The Flyer by Marjorie Jones Page B

beneath her rugged clothing. She probably meant that it hadn’t been nice to frighten her, of course. “It wasn’t intentional, but you need to know what a slide looks like if you’re going to be working in the bush.”
    He pointed out the muddy evidence of the billabong’s most recent houseguest, making sure she understood what striations and claw markings to look for and how to gauge the size of the animal that left them. “This croc was just a tiny thing, maybe six feet long. No worries. He’s off cooling in the water somewhere now.”
    “How do you know?”
    He could tell her the crocodile was less than a stone’s throw from them, its beady eyes peering over the water’s surface behind her. But after her reaction to the slide, he decided against it. He’d need to get her safely across the river first. “Just a hunch. We’d better get moving. Busy day ahead.”
    They crossed the river with no challenge from the croc. By the time Paul landed the boat, Helen had regained her easygoing composure and contented herself to study the area. After they secured the boat to a tall palm tree, they hiked farther into the sparse forest. Each time she spied something new, her face lit up like a candle at Christmastime.
    When they passed a tight knit grouping of palms, Helen halted in the middle of the narrow trail that ran straight between them.
    “What are those?”
    Paul slowed his pace and followed the direction she pointed. Before he could answer, she slid next to him.
    Her presence did more than disturb him. It overpowered his sense of honor and decency while visions of her naked and sweaty flashed all around him.
    It hardly seemed appropriate to seduce her in the middle of a path, in broad daylight, with more than likely half a dozen Aborigines spying on them, so he tucked his burgeoning desire aside.
    “Are they coconuts? Those black, roundish-looking things.”
    She finally tore her concentration away from the trees and looked at him. The lines of curiosity in her brow vanished, replaced with smooth, fresh-as-cream skin. “Do you see them?”
    “Aye.”
    “What are they?”
    “What?”
    “Up in the trees. Are they some kind of misshapen coconut?”
    He wanted to hold her. He wanted to make love to her, right there, right then. It had been almost an hour of hiking deep into the bush, her backside swaying beneath a pair of strides that hugged every lush curve. The sun hadn’t yet risen to its full height, but it might as well have, given the amount of heat surrounding him. How long could he maintain his distance when all he really wanted to do was kiss her bloody mad?
    “Paul?”
    “What?” He snapped himself free of the intricate net she threw over him simply by existing. “Oh right. Bats.”
    Her eyes grew to round, glittering moons. “Bats? Are you serious?”
    He looked up to confirm his assumption. “Aye. Flying foxes.”
    “There are so many of them. Are they dangerous?”
    “Oh aye. Deadly. Sharp, pointed teeth. Man-eaters, every one.”
    Whatever color Helen’s cheeks had gained on their overland trek drained at his words. She stepped closer, almost touching him. All he had to do was lift his hand a fraction and he could stroke her face, touch her hair. Heat escaped her body and wrapped his in a torment of delicious fire.
    As though the breeze were too much for her, Helen swayed, her eyes boring a hole into his very being. Her lips parted. Her breath hitched.
    If he lowered his head, just a few tiny, insignificant inches…
    The brush on either side of Paul scattered, rustling amid a half-dozen bare footsteps. “Don’t you listen to a bloody word this whanker tells you, lady. He’s a lying bastard if there ever was one.”

    Helen leapt backward at the sound of the unexpected voice. Turning, she immediately backed into Paul’s chest. Three men approached from the forest, their bare, black skin covered in white mud, their hair caked in the same substance. The leader of the trio looked oddly