Free Expecting the Boss’s Baby by Christine Rimmer Page A

lowered his poor foot to the seat cushion.
    Then she put her pen and notebook away and turned for the tangle of suitcases and boxes in the baggage area.
    She found a couple of small pillows, the expected travel blankets—and, in a large box bolted to the bulkhead, she found a miracle.
    There was toilet paper, paper towels, matches, acollapsible camping shovel, a couple of dismantled camp chairs she could assemble when the time came. There were two heavy-duty flashlights, a big battery-operated lantern, two oil-burning lanterns with fuel canisters, a small tent, a hatchet…and more. Two cups, two plates. Basic flatware. Two pans for carrying and heating water. There were field glasses and a compass, fishing gear and even a pair of mean-looking hunting knives.
    If she could find a stream, she might try fishing. Or maybe she could just jump some jungle creature and stab it with one of the knives. The options, she thought drily, were endless, if somewhat unpleasant.
    Right after that, she found several bags of freeze-dried food underneath all the other stuff. Maybe she wouldn’t have to go hunting anytime soon after all.
    She carried the pillows up in front, eased them under Dax’s head and then shook him awake long enough to get him to put his other leg up on her empty seat. She braced the zipped first aid kit, a folded blanket on top, under his bad ankle.
    He didn’t need a blanket over him. It was plenty warm in the cabin.
    For a minute or two, she watched him sleep. He look so good with his shirt off, just as she’d imagined him, with great muscle definition, gorgeous six-pack abs and quite the cute silky-looking happy trail. She didn’t begrudge herself a nice, long look. Hey, at this point, anything that took her mind off their desperate situation was a good thing to be doing.
    But she couldn’t stare at him forever. Reality insisted on intruding. She sat in one of the rear seats, checked her D90, the lenses and the spare camera she’d storedin a suitcase. All had been protected by the padding in their carry cases and were good as new.
    That her cameras were okay cheered her somehow. Things could definitely be worse, right?
    She started wondering where, exactly, they might have gone down, and considered getting out the paper maps they carried. But later for that. For now, she knew as much as she needed to know: that they were south of the Tropic of Cancer somewhere, in the Mexican jungle. Still in Mexico, because the storm hadn’t lasted long enough to blow them too far off-course. And even the big fuel capacity of the Cessna 400 wasn’t that big, not big enough to carry them all the way to Guatemala or Belize.
    How long would it be before someone got worried and sent out searchers? They were due to meet Ramón Esquevar for dinner in their beautiful hotel at eight. When they weren’t there to meet him maybe? Or even earlier, when they didn’t show up at the Tuxtla Gutiérrez airport per their filed flight plan?
    She shook her head. Probably not that soon.
    Who knew how such things worked?
    A small, absurd whimper tried to squeeze out of her throat. She didn’t let it. She was strong and whole and smart and she could deal with this. She would deal with this.
    When Dax woke up, he would help her deal with this. Yes, there was the sprained ankle, the gash on his head. But he knew how to survive in a hostile environment. He’d been to a lot of wild places in the world, roughing it, and lived to tell the tale.
    What time was it now? Her watch, which seemed to be working fine, said almost four. They didn’t do daylight savings in Chiapas, and she’d reset it to SanCristóbal time when they left Nuevo Laredo. When would dark come? She said a little prayer of thanks for Dax’s preparedness. For the box bolted in the bulkhead, with the lanterns and the flashlights and everything else.
    When Dax woke up, they would figure out what to do next. Until then, she