.

It was a long time since afternoon tea had been part of his social life if she was any judge of the situation. But although a little verbal fencing in the dark with an unknown, unseen man might have been amusing at any other time, she’d had enough. She’d had enough of the dark, enough of being scared, enough of him.

‘Oh, forget it. Just point me in the direction of the nearest exit and I’ll be only too happy to leave you alone.’

Jago was beyond such politeness. His head was pounding like the percussion section of the London Philharmonic and all he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes. ‘You got yourself in here. Reverse the process,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be home in no time.’ Then added, ‘Don’t forget to shut the door on your way out.’

An explosive little sound echoed around the dark chamber. ‘Sober up and look around you, Mr Jago. There aren’t any doors.’

He groaned.

Why was it, with the whole world of wonderful things to choose from, God had picked women as the opposite sex?

‘Time and white ants have done their worst,’ he admitted, ‘but I was speaking metaphorically. Entrance. Opening. Ingress. Access. Take your pick.’

‘What on earth is the matter with you? Did a lump of stone fall on your head? Or have you drunk yourself quite senseless?’

‘That was the plan,’ he said, hoping that she might finally take the hint, shut up and leave him in peace. ‘It doesn’t seem to have worked. How did you get in here, anyway? This area is restricted.’

‘To whom?’

To whom? He rubbed his hand over his face again—carefully avoiding the lump on his hairline this time—in an attempt to bring it back to life. Whoever this female was, she couldn’t be a student. No student he’d ever met could be bothered to speak English with that precision. He eased himself into a sitting position. ‘To me, Miranda Grenville. To me. And you weren’t invited.’

‘I wouldn’t have come if I had been,’ she declared. ‘This is the last place I want to be, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stand in line to send your complaint to a higher authority.’

‘Oh? And which higher authority would that be?’ he enquired, knowing full well that it was a mistake, that he would regret it, but completely unable to help himself. There was something about this woman that just got under his skin.

‘Mother Nature?’ she offered. ‘I was simply standing on a footpath, quietly minding my own business, when the ground opened up beneath me and I fell through your roof. As I believe I’ve already mentioned, while you were busy drowning your sorrows there was an earthquake.’

‘An earthquake?’ He frowned. Wished he hadn’t. ‘A genuine, honest-to-God earthquake?’

‘It seemed very real to me.’

‘Not just a tremor?’

‘Not a tremor. I was in Brazil last year when there was a tremor,’ she explained. ‘I promise you this was the real deal.’

Jago fumbled in his pocket for a box of matches. As he struck one, it flared briefly, for a moment blinding him with the sudden brightness so near to his face, but as his eyes adjusted to the light, he stared around, momentarily speechless at the destruction that surrounded him.

The outside walls of the temple, with their stone carvings, had been pushed inward and the floor that he had spent months digging down through the debris of centuries to clear was now little more than rubble.

The woman was right. It would have taken a serious earthquake to have caused this much damage.

It had, all in all, been one hell of a day.

A small anguished sound caught his attention and he turned to his unwelcome companion, temporarily forgotten as he had surveyed the heartbreaking destruction of the centuries-old temple complex built by a society whose lives he had devoted so much time to understanding. Reconstructing.

He swore and dropped the match as it burned down to his fingers.

The darkness after the brief flare of light seemed, if anything, more intense, thicker, substantial enough to cut into slices and in a moment of panic he groped in the box for another match.

It was empty.

There was a new carton somewhere, but his supplies were stored at the far end of the temple. And the far end of the temple, as he’d just seen, was no more…

‘We’re trapped, aren’t we?’

Her voice had, in that instant of light, lost all that assured bravado.

‘Of course we’re not trapped,’ he snapped back. The last thing he needed was hysterics. ‘I just need a minute to figure the best way out.’

‘There isn’t one. I saw—’

Too late. Her voice was rising in panic and his own clammy moment of fear was still too close to risk her going over the edge and taking him with her.

‘Shut up and let me think.’

She gave a juddering little hiccup as she struggled to obey him, to control herself, but he forced himself to ignore the instinct to reach out, hold her, comfort her.

She’d said she’d been standing on the path, presumably the one leading to the acropolis, but she couldn’t have been alone.

‘How did you get up here?’ His voice was sharper this time, demanding an answer.

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘By bus.’

His head still hurt like hell, but the realisation that he was caught up in the aftermath of an earthquake had done much to concentrate his mind. He’d broken the seal on the bottle of brandy, but the minute the liquor had touched his lips he’d set it down, recognising the stupidity of drinking himself into oblivion.

That was what Rob had done when his yacht had gone down in a storm. Was still doing. Washed up on the beach and pretty much a wreck himself…

‘What kind of bus?’ he demanded. ‘Nobody lives up here.’ The locals avoided the area, ancient folk memory keeping them well away from the place.

‘Not a local bus. I was on a sightseeing trip.’

He grunted.

A sightseeing trip. Of course.

The government was trying attract tourism investment, but Cordillera would be hard pushed to compete with the other established resorts of the Far East unless there was something else, something different to tempt the jaded traveller.

The ruins of a sexed-up ancient civilisation would do as well as anything. And once the finance was fixed, the resorts built, the visitors would flood in.

He hadn’t wanted hordes of tourists trampling about the place disturbing his work. As archaeological director of the site he had the authority to keep them out and he’d used it.

He’d seen the damage that could be done, knew that once there was a market for artefacts, it wouldn’t be long before the locals would forget their fear and start digging up the forest for stuff, chiselling chunks of their history to sell to tourists.

He’d known that sooner or later he would be overruled, but in the meantime he’d kept everything but the bare bones of his discoveries to himself, delaying publication for as long as possible.

Impatient for results he could exploit to his advantage, it seemed that Felipe Dominez had looked for another way.

‘I hadn’t realised that we were already on the tourist route,’ he said bitterly.

‘I don’t think you are,’ she assured him. ‘If a trade delegation whose flight was delayed hadn’t been shanghaied into taking the trip, it would have been me, a couple of dozen other unfortunates who believed that Cordillera was going to be the next big thing and the driver-cum-tour-guide. Why the business people bothered I can’t imagine.’

‘I can,’ he said sourly, ‘if the alternative was the doubtful comforts of the airport departure lounge.’

‘Maybe, but at least there they’d be sure someone was going to try and dig them out of the rubble. Here—’

He didn’t think it wise to let her dwell on what was likely to be her fate ‘here’.

‘What happened to the rest of your party?’ he cut in quickly.

‘It was hot and sticky and I was suffering from a severe case of ancient culture fatigue so I decided to sit out the second half of the tour. When the ground opened up and swallowed me I was on my own.’

‘But you’ll be missed?’

‘Will I?’ Manda asked.

In the panic she knew it was unlikely. Even supposing anyone else had survived. They could easily have suffered the same fate as she had and she was unbelievably lucky not to have been buried beneath tons of debris… Maybe. That would at least have been quick.

Trapped down here, the alternative might prove to be a lot worse, she thought, and dug what was left of her nails into the palms of her hands.

Breathe…

‘I suppose that eventually someone will wonder what happened to me,’ she admitted. ‘Right now, I suspect they’ll all be too busy surviving, Mr Jago, so if you could put your mind to the problem of how we’re going to get out of here I really would be grateful.’ There was a long pause. ‘Please.’

That belated ‘please’ bothered Jago.

His uninvited guest had not, so far, displayed any real inclination to politeness. On the contrary, she’d been full of spit and fire, swiftly recovering from that momentary wobble a few moments ago.

‘Miranda?’

‘Yes?’

About to suggest that under the circumstances they could probably both do with a drink, he changed his mind. In the unlikely event that he managed to find the bottle of brandy in one piece, it might be wiser to hang on to it. Maybe later she would be grateful for the possibility of at least temporary oblivion. Maybe they both would.

Instead he said, ‘Most people just call me Jago.’

There was a small silence. ‘And what does everyone else call you?’ she asked, still fighting a rearguard action against the fear, keeping the edge going.

Soft, sweet words, he thought. All of them lies. ‘Nothing fit for the ears of a lady.’ Then, eager to change the subject, ‘Were you hurt when you fell?’

‘Just a few bruises,’ she said, with a carelessness that suggested she was being economical with the truth. ‘What about you?’

‘Not bad, apart from a pain in my leg where someone kicked me.’ Keeping it sharp was good. She was keeping up a great front so far; kindness might just have her in pieces, which was something he could do without. ‘And a headache which probably has more to do with the large lump on my forehead and less to do with alcohol than I originally supposed. But I’ll probably live.’

‘If we get out of here.’

‘We’ll get out. I just need to get my bearings.’

‘Maybe you should light another match.’

‘I would,’ he replied. Then, since there was no way to save her from reality, ‘Unfortunately that was the last one.’

‘What?’

It took a moment for the disaster to sink in. Despite the devastation revealed in those few moments as the match flame had burned away the darkness, the very promise of light had driven back a little of Manda’s fear. But no more matches meant no more light and all at once the blackness, thick enough to touch, seemed to be pressing against her face, smothering her.

She scrambled to her feet, brushing frantically at her face with her hands as if somehow she could rid herself of it, rid herself of the sense of being suffocated.

‘Don’t stand up!’

Jago’s urgent warning came too late and, stumbling on the uneven, broken floor, she saved herself by grasping a handful of cloth as she fell against him.

He grunted as she went down, collapsing against him, taking him down with her. He flung his arms about her in an attempt to stop her from hurting herself further, but in her panic she began to fight him, threshing about to free herself.

‘Steady now,’ Jago muttered into her hair as he hung on, recognising the mindless fear that had overtaken her. ‘Calm down, for pity’s sake. You’ll only hurt yourself.’

And him. He didn’t bother to mention that just in case it gave her ideas.

It made no difference since she didn’t seem to hear him, but continued to struggle fiercely like a trapped animal and he winced and swore as she broke free, her elbow catching him a glancing blow on the jaw.

‘We’ll be all right,’ he said, keeping his voice low, doing his best to reassure her. ‘I’ll get us out of here.’

She wasn’t listening. Beyond simple reason, she was fighting blindly to escape and, swearing as he took another blow, he pressed his face into her breast to protect himself as he struggled to hold her.

‘Let me go!’ she demanded. ‘I don’t need you to get me out of here. Stick with your bottle…’ And she continued to kick and writhe until she connected solidly with his shin.

It was enough. The girl was slender but she had a kick like a mule and he rolled over, pinning her to the ground.

‘Be still,’ he warned, abandoning reassurance, making it an order. She continued to heave and buck beneath him, uncaring of the dust rising in choking clouds around them, too lost in her own spiralling hysteria to hear him, or to obey him even if she could.

He’d have to let go to slap her and while the temptation was almost overwhelming—he was still feeling that kick—he chose the only other alternative left open to him and kissed her.

It was brutal but effective, cutting off the stream of invective, cutting off her breath and, taken by surprise, she went rigid beneath him. And then, just as swiftly, she was clinging to him, her mouth hot and eager as she pressed against him, desperate for the warmth of a human body. For comfort in the darkness. A no-holds-barred kiss without a hidden agenda. Pure, honest, raw need that tapped into something deep inside him. And for a seemingly endless moment he answered it without question.

As suddenly as it began it was over. Miranda slumped back against the cracked and—now—sloping floor of the temple. Jago, his body flattening her to the ground, was horribly aware of the huge shuddering sob that swept through her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said and for a hideous moment he thought she was apologising for kissing him. ‘I thought I had it.’ She shivered again. ‘I thought I had it under control…’

‘Hey, come on. You’re doing fine,’ he said, lifting his hand to her face in a gesture that was meant to offer comfort, reassurance but she flinched away from him.

‘Don’t! Don’t ever do that again!’

‘I could just as easily have slapped you,’ he said.

‘I wish you had.’

‘Fine. I’ll remember you said that the next time you get hysterical.’

‘In your dreams, Mr Jago,’ she declared fervently.

‘In yours, Ms Grenville.’

In truth they were both breathing rather more heavily and her verbal rejection was certainly not being followed up by her body. Or his. Being this close to a stranger, to a woman who was no more than curves that fitted his body like a glove, soft skin, a scent in the darkness, was doing something to his head.

Her hair, a short, sleek bob, was like silk beneath his hand and she smelled so sweet and fresh after the damp, cloying air of the jungle; a primrose after the heavy, drugging scent of the huge trumpet lilies that hung from the trees, drenching the air of the forest.

She was slender but strong, with a firm leggy body that he guessed would be perfectly at home on horseback. He knew the type. Had grown up with girls who sounded—and felt—like this. Haughty girls who knew their worth, girls bred for men who had titles, or with bank balances large enough to cancel out the lack of one. Made for swish hotels and six hundred-thread Egyptian cotton sheets rather than a stone floor and a man who’d walked away from such luxuries, from everything that went with it, a long time ago.

He knew—they both did—that if he kissed her again, it would be slow and hot and she’d be with him every step of the way and the thought of taking a woman like her on the cold stone, amidst the rubble, without any pretence, any of the ritual dance that a man was expected to go through before he could claim such a prize, was a temptation almost beyond measure.

‘Jago?’ Her voice, soft and low, pulled him away from his dark thoughts and he finally moved, putting an inch between them, knowing that it was his damaged ego, pride rather than passion, that was driving his libido. Demanding satisfaction. ‘Who are you?’

He’d asked her the same question. Her reply had been to ask whether it mattered.

Did it?

He’d grown up knowing exactly who he was, what his future held. He’d walked away from all of it, built another life. Now he was just a fool who had allowed a girl with a hot body to take him to the cleaners.

A fool who was about to become a serious embarrassment to a Cordilleran government minister who he suspected might find it very convenient if he never emerged from the ruins of his own excavations.

‘Me?’ he said. ‘I told you. I’m the man who’s going to get us out of here.’

‘Right.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

Oh, she was convinced, Manda thought. If it was possible, he would do it.

She’d briefly glimpsed Jago’s silhouette in the flare of the match; a dark mop of hair, a strong neck, broad shoulders that, as the light had gone out, had remained a ghostly negative imprint in the darkness.

The impression had been of power: not the weakness of a man who’d surrendered to the easy oblivion of drink. His face had been taut, firm to the touch. Beneath her fingers, his body had the sinewy, muscled strength of a man who knew how to work. And his mouth—she felt the weakness return; his mouth had not tasted of stale alcohol, but had the clean, hard, demanding authority of a man who was confident of his power to overwhelm all and any objections.

But what woman would object?

Despite their bad start, every instinct told her that he was the real deal, a true alpha male, and she’d come within a heartbeat of succumbing to an intimacy that she’d denied herself for so long, aware that, if only for a little while, this man had the ability to wipe out the darkness.

She had resisted the temptation, knowing that when the darkness returned it would be even worse.

Realising that she was still pressing herself against him, clinging close for support, warmth, comfort—something darker and more compelling—she pulled away and he didn’t make any move to stop her.

‘Convinced?’ she said, using the words, a disparaging tone to her voice, to put more distance between them, distract herself from the throbbing of lips that hadn’t been kissed that way in a very long time. Actually, had never been kissed that way. No gentleman ever kissed a woman like that. More was the pity… ‘Oh, please! I can tell when it’s the drink talking.’

‘Really?’ There was a long pause and in the darkness Manda fancied he was smiling, if a touch grimly, not fooled for a minute. ‘Well, maybe you’re right, but since I’m the only help you’re going to get, you might be wise to brush up your manners, Miranda Grenville.’

‘Why?’ She just couldn’t stop herself… ‘Will they help us burrow our way out of here?’

‘No. But it might make the time spent doing it a touch less disagreeable.’

Manda cleared her throat of dust. She knew she wasn’t behaving at all well, but then behaving badly had been her default mode for a very long time. She really would have to try and do better now that she was a godmother, even one whose avowed aim was to lead her little charges astray.

As if…

Unless spoiling them rotten came under that heading. Not just with toys, sparklies, outings and treats. She was going to really spoil them with words, hugs, being there for them when they needed a hand in the dark, by giving herself. She was going to love them, cherish them. And make sure they knew it.

Given a chance.

She sucked in her breath as she faced the very real possibility that she might never see them again. The knowledge that if she didn’t she would have no one to blame but herself. She’d been weak, running away, unable to face up to the demons that haunted her.

Who was she to judge a man like Jago?

If she had to spend much time in this ghastly place, she would probably be driven to blur reality by whatever means came to hand. Or leave.

But maybe he couldn’t do that.

He was after all working here…

‘O-okay,’ she managed. ‘Pax?’ He responded with a grunt. Obviously she was going to have to work harder on her social skills. ‘So, macho man, what’s the plan?’

‘Give me a minute.’ Then, ‘I don’t suppose you have painkillers about your person by any chance?’

‘In my bag,’ she said. ‘Wherever that is. Until we get some light you’ll just have to suffer.’

No. Even in extremis she just couldn’t bring herself to play nice…

‘That’s a pity. I don’t think too well with a headache.’

‘That must be extremely limiting.’ Then, as he began to move, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Not far,’ he assured her dryly at the sudden rise in her voice. ‘My supplies were stored at the far end of the temple. I want to see if I can find anything useful.’

‘Another bottle of cheap brandy?’

‘This isn’t the Ritz, lady. You’ll have to take what you can get.’

‘Mine’s water, since you’re offering.’

The drink thing was getting old, Jago thought. Okay, she was scared—she had every right to be; he wasn’t overcome with an urge to burst into song himself—but a woman with a smart mouth wasn’t about to provoke much in the way of sympathy. Even if it was a mouth that had promised heaven on earth.

‘If I find any, I’ll save you a mouthful,’ he said, making a move.

‘No! Hold on, I’m coming with you,’ she said, grabbing a handful of shirt, and the sudden note of desperation in her voice got to him.

‘There’s no need, really,’ he said. Disengaging her hand from his shirt front and putting his mouth to her ear, he whispered, ‘I promise if I find some I’ll share. Scout’s honour.’

Furious, she backed off. ‘You’ve never been a scout. Anyone less “prepared”…’