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little looser this time. Then he stood up, looking down at her.
    "That's for insurance while I try to fix the mess you made of the car."
    He turned to walk back to the still-open car trunk. Lora watched him go, sagging back against the tree in relief. He limped slightly, she noticed, favoring his right knee. She had kicked him in that knee—she hadn't realized that she packed that much of a wallop. Her knees and palms stung a little, a legacy from her leap from the car, but she hardly noticed. She felt lucky just to be alive. She had been so certain he would kill her—but he hadn't. He said he wouldn't hurt her if she did as he said. Could she believe him?
    Apparently, there were some tools in the trunk, because he had a small metal box open at his feet and a wrench in his hand as he bent over the hood, which he had managed to raise after some effort. In deference to the blistering heat, he discarded the sleazy shirt, affording her an excellent view of his bare torso. Watching streams of perspiration run down the rippling muscles of his back, Lora thanked heaven that she was tethered in the shade.
    He was working with concentrated effort, scowling down at the engine and cursing under his breath as he discarded first one tool and then another, finally returning to the wrench. A sound from back down the highway brought his head swinging around. A car! Lora stiffened with excitement, ready to scream for help as soon as the vehicle's occupants were within hearing distance. Then she looked warily back at her captor. He had sprinted to the passenger's door, opened it, leaned in and straightened again, shutting the door, all before the approaching vehicle—which turned out to be a dusty, battered pickup truck loaded down with skinny Mexican children and squawking chickens—had done much more than come into view.
    Turning, he snatched up his shirt from the ground and strode toward her, the limp more pronounced as his movements quickened. Lora froze with renewed fear as she saw that he carried the gun. Scowling at her with an expression that would have silenced a far braver soul than she, he hunkered down beside her. Lora shivered as one long, bare, hard-muscled arm encircled her waist in what must have appeared, to anyone who didn't know better, to be a loving embrace. She could feel the heat and strength of that arm and the dampness of his skin through her dress. He had dropped his shirt in her lap; the hand belonging to the arm around her waist burrowed beneath it. Lora flinched as she felt the hard barrel of the gun press against her stomach.
    "Behave yourself," he muttered warningly. Lora nodded.
    The approaching truck was almost even with the layby by this time; its driver must have seen them, because it was slowing. The dark-skinned children in back leaned over the rickety wooden slats that fenced in the sides of the truck bed, craning their necks and chattering among themselves as they stared at first the wrecked car resting against the crazily leaning palm tree and then at the couple cuddling so affectionately just a few yards away. The passenger side window was open; a plump, harassed looking Mexican woman whom Lora assumed was the children's mother stuck her head out to call to them.
    "Senor! Que pasa?" The woman sounded as if she didn't much care if they were having trouble.
    With a swift glance at the man beside her, Lora frantically weighed her odds if she decided to risk the gun and call for help. Should she? Her captor must have sensed what was in her mind, because he tightened his grip; she felt his body hot and close against her side as the hard nose of the gun prodded deeper into her stomach.
    "Smile!" he hissed, his voice deadly. Lora smiled. His closeness was overwhelming. She was aware of him with every nerve of her body; the strength of the muscles that enfolded her against him; the heat that emanated from him like a stove; the smell of sweat; the hardness of his arms and chest; the dampness of his bare skin