Read Personal Geography for Free Online Page B

complimentary to say about, and he knows far more about this guy than I do, having put together the dossier. Perhaps I should take this seriously as well. Cris Ardmore, you’ve put a spell on us all .
    *
    Matty wasn’t kidding when he said the man lived off the beaten path. I’m glad we have the Jeep, with the heavy-duty grab bars and four-wheel drive, when we’re careening over dirt and rock paths that narrowly accommodate the vehicle’s width. I bounce in my seat as we drive over a copious number of ruts, and I have to keep pushing my hair back from my face as it whips around in the breeze. We’re surrounded by jungle, and it smells of dirt and living things instead of sunbaked concrete and car exhaust. I feel like I’m on wild safari ride at an amusement park—it’s fun.
    By the time we arrive at what I assume is Mr. Ardmore’s home, my nerves have been shaken loose and I’m pink with delight. Matty is less enthused, probably because he’ll have to drive the path at least three more times before he can fly home to his nifty little Audi coupe and the comparatively smooth hills of San Francisco.
    We pull up a few yards away from what appears to be the largest of several raised, wood-and-glass huts joined by covered walkways. My eyes wander over the structure, but only for a second because there he is, ambling down the steps. Seeing Cris Ardmore in person sends a thrill through me. He’s about six feet tall, powerfully built without being bulky, and moving with no apparent hurry in our direction. His wardrobe consists of a faded blue cotton button-down, open at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves; clean but worn khaki shorts; and a pair of flip-flops. Flip-flops? Someone’s feeling sure of himself .
    He opens my door and offers me a hand. I can see the reason he looked a little off in his photograph: his nose has clearly been broken, probably more than once. He doesn’t seem like a brawler and a record for assault would’ve shown up in his dossier, so I’m intrigued instead of concerned. His dark curls are shot through with stray strands of grey, and his eyes are…curious. No wonder I couldn’t tell if they were blue or grey in his picture. I still can’t say for sure, and he’s looking right at me. They’re the color of the sky when you know a storm is gathering but you don’t rush inside because you know you’ve still got a while before it starts to pour.
    He’s still got the stubble, as I’d hoped, and I have to consciously refrain from running my fingers over it. Lines are etched around his mouth from smiling, and I hope again I’ll get to see him laugh. He is, as Matty said, appealing.
    He looks me over from head to toe. Not in a vulgar way, but with decided interest. I’ve got him at a disadvantage. Rey tells them what I look like, but they don’t get to see a picture beforehand. Rarely do they seem disappointed, though, and this is no exception.
    “Ms. Bailey-Isles, I presume?”
    He has a nice voice. Not the warm, languid caramel of Matty’s, but a pleasant, deep tenor that could turn sharp or sweet on a dime. Very nice, indeed.
    “Were you expecting anyone else?” I deadpan.
    He blinks, surprised, but recovers with a lopsided smile. “I believe that would be contrary to the letter of our agreement.”
    “Touché, Mr. Ardmore. And Ms. Isles will do.” I place my hand in his and return his smile. His hand is large and smooth and warm. There’s nothing worse than a man with clammy, sweaty palms or frigid fingers when you know they’re going to be all over you—possibly in you—in a few hours. Or minutes, as the case may be. But, no, Cris Ardmore is checking all my boxes.
    He helps me out of the 4x4 and releases me. I’m disappointed and annoyed now that I need to talk to him before those hands will be anywhere else. If they’ll be anywhere else.
    He comes around the car and extends a hand to Matty. “Mr. St. James.”
    “Mr. Ardmore.”
    “Mr. St. James will wait here