Total Package. Cait London

meekly.

      He looked down at her extended hand, then slowly his large rough one closed over it. Calluses, Sidney thought, a workman who probably has pride in something—she just had to find out what made his life worth living and open the good things up for him.

      Sidney inched back from the cliff and he followed her just those few feet. She breathed a little easier. Still. He could take a running jump at any time, and maybe take her with him. She could read the newspaper headlines now—or rather the memos and back copy that only a few people might read—Sidney Blakely, Freelance Photographer Dies in Lovers’ Leap. Send donations to—yada, yada. Bulldog, her father, would curse her for stupid female brain and her sisters, Stretch and Junior, would be left to fend for themselves. Fluffy would cry prettily and Ben would yawn and turn over. He did that well, yawn and turn over when he finished sex—Well, sex with Fluffy now.

      The problem was, this guy wasn’t her lover. The headlines and memos would be wrong—typical bad reporting; the facts would be skewed.

      “Guy, I’m going over there and sit down on my sleeping bag—” If the jumper was sitting, he couldn’t jump, could he? “And you’re welcome to sit a while. Or maybe we could walk down together. Maybe go for a beer somewhere?”

      The man’s palm fitted against hers, his fingers linked with hers. Oh—Sidney cursed mentally—he was going to take her over with him. She stepped up the pace, and tugged him along to the sleeping bag. “Sit, dammit.”

      “Are you always so sweet? That sounds like an order.” There was a slight, but unusual accent in his voice. She couldn’t place it—a cross between a Western drawl and something foreign.

      “Bulldog—my dad was in the Marines. He raised my sisters and me according to regulations. Take it from there. And sit.”

      When the tall man folded himself down onto her sleeping bag, Sidney took a deep breath. Shoot, she knew a few self-defense moves and just where to hit a man where he was most vulnerable. She’d been in basic training and maneuvers since she was old enough to toddle. Besides, he was staring off toward that cliff. It was probably calling him—jumpers sometimes said they got called to their deaths.

      Sidney settled down on the sleeping bag, folded her legs lotus-fashion, and tried to come up with something to quell his suicide urges, something tender that he’d reflect upon and change his mind. She came up with “You don’t have a parachute. It would be messy at the bottom. You’re big. Think of the cleanup,” she said.

      He’d drawn up one knee, closed his arms around it. “Mmm. I don’t think I want to jump just yet. Maybe I wasn’t going to anyway. So what’s the story of your life?”

      Get personal, make an attachment, that’s what Bulldog had said about men who were weary of life. “Oh you had the look all right. I’ve seen it in combat zones—sad, alone, as if nothing else mattered…So, what’s your name?”

      “So, what’s your story?”

      She took a deep breath. “You’re being difficult. One of those. The name is Sid Blakely.”

      “Sid,” he repeated softly, almost like a caress, with just that lilt of accent. She stuck out her hand and he considered it before taking it, enfolding it with his large one. “Danya.”

      “Sounds foreign.” Now she recognized that slight inflection. He was still shaking her hand, slowly, as though he were studying the fit of it within his own. Just maybe he was wondering if he could drag her to the edge, and—

      “Russian. My father and uncles immigrated, and I was born here.” He was looking at her hand in his, studying it. “You have good hands. Working hands. Small.”

      Sidney withdrew her hand, but the feel of his remained—warm, rough, big. She fought the little unexplained shiver that shot through her. “Ah. See there. You have family. They probably worry about you. Think of them.”

      “Okay, I will. What’s your story?”

      “First, I want your promise that you won’t jump off that cliff after I tell you. Promise, and that’s a direct order.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      She thought she heard humor in that tone, and then dismissed it. “That’s better—Danya. You have a last name?”

      “Stepanov.”

      “As in the Stepanov family who lives here? Mikhail, who manages the Amoteh Resort, and Stepanov as in Stepanov Furniture? But then you have a family here. I’ve heard about them, and they’re hard to miss. You’re not alone.”

      “I have just moved here last fall with my father, so that he can retire and relax near his brother—that is Fadey Stepanov, the owner of the furniture line. I’ve gone into business with my brother, Alexi. We’re builders and remodelers.” His smile was slow and thoughtful, as if he loved the ones who would go on living without him…. “Tell me your story. Maybe I can help you? Ships passing in the night and all that?”

      She shook her head. “Keep the roles straight. I’m the one saving you, got it? You just go along and everything will be fine. You’ve got to realize that you’re not alone, that’s the first thing.”

      “But you are here with me—so I am not alone, is that not so? Are you always this bossy?”

      Sidney frowned as she ran through her day in hell. “Like I said, it’s been a rough day. I’m shooting a calendar, not my usual gig. I’m not into commercial portraits, but I wanted out of what I usually do—you know, to try something different. The pay is good, the work stinks—especially the off-hours when the models want to chum it up with me. We’re staying at the Amoteh Resort, doing some beach shots, and at night, they want to play pajama party. They want to include me. I’m hiding out now. There’s nothing worse than a bunch of women moaning over their boyfriends, talking lipstick and hair, and waxing their legs. You have no idea how bad that hurts. To shut them up, I let them do it…almost killed me. It doesn’t stop at the legs, you know—they have to worry about their bikini lines. Now, that really hurts.”

      “Ouch.”

      Sidney nodded; Danya seemed to understand about bikini pain. She could tell by his slight grimace. Communication was progressing; soon he would forget about jumping. She decided to find out the reason for his crossing-out-life-tonight gambit. Touching was always good, according to Bulldog, so Sidney reached out and patted Danya’s jeaned thigh. It was hard and muscles tightened beneath her hand; Danya was in really good shape. He sucked in a breath and his hand had locked over hers, his thumb caressing her palm. It was probably because he needed human touch; Sidney allowed her hand to be held captive. “So, buddy, what’s your story? I’m a good listener—at least, my boyfriend used to tell me that.”

      The mention of Ben took her backtracking to his choice of Fluffy, the blond bimbo, and Sidney was unfolding her whole miserable tale before she knew it. “His name was Ben. We’d been on a few photo shoots together, in some pretty tight places. I’d watch his back, he’d watch mine, that sort of thing. We camped together, went through land mines together, stood on the cusp of a lava river together, shooting away. It was great. He’s a photojournalist. You may have seen our stuff in magazines. Though a lot of people really don’t care about the photographer’s credits.”

      “And?” He rubbed her hand slowly up and down his thigh, but then, she justified, the guy probably had a muscle ache.

      “And sex. We had that—oh, maybe twice a year…when there was time. Nothing like whole hours or anything—you just don’t play around when you’re out there shooting stuff. You get the job done and go on. So, anyway, we had a thing going for oh, six or seven years, and then he meets Fluffy-baby. They got married a month ago. That’s why I don’t want to take any freelance jobs where I might cross paths with Ben. Fluffy-baby hangs all over him. It’s disgusting.”

      “I see,” Danya said softly. “So that would hurt you?”

      “It would make me mad. Fluffy hadn’t got a