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“Do you need help?” She glanced over at the man beside her.

  Lips pursed, eyes staring straight ahead, he nodded once.

  Concern threaded through her. In her experience, men didn’t admit to needing any kind of help. He must have been hurting.

  “Hang on.” Unpeeling herself from the vinyl, she slid out of the car. He hadn’t moved by the time she got around to the other side, and she spent a moment wondering if he expected her to lift him out. Things could get awkward in that case. She supposed she’d at least cushion his landing…

  Squashed under a hunka hunka burnin’ love. There were worse ways to go.

  Then he twisted carefully, a warm hand settling on her shoulder for balance as he climbed from the Jeep. She didn’t move, trying to be as rock-steady as he might need. When his feet landed on the ground and he was no longer swaying, she came eye-to-pectoral with an utterly perfect torso. Sweat inched down the crease between his muscles, sped over the ridge above his abs, and slid helter-skelter down the center of a six-pack. Maybe even a twelve pack. It hit a snag in his belly button, worked its way out, and dropped past a flat abdomen before soaking into the blanket, which sagged low on his hips.

  Meg swallowed.

  Nope, she still felt utterly incapable of thought.

  She licked her lips.

  It didn’t help.

  She even cleared her throat.

  She could still taste what she imagined he’d be like. Oh, God. She could smell him, all male and musk and something a little wild.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes to break the spell. That worked. A little, anyway. Taking a deep breath she opened her eyes and met his gaze, her gut clenching in expectation. Her last boyfriend had hated it when she’d stared like that. Then she looked up—way, way up—into Santiago’s face.

  Full lips curved, black eyes warm, the sharp planes of his face softened by amusement.

  Meg grinned and relaxed. “How’s it feel to be a sex god?” she asked before she realized what was in her head. She blanched, then heard her words and knew someone was looking out for her. She’d spoken in English.

  He lifted a single black eyebrow questioningly.

  “Never mind,” she said in Spanish, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “Lunch?” This time, she managed to stop any more sexual remarks before they left her mouth.

  He could smell her, sweat and jungle and that indefinable female smell. Even worse, the very definable smell of lust. His shoulder hurt, and he somehow doubted he could do anything about the lust-smell, and yet it hovered in the damp air between them like some sort of drug.

  On the other hand, at least he knew she was attracted, too.

  Santiago sat, uninjured shoulder braced against a tree trunk, and watched her move from the Jeep to the spot they’d chosen. Her clothes brushed against her like a lover’s hands, hiding and revealing with every step. He shifted his legs and tried to think about something less sexual. Trees. Trees were completely and totally nonsexual.

  He’d had sex in a tree, once.

  He cursed under his breath and finally moved, rubbing his injury against bark. That got his mind off the woman.

  “You okay?” she asked in Spanish, frowning as she dropped a duffel bag of food on the jungle floor. “You look pale. Let me see your bandage.”

  “It’s fine.” His words were quick; he was half afraid that if she touched him it’d be more than he could stand. He knew she’d have soft skin, the hands of someone who spent most of their time indoors. Gentle fingers would glide over his shoulder and back, stroking down his spine as if he wouldn’t notice—

  Damn it. She hadn’t even touched him and he’d lost the battle. Santiago shifted his legs, and the blanket with them, into a slightly more concealing pose.

  “Don’t be dumb,” Meg said, apparently unaware of his dilemma. “Let me see.” She’d already kneeled behind him, wedging herself between the tree and his skin, one leg tucked up against his ribs. He imagined her flesh beneath her clothes, soft and pale, muscles defined but not bulging. Delicate hands swept his hair out of the way, then skimmed down his shoulder to the medical tape.

  He winced as she peeled it off, focusing on the pain to bank his arousal.

  “Well, the infection hasn’t gotten any worse.” Her breath ghosted over his ear. She moved, her thigh brushing against his hip. His stomach tightened, and he resisted the urge to turn and see just how close her mouth was to his.

  “Good.” His voice came out in husky tones. Seemed like it had been husky since he’d first woken to find her kneeling before him.

  “I’m just going to change this.” She stood and strode back to the Jeep. Tossing the old bandage inside, she fished out a new, clean one, and walked back.

  Santiago took a deep breath to settle himself, to steel himself for the torture about to come. Oh, God, he didn’t know if he could take much more of this. She knelt behind him again and the very air seemed to warm. Then she rubbed cool cream over the wound, making the pain subside. Next came the cloth itself, and the worst bit—the tape. Specifically, the way she smoothed the tape over his skin, the pads of her fingers over his damp flesh, the occasional graze of a nail.

  Just lust, he reminded himself, and a tourist probably wouldn’t appreciate being bedded by someone she’d seen turn from a jaguar into a man. Besides which, it’d hurt his shoulder like hell itself.

  He clung to that thought, even when the scent of heightened arousal spiked at his back. Damn women. Then he smiled slowly, entirely too self-satisfied. Maybe in a day or two, when the infection was better, maybe she wouldn’t mind so much being bedded by a Tezcatlipoca. She was certainly interested.

  He angled his head to watch her over his shoulder. Her pupils were large in clear blue eyes, dilated despite the sunshine.

  Definitely attracted.

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