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

would simply sit here, safe in the battered plane, and wait.
    Except that, all of a sudden, she really, really had to pee.
    Which meant she would have to go outside while Dax slept after all.
    Hey, at least she had toilet paper.
    And a little foray into the clearing wouldn’t hurt. She wouldn’t go far. She’d take care of business, have a quick look around and duck back inside.
    She got the shovel and a roll of paper and set about getting out of the plane, which entailed pushing the back of the passenger seat forward—but not far enough to disturb Dax’s propped-up ankle. She held the seat out of the way with one hand and turned the latch to the door with the other.
    Wonder of wonders, with only slight resistance, the door went up.
    A wall of sticky air came in and wrapped around her—not to mention all the weird jungle sounds: insects buzzing and whirring, birds whose calls she didn’t recognize crying in the distance. Rustling noises that instantly brought mental images of scary creatures slithering through the underbrush. She stuck her head out and made the mistake of looking down first.
    Only a jagged stump remained where the wing should have been. It must have broken off when the propeller dug in and spun them around like a carnival ride.
    Well, all right, then. Even if somehow Dax could manage to get the engine going, they would not be flying out of here in this plane. Yet one more faint hope shattered.
    Not that she was going to let negativity take over. She straightened her shoulders and looked around.
    Bits of the lost wing littered the area. And without the barrier of the window glass, the jungle only looked darker, denser. If someone was out there, watching from the trees, she would never see them unless they wanted her to.
    An image of a group of Zapatista types, in berets and military clothing, armed to the teeth, with great chains of ammo wrapped crossways around their chests, popped into her mind.
    But it was only an image. No one emerged to wave an AK-47 at her.
    Some small insect buzzed near her ear and she gave it a slap.
    Maybe she should put on a shirt.
    Another tiny bug attacked. She felt a sting on the side of her neck. She smacked it and then ducked back into the cabin, shutting the door behind her, hauling out her suitcase from the baggage area and grabbing a lightweight shirt with long sleeves and pulling it on. Her legs, in the shorts, would still be vulnerable to bites. But she couldn’t cover everything.
    There was bug repellent in the back, but her bladder wouldn’t wait for that.
    Again, she eased the seat forward, swung the door up and tossed the shovel out. Gripping the roll of toilet paper, she dropped down after it, being careful to clear the jagged stub of the wing. The landing gear was gone, too, snapped clean off during the spinning that hadripped away the wing. The belly of the plane rested on the ground. She could easily reach the open door to swing it shut.
    For a few seconds, she stood there, swatting at insects, looking around at the small, flat, clear space in the middle of who-knew-where. The tall trees were way, way up there, their wide, thick crowns swaying in a wind that didn’t reach the ground. She gazed up, watched a bird sail across the clear blue. It let out a long, fading cry as it went by, a prehistoric sound, the kind the pterodactyls made in Jurassic Park. When the ancient cry bled off into nothing, the pressure in her bladder reminded her why she’d come out here in the first place.
    No time like the present. She grabbed the shovel and figured out how to extend the handle. There were pegs that popped out along the sides. She stuck the shovel head into the wet ground and hung the paper on a peg.
    And then quickly, she took care of business. When that was done, she buried the paper she’d used and then decided on one quick look around before going back inside.
    The clearing was a little smaller and narrower than a football