Introduces:

Foreword

In this sampler, you will get to read eleven Canadian Authors who are published electronically. They have offered you the first chapter of one of their ebooks, so that you get to know them and, hopefully, will want to read on.

Some of these authors are self-published, some have an e-publisher. What brings them together is a love of the written word, and of storytelling. 

I hope you will also want to read Looking In... Portraits of the Canadian Soul, an eAnthology written by 14 Canadian Authors. You can find it at http://ceauthors.com/ceanthology.htm. If you are reading this sampler from a CD, it is also included on there.

Enjoy!

M. D. Benoit

President

Canadian eAuthors Association

C.E. Barrett has been writing stories since the age of ten and completed a science fiction novella at 16. "Angels Among Us" is Chris’ first published novel and there is a medieval fantasy series in the works. To read more of this author’s works, visit http://www.cebarrett.com and wander through.

"Angels Among Us" is available from SynergEbooks at http://www.synergebooks.com in several electronic formats, and from Word Wrangler Publishing at http://www.wordwrangler.com/cebarrett.html in paperback.

Angels Among Us

by

C. E. Barrett

Chapter 1

The force of his landing drove the air from his lungs in a great 'whoosh'. He lay, stunned and disoriented, for a long moment before pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. He stared without comprehension at the bent and crumpled long grass where he had lain. It should have been the icy concrete of the streets of Montreal.

Hmmmm, he thought. I must have hit my head on something when I fell. I'm dreaming, I suppose. I hope someone calls an ambulance soon. Maybe I'm already on my way to the hospital. He felt his head for a bump and laughed to himself. That's silly. I wouldn't have a bump in my dream. But I've lost my hat. He shrugged philosophically. Dreams were like that sometimes.

He stood upright and looked around. The grassy meadow stretched to the horizon in all directions but one. To his right, a road ran along the side of a hill. A brilliant sun shone high in the sky. He removed his gloves and put them in his coat pocket as he began to walk towards the road.

* * * * *

What the heck is this? She rose, somewhat unsteadily, to her feet and essayed a cautious look around. This is not at all right! Of her car, the parking lot, the grocery store, her entire town, not a shred, not a speck remained to be seen. Even the contours of the land didn't match Weymouth's topography.

Over there! A road, perhaps? Something, anyway, that made a straight horizontal line along the hillside in that direction. All else was a seemingly endless field of grass, tall, yellowing and waving gently in the warm breeze. She turned in a slow circle, straining her eyes for a glimpse of anything she considered 'civilization'. Nothing.

She remained perfectly still for a moment, letting the scene sink in. There was an almost dreamlike quality to her surroundings, and she was more than a little disoriented. Then she shook herself mentally and decided that, dream or not, there was no point in standing here.

To the road it would be, then. She picked up the grocery bags she had dropped when she hit the ground. She had tripped over a pebble in the Foodland parking lot on her way to her car, and had thrown out her hands to catch herself. Now, though, she had no idea where she was, and did not intend to abandon her purchases, even if a lot of it was junk food.

She waded through the grass, the hillside slowly looming larger. The horizontal line was somewhere above the top of her head, but the slope to it wasn't too bad. She should be able to make it in one trip, even with the groceries. She would just hang them all on one wrist and use her free hand as needed.

As she got closer, she could see that it was, indeed, a road. Quite a way in the distance were small groups of people. Some were heading this way, some resting, some apparently milling about aimlessly. Halfway up the hill she paused to rest, and realized she hadn't been alone in the field, either. Dotted here and there were other lone figures with paths behind them leading from sudden flat spots. Her own trail through the grass looked just like theirs.

What the heck ? She wondered. It looks like we were all just 'dropped off'. But...never mind right now, Seren. Just get up to the road, and take it from there.

She resumed her climb. For miles in either direction, others were doing the same.

The road, when she reached it, proved to be a two-lane blacktop with the familiar yellow lines down the middle. She looked left and right, wondering which way to go. Off to her left, the road turned away, disappearing behind the breast of the hill, only to reappear further on, continuing its journey. To her right, it ran straight, disappearing in the distance.

She crossed the road, dropping her bags to the level shoulder. Sighing, she sat with her back to the uphill slope, much steeper than the one she had just climbed, and considered her situation. Paved roads meant civilization somewhere, preferably not too far away. But no vehicles had passed, and there were far too many pedestrians, most of whom, even from a distance, appeared to be as lost and confused as she was herself.

"I hate dreams like this," she murmured to herself, knowing she often recognized dream states and was frequently a lucid dreamer. "I hate thinking it's real, and getting sucked in until I wake up. I don't want to be here...so, TIME TO WAKE UP!" she yelled at her subconscious. "WAKE UP!! I have to get up and go shopping." She waited. "Dammit all!" She tried every trick she knew to control the dream, to restart it in the parking lot, to fly, anything - everything. Nothing worked.

Maybe I'm not dreaming, she thought, and on the heels of that, thought, Oh, yeah. Like when you think the flying dreams are real, too, and then you wake up.

She opened a grocery bag. She knew that in her dreams small tangible items tended to be distorted or senseless - written words that could not be understood, or remembered, that changed every time she read them. Everything in the bag looked real enough. She pulled out a box of cereal. The name was right, and the ingredients made as much sense as a mouthful of chemical compositions could. And the polysyllabic words were the same when she reread them.

She tapped the box with her fingertips and returned it to the bag. "But what if...?" she asked herself. She smiled to herself wryly. She had read enough Science Fiction to entertain the idea that she had dimension-hopped, or quantum-leaped, or some such thing. How come it couldn't happen when she was out camping and had a bunch of survival gear on hand? Of course, she hadn't actually gone camping in about four years, but still...

The possibility that she really had traveled to a parallel world or something equally improbable began to sink in. Panic nibbled at her mind. She didn't know where she was or how to get home from here, and her children were waiting for her. She stepped on the panicky thing that was struggling to overwhelm her. I don't have time for you right now! You're not helping.

A sudden alternative popped into her mind. Maybe I'm dead, she thought. Maybe I smucked my head on the fender when I fell, and this is the afterlife. She pondered this possibility for a few moments. But why would I be carrying groceries, or ghost-groceries to Purgatory or wherever? That just doesn't make sense.

Oh, and being in Dimension X or on Planet Wheretheheck does, replied her sarcastic side.

"Either way, sitting here is getting me nowhere, and if I want to find a town or something, I better get going." The sound of her voice gave her courage. Once again, she gathered her plastic bags and set off down the road, taking the long straight route that disappeared in the distance. To her right, the people scattered through the meadow were slowly approaching. Just ahead, a man was climbing onto the roadway.

His heavy overcoat was much too warm for the weather. His balding head gleamed with perspiration, which trickled down his temples and face into his neatly trimmed beard. He reached the top and rested, bent over with his hands on his knees, to catch his breath. As Seren drew closer, he straightened to his full height.

He was easily over six feet tall, and was quite stoutly built, firm rather than flabby, and well dressed. His blue eyes regarded her with wary curiosity. This woman in front of him was not what he had expected to see. He studied her briefly, noticing little details; the deep pockets of her shorts, the bulge in one where something wallet-sized sat, her bare ankles above the leather of her sneakers. He wondered what she represented. Weren't people you met in dreams supposed to have some meaning? He was somewhat bemused by the whole situation, and was more than half-convinced he was hallucinating after having hit his head when he fell.

Still, there was no point in being rude. His voice, when he spoke, was pleasant and cultured, with a hint that it could become supercilious and snobbish at the drop of a hat. He merely smiled politely and said, "Excuse me...but are you from around here?" He indicated the grocery bags. "I see you've been shopping and I was wondering if you would direct me..." His words trailed off as she shook her head.

"Sorry. I came from out there, too." She jerked her chin at the field behind him. He turned, and for the first time realized the situation as he noticed all the people making paths from nowhere. Most were moving toward the road, but some were wandering in seemingly random directions.

"Where did they all come from?" he murmured and looked back at her with a quizzical expression. She shrugged. "Well, then, I don't suppose there's any point in asking if you know where we are, or how, indeed, we got here."

She shook her head. "Nope. I know as much as you. One minute I was in the Foodland parking lot, I tripped over something and BANG! landed here."

"I was running for a taxi, and stumbled over the curb." He frowned and looked back over the field. This isn't real, he thought. I'm hallucinating. I must be hurt worse than I thought. Maybe I'm dying. He felt a momentary pang of regret for the symphonies he would never direct, the pain his family would feel at his death. Then he pulled himself together. He was not a man who fell apart easily. He had spent too many years developing the control for which he was well-known. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out what appeared to be a tiny cell phone. She watched as he pushed a button with his thumb, and held the phone to his ear.

"Nothing," he said. "Not even static." He switched it off and returned it to his coat pocket. "It was worth a try," he said.

"Too bad it didn't work," she said sympathetically.

They looked at each other. He indicated their clothes, his heavy overcoat, her T-shirt and walking shorts. "It would appear we're from different latitudes," he said. "Where, exactly, were you?"

"I was in a small town in Nova Scotia," she said, and added automatically, "Canada."

"Really? I was in Montreal. There'd been a heavy snowfall just a few days ago."

"In June? That's hard to believe, even for Montreal."

"No. January the fifteenth." He looked at her clothing more closely. "You were in June?" An eyebrow lifted as he considered this. He wondered if she meant the June past or the one coming up. "What year?"

"1999. You?"

"2008."

They stared at and then through each other. He began slowly to think he might actually be awake and aware. He couldn't explain how or why they were here, but the reality was sinking in.

"Oh good. We're not only from different 'wheres' but different 'whens', too," she said. She focused her eyes on his face. "This can't really be happening. I bet I hit my head when I fell and I'm in a coma in the hospital and pretty soon, I'll come to, and everything will be okay again."

He made a tentative gesture, as if to pat her shoulder reassuringly, but withdrew his hand, wiping it across his forehead instead. "I rather doubt we are sharing a coma dream, Ms..."

"Baker," she supplied the name automatically. "Seren Baker."

He held out a hand. "Daffyd ap Owen."

"Pleased to meet you," she shook his hand and then laughed. "I can't believe we're doing this...acting like we've met at the mall or something. I mean...LOOK!" and she dissolved into laughter. He chuckled quietly with her. She was right. The situation was insane, and their reaction possibly moreso, for all it seemed so 'normal'. She regained her composure, but with occasional snorts of suppressed giggles.

"Well, Mr...Owen or ap Owen?"

"ap Owen."

"Mr. ap Owen...no sense standing here. I think I'll keep moving along."

"Do you mind if I join you? I can carry a couple of those for you." He didn't relish the idea of being alone in this place. It made him uneasy, which he successfully hid under his confident demeanor.

She shrugged. "Sure. I don't mind." He seemed nice enough; not really the ax-murderer type. She grinned inwardly, thinking she had written one horror novel too many. But she supposed there were worse things than having company in this strange world, especially when the company in question was this pleasant.

He took off his heavy coat and draped it over his arm. "I'd hate to be returned to Montreal without it," he explained, relieving her of a pair of grocery bags. They headed down the road in companionable silence. Occasionally they passed a lone person sitting or wandering on the side of the road. No one responded to their greetings, so they didn't bother to stop. There was enough weirdness going on today without their going out of the way to add to it.

LIST OF BOOKS

DEATH AWAITS ISBN# 1-58697-146-8 Available Now

POD ISBN# 1-58697-903-5 Coming Soon

FADE TO BLACK – Coming Soon

JUST LIKE YOU - Coming soon

RFI WEST Inc.

http://www.rfiwest.com

DEATH AWAITS

By

Beverley Bateman

CHAPTER ONE

She fumbled for the key, her hand still holding the leash, and automatically tried the door with her other hand, fully expecting it to be locked. It clicked opened.

She frowned and hesitated a second. That’s strange. He always kept it locked.

A soft popping sound came from inside the room.

A low guttural growl became a snarl as the giant wolfhound yanked on the leash, dragging her reluctantly through the doorway.

She let out an involuntary gasp. Her peripheral vision picked out Mr. Andrews, still sitting in his favourite chair, dark blood staining the centre of his forehead. Staring straight ahead she saw the man, still holding a gun.

He turned his head at the sound.

Their gazes met and locked briefly. She shivered as she stared into the coldest, palest, blue eyes she had ever seen.

Straining at the leash, attempting to lunge forward and barking furiously, Wolf almost pulled her farther into the room.

In that split second Susan Brown knew the true meaning of terror. Her chest contracted. She heard a scream. But it couldn’t have come from her; she couldn’t even breathe. She felt frozen, unable to move, for what seemed like hours, but must have been only seconds. Offering up a wordless prayer that her legs would move, she turned and felt a flash of relief when they responded. Pulling at the leash with both hands, she raced back down the apartment hallway.

Oh God, I’ve got to get to Hank. I can’t let anything happen to my son. He’s too young to be without his mother. Her pulse pounding in her ears, terror clutching her throat, her thoughts on her son, she ran. The enormity of what she had just witnessed was slowly sinking in. The killer would be after her, probably speeding silently down the hall behind her. Even if she got away he’d have to find her. She’d seen him murder a man. He’d have to kill her.

The dog’s leash was still wrapped tightly around her hand. He whined as he resisted, trying to return to his master. Her mind stayed fixed on Hank, sweet, loveable Hank. She had to get to him. She had to make sure he was safe. If the killer shot her, what would happen to her son? She was a single mother. First, no father, and now there was the risk he could loose his mother. And if the killer didn’t shoot her and found out about Hank, he might try to get to her through her son. Oh God, and then he’d kill them both.

Prodded by fear for her son, Susan rounded the second floor landing, feet barely touching the floor. Damn, the dog is slowing me down. She should let go of the leash, but it was wrapped too tightly around her hand. She would have to stop to release it, so she kept running, dragging the reluctant, barking wolfhound behind her.

She didn’t see the man until she landed on top of him at the foot of the stairs. The three of them collapsed in a pile. Man, woman, and dog, all leashed together. Susan’s gaze met his glare and she found herself staring into deep, Mediterranean-blue eyes. Her stomach contracted in a spasm of cold recognition. Then the terror blasted back, full force.

"What the hell’s goin’ on?" He snapped.

Susan struggled against him. The dog leash, tangled around their legs, held their bodies firmly together.

The frantic dog continued barking, struggling for freedom. The result pulled them even tighter together. The barking, the heat, the sweat and the closeness surrounded and compressed until she couldn’t breath.

With supreme effort, spurred on by terror, Susan managed to slide out of the tangled mess. She hit the floor running, racing out the door, down the few steps and into the descending darkness of the humid air and the crowded, New York Street.

"You! Stop! Wait! Stop! Damn it!" she heard him call after her.

July rain spattered her face, dripped off the end of her nose and chin. She started breathing again. Behind her, she could hear him swearing and Wolf barking. Free of the dog she sprinted through the crowd, down the street and around the corner. Her feet pounded against the pavement as she pushed past blurs of people, lights, and buildings. She vaguely heard the angry voices as she shoved her way through the crowd slamming bodies that were in her way and for the first time she could remember, she was glad of her height and long legs. They rapidly covered the distance between her and Hank. Once they were safe she’d take time to figure out a plan. Thank God she had grown out of the gangly, awkward stage or she’d be tripping over her feet about now.

She felt badly about leaving the dog. Poor Wolf…he was such a sweet animal. Now he’d lost both his master and the only other person he knew, his hired dog walker. Hopefully, someone would be found to look after him, but that wasn’t her concern. Not now. Her mind was unable to focus and kept flitting from one idea to the next. She had to maintain her concentration and come up with a damn plan, for the sake of her son.

She didn’t slow down until she neared the apartment building. Still jogging, she emerged from the stairwell and approached her second floor apartment door. Okay, girl…just what are you going to do now?

As the youngest of four, her family usually helped solve her problems, even helped make decisions. Until she was thirteen and, as the youngest, was left home alone with her mother, her siblings had done everything for her. She had finally realized she was responsible for her own life. It was slow work and when she was under stress she reverted to her engrained patterns of behaviour, wanting someone else to take responsibility. She sighed, she not only had to fight this battle alone, but somehow she had to make sure Hank wasn’t hurt. It might be a stretch, but if she contacted her family the killer might even track them down and use them to get to her. Who knew what a cold-blooded killer might do to keep from getting caught? Her brief experience with the law had taught her that the bad guys won more cases than the good guys. Fear clutched at her chest as she thought of all the different scenarios the killer might try. Her problem was, she really couldn’t think like a killer, only like a scared mother.

She fumbled for the key and jammed it at the lock, hand shaking. Glancing down the hall, she jumped at every sound. It took three tries to get the key into the lock and turn it. Inside, she slammed the door, leaned back against it, took several deep breaths, and tried to calm herself, and gather her fragmented thoughts in order to come up with a solution to the problem. Susan wiped her eyes with her sleeve—Oh, to hell with it—and wiped her nose too. Where can we go?

Susan moved to the bedroom, mind racing, she glanced at the bed, wishing she could curl up and have a good cry. Instead, she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and wiped another tear away with the back of her hand. Susan grabbed a large gym bag from the floor of the closet then started yanking open the dresser drawers. Snatching handfuls of clothing, she stuffed them into the bag. After a quick glance around, she picked up a smaller tote from the floor, and strode to the bathroom. She shuddered as the vision of the gun and the killer’s eyes flashed through her mind again.

In the bathroom, Susan swept stuff from the cabinet and the counter into the tote, making sure she remembered Hank’s ventilator. He didn’t need it very often now, but not knowing what was ahead for them, his stress-induced asthma attacks might very well be more frequent. She paused in front of the mirror and stared at the image of a woman about thirty, with tousled shoulder-length dark hair, the unruly curls a result of the rain. The woman staring back at her looked pale and tired. The usual reflection, of a self-confident woman, the one she tried to portray to the world, was missing from the image. It had always been a false image. Inside she had never been very confident.

Now, terrified and confused, the reflection was probably closer to the true picture. She was that child again, dependent on someone, everyone to help with her problems. Her finger paused over the faint jagged scar under her left eye. Almost immediately the old feelings of never fitting in flooded her. The scar certainly wasn’t a big deal now, but it was a constant reminder that she didn’t belong. She pulled her shoulders back, sighed and headed for Hank’s play area where she shoved a few of his favourite toys into the smaller bag.

Susan grabbed the phone and started to call for a cab, then banged the receiver down. A cab would be too easy to trace. They’d have to take the subway to the bus depot. It would take a little longer, but it would be safer. They’d catch a bus going somewhere, anywhere. Then she’d figure out a plan. First they had to get away from here.

She passed a picture of her son, stopped, picked it up and stared at it briefly, then dropped it into a bag. Grabbing both bags, she headed for the door. Pausing, she turned and surveyed the apartment to see if she had forgotten anything then hurried out. Across the hall, she pounded on Mrs. Muldoon’s door until it opened.

"Good gracious, child. What is the matter? We’re not deaf you know."

"Sorry, Mrs. Muldoon. Family emergency. I’m here for Hank. We’re in a hurry. Have to go away for a couple of days."

"A family emergency? Now that’s too bad. Nothing too serious I hope, dear."

"No. No, I don’t think so. I hope not. I…here darling, put your arm through here." Susan kneeled and helped Hank on with his jacket. "Thanks for taking care of him, Mrs. Muldoon. I’ll send you what I owe you."

"Now you don’t worry about that. We’ll settle up when you get back. You just take care of yourself. And you take care of that lovely little boy of yours. He’s a good one, that one." She leaned over and gave them both a hug.

"Thanks. I will. Uh, maybe you could keep an eye on the apartment for me? Until we get back?"

"Don’t you worry about your apartment, dear, I’ll watch it for you. Then we’ll have a nice cuppa and you can tell me all about this emergency of yours."

"Right. Thanks again, Mrs. Muldoon. Come on, Hank, we’re in a hurry."

"How come, Mommy?"

"Mommy will explain later. Bye, Mrs. Muldoon."

"Bye now. You take care, love." Mrs. Muldoon stood in her doorway, waving, as Susan scurried down the hall.

At the end of the corridor Susan turned briefly and waved. Then she tightened her grip on Hank’s hand.

"Let’s go, honey." As she started down the stairs, she had a sudden feeling that she wouldn’t be seeing Mrs. Muldoon again. Fear overshadowed any sadness the idea might have caused.

She headed toward the subway, holding Hank’s hand tightly. The crowd was thinning. People had arrived home for dinner, and it was too early to be going out for the evening. The rain had almost stopped. It was still hot and humid. Hank trotted along beside her, looking confused and a little forlorn. She couldn’t slow down to talk to him, not yet.

"I’m sorry, honey. Please try to keep up. Mommy will explain soon."

She kept checking over her shoulder. It was silly. No one could have found them yet. Still... They took the subway to the bus depot. For the first time in hours she felt she could breathe. They were going to make it. She almost smiled. Imagine, feeling safe on a New York subway. She hugged Hank tightly, brushing back his blond hair and planting a kiss on the top of his head.

"Don’t worry, honey. We just have to go away for a little while. It will be fun, you’ll see. We’re going to take a bus ride." She had to remain calm for his sake.

He gazed up at her with gorgeous blue eyes, frowning. "But why are we going away? Don’t you like Mrs. Muldoon anymore?"

"Yes, of course I do, dear. Something happened at work and I need to go away for awhile."

"But..."

"No more questions right now. We can talk when we’re on the bus." She gave him a quick squeeze, then placed her finger across his lips.

"Where...?"

"No more questions. We’ll talk later."

As soon as they arrived at the bus depot, she checked the departure schedule. A bus, leaving for Albany, was already boarding. Susan bought two tickets and walked quickly toward the coach. Her son clung desperately to her, looking tired, confused and sad.

"It’s okay, honey. You can nap on the bus."

She didn’t really know where they were going after Albany, or where they would end up. She just knew they were running for their lives and they had to get out of town fast. She checked over her shoulder as they boarded, wondering if anyone watched from the shadows.

* * *

Lieutenant Mitch Pellagrino entered the lobby, pulling out the radiophone from an inside pocket of his jacket.

"Sanchez. I’m startin’ the routine. Nothing unusual. Meet you up top." He wiped the sweat from his forehead. If this wasn’t hell it had to be close to it. Sitting around in a New York heat wave babysitting some low life scum who was being forced to testify in a major crime bust. The guy had refused to go into the witness protection program. Now all of a sudden, just a few days before the trial, he cries for help.

Crime always goes up in a heat wave. The cops in that division were short staffed. Who wasn’t in a heat wave? It wasn’t Mitch’s case, but between the guy whining about not wanting to go through with the trial and a rumour that there might be a contract on the weasel, he and Sanchez had been elected to baby-sit. And here they were, without even a proper briefing. Mitch was mad enough to punch the little weasel him. Thank God the trial was in two days. Then he could get back to just being a New York detective.

He wiped his forehead again, thinking about a cool beer at O’ Flaherty’s. Mitch and his partner did a sweep of the building every hour. They even had a key so they could open the door to the apartment to verify the witness was still there. That was the only plan they had. No back up, not even adequate information to run an effective operation. Mitch swore to himself, then started up the stairs. He was struck almost immediately and found himself lying on his back on the floor, the female canon ball on top of him. Struggling to get to his feet, he found a leash around his legs and a damn dog barking in his ear. Her long, well-formed body moved and pulsated against his, firm breasts pressed against his chest. Her face was only inches from his. Wide open eyes, dark amber-brown with flecks of gold, stared into his. Green highlights sparkled. An unusual little scar lay just under the left eye. Her lips were full, sensuous and tempting. Damned tempting.

Damn it, man, the job; think about the job.

Suddenly she was gone.

"You! Stop! Wait! Stop! Damn it!"

Mitch watched as she disappeared through the door. He’d screwed up, all because some bloody bitch had wriggled her body on top of him and he hadn’t held onto her.

He remembered the uneasy feeling in his gut when he had looked into her eyes. It was like, like he knew her, maybe, or something. He hadn’t looked at a woman, in that way, since he left his wife, so that couldn’t be it. Nah, that feeling is just because she made a bloody fool out of me. Another point for the damn women.

Reaching tentatively for the leash, he kept one eye fixed on the dog, which continued to bark. It didn’t look particularly vicious, but it sure the hell was big. Its tail continued to wag, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, drooling over everything in its path, which at this point were the legs of Mitch’s jeans. Why was it he always managed to get involved with dogs, usually big dogs? If it wasn’t women, it was dogs. He could do without either in his life.

Well, at least the slobbering creature’s teeth weren’t bared. Long ago when he’d been attacked, that had been his first clue—those bared teeth, edging slowly toward him, a low guttural growl, and then the lunge. He remembered it as vividly as if it were yesterday, automatically rubbing his shoulder. The scars were still there to remind him.

Managing to push the leash over his ankles, he struggled to his feet. Once he steadied himself, he fumbled inside his jacket and pulled the 9mm Beretta from his belt. The woman had been coming downstairs, from the direction of the witness’s apartment. She’d been white as a ghost and terrified of something. That cold knot in his stomach said there was trouble. Not likely she was a contract killer, if there was one, but she sure as hell might have seen one. If that was the case, and the guy had managed to get by them, he’d still be in the building. Mitch stared down at the animal, shaking his head. "Oh, what the hell… Come on, mutt."

Mitch bent down and picked up his radiophone from the floor where it had fallen when she hit him. Holding it in his other hand he hit the button. At least it was still working. "Sanchez. Where the hell are you? Something’s gone down. The apartment—now. And Sanchez ..."

"Yeah?"

"Watch out for a gunman. I’m not sure, but we might have a shooter loose in the building."

"Gotcha."

Holding the Beretta in his right hand, he grabbed the leash with his other and dragged the dog back up the stairs. It was the only witness he had right now and, while he would have preferred to let the beast run off, that didn’t seem to be an option at this point.

Mitch inched cautiously up to the second floor, the dog’s protests echoing off the hard surfaced walls. As they climbed, the barking changed to a constant whine. So much for the element of surprise.

Part way down the quietly elegant corridor he could see an umbrella, laying on the light grey carpet. The woman had probably dropped it there. He stopped briefly, surveyed the area, and then continued to move cautiously down the hall. The dog switched to whimpering as they got closer to an apartment door, which stood ajar.

Mitch stopped to one side of the door, back against the wall, listening. His nose twitched. He closed his eyes and sighed. Most people wouldn’t pick up on that distinct smell, but he’d worked homicide long enough to know the scent of death, even before he saw it.

He continued to listen, hearing only dead silence, except for the damn dog. It whimpered and nuzzled against Mitch’s thigh. Unconsciously Mitch patted the woolly head.

"Sshh. Quiet boy."

He checked down the hall for Sanchez. No sign of him. He should be here by now. Well, Mitch wasn’t going to stand around and wait for his partner. Where the hell is he? Damn it!

Mitch dropped the leash. He took the gun in both hands, raised it to shoulder level then swung quickly through the doorway into the apartment, his eyes scanning the room for any movement.

The dog suddenly lunged past Mitch, almost knocking him down as he raced to the far corner, yowling. The racket stopped as the dog planted his feet and skidded to a stop, in front of a man seated in a gold brocade wingback chair beside an unlit fireplace.

He was a small man, with light brown hair, balding on top, wearing a maroon smoking jacket and dark pants. Blood trickled down his face from a small hole in his forehead. It dripped slowly, one drop at a time, onto the open book on his lap. His eyes were open, fixed in a vacant stare.

The dog inched forward and sniffed the body. He put his head on the man’s lap, resting it on the book, continuing to whimper. The blood dropped onto its head, one drop at a time.

At the sound of footsteps in the hall, Mitch turned quickly, backing into a corner, gun raised.

The gun came into view first. Then Pete Sanchez swung into the room. He was shorter than Mitch and probably six or seven years younger. He’d only been on the force for a couple of years and was a by the book cop. His main motivation was to show everyone that a Puerto Rican was as good a cop as anyone. He wanted to move up the ladder quickly, to show the world and himself that a Puerto Rican was good enough to make it to the top. He was ambitious, but he was a good partner.

Mitch nodded toward his left. Without a word, they moved as a team to the first door off the main room. Mitch kept his weapon in both hands, releasing it only long enough to open the door. He swung into the room. Pete followed, using the same procedure. No one. A quick scan of the room showed no sign of forced entry, or robbery. Nothing.

They followed the same procedure with each of the other rooms. The results were the same. Nothing. No sign of anyone. No sign any of the rooms had been entered.

Mitch strode to the window and raised it, leaning out and looking down at the street. It was just as he had left it a few minutes ago. Still raining lightly, people thronged together in a sea of colour, heading home or to the subway. No suspicious individuals, and no brunette.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. The humidity was almost unbearable, and the rain only seemed to make the air heavier and steamier. He’d have to change his shirt again, if he got a chance. He snapped the disposable gloves on.

"Eh, what the hell happened here? Who did it?" Sanchez turned to Mitch.

"How the hell should I know? And where the hell were you?"

"Doin’ the routine thing. I figured I’d finish checking the doors and halls as I came up. You got a problem with that?"

"Took your bloody time. See anything? Anything at all?" Mitch snapped.

"Nope, nothin’. Everything’s quiet, except for a few residents in the hall, wanting to know what happened. You didn’t see or hear anything either? Like how the hell did this go down?"

"I don’t know. No one came in the front door. Everything was quiet until the... damn dog started barking."

Mitch didn’t know why he had stopped. Was it just to protect himself so he didn’t look like a bloody screw-up again? He certainly didn’t want to admit he’d let that damn brunette get away. Besides, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he had heard anything. Right after he’d radioed Pete the first time, there might have been a scream, seconds before she landed on him. Then again, if it was a scream, it might have come from the street or who the hell knew where?

"You hear somethin’ else?" Pete asked, staring intently at Mitch, his bushy eyebrows drawn into a frown.

"Nah, just the damn dog." Mitch replied. "Sure no one came in or out the back way?"

"I’m sure. No one came or went out the back way. I never saw a soul. You sure nobody came out the front?" Pete asked, still watching Mitch’s face closely.

Mitch hesitated just a second. "I’m sure, damn it. Someone had to come out the back. There’s no other way out. No one who wasn’t a resident or a regular came out the front."

"Doesn’t make sense. He had to go in and out by one of the doors. What the hell does this guy do? Fly?"

"Uh huh, it looks like it. I passed a fire door on my way down the hall. Probably leads up to the blasted roof, but there’s no goddamn way down from there."

"Maybe we should check anyway?" Pete suggested.

"Uh huh. That would be appropriate. Right after we finish here. No sign of a break in or a struggle. Nothing’s overturned. Dead guy must have let the killer in. But why would he let him in and then go back to reading his book, unless... unless the killer had a key and let himself in." Mitch became silent. Unless it was that damn brunette. She probably had a key, but she didn’t have time to have done it, between when I saw her go in with the dog and the scream. At least I don’t think so. If I hadn’t let my guard down for that split second... Damn women. Always manage to screw me. You have to be alert every bloody minute or they manage to make a fool out of you.

He recalled the feel of her body and her wonderful scent, like a flower garden after a spring rain. What the hell was he doing? She was a suspect, for God’s sake.

Mitch wondered if she lived with the guy. The thought irritated him. He hadn’t noticed anything in any of the rooms to suggest a woman lived here, no female clothing or toilet articles. Maybe she was just a friend, not that he gave a damn one way or the other. So why did he keep thinking about her?

Pete scratched his head. "Who’d you think would have a key?"

"Probably one helluva a lot of people. The landlord, the cleaning lady, the maintenance man, a delivery man, us, just to name a few." Mitch strode to the white and gold antique phone on the table in the corner.

"Is the dog his?" Pete nodded to where the animal still sat with his head on the man’s lap.

"Yeah, I guess. Behaves like he belongs here."

"Yeah, he does. They didn’t tell us about any dog."

"They didn’t tell us a helluva a lot."

"True. Whatcha gonna do with it?"

"Me? With what? Oh, the dog? How the hell should I know? I figure it might have seen the murder. Hell, he might be our only witness. Don’t suppose downtown will buy into keeping him as a material witness... " Mitch raked his gloved hand through his hair.

"Doubt it."

"How about convincing HQ to pay for kennel fees? Just until we find someone to take him. Think that would work?"

"Once again, I doubt it. They’d think you were nuts." Pete said.

"They think that already. Maybe I’ll try finding a relative, or maybe one of those snoopy neighbours."

"Not likely. Too bad, too. He’s a nice dog, but not many people are going to want an Irish wolfhound. They usually like small dogs, or shepherds." Pete replied.

"That what he is? A wolfhound? He is damn big. Maybe I could find the nearest SPCA and drop him off... Someone’s bound to want a great dog like him."

"The SPCA will probably put him down in a couple of days, if no one adopts him. That’s what they do, ya know. Don’t know much about animals, do you?" Pete frowned, as Mitch shook his head.

"Nope. Never really interested me. Especially dogs. Hey, maybe you could take him?" Mitch suggested.

"Sorry, nope. I live with my family. Remember? There’s five of us and Ma has a poodle."

"Jesus, Sanchez. Oh, never mind."

Mitch felt his brows furrow and his mouth tighten. He resented Sanchez for living at home and having a large, loving family. He resented what his own family, and that ex-wife bitch, had done to him and how he didn’t have a home anymore. Anger began to rise inside him as he thought about it. He punched his right hand into his palm. Life outside his work sucked. In fact, he didn’t have one, but that was his choice. At least that was what he told himself. He wasn’t into chicks and the singles scene, and anything else was just too complicated. He’d sworn off women permanently. They were all the same and he refused to set himself up for the pain that went with the humiliation, ever again.

"Eh, why don’t you take him?" Pete interrupted.

"Huh?"

"The dog. Why don’t you take him?"

"No damn way. First, my landlady says no pets, and my room’s too damn small. And second, dogs and me don’t get along too good. One bit me once. Since then I firmly believe that dogs should always be kept at a safe distance."

"This one looks pretty friendly."

Mitch scowled. He’d have to figure something out. Right now, the dog was the least of his problems. "Yeah, well I’ll worry about him later. Right now I better call this in, then we’ll check the roof. You might want to pick up that umbrella in the hall. It might belong to a witness, or the murderer. The lab guys can dust it for prints when they get here."

He picked up the receiver and dialled the number. The guys uptown weren’t going to like this. They weren’t going to like this at all. In fact they were going to be downright pissed off. The idea had been to keep the guy alive, at least until after he testified. That’s why he and Sanchez had been assigned this damn babysitting job in the first place. They’d even had a heads up that there might be an attempt on his life and the guy still got knocked off. That was all they’d been given. Damn. They’d only been on the job a couple of hours.

A draft beer at one of the local dives they called a bar looked like it was out of the question now. So was a little flirting with the local waitress. He didn’t have girlfriends, hadn’t for more than four years, but he did like to sit in the bar and look. Momentarily, he remembered the feel of the brunette as she moved over him, struggling to escape. She’d had one helluva body. He remembered how his own body had responded to her touch. It had been awhile since he had felt those rising sensations.

Damn, it was hot. Mitch wiped his forehead again. He probably wasn’t even going to get time to change his damn shirt. This thing would take all night and probably straight through the next week or two. He’d screwed up. The case would be dismissed due to lack of evidence and the racketeers would be back on the street by tomorrow. No way should the killer have gotten to the witness, not if they’d been doing their job. It was almost like the guy had inside information.

Mitch sighed heavily. He couldn’t find another witness to testify against the racketeers, but he’d have to at least find the shooter.

He knew he should mention the girl, but this looked like a professional hit. If she saw anything, the shooter would probably be looking for her, too. Mitch wanted to get to her before the killer did.

He was convinced there was an information leak in the department. There had been too many coincidences, before his brother was shot. Dom’s death had just reinforced Mitch’s conviction. IA had investigated but never come up with anything. Mitch didn’t want information leaked that might give the killer a head start in locating the witness. Mitch wanted to find her first and see what she had to say, either about the murder or what she had seen.

Damn, maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe he just wanted to see her again. He sighed heavily as the voice at the other end of the line barked into the receiver.

Her stories offer compelling characters with elements of mystery, time travel and the paranormal. "Beloved Stranger," set in Ontario and Quebec, is the story of two modern lovers brought together by ghostly voices from the past. Her time travel romance "Journey's End" takes place in England and was awarded four stars by Romantic Times Magazine. "A Suitable Father" is set in the Pacific Northwest and "Dancing with the Devil" moves from Africa to Victoria, BC. Patricia's short stories have appeared in Canada's "Storyteller" magazine.

Recently Patricia spent six months in Kenya to administer scholarships for needy girls. Her next project is an account of this life changing experience. You can reach Patricia at patricia@patriciacrossley.com or visit her website at http://www.patriciacrossley.com 

Books/publications:

A Suitable Father; New Concepts Publishing

http://www.newconceptspublishing.com/asuitablefather.htm 

Journey's End: New Concepts Publishing

http:// www.newconceptspublishing.com/journeysend.htm 

Beloved Stranger: NovelBooksInc

http://www.novelbooksinc.com/authors/patricia_crossley/beloved_stranger.html

Dancing with the Devil; Atlantic Bridge Publishing

http://www.atlanticbridge.net/publishing/dancing.htm 

The Fireworks Display: TrebleHeartBooks

http://www.trebleheartbooks.com/THBShortSynop.html 

Prize winning story in Storyteller Magazine, July 2001

Saturday Night; DiskUs Publishing (August 2002)

http://www.diskuspublishing.com 

Short story, appeared in print in Storyteller Magazine 2001

Dancing with the Devil

By

Patricia Crossley

Chapter One

Jazz woke, heart pounding, eyes instantly wide open. She could see nothing in the half light, could only feel that something was smothering her. She struggled for breath and clawed at the covering that clung to her face, cutting off the air. Her fingers caught in the protective netting strung over the bed and she ripped at the drapery, frantic to free her head and arms, sucking in air to her starved lungs.

Rolling off the camp cot, she fought her way out of the remaining netting, careful to check the floor as she picked up her boots. She shook each one out in turn before she thrust her feet inside. One of the crew had found a small scorpion in his film pack the day before. It was tiny, about the size of a fingernail, and it scurried away to disappear into the sand floor.

Leaving the boot laces loose, she stood up and pulled on a shirt. There were sounds now from outside the tent. The sun was well up, beginning to send warm fingers of heat through the canvas. She could hear a truck engine coughing somewhere, the gas evaporating as usual before the motor could catch. Vehicle maintenance wasn't a strong point in the crew of people they'd hired in this remote corner of the world.

Her hands were hot and dry on her face and she pulled the hair back out of her eyes impatiently, tying it with an extra large elastic band that had been holding the pages of her notebook together. Everything was covered by a thin layer of dirt that managed to work its way into every crack.

Yawning and stretching out her back, she shuffled over to the kerosene stove and felt blindly for the matches.

As the water boiled, she put the beans in the hand grinder and turned the handle. The aroma of the freshly ground coffee spread like a blessed perfume around her, masking the scents of dust and greasy clothing and overheated engines. If she packed nothing else, she always made sure she had a supply of good coffee. It went into her travel pack along with the other less glamorous essentials like maps and notebooks, a Swiss Army knife and a Mag Lite.

A few minutes later, she stepped outside into the sandy compound with her first lovely cup, black and steaming in the morning air, and contemplated a scene of organized chaos. She took a sip and let the taste linger in her mouth. Under the palms that gave scant shade, a group of natives was busy loading the back of a flat bed truck, shouting, cursing and laughing in a cacophony of sound.

She watched Abdul step around a group of men across the clearing and move quickly to her side. She took the last swallow of coffee. "What's going on?"

He smiled briefly, a flash of white teeth against the dark skin. "We must move on. Wind storm coming."

She looked up into the cloudless sky. "When?"

He shrugged and spread his hands in the fatalistic gesture she'd grown to know so well. "Two, maybe three hours. Wind, sand. It will be most unpleasant."

"Where are we going?" The frantic activity reminded her of the "bug out" scenes in M*A*S*H* that she'd watched on TV as a kid.

Another voice interrupted. "We'll pull out and try for some shelter. We'll need a windbreak of some kind." She turned to find the photographer, Pete Browning, behind her, looking as disheveled as usual and with two cameras slung round his neck.

"The rebels will have to contend with the storm too," he added. "We might get a few days cease fire."

A couple of men emerged from the tent she'd just left carrying her folded cot.

She frowned, fully back in the present. "Let's do some interviews, get hold of someone who thinks he's a leader. It's about time we got some first-hand information.. We could go ahead with Abdul to translate and scout around-" She took a step away, ready to organize the quest for extra information.

Peter laid a hand on her arm. "Not you, Jazz," he said as he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his upper shirt pocket. "This came through during the night."

She felt the tiny bump of her heart as her pulse beat faster. Her promotion! Already. She kept her face impassive as she took hold of the warm paper, the creases already marked in brown by the ubiquitous sand. Pete and Abdul watched her as she unfolded it, the sounds of the camp suddenly hushed in the thickening air. The message had been sent from the newspaper's head office yesterday afternoon and been passed on through Nairobi to their location in Somalia.

"To: Jasmine Hargrove," it began, "Regret to inform you your father deceased June 19. Request your presence. Urgent. Contact Willis and Greene, lawyers..." and a series of contact numbers followed.

She read it again, searching for details, for an explanation, for some kind of personal word. Suddenly, the flimsy paper trembled in her fingers. She swallowed hard, trying to clear the dust from her throat, and opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Her mind raced to take in the news. It obliterated all thoughts of her job. He was gone and there was no explanation. Suddenly, the hot tears burned at the back of her eyes and she blinked hard. No chance now to have it out with him, to make him understand. How did he die? She turned the paper over. There were no more details.

"I read what it said," Pete said. "I'm sorry."

She drew in a deep breath. "My father-"

He gathered her into his big arms and squashed her against his cameras. She didn't care about the discomfort; it felt good, she needed to be held. She moved slightly so her cheek rested against the flatness of his chest and she felt the steady beat of his heart. He held her firmly, not too tight, his hands steady on her back.

She had to move away. "I'm sorry," she said, suddenly embarrassed. "I shouldn't have done that." She lifted her hands and pushed her hair back from her face. "They want me to go home. There's a lot to settle."

"Yes, of course." Pete let her go and turned to Abdul. "You'll need to put Ms. Hargrove's bag in the Landrover."

"No," she whispered, an icy panic clutching at her despite the oppressive heat of the desert. "You don't understand, I can't go."

He patted her shoulder, misunderstanding. "Don't worry about the storm. You've got time. Is that right, Abdul?"

Abdul nodded and flipped one hand in a kind of "maybe" gesture. "Be very quick," he said.

"The crew will manage without you," Pete said as she still hesitated. "We all understand. Believe me, everything will be fine."

She looked at him for a moment, searching for words. But there were none. She drew in a deep breath. She had to go. She hadn't gotten where she was by wimping out on what had to be done. Besides, it would be worse to have to sit out the storm and then leave.

"Let's go for it," she said.

"Your'e on." Pete flashed her a grin as he pulled on a jacket scattered with pockets and took out some sunglasses. He hadn't shaved, and dark stubble followed the line of his jaw. To her astonishment she found herself wondering how it would feel under her fingers... A lock of dark hair fell over one eye and he pushed it back impatiently. He looked as if driving out in an imminent sandstorm with a grouchy reporter was just what he wanted to do.

"I'll drive her to the airfield," he yelled to Abdul's back, then turned to her again. "Move it, Jazz. You've just about got time to get the plane out before the storm hits." He strode off, shouting orders to send a radio message to the tiny airstrip in the valley.

In a daze she pushed her clothing into a couple of bags and picked up her pack that was always ready to go. There wasn't much else to worry about. The crew all traveled light these days, never knowing when they'd have to bug out just like those doctors and nurses on the TV show. At least they had only themselves to worry about, no sick people to think of and little equipment.

"Let's go, Jazz," Pete yelled from outside the tent. She grabbed her laptop in its case with the bags and lifted the tent flap. Most of the area was now bare, all their equipment bundled onto the trucks. Pete sat behind the wheel of the Landrover, waving at her to get in. Within two minutes they were bouncing down the rutted, hard-packed sand that passed for a road.

For several minutes they bumped along without speaking. Pete bent forward, gripping the wheel tight. She watched him as he concentrated on holding the line as the whole vehicle bounced and jolted, rattling and clanking on the cracked earth. His dark hair blew in the breeze, whipped up by their speed. Big aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

"Hold on to your back teeth," he yelled above the noise of the engine. He gave her another wide grin, taking his eyes off the road for a second.

She nodded grimly, hanging on for dear life to the support bar of the open vehicle. Pete fell silent, concentrating on hanging on to the juddering steering wheel. She supposed he would drop her at the airfield and then find his way back to the group wherever they were. He seemed to know what he was doing.

"How long will it take you to catch up with them again?" she gasped as her rear end hit the hard seat one more time.

"Not too long, I hope." He craned his neck to see round Jazz and peer at the horizon. She saw anxiety in his eyes.

She glanced in the same direction towards a grey haze that seemed to spread like oil over the burnished sky. "Is that the sand storm?"

" 'Fraid so." He pushed even harder on the throttle and the Landrover bucked and jumped like an untrained pony. What looked like a hard, flat surface from a distance was sprinkled with half buried rocks and ridges of solid sand.

"Ouch," she said as her knee came up to meet the dashboard.

He didn't turn to look at her, but she sensed an increased tension in the set of his broad shoulders under the khaki drill shirt.

Suddenly the Landrover seemed to take off and sailed several feet through the air. It landed with a solid thump and immediately listed to one side.

"Shit!" Pete took his foot off the pedal and threw the gear shift into neutral. He hauled on the hand brake and was out in an instant looking at the back wheel.

Jazz scrambled to follow him. The tire lay in shreds. A deadly combination of speed and sharp rock had ripped it from the rim.

"You okay?" Pete asked belatedly.

She nodded. "Where's the spare?" she asked

Pete looked back at the grey cloud. No longer a smudge on the horizon, it spread visibly towards them, growing as it drew nearer. A dark wall approached them and the wind blew on their faces, its intensity increasing by the minute. The air grew noticeably cooler as the sky disappeared in the murk. Jazz took off her soft green hat and pushed her hair back as it whipped around her face, narrowing her eyes against the dust. A faint groaning came from the direction of the wall: the wind announcing its presence. She'd read about the power of wind and sand, about how it could scrape paint bare in a few minutes.

Pete hauled an unwieldy bundle from the back of the vehicle.

"There's no time to change the wheel. Grab hold of this," he shouted. "We'll have to try to get the top on."

She felt his urgency in the speed of his movements. Her hands fumbled in her haste as she took one side of the canvas that flapped and writhed like a wild thing as they struggled to fit it back over the supports. Pete's muscular forearms flexed with effort as he fought to bring the fasteners together. When one side was secure, he stopped to wipe his streaming face and glanced at the darkening sky once again. His expression was carefully blank as he turned back to the job.

The pressure of the wind hurt her ears, and the sand, already whipping past them, burnt and stung her face. She tried to speak, but her mouth filled with dust, and the swirling air snatched her breath away, making her gasp like a drowning person. She hunched over, struggling to stay on her feet.

Pete grabbed a shirt from the back seat and held it out to her. "Here, put this over your head."

"Thanks." She took the cloth and wound it over her head, fighting to pull in the strands of hair that clung to her cheeks. She folded the rest of the shirt over her mouth and nose, leaving only her eyes free.

After what seemed an eternity, the top was in place. Pete opened the door. "Now get in! Close everything up!"

Only a moment's hesitation. She struggled back into the Landrover and fastened the last of the grommets to hold the canvas in place. Pete followed immediately, cursing and spitting sand from between his lips. Quickly they found and closed all the air vents, shutting off the thin, stinging ribbons of sand that blew in.

A filtered, greenish-yellow light penetrated the eerie darkness inside the canvas walls. She felt the vehicle move and rock as the wind caught it, trying to roll the whole thing over. She gasped and seized the handholds on the doors.

"Hold tight," Pete said. His hand reached out and felt for hers. She let her fingers lie in his, grateful for the comforting strength that came through to her in his touch. The sides of the vehicle closed in on her, shutting out the outside world, shutting out sound and light, entombing her in the airless shell reeking of weathered canvas and dust. Sweat began to bead on her face; the car was turning into an oven.

She loosened the shirt from around her head, freeing her mouth and nose to pull in the air she desperately needed. The whistling, moaning noise from the wind rose in pitch until she longed to block her ears. Underneath the sound, she could hear an increasing patter of sand hurled against the canvas, like some demented rock band practicing a music that no sane audience would ever want to hear.

Bit by bit, it grew darker still and hotter in the pitiful shell of the car. Despite the wild sounds from outside, she could hear the gasps of their tortured breathing. She grasped Pete's fingers in an involuntary spasm and she felt his hand warm and solid against hers. The other noise gradually decreased as the light dimmed. They were now inside the wall of sand.

They were buried in a tomb of a vehicle.

They would never be able to open the doors, dig their way out.

Panic rose in her, sweeping through her body like a fever until she could think of nothing else but air and freedom. She let go of Pete's hand and clawed at the rest of the shirt still clinging to her head and face. When she was free at last, she turned to the door and tugged at the latch. Over Pete's ragged breathing, she heard a whimpering cry, and realized it was her own voice, frozen in her throat.

Pete's arm came round behind her, holding her tight against him. His hand closed over hers again, warm and rough, yet gentle. His body was a rock beside her, his arms and hands a haven in a sea of panic. He held her fast against her struggles and raised one hand to lift the hair from her face and mouth. "Hush, you're okay," he whispered. "You're okay. Just lean on me. Don't think about it. We're safe."

She gave a strangled cry and with a dry sob she buried her face against his chest, fighting to control her shaking. Ever since she'd lived the nightmare of the cellar, she'd had this terror of confined spaces, of being trapped inside a box with something terrible...

The sound of Pete's voice gradually broke through her panic as her breathing slowed. He spoke slowly, soothingly, as if to a child.

"...so you never know what family will do," he was saying. What on earth was he talking about?

His hand lay on her head, stroking her hair. "...so my sister was there with this TV host who wanted to know what she thought people did on a first date. It was one of those cutesy shows that have kids answer ridiculous questions. Marian, that's my sister, said: 'On the first date, they just tell each other lies, and that usually gets them interested enough for a second date.'" He shifted against her. "I'll just move my arm a bit." She felt him adjust his position so that her neck rested in the crook of his arm.

She tried to moisten her lips with a dry tongue. It was an effort to speak. She didn't know if the words would come out of her tight throat. "She was probably right," she said. Her voice broke in a little croak at the end.

He shifted again in the cramped space to look down at her. "You were listening," he said with a smile. "I was desperately trying to think what I would do with a claustrophobic women who was determined to claw her way out before the storm's over."

She took a deep breath to make sure she could speak, that her voice wouldn't shake and give her away. "I'm okay..."

"Try to hold on. We're all right. Let's not talk too much."

Jazz knew what he meant. They needed to conserve their air. They could be here for hours, days.

They would use up all the oxygen ... She tried to pull her mind back to other things, tried not to think of each breath diminishing the supply of air ... The sand building up ...

Pete settled her against his shoulder again and gently pushed the hair back from her face. His lips were close to her cheek and he made soft, soothing noises. Jazz closed her eyes and made a supreme effort of will to control her breathing and to sit very still, not thinking of what was outside.

After what seemed like a long time, Pete stirred and stretched as best he could. Miraculously the pounding and wailing had ceased.

"Has it stopped?" she asked through dry lips.

"I sure hope so," he answered and cocked his head to one side. "Can you hear anything?"

"No." She wiped a hand across her face and felt grit under her fingers. She tried to find enough moisture in her mouth to swallow and coughed on the sand that had sifted between her lips. Pete pulled a small green scarf from around his neck and gently brushed her face. "Sorry it's not very clean," he said.

Jazz took it from him and crumpled it into a ball. "Lean forward," she said.

Very carefully, she dusted the sand from his eyebrows and traced the line of his lips. They were strong and well defined. The sand clung to the stubble of his beard. She was very conscious of his gaze on her face as she concentrated on not sending debris into his eyes. With a final flick of the cloth she sat back.

He took the scarf from her and bound it outlaw style over his mouth. "Put that cloth over your face again," he said. "Let's give it a go."

He turned away from her towards the side of the Landrover that leaned lower. "With any luck," he said, bracing his feet against the door, "this will still open. The sand will be piled on the other side and this door could be almost clear." She felt the muscles of his back flex and move against her. "Put your arms round me," he said. "Just push against me when I say."

On his count of three, Jazz shoved him with all her strength. She licked cracked lips and tried not to think of water.

"Again," he said. "I think it moved."

She strained every muscle as she pushed with all her might.

Each minute seemed like an hour until Pete had cleared enough of a hole for her to slither through. She stood beside the Landrover, breathing in deep, sucking blessed air at last into her lungs. The wind had dropped but the so-called road had disappeared. As far as she could see was an unbroken expanse of rock and sand with no trace of the trail they had followed.

***

"We were lucky," Pete said.

She stared at him wordlessly.

"It could have been even stronger and lasted for days," he explained. "At least we know where we are."

"We do?" She brushed sand from her arms and legs. It was everywhere, on the surface of her skin and in every conceivable spot on her body. She coughed and wiped some dust from her mouth with her sleeve.

"Yup. That's the way we came." He pointed in a direction that looked exactly the same as any other. "This vehicle carries some water. I'll try to reach it."

He thrust his head and shoulders back inside and she saw the vehicle lurch as he thrust his way into the car. At last he re-emerged grasping a plastic jerrycan of water and the mouthpiece of the shortwave radio that was mounted on the dashboard.

"We're in luck. The crew put in the supplies." He unscrewed the top of the can and held it out to her. She fought the impulse to drink all the beautiful, life giving, tepid water that tasted of warm plastic and took two restrained gulps, trying to swirl it all around her mouth before swallowing it.

"Good girl." Pete took one mouthful and fitted the cap back on.

"Did you bring the satellite phone?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I left it for the crew."

He held out the radio speaker on its spiral chord. "Let's try this. Do you know how to work it?'

She nodded a yes and took the receiver from him, knowing that if the unreliable crew back at the base hadn't checked the batteries recently, they wouldn't reach anyone. She tried the call three times over the dead air. Nothing.

She turned to face the direction he'd indicated. "Is that the way we walk?"

"That's where the camp was, but we don't walk."

Suddenly she was unreasonably angry: angry at Pete, angry at the elements, angry that Pete had witnessed her weakness in the car, angry at her father for dying at this particular moment. "We have to do something. There's a map and a compass in my kit. Do you expect us to sit here and wait to die of thirst?"

"We won't die of thirst if we're careful. What do you expect to find back at the camp? They all left soon after we did. There will be nothing recognizable about the site. No provisions, no shelter, no water. Here we have shelter, we can make shade, we have some water, and Abdul knew where we were headed."

She still wanted to argue with his calm logic. "We could make for the airfield."

He nodded, his expression serious. "We could. Except that I'm not one hundred percent sure of the direction with the track blocked out. We don't have enough water to carry us through a long trek under this sun. Even with the compass it's too risky. The first rule for survival is to stay put."

She stood for a moment, searching for another suggestion that would make them move. Frustrated energy buzzed through her, urging her to take action, so she could at least appear to be finding a solution to their situation. Nothing came to mind.

"Well, don't just stand around," she said. "Let's make ourselves some shade."

Pete nodded. "But we'll take it easy," he said. "No more than ten minutes in the sun at a time."

It took them over an hour to loosen the canvas top of the Landrover and spread it enough to make an improvised lean-to shelter under which they could lie, motionless, waiting for dark or rescue, whichever came first. Pete allowed them another ration of water.

She drank it out in the open, postponing the moment when she would have to crawl into the shelter. Would have to lie there for hours with the canvas just inches from her face. The air would be heavy and hot-"What I'd really like is a tall, cold glass of mint julep," she said. "On a verandah with a ceiling fan to stir the air, lots of ice in the glass and just enough rum..." She patted the jerrycan of warm water. "What's your favorite?"

"I don't drink."

She turned towards him. This was interesting. Some personal quirk. She'd never noticed in their previous assignments whether he drank or not."You must be the only photographer I've met who doesn't."

"Maybe." His lips were pressed together in a thin line and she couldn't read the expression in his eyes. For a moment, she was tempted to pursue the topic, make the most of a revelation of an unknown detail in his life. Then he looked at her, and her breath caught in her throat. There was pain in his eyes, determination too, and defiance. She no longer wanted to dig away at his reasons for not drinking alcohol. She set the water down in the shade of the vehicle.

"Do you have extra clothes in those bags of yours?" Pete asked.

"A couple of sweaters, some socks."

"You'll have to get them out. It will be cold tonight."

Why hadn't she thought of that? She'd been in the country longer than he. She should have been the one checking they were as prepared as possible for survival.

Pete reappeared from inside the vehicle with the soft canvas bags carrying her clothing and notebooks. He thrust them towards her. "Take out what you need," he said, "and we'll use the bags for backrests."

Irrationally, she wanted to refuse, to tell him she had a better idea, but of course she hadn't and of course he was right. In silence, she pulled out sweaters and socks and zipped the bag closed.

She refolded the clothing, laid it carefully to one side, and watched Pete kneel down to smooth the sand and place her bags against the tilting side of the Landrover. The space was beginning to look suspiciously like a double bed.

"You might as well come in and rest,"he said. "Conserve your strength."

The last thing she wanted to do was lie motionless next to him and wait passively for rescue, like a puppy in a pet shop window. There were a couple of things to take care of before she could settle for the night. She moved away from the slope of the dark canvas. Pete stood up again.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said and walked to the other side of the crippled vehicle. In a few moments she saw the back of his head and he remained motionless, obviously taking care of a call of nature.

He turned and came back to her. "Sorry it's not more comfortable," he said, "but at least it's private."

"This won't be the first time."

"I know. Just walk a few paces away. Don't lose sight of the vehicle."

What did he think she was? An inexperienced rookie? She strode a measured ten paces from the car and unzipped her pants, keeping her back turned. She could write an article on bathroom facilities around the world if she thought she could ever sell it. So far, her favorite had been the Russian two seater in white porcelain with blue flowers. The memory made her smile.

She trudged back through the sand to find Pete already lying inside in the shade, propped on one elbow. Shadows fell across his face and upper body, making it hard for her to see his expression. He was squeezed up into the corner against the wall they had made with the canvas top spread out from the vehicle. He stretched out a hand.

"Come inside," he said. "You can stay on the side closest to the opening."

She tossed her head. "I can take the inside place-"

"No you can't," he interrupted. "You need to be close to the opening." He sat up and smoothed the already smooth sand. "Just as I need to stay away from alcohol."

She met his direct gaze, holding his eyes with hers. He understood her problem, understood that she was ashamed and frustrated by her perceived weakness.

"Thank you," she said simply. She pushed the jerrycan of water between them, catching the little smile at the corners of his mouth as she did so, and slid in beside him.

He lay on his back, staring up at the sloping canvas above them, his hands behind his head, one knee bent up as he tried to fit into the confined space. She was grateful to him for taking the worst spot, only too aware of what she would have gone through had he called her bluff about taking the narrow space up against the canvas wall.

"Do you want to talk about your dad?" he asked gently.

She turned her face away from him. "There's not much to tell. He was larger than life in every respect. Lots of money, lots of friends, lots of land, lots of battles. I guess they need me to settle the estate."

"You haven't been home for a while?"

"Not for fourteen years. I decided I couldn't take it at home any more and I left when I was seventeen. I never went back."

"And your mother?"

"My mother had a hard time. She left my dad after my-" she paused for a moment unsure that she really wanted to continue, then took a breath,"-little sister died. She was called Jeannie."

She felt him take her hand again and tried to pull away, but he held on and she relaxed. The warmth of his rough, dry hand was strangely comforting.

"I've got a little sister, too," he said. "Except she's not little any more. She's twenty-eight and has two kids."

Just as she opened her mouth to ask him more, she felt him sit up to open the water bottle again.

"It's getting dark," he said,"Take a drink while we can still see and put on the sweaters and the extra socks."

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine. I've got a jacket."

It wasn't easy to struggle into the sweaters without more contact with him than she wanted. She more or less had to lean against him as he guided her hands into the armholes and pulled the warm material over her head..

"I feel like the Michelin man," she said as she pulled her hair free from the neckline of the second sweater.

He leaned back as far as he could in the confined space and looked her up and down. "Nah," he said. "You're much prettier. Now, take your drink."

She swallowed another gulp of water, and he replaced the top and pushed the container to one side.

"What about you?" she asked again.

"I've had enough. You're going to have to lie against me. We need to conserve body heat and stay as close together as possible."

Jazz knew he was right, but this was one more thing she hadn't thought of. He gently turned her on her side so her face was towards the opening. Carefully he placed the length of his body against her and wrapped his arms around her. The weight of him against her was unexpectedly comforting, and her bottom fit snugly into the curve of his body. She felt him move and understood he was pulling the jacket he'd spoken of over them both, to form another little tent inside the one they had created.

The sudden darkness of the desert night had already fallen and she felt the air rapidly cooling against her face. They were alone in a vast wasteland, without food, with a limited water supply, with no means of communication, but she felt safe and secure. Pete had kept her safe from her own fears during the storm, telling her stories about his sister to keep her mind from the terror.

"Does your sister still say funny things?" she murmured into the darkness.

"You bet." His voice came from just behind her left ear "Keeps us all laughing. She's a great mom, too."

"That's important." She thought of Jeannie. How much had she been able to laugh in those last months before the disease took her completely?

Pete shifted slightly against her.

"You're not married?" she asked.

"Not any more."

She waited for a beat, but all he said was: "How about you?"

"No, never married," she said and moved her leg to ease her calf muscle. "I've never been much interested in being married. Too many complications in this job. Transfers, assignments ..." She let her voice trail off.

"Where's home?" Pete asked gently.

"I've got an apartment in Toronto, but I'm never there. Dad lives-lived-in Oak Bay. But he had interests all over the Okanagan."

"I know it." He sounded as if he was smiling. "My mother lives in Victoria now and my sister's just outside. Mom retired there to be near Marian. Nice place.."

"Uh huh." Victoria was Canada's number one retirement spot with its mild climate and beautiful scenery. She was growing drowsy with the warmth of Pete's body against her back. She closed her eyes. "I'll get the plane tomorrow," she whispered.

"Sure you will," he answered.

***

She woke in a panic again, not knowing where she was, feeling the weight of an arm over her, holding her down, the pressure of a strange body against her back. She raised her arm and hit the canvas roof just inches away.

"Hold still."

Pete's voice came out of the semi darkness and she felt his strong hands on her, holding her. "You'll bring the whole thing down on top of us."

The thought of the canvas collapsing on her, enveloping her in heavy, airless darkness was enough to make her pause. She struggled to control her breathing, to tell herself that there was air and light and space outside, easily accessible.

Pete propped himself up on one elbow and peered at the luminous hands of his watch.

"It's just about dawn," he said. "It'll be warm outside in a half hour or so. Are you cold?'

"No." She wasn't cold at all. In fact, she was comfortably warm, especially where Pete's body lay alongside hers, especially where his arm had been draped across her side, where his hands had touched her to soothe her sudden fear.

"Can you wait a while for some water?' he asked, settling back down.

"Sure." How long did he expect them to lie here in this kind of close, decidedly intimate contact? She would only have to turn to him and-

"I think it's warm enough now," she said."Outside, I mean."

Before he could answer her, she pulled herself away from him and plunged her head and shoulders through the opening in the canvas wall. She thrust her arms forward and pulled herself unceremoniously out of the makeshift shelter.

The air was a shard of ice stabbing at her lungs, making her suck in her breath and hug her body with her arms. The first radiance of dawn was brightening the horizon with shades of coral, purple and magenta. The sky above her was still the soft, deep indigo of the desert night, but as she watched, the fingers of light crept forward, extinguishing the bright stars one by one. After a moment, she stretched out her back and took another breath of cold air.

Pete emerged from the shelter, struggling into his jacket.

"What now?" she said.

He ran his hands through his hair that was sticking up around his head."We wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For someone to find us. It's not as if no one knows where we were heading."

He handed her the water jug and she took another mouthful. The water was icy cold now and she shivered.

"Told you it was too early to get up," he said with a small grin.

She eyed him warily."It will soon be full light," she said."I like it better outside."

She pulled the top sweater down around her hips from where it had ridden up in her hasty exodus from the shelter and stamped her feet against the chill."I'd kill for a cup of coffee," she muttered. The bite in the air and the drink of water was reminding her that she'd left without breakfast the previous day."Do we have anything to eat?"

"'Fraid not." He thrust his hands into one of his many pockets and drew out a battered pack of chewing gum."You're welcome to this," he said, holding it out to her."At least it will keep moisture in your mouth."

She shook her head."Maybe later. We won't be here very long."

She knelt down beside the shelter and fumbled in the shadows for her bag, feeling for it where it had served as a pillow. She rummaged through it, found a brush and sat back on her heels. The elastic band that held her hair was tangled in the mass of curls at the nape of her neck and tugging on it hurt like hell. She muttered under her breath.

"Hold on." She felt Pete's fingers on hers."Let me."

He squatted beside her and very gently and carefully he loosened the band and drew out the locks of hair.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Give me the brush."

"No, I can-"

He took the brush from her fingers and began slowly stroking it through her hair, from the crown of her head to the tousled ends. It felt wonderful. Her whole body responded to the soothing massage and she felt herself relax.

"You've done this before," she said.

"Yes, I have," he replied.

She waited for him to continue, to explain how he came to be able to brush a woman' s hair in such an expert way, but he said nothing more. Maybe I don't want to know anyway, she thought. Maybe it would just lead us into territory where we shouldn't venture.

Pete broke into her thoughts."I want you to take advantage of the shade in the shelter as much as you can," he said."But we won't be easy to spot from a distance, so I'll stay on watch."

She turned abruptly and the brush caught in a vicious knot of hair."Ouch, enough," she said."Sorry. I'll take the brush now." She faced him on her knees."You don't think I'm going to sit in that horrible shelter like some Victorian miss protecting her complexion from the sun, do you? I can take my turn on watch."

She saw his mouth open to protest."I'm a reporter, Pete, I travel the world for my stories. I've frozen in the mountains, I've thrown up in an Atlantic storm, I've fought crowds of panicking refugees. I can stay on watch for an hour."

He held up his hands in mock surrender."Okay, okay." He looked at his watch."You take the first hour," he said."I could use some more sleep."

The magnificent colors of the dawn faded quickly to the monotonous greys and browns of the desert. It was impossible to pick out detail on the ground more that a few hundred yards away. Total silence reigned in the sandy wasteland. No birds penetrated this far, no animals emerged to investigate the intruders. Only a few scrubby, half dead pieces of vegetation clung to life. The morning dragged by on creeping feet, growing hotter and dustier by the minute. Jazz removed her sweaters. Pete slept for an hour, and when he emerged for his watch, he tied one of her bright colored shirts to the useless aerial of the Landrover, but the cloth hung limp and lifeless.

He spoke little, but she saw him replacing the clothing and the bags under the canvas shelter, patting down the sand where their movements had made ruts and ridges. Did he expect to spend another night out here? They could go without food, but their water supply was getting low. He picked up his camera and took some shots of the makeshift shelter and the surroundings. When he finished he saw her watching and gave a shrug."Never miss a picture," he said.

She'd seen his work. He was good."How long have you been doing this?" she asked.

"About eight years as a freelance." He pulled out a canister of film from one of his pockets and began to open up the camera."I've always had a camera in my hand for as long as I can remember. Just didn't make it into a job at first." He took the finished roll out of the camera and slipped it into his pocket. She wondered what he'd done in the years before he devoted himself full time to photography. Before she could ask, he continued."I like capturing the reality of things, showing people a world they would never know." He gestured out into the desert, towards the horizon."At one time, all this would have been just an artist's impression, if it was depicted at all. So at some fundamental level, not quite real. But a good photograph is different. A photograph is almost as good as being there."

"Unless it's doctored-"

"Ah, there's the rub," he said."My pictures will never be played with. You can be sure they're honest, just like your articles." He gave her a broad grin."I'll get off my soapbox."

They settled into silence again, waiting. Jazz tried the silent radio one more time in the hopes of a miracle, but there was no sound, not even a crackle of static to raise her spirits.

They sipped twice at the water and when it was time for her second watch, she accepted a piece of gum. At midday she was sitting in the airless shade, scribbling in her notebook, putting the finishing touches to an account of what had happened, when Pete sprang to his feet and began waving his arms over his head, yelling at the top of his voice.

She scrambled up, spilling her pen and papers around her and rushed to his side. A dot on the horizon was moving at a snail's pace. She kept her eyes fixed on it, shading her face with her hand in an attempt to see more clearly. With agonizing slowness, the dot became a blob, then the blob metamorphosed into more than one shape, moving in unison.

"What is it? she said. "Can you make it out?"

Pete continued to squint against the brightness and rubbed his eyes. He took hold of one of the cameras around his neck and peered through the lens, adjusting it carefully. "Got them," he said. "It's someone on a camel."

Her heart sank. A wandering Arab with a camel was not what she was hoping for. He might have food and some precious water he'd be willing to share, but he wouldn't have a radio. Depending on where he was headed, it could take him a week to deliver a message.

"Has he seen us?" she asked.

"I think so."

She ducked back into the shelter and began stuffing her clothes and papers into her bag.

"How many camels does he have?" she called.

"At least two."

She scrambled to her feet. "Good. We'll ride with him to the airfield."

Her spirits rose at the prospect of movement, of action, but it seemed an eternity before the camel driver was close enough to make out detail. He was nothing more than a mound of clothes on the lead camel, swathed in loose folds that covered his head and mouth. When he arrived within hailing distance he raised a hand and shouted.

Pete waved back. "It's Abdul."

"Well, thank God for that." At least it wasn't some nomad who spoke no English and rarely ventured into civilization. "Why hasn't he brought a Jeep?"

Pete gave her an enigmatic look. "We'll ask him."

Abdul made his camel kneel and slid down with practiced ease.

"I am thankful to Allah to find you safe," he said.

"Not nearly as thankful as we are to see you," she answered. She didn't want to sound ungrateful, but she had to ask the question. "Um. Couldn't you bring a vehicle?"

"Sorry, miss," Abdul answered. "The vehicles are finding it difficult to start. They have sand in the engine. And there is no road any more. The camel can travel where a Landrover cannot."

Pete clapped him on the shoulder. "Quite right, Abdul," he said cheerfully. "You did exactly right. Wouldn't want to get another Landrover bogged down would we?" He turned to Jazz. "Ever ridden a camel before?"

She shook her head.

"You can add it to your long list of exploits." he said. "Don't get too close to its head. If they can reach you, they like to bite and if they can't get to you, they spit."

"No, no, sir," Abdul protested. "Adiva is kind and gentle. That is also the meaning of her name. But first I think you must be hungry."

He opened a leather pouch at his waist and withdrew a package wrapped in cloth. He spread dates, figs and nuts before them. It looked like a feast.

"Abdul," she said with her mouth full, "you're a guardian angel."

The man smiled and made a small, courteous gesture. "Please, miss, if you have eaten enough, come with me. I will help you." He guided Jazz to stand next to the huge wooden saddle on the kneeling animal. Adiva's mouth moved constantly in a rhythmic chewing and her eyes followed Jazz's movements. The creature had long eyelashes and big, mournful brown eyes. She smelled of dust and dry fur and well used cloth.

The damned animal's going to know I'm an amateur, Jazz thought. Can camels throw a rider? But she had no choice.

"You'll need a lift up," Pete said, stuffing the last date into his mouth. "Put your foot in Abdul's hands."

She placed her foot in the man's cupped palms and then felt Pete at her back. His hands were on her hips and she could swear he put his shoulder under her behind. It was all over in a flash, before she could react, and she slid onto the hard seat, inadequately padded with pieces of smelly old rug and ragged cushions.

She refused to look at Pete. She settled herself with dignity between the horn and the backrest and wriggled back and forth to find a comfortable position.

"Hold tight, Jazz," Pete called. Abdul gave a kind of click and a hiss and Adiva's rear quarters lurched upwards, making Jazz cling to the saddle for dear life. In dignified slow motion, the camel lumbered up to stand on all fours.

Pete handed her bag up to her and then swung himself up behind Abdul on the other, larger camel. "I told you I'd get you to the airfield," he said with a grin. "Let's go."

Abdul leaned over to take hold of Adiva's bridle rein and they set off at a measured, swaying pace.

***

The little caravan bumped to a halt near the white concrete building of the airfield. Jazz had learned quite a bit about camels in the last three hours. First, they were deaf to all noises save those made by their master. They were arrogant, self opinionated, complacent-and they could trot.

She'd spent most of the three hours hanging on for dear life to the lurching, rocking seat while Adiva followed the swaying rear end of the other beast. After a while, it had become almost hypnotic, and by the time the airfield was in sight, she felt she was starting to get the hang of the ride. Her stomach, however, thought it had barely survived a storm at sea. She swallowed hard against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.

At another click and hiss from Abdul, Adiva stopped and stood patiently.

"Hang on tight," Pete called out. She was getting tired of hearing him tell her to hang on.

Without warning, Adiva sank down to her front knees, almost sending Jazz headfirst over the pommel. She slid forward on the wooden seat, adding bruises to places she wouldn't mention.

As she gasped for breath, the camel's hindquarters went down and she was propelled back to sit upright in the saddle once more.

Pete was by her side in a moment, holding out his hand to help her down. With difficulty, she raised her leg over the horn and slid into his arms. He held her, his hands strong and warm on her back.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She'd endured the jolting ride in the Landrover, had almost suffocated in the storm, had slept on the ground in bitter cold and suffered the sickening motion of the camel. Pete had been beside her, his strong body shielding her, his good planning protecting her. For once, she'd not had to fight entirely on her own; she couldn't ever remember feeling so comforted and safe.

For moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the sensation of Pete's chest pressed against her as she felt with her toes for the stony ground. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbow and she rested her hands on his forearms, feeling the warm, smooth skin under her fingers. The muscles and tendons rippled gently as he held her more tightly.

This is just a reaction to the stress of the situation, Jazz, she told herself. How many times have you seen this happen when men and women have come through a dangerous episode together? It was one thing she'd always guarded against.

She pushed away from him. "I'm fine," she said and removed herself gently from his embrace. She searched for words that would convey gratitude without exposing too much of herself. "Thank you for all you did. I'm glad you were with me."

She brushed sand from her crumpled cotton pants and reached for her bag. She nodded towards a small plane on the runway. "Can I take that?"

"We'll check" He took her elbow and they went to find someone who could help.

She took off an hour later in a swirl of dust and gravel. Through the cloud she could see Pete watching the departure, shielding his eyes as she lifted into the air. At least she could fly a plane, even if she wasn't much good at riding a camel.

She heaved a sigh of relief as she rose into the clear sky. It was funny how she hated confined spaces on the earth, but the cramped seating allotted to the pilot never bothered her. It must have something to do with the limitless vistas through the windshield.

Pete had given her a kiss on the cheek before she climbed into the cockpit and she'd leaned into him for one last time. "If I get to Victoria, do you mind if I call you?" he'd asked.

This was the little, seemingly insignificant moment on which her whole future could turn. This was harder than almost anything she'd done in recent years. She looked into his face. "Sure, give me a call sometime," she answered, forcing a cheerful grin, and gave him a return peck on the cheek before she turned towards the plane.