4
“What the hell have you got in here, DeMille? You know this country never gets below 70, right?” Luke heaved the suitcase, as heavy as a field pack, into the back of the Frenchman’s waiting car.
“A Vega II?” DeMille sounded passionately breathless, and was utterly ignoring him. No, purposely ignoring him. It wasn’t an accident that she hadn’t told him why the hell they were in Senegal, Africa, together. He hadn’t missed how often he was a target of her quick tongue.
Altman looked around—Vega was a star in Lyra he’d used to navigate a few times on hikes—but it wasn’t even sunset. DeMille was staring at the bright red car.
“Oh, Christian,” she whispered, like saying thank you after amazing s*x.
What the hell?
“I bring it out special for you, dearest Zoe. I knew you would appreciate h
