Hit Hard. Amy J. Fetzer

it would be about half that. Which is still very substantial and worth several million, but that’s if the cutter could find the table and split it with the least amount of fragmentation and—”

      He caught her arm, keeping her with him. “Lower your voice. What do you know about gems?”

      “Not much.” At his scowl, she whispered, “I worked with a gemologist for about a year.”

      “How’d you go from a dig to gemology?”

      Trying to meet his long strides, she gathered her composure for the assault she always received when people learned how many different jobs and career starts—and failures—she’d had. “Unemployment.”

      Sam saw the humiliation in her pretty face and wondered how someone so sharp could ever be out of a job. “You have a degree in archeology?”

      “No, paleoclimatology.”

      “That’s as useless as it gets.”

      “Not if you want to know the weather conditions a million years ago.” And be bored to madness, she thought. “It was wet everywhere, by the way, then got surprisingly cold.”

      Sam went to push back some vines and she grabbed his hand before he did. “Don’t touch that!” She found a stick and pushed up the leaves of a tall plant. She showed him the millipedes covering the leaves. “They secrete a fluid that will blister your skin.”

      His expression questioned.

      “Two semesters of tropical botany.” She walked away. “And I’ve been here long enough to experience my own stupidity.”

      Sam’s brows shot up. A woman open to her faults, he thought, rare, yet more closed about her assets. His gaze lowered over her spine to the tight curves of her rear. Sweet. She had assets. In one form or another.

      “Now that you’re done inspecting my behind…”

      His gaze flashed up. “Who said I was done?”

      She flushed delicately. “You’re changing the subject.”

      “Man, you’re slick.” Sam looked the way they’d come, frowning.

      “I don’t let go of a bone I want to pick either. So what are you, CIA, NSA? Some sort of secret American ‘if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you’ Intelligence?”

      “None of the above.”

      She blinked. “You really are a criminal?”

      Sam stopped abruptly, turned, his gaze raking the hillside again. He nodded to Max, then touched his ear. I hear them too. He signaled, then grasped her arm, hurrying her up the hillside.

      “Sam?” She ran with him.

      Suddenly, he jerked her to the ground, put a finger to his lips, then, squatting, he rotated. Max was only a couple yards down the incline. Max pointed, and Viva saw figures moving up the hill. There had to be five at least, spread out and combing the ground. Crouched behind him, Viva’s heartbeat picked up. It wasn’t over.

      Sam checked his ammo, signaling to Max. When he made a cutting motion across his throat, she thought, that can’t be good. He pointed to his eyes, then to them as a pair. Max nodded, and backed up the hill.

      Slowly, he mouthed, then tapped his lips. Quiet. She obeyed, watching her steps. They were coming for her. That she hadn’t killed Half Ear wouldn’t matter to those men. They wanted revenge. Oh God, if Sam got hurt—she swallowed, fear chasing up her spine and pumping adrenaline.

      Ahead she could see the sunlight where the jungle thinned, the roasting sun already cooking her skin under her wet clothes as they climbed. Freedom is up there, she thought, then felt his hand on her back, warm and pulling on her shirt. She stopped, keeping low. Sam’s gaze shifted downhill, to Max, then to her.

      “We’re toast, aren’t we?”

      He leaned close. “When I signal,” he said into her ear, “I want you to run like hell and keep running.”

      She gripped his forearm. “Alone? Without you?”

      Something clamped deep inside his chest just then, squeezing. “You have to. We’re nearly out of ammo and this isn’t your fight.”

      “It is. I started it,” she whispered. “I’d be dead without you. Don’t you think I know that?”

      He leaned back enough to look her in the eyes. Tears welled in them, smoky green and desperate with fear. He slid his hand to her hair, pushing it back. “You’re so damn brave, you can do this.”

      “From your mouth to God’s ears.” Then she looked down the hill. They were creeping closer. Max was nearly abreast of their position. She met Sam’s gaze, the softness in his dark eyes comforting. Another fine mess I’ve made. “I wish I could do something to help.”

      “You can get away from this.” He turned toward the jungle, taking a position deep inside a cluster of bushes. “Be ready.”

      Beside him, Viva saw the men approaching, the top of a head, the swing of a machine gun. And he was going to face them alone? Courage like that simply stunned her. “Sam?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Outlaw or not,” she whispered, then met his gaze, “you’ve made an impression.” Her lips curved in a message that vised down on his heart.

      “Darlin’, you can’t help but make one.” His gaze combed her features, and suddenly, Sam couldn’t let her go, not yet. He cupped the back of her head, and kissed her.

      The contact was electric. Shocking him. And trapped in the hot jungle, he tasted pure energy, a quick heat crackling down his body as her mouth rolled eagerly over his. Her fingers slid into his hair at his nape, turning it intimate, personal. Then her tongue pushed between his lips and Sam was lost. Caving in. He devoured as much of her as he could and she made a little sound deep in the back of her throat. Sam drank that in, too—till it was dangerous, till his senses clouded, and a second longer would get them both killed.

      He drew back abruptly, like the tearing of a limb. “Jesus.” He swallowed. “Don’t talk,” he groaned when she opened her mouth.

      But Viva couldn’t, her breathing labored as her gaze raked his face. Her thumb smoothed his lower lip. Her heart would never pound the same again.

      He forced his attention down the hill. “Get ready.”

      Viva eased away, reluctant to leave him.

      She glanced back one last time. He sighted down the rifle, adjusted his stance. Blindly, he reached behind himself, and Viva gripped his hand for an instant, quick and tight.

      Then, when his next shot came, she bolted up the hill.

      Kukule Ganga Dam

      Kalawana, Sri Lanka

      Engineers and construction experts crawled over the ruins of the dam, trying to find the source of the fissure that sent eight hundred million gallons of water through the valley, killing thousands. Help came from everywhere—England, the US, Germany, Spain. Dr. Tom Rhodes wasn’t stunned by the outpouring, only over the break in the dam. It was far left of the southern side, an area well fortified. He’d been on the first survey team before the construction at the request of Dr. Risha Inan.

      Squatting, Tom glanced up as Risha made her way toward him, her hair looped through the back of a baseball cap, her shirt and shorts already dirty from crawling around the ruins. She still took his breath away, he thought. Her flawless skin, the smooth mocha color of it, and her eyes—she had the most expressive eyes of any woman he’d known. And he’d known her well.

      The attraction was still there, though she’d married someone else, someone Hindi. Tom took it as a personal affront then, but knew now that she’d been right to break it off. His career was in the US, hers was here, helping her people. Neither of them would bend and for a love that had grown