“What makes you think I wouldn’t want you enough to compromise?” she said.
“Compromise? When a woman says compromise, she usually means something different from a man. I’m a lawyer. I know these things.”
She squeezed his hand. “If you’d be willing to have a baby to please me, why wouldn’t I be willing to not have babies to please you? Love goes both ways, you know.”
Rafe went still. “You wouldn’t be happy.”
“I wouldn’t be happy without you, either.”
“So what’s the answer?”
“You’re a lawyer. I’m a military leader. The answer’s obvious.”
He thought a moment. “Negotiate?”
“Yep.”
“Sounds like a stalemate to me.”
“No, it sounds like a beginning,” she whispered, swaying closer.
“What are you doing?” he choked out.
“Negotiating.”
“Uh uh. That’s kissing. Negotiators don’t kiss. Did you ever hear of Henry Kissinger kissing Brezhnev? Stop that! Remember my rules, Helen. No kissing. I distinctly said — ”
“Shut up, Rafe.” Her lips pressed against his lightly. “The first rule in negotiating is to forget the rules.”
“That must be an ass-backwards Army rule,” he muttered, dropping back to the ground and pulling her on top of him with a muffled curse of surrender. His legs were still in the water, up to his calves. “I’ve never seen that in a legal text. Kiss the negotiator. Nope.”
“Shush,” she coaxed against his mouth.
“Oh, God, oh, God, I’ve missed you.” Rafe moaned, adjusting her body on top of his. Surrender was so damn sweet.
With one hand on the back of her waist and another at her nape, he kissed her deeply with all the pent-up passion of the past weeks. When he closed his eyes, he saw a kaleidoscope of bursting colors behind his lids.
He should resist.
He couldn’t resist.
Rafe’s lust-crazed brain fought hard to wipe out his conscience, but it lost. Just barely. He had a clear image of St. Augustine and God up there playing a moral tug of war with Satan. Over him. The good guys won, by a hair.
He lifted Helen off him and over to the side. Nuzzling her neck, he asserted gently, “Not now, babe.” She whimpered.
And his racing brain revved into high gear. No checkered flags in sight.
Groaning, he leaned over her and put both hands on her forearms. Despite his restraint, she raised her head slightly, and her tongue darted out, licking his lips.
His favorite body part just about jumped out of his pants.
“Rafe.” She sighed.
He was losing it fast. Hey, God! Yo, Auggie! You better call in a herd of angels for backup.
Springing up abruptly, Rafe dashed into the cold stream and sat down. The shock just about killed him. Then he lay back fully in the shallow stream, counting to ten under the water. When he came up, dripping wet and testosterone battered, he looked to the left. Helen sat on the bank, blithely panning gold as if she hadn’t just set off an explosion in his body.
He splashed toward her and grabbed his pickax, planning to put some distance — and hard, mind-numbing work — between the two of them. That was when he noticed she wasn’t as cool and calm as she pretended. Her breathing was uneven, and her hands trembled around the pan. Even worse, her nipples peaked noticeably under the T-shirt.
Helen was a deadly adversary.
He stomped away with his axe and shovel. That was when she did the worst thing of all. She started whistling.
He was sure the devil made her do it.
Despite Helen’s calling him several times for dinner, Rafe worked until dusk. For his efforts, he managed to add about a pound of dust and flakes to his small cache. Not a bad day, but Helen, not gold, had been the inspiration for his obsessive efforts. When he finally set his tools aside for the day, he thought seriously about lying down on the spot and falling asleep. His body was numb with exhaustion — his goal, of course.
Just to be safe, he plodded wearily to the lagoon for a bath. On the way, he grabbed some clean clothes from Helen’s makeshift clothesline. He entered the frigid water like a prisoner about to undergo water torture. “Br-r-r-r!” It was definitely torture. Any parts of his body that even considered rebellion gave up the fight with a shudder.