His face was craggy rather than handsome, not helped by the fact that he needed a shave. His nose was, as they’d already discussed, interesting. His chin, stubborn. His eyes, she saw, in the moment before he blinked and lifted a hand to shade them from the light, were a fine grey. As for his mouth…
His mouth, she thought, looked exactly the way it had felt as she’d traced it with her thumb. The way it had felt when he’d kissed her. Tender, determined, sensuous. As if it had been a long time since he’d smiled.
He leaned his head back against the wall and, suddenly concerned, she said, ‘Are you really okay?’
‘I’d be better if you sat down instead of flirting with that big empty space out there in the dark.’
She glanced at the wall, with its tantalising promise of light, then dropped to her knees and pushed his hair back from his forehead to check his injury. There was a brutal graze, bruising, a slight swelling. Then, as the rising sun moved, the light suddenly disappeared, plunging them back into deep shadow.
‘I think you’ll live,’ she said, dropping her hand.
‘I know I will,’ He replied softly. ‘You gave me the kiss of life.’
‘Did I? When we get out of here…’
‘When we get out of here you’ll find the child you filmed on the streets. And I’ll get in touch with my parents. Is that a deal?’
‘It’s a deal,’ she said.
And, as if to seal their pact, he reached out and touched her lips with the edge of his thumb. ‘Hello, Miranda Grenville.’
‘Hello, Nick Jago.’
‘No!’
‘What? I’m sorry…’
‘When someone has saved your life they have the right to know who you really are.’ There was a pause, during which she swallowed desperately. ‘I was born Nicholas Alexander Jackson-the good, solid English name that my grandfather chose for himself within weeks of arriving in England.’
Jackson…‘But…’ She’d actually met his father at some reception or other. Ivo had introduced him, told her afterwards that he and his wife worked quietly these days, without any public fanfare, to raise funds for a charity that helped runaways. Used their own wealth, inherited from the same grandfather who’d gone on to found a giant food conglomerate…
‘What?’
She shook her head. Telling him that his father had changed would be pointless. He had to be open to the possibility before he could hear it. See for himself. And he’d made that commitment. It was enough.
‘Nothing. Just, thank you for telling me. Nick,’ she added.
He drew in a deep breath and it was her turn to say, ‘What?’
‘It’s just been a very long time since anyone’s called me that.’ Then, briskly, ‘Right. So, what do you say? Shall we get out of here?’
‘Yes. Please.’
Jago made it to his feet. Last night he’d thought he’d never make it out of here, but now, with even the small amount of light filtering through the broken walls, seeping down the shaft, anything seemed possible.
He looked around. He’d hoped for a way out through the original entrance but, even if it hadn’t been completely blocked by falling masonry, it was on the far side of the gaping chasm where the great eagle below had broken away. But above them was the promise of a small patch of sky and he stood up to take a better look.
‘Careful,’ he said, reaching back to offer a steadying hand as Miranda rose beside him. ‘I don’t want to lose you now.’ And then, as she took it, he turned back.
With the narrow beam of sunlight behind her, her face in shadow, all he’d seen of her had been the halo effect as it had lit up hair that was no longer sleek but suffering from the effects of twenty-four hours without the benefit of a comb.
Thick, dark, tousled.
He’d guessed that she was tall, but not quite how tall. No more than half a head shorter than himself. Tall, slender but with a steel core of strength about her. Well, he knew that. He’d experienced that. As a girl she might have broken down under the twin assaults of rejection and guilt, but this woman had come through a living nightmare with courage, humour, compassion.
Now, the light from above shimmered through the haze of dust motes and he could see that her black halo of hair was veiled with stone dust. There were streaks of dirt, like warpaint, decorating her cheek, her neck.
She did not have the instant, softer sensual attraction of a woman like Fliss. She had a different kind of beauty-taut, tempered in the fire-and she’d still be beautiful even when she was ninety.
She was beautiful now.
‘What?’ she asked, catching him staring, lifting her hand to her cheek, suddenly self-conscious of how she must look and that was when he saw her hands.
They were small, the fingers long, slender, elegant, well cared for-the remains of polish still clung to what was left of her nails-were a mess. The skin torn, knuckles bruised and broken.
She saw where he was looking and, mistaking his reaction, she spread her hand, regarding it with distaste. ‘My manicurist is going to have a fit when she sees this,’ she said, taking a step back to that woman who’d roused him with her scream, God alone knew how many hours ago.
Putting the mask back in place before she returned to the outside world.
‘Don’t!’ he said. He was not a man given to fanciful gestures, but he would not let her slide back into that dark place any more than he would have left her to fall and he reached for her hand, holding it across his palm. ‘Don’t do that, Miranda. You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. We have no secrets. We know one another.’ And then he bent and kissed her fingers, saluting her wounds as a badge of the courage she’d shown last night. ‘We will always know one another.’ ‘I…’
He saw her throat move as she swallowed, for once lost for words.
He waited.
‘I…Yes.’ And it was not the sophisticated woman of the world but an echo of the shy young woman she must have been. ‘Thank you.’
In danger of saying-doing-something that was totally out of place, he turned and looked up the shaft to the outside world. It seemed a very long way and, having seen the state of her hands, he wondered if she was up to this second climb.
If he was.
But he knew there was no point in suggesting she wait while he went for help.
‘Are you ready?’
She nodded. Then said, ‘No! Wait!’
And she took her tiny cellphone from her pocket, opened it and quickly entered a brief message. Then, when she saw him watching her, she started to shrug, stopped and said, ‘It’s not that I doubt we’ll do this, Nick. But I could get knocked down crossing the road. Or the plane could-’
‘Optimistic soul, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘My parents were killed when the yacht they were on sank. They were just gone. Nothing.’ She paused, looking up at him as if asking him to understand. ‘Suddenly life seems very precious, Nick. I want the people I love to know how I’m feeling now. That I’m…happy.’ And then she reached up, pressed her cheek to his. ‘Thank you for last night. For listening. For knowing me…’
For a moment she was in his arms and they clung to one another. Any two people would do the same, he told himself. Except he knew it was more than that. They had connected in the darkness. Bonded. Exposed themselves in ways neither of them had ever done before.
What had happened had forced them to look at their lives, confront the dark spaces, consider a different future.
‘Okay. I’m ready now,’ she said, taking a step back.
He grabbed her wrist as she disturbed loose stones that, endless seconds later, clattered to the floor below, then, without a word, he took the phone from her and keyed in a message of his own before handing it back.
‘I don’t have a cell number for my father, so I’ve sent it via your brother…’
She smiled. ‘You won’t be sorry.’
He didn’t answer, just said, ‘I’ll go first. Stick close. Whatever happens behind you, just keep going.’
