‘Why do I have the feeling you’re about to disillusion me?’

‘I hate to be the bearer of bad news, mate,’ Rob replied, ‘but I have to tell you that your Fliss might have other things on her mind.’ He opened the paper at a double page spread. ‘“Sex, Slavery and Sacrifice…Exclusive excerpts from the sensational diaries of beautiful archaeologist Fliss Grant…”’, he read out loud.

Jago, his cup halfway to his mouth, slowly returned it to its saucer.

Archaeologist?

She’d been a postgrad student when she’d turned up at his dig. A volunteer, working for food and experience. There were a hundred more like her-well, maybe not exactly like her-but he wouldn’t have paid her, no matter how hot her kisses.

Rob, under the mistaken impression that he wanted to hear more, continued.

‘“Discover the secrets of Cordillera’s long lost Temple of Fire. Win a holiday on this exotic island paradise and see for yourself the ancient sacrificial stone-”’

‘What?’

Jago grabbed the paper.

One look at the photograph of the sexy blonde, one look at her khaki shirt, held together only by a knot beneath generous breasts and exposing a lot more flesh than the average archaeological assistant would sensibly display on a hard day at a dig, was enough.

Not that Fliss Grant was average in any way.

He hadn’t heard from her since she’d left the island at the end of the digging season when the rains had set in, but then he hadn’t expected to. There was no mobile phone signal up in the hills.

He hadn’t been bothered-honesty compelled him to admit that conversation had never been the attraction-and he’d had plenty of other things to keep him occupied.

As for the Cordilleran postal service-well, even if she had been moved to write, it was something of a hit-or-miss affair. It was why, when she’d offered to deliver copies of disks containing his diaries and photographs to his publisher, he’d handed them over without a second thought.