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the way.”
    She scowled. “Thanks for the macho display, Tarzan. Now, let’s get you back into bed.” She stood up and began hauling on his good arm.
    “Ouch! Stop that.”
    “You walk around on two broken legs without a whimper, but you complain when I pull on your completely uninjured arm?”
    “It hurts my collarbone.” He eased himself carefully to his feet. “While I’m up, I think I’ll mosey into the bathroom—and no, I don’t want your help.”
    “Fine. I wasn’t going to offer, anyway. Besides, I’ve got to clean up this paint before it dries on the floor.”
    He looked at the yellow splat on the curling, filthy linoleum. “It’s an improvement over the existing floor. Leave it.”
    He left her staring at the yellow spot while he made his painful way to the bathroom. Damn. He felt as if he’d been run over by a Mac truck. He’d been like this ever since he woke up in the hospital. Shouldn’t he start feeling better soon? What if he didn’t get better this time? Was this it? Was his career finished?
    He stared at his beard-stubbled reflection in the cracked, faded mirror over the bathroom sink. In a moment of bleak honesty he studied himself.
    He wasn’t getting any younger. Fine wrinkles were showing up around his eyes, and worry lines were permanently etched on his forehead. He was still hard and fit, but at what cost? It didn’t come easy to stay this way anymore, and he sure as heck wasn’t bouncing back from this injury like he used to.
    He’d always known the day would come when he had to hang it up, but he wasn’t ready for it yet. An unpleasant sensation tightened his gut. Surprised, he identified the feeling. Fear.
    Dammit.
    He stared himself down in the mirror, daring himself to be a coward and look away from his own hard-edged gaze.
    An errant thought struck him. How had he been getting shaved for the past two months, anyway? He ought to have quite a beard by now. Had Annie been doing it for him? Maybe she had a razor and some shaving cream hidden somewhere.
    He searched the bathroom, but the place was bare. He relieved himself and went back into the bedroom. Annie was already back up on the ladder, painting around the window. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
    “Our cover story is that we’re a married couple staying here until I’m recovered enough to go home, right?”
    She stopped painting and looked over her shoulder at him. “That’s right.”
    “Then where’s all your stuff?”
    “What stuff?”
    “Your female stuff. You know, makeup and lotions and annoying soaps.”
    “Annoying soaps?”
    “Those frilly things that don’t lather up and leave you smelling like a flower.”
    “Sorry. I’m an Ivory girl.”
    “If the government was suspicious enough of me to bug my hospital room, they’re gonna search this place if they find it. We need to make it look like we actually live here. Speaking of which, where’s my stuff?”
    “Your stuff?”
    “Surely I didn’t go on a mountain climbing expedition in South America without bringing a couple suitcases of clothes and doodads. And where’s my climbing equipment?”
    Her voice was dry. “I imagine it fell off the mountain when you did.”
    “Then where’s the gear I had on me? I must have been wearing a climbing harness. And I’d have had extra rope, a hammer, maybe some crampons in my pockets.”
    “Okay, I get your point. I’ll go shopping for some mountain climbing gear this afternoon.”
    “And speaking of equipment, where’s my pack? The one I was wearing the night I got hurt.”
    “I suppose it’s still at the embassy.”
    “I need it.”
    “Why?” Suspicion blossomed on her face. “Are you planning to mount a covert operation from your sickbed?”
    “No. I just want it.”
    “Yeah, right. I wasn’t born yesterday, soldier.” She scowled at him. “Far be it from me to argue you out of doing something insane. I’ll see if I can find it.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    He