Page 81 of Storm over the Caribbean
“Why is that dog trying to shove a stick in my face.”
“Well…either he noticed the stick up your arse and thought you could do with a new one…”
“Mrs Ambrose!”
“…or he wants you to play fetch.”
He sent me a deadpan look. Deadpan as in “you’ll soon be dead becausesomeoneis going to smash your head in with a pan”.
“I,” he stated in no uncertain terms, “do notplay.”
“I beg to differ. Or do I need to remind you of a certain part during our wedding night, when you—”
“Ehem!Enough of that, now.” Pushing himself up into a sitting position, the mighty business mogul fixed me with acensorious stare. It would probably have been more effective if he didn’t still have an overgrown puppy trying to shove a stick into his hands. “We don’t have the time to waste on jokes, Mrs Ambrose. I need to be brought up to speed on the current situation.”
“The current situation, eh?” Cocking an eyebrow, I leaned towards my husband. It said something about Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s face that, even covered in dog saliva, it was still the most ravishingly handsome countenance I had ever seen. “Well, Mr Ambrose, Sir…thecurrent situationis that, after you decided to take your impromptu nap, I dragged your arse, along with the stick inside it, into this cave. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to find enough water to survive for the time being. But as far as food goes…”
I held up the sad remnants of the last crab. A dead decapod said more than a thousand words.16
He gave a grim nod. “I see.”
And then, before I could say or do a single thing, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered towards the entrance of the cave. He had hardly moved two steps before he stumbled and slammed knees first into the ground.
“Mr Ambrose! What the hell are you doing?”
“What do you think?” he wheezed, barely keeping himself from fully keeling over. With trembling arms, he tried to push himself to his feet again—only to once more slump back to the ground. “I am—ng!—going to go out there and—agh!—find some food, of course!”
He somehow managed to push himself to his feet, took a tremulous step forward—then promptly slammed to the ground, panting.
“You,” I informed my dear blockhead of a husband, “will not be doinganythingin the foreseeable future. Anything other thanlying down and enjoying the beautiful view of the stone ceiling, that is.”
“But…but…have to…go and…”
Firmly, I pushed him down onto his back. “…lie down. I warn you. If you move, I’ll sic Fence on you. I bet he’d justloveto lick your face some more.”
“…uncalled for, Mrs Ambrose.”
“Says the man who ate a happy gaga fruit and left me to lug him around for the next few days.” Rising to my feet, I stared him down. Which somehow was incredibly hard even when I was towering over his prone form on the ground. Darn those deep, dark, fathomless eyes of his! “Stay where you are!”
“And leave my pregnant wife to traipse through the jungle alone?” With a growl, he pushed himself up on trembling arms. “In your dreams!”
“Hardly.” One corner of my mouth twitched. “In my dreams you wear fewer clothes.”
“This is serious!” Arms trembling, he forced himself towards me. Sweat was running down his forehead, and his pupils were unnaturally enlarged. The dark pools drew me in, threatening to drown me. “You don’t know how to find food in this place! You don’t know what dangers you could encounter!”
I raised my chin. “Then why don’t you tell me?”
“I…I’m trying to. I just…just…” He blinked rapidly. “L-listen here. Here’s what you have to do…”
“Yes?”
“You… you have to pin the banana peel to the top hat.”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
He swayed ever so slightly. And then, for just a fraction of a second hesmiled. Mr Rikkard Ambrose smiled.
“And…you’ve got to look at the pretty clouds…and the bunnies hopping in the sky…oh…so pretty…”
