It Happened In Paradise: Wedded in a Whirlwind / Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex! / His Bride in Paradise. Nicola Marsh

      ‘I’ll manage. Just tell me you’ve found the light.’

      In the silence that followed, his mind filled in the blanks; a picture of her tilting her head back as she swallowed, the cool, clean water taking the dust from her mouth.

      ‘What about the damn light, Miranda?’ he demanded in an effort to take his mind off it.

      In answer, a tiny glow appeared in the darkness.

      A really tiny glow that did no more than light up the tips of ghostly pink fingers, shimmer off the pale curve of her cheek.

      She’d said it was small, but he’d been hoping for one of those small but powerful mini-torches. The kind of sterling silver gizmo that came in expensive Christmas crackers. Women who carried designer bags that had a year-long waiting list didn’t buy cheap crackers for their Christmas parties. They bought the kind that contained expensive trinkets for people who had everything. At least they did back in the days when he had been on the guest list.

      Maybe she’d gone for some kind of kitsch irony last Christmas because this light must have come out of the budget variety sold in supermarkets, just about powerful enough to illuminate a lock in the dark.

      He fought down his disappointment and frustration. This was not her fault. Miranda Grenville had come out on a sightseeing trip, not equipped for a survival weekend.

      ‘Well, that’s great,’ he said, and hoped he sounded as if he meant it. ‘I thought it might have been ruined.’

      He eased himself back down to the temple floor and carefully made his way across to her with the light as his guide.

      ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to him. It went out. ‘You have to squeeze the sides to make it work.’

      ‘Very high-tech,’ he observed, then wished he’d kept his mouth shut as she found his wrist, slid her fingers down to his hand and guided it to the bottle she was holding.

      ‘Here. I saved you some water. Careful, it’s on its side.’ Then, before he could take the drink that he was, admittedly, desperate for, she said, ‘Wait. I’ve got some painkillers in here somewhere. For the bump on your head.’

      ‘You don’t have faith in the kissing-it-better school of medicine?’ he asked, while she fumbled about in the dark for a pack of aspirin, popped a couple of pills from the plastic casing. It was extraordinary how, deprived of sight, the other senses became amplified. How, just by listening, he could tell exactly what she was doing.

      ‘Yes. No…’ Then, ‘No one ever kissed me better…’ she placed the pills into his hand, taking back the light so that he had both hands free to swallow them ‘…so I couldn’t say how effective it is. It’s probably wiser to be on the safe side and use the pill popping approach, wouldn’t you think?’

      He tossed back the pills, swallowed a mouthful of water. ‘Never?’

      ‘My family didn’t go in for that kind of kissing.’

      ‘No?’ His were good at all that stuff. As far as the outside world was concerned, they had been the perfect happy family. ‘It’s all in the mind,’ he said. ‘An illusion. If you believe in it, it works.’

      ‘And do you?’ she asked. ‘Believe?’

      ‘If I say yes, will you kiss me again?’

      ‘I’ll take that as a “no”.’

      Jago wished he’d just said yes, but it was too late for that. ‘It got an eight out of ten on the feel-good factor.’

      ‘Only eight?’ she demanded.

      ‘You expected a straight ten?’ he asked, clearly amused.

      In the darkness Manda blushed crimson. Whatever had she been thinking to get into this conversation? Attempting to recover a little self-respect, she said, ‘Hardly ten. But taking into account the guesswork involved, the dust, maybe eight point…’

      But he didn’t wait for her to finish, instead laying his hand against her cheek, brushing his thumb against the edge of her mouth before leaning forward and kissing her back.

      Jago’s lips were barely more than a breath against her own—a feather-light touch that breathed life, his own warmth into her. Nine point nine recurring…

      While she was still trying to gather herself to say something, anything, he saved her from making a total fool of herself and saying that out loud.

      ‘You said you had a phone,’ he prompted casually. As if nothing had happened. ‘I don’t suppose, by any chance, it’s the kind that takes photographs?’

      Nothing had happened, she reminded herself. He was just trying to keep her from thinking about the situation they were in and she responded with a positively flippant, ‘Don’t they all?’ Then, ‘Why? Do you want a souvenir? Pictures to sell to the tabloids.’

      ‘Would the tabloids be that interested?’

      Pictures of Miranda Grenville, one-time society hostess, adviser to the Prime Minister, now businesswomen in her own right, filthy and dishevelled in an underground hell? Oh, yes, they’d love those. But clearly he hadn’t a clue who she was and she was happy to leave it that way.

      ‘There’s always a market for human interest stories,’ she told him as she dug the phone out of her bag, wiped it dry on the sleeve of her shirt and turned it on for the first time since she’d arrived in Cordillera. It lit up, then beeped. ‘I’ve got messages,’ she said.

      ‘They’ll keep,’ Jago replied, taking it from her. ‘This is more important. Shut your eyes.’

      ‘Why? What are you—’ A bright flash wiped out all the night sight she’d slowly built up. ‘Idiot!’

      ‘I told you to shut your eyes,’ he said, looking at the image on the screen for a moment before turning slightly. ‘And again,’ he said.

      This time she didn’t hesitate as she caught on to what he was doing. With the camera in her cellphone he could take pictures, use them to ‘see’ exactly what the situation was, maybe find a way out. Or at least locate anything that might be of use to them.

      He stared at the third image for so long that she leaned forward to see what held his attention.

      ‘What’s that?’ she asked, after a moment staring at the picture and trying to make sense of the vast piece of stone that was lying at a broken angle from the floor to the roof.

      ‘The eagle.’

      ‘The one that was part of the ceiling?’ she asked, shocked. To see something that huge just tossed aside was chilling.

      ‘I climbed up part of the way just now,’ Jago said. The screen lit up the tip of his finger, a short clean nail, as he pointed at the photograph. ‘There’s a shaft that leads directly out to the forest, but I couldn’t find a way through. It may be blocked with debris. Or the eagle might have fallen across it.’

      ‘Oh.’

      He took another photograph, and then another. It seemed forever before he grunted with something like satisfaction. ‘Keep it pointed that way so that I know how far I’ve got,’ he said, carefully handing her the phone. ‘I’ll be right back.’

      She looked at the photograph, trying to work out what had got him so excited. Had he seen some prospect of escape? No matter how hard she stared, all she could see was a jumble of stone piled almost to the roof.

      She heard him pulling at it, the rattle as smaller stones moved. ‘Be careful!’ Then, letting out a breath of relief as he made his way back to her, ‘What was it? What did you see?’

      ‘The handle of a trowel,’ he said, passing it to her. It was one of those fine trowels that archaeologists used to scrape away the layers of soil. Pitifully small, but better than nothing. ‘Put it in your bag. Did you put the brandy in there?’