Free Expecting the Boss’s Baby by Christine Rimmer

handsome toes, actually, long and well-formed. No weird bumps or bunions.
    And what was she thinking? They’d just crashed in the jungle. How good-looking his feet were ought to be the last thing on her mind.
    â€œZoe?”
    â€œUm, I think I should wrap it and then use the cold packs. And you should keep it elevated.”
    â€œGood a suggestion as any.”
    So she got an ACE bandage from the kit at her feet. She started wrapping at the base of his toes. “Tell me if it’s too tight…” She wrapped halfway up his calf and then used the little hooks to secure it. “How’s that?”
    â€œSeems fine.”
    She shook one of the cold packs and it grew icy. Then she used another section of ACE bandage to hold it in place over the swelling. “There. Now we should get you in the back where you can stretch out, get this ankle higher than your heart.”
    He shook his head. “First, we should see if we can call for help, don’t you think?”
    â€œLike…try our cell phones?” That seemed hope less.
    â€œLet me see about the radio first.”
    That took about half a minute. The engine—and the radio—were deader than a hammer. They got out their PDAs.
    No signal.
    He slumped back in his seat, against the door, his leg still canted over to her side, his calf across her knees. “Now it’s taped, I might be able to hobble around on it at least. We should try and get to higher ground, somewhere we can build a signal fire.” His eyes were drooping as he struggled to stay awake. Maybe she shouldn’t have given him two codeines. But at the time, easing his pain had seemed the priority.
    â€œYou need to keep that ankle up,” she said. “And you’re exhausted. You’ve lost more blood than can possibly be good for you. And you might recall I just sewed up your head? Not right now, Dax. I say we stay in the plane, for the time being anyway. Until the weather clears…” Her words trailed off. The rain had already stopped. And right then, far above their tiny clearing, the sun appeared. Through the water droplets that clung to the side window, everything looked brighter out there.
    Well, except for the jungle. It was still a wall of darkest, deepest, scariest green.
    Dax said, “Get a pencil. Now.” He really was struggling to keep his eyes open.
    â€œOkay, okay…” Her travel purse was on the pilot-side backseat where she’d thrown it while clearing the floor. She reached back and grabbed it, took the pen from the little slot on the side, got the small spiral notebook she always carried from another side pocket. “All right. I’m ready.”
    He groaned. And then he muttered a latitude anda longitude. “Those were our coordinates as of right before I brought us down.”
    She wrote them in her notebook. “You do think of everything.”
    He didn’t answer her. She looked over at him. His eyes were closed, his fine mouth slack.
    Good. He needed to rest. And he wasn’t going to be doing much of anything when he woke up, not with that ankle. For him, for the next several days, hiking to higher ground was not in the cards. And the signal fire? If she couldn’t find a hill very close, she would build it in the clearing.
    But not right this minute. For now, they had shelter and a case of bottled water and other clothing when it came to that—and she thought there were blankets in back, too, travel blankets.
    She glanced over at Dax again. He was slumped against the other door, his head at a really uncomfortable-looking angle.
    Slowly, trying not to hurt his poor ankle any worse, she lifted his foot off her knees. He groaned and tossed his head. She froze. A moment later, with a heavy sigh, he settled down again.
    It was a tight fit, but she lowered her seat back and managed to slip out from under him and over the console through the space between the seats. Carefully, she