After the champagne was finished, and good-nights were said, everyone headed off to get ready for bed. Once Kayla and Brett were ensconced in the intimate coziness of their tent, he remarked, “Nice way to end the evening. Glad she didn’t say no. He was pretty nervous.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me what he planned to do.”

“Really? When?”

“This morning. While we performed that centuries-old male bonding ritual of pissing in the woods. I think he just needed to get it off his chest. And to hear someone tell him he was doing the right thing.”

Her brows shot up. “And you told him he was? I thought the centuries-old male bonding ritual was for men to talk other men out of proposing.”

“Maybe some males, but not me. He’s crazy in love with her, and even a blind guy can see she’s crazy in love with him. I told him to go for it.”

He pulled his shirt over his head and she was momentarily distracted by the sight of all those lovely rippling muscles.

She licked her lips then said, “I’m glad it all worked out. And it certainly brought the evening to a memorable end.”

Reaching out, he pulled her into his arms and nuzzled her neck with his warm lips. His erection pressed against her belly, shooting heat straight to her core. “I vote we bring the evening to our own memorable end.”

“Hmmm. Now that’s a reason to celebrate.”

Yet even as her lips parted for his kiss, heaviness invaded her heart. She knew the celebration would soon be over.

20

WHEN PAOLO’S voice announced it was time to rise and shine, Brett peeked open one eye, deduced from the utter blackness inside the tent that it was still dark outside, groaned and rolled over.

And discovered he was alone.

Hoisting himself up on one elbow, he blinked both eyes open then felt for his flashlight, squinting when its bright glare flooded the tent. The spot beside him was empty. A sight, he realized, he didn’t like the look of at all. He shifted the beam of light to his watch and groaned. Three-thirty.

He sniffed the air, catching the enticing aroma of coffee. Since Paolo and Ana were both clearly awake, at least Kayla wasn’t alone.

He clicked off the flashlight then flopped onto his back and stacked his hands behind his head, taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

All of which revolved around Kayla.

Specifically around the erotic massage she’d treated him to last night.

Holy hell, it was a miracle the damn tent hadn’t gone up in flames. That book she’d read-Mastering the Art of the Erotic Massage-well, she’d mastered it, but good.

He closed his eyes and recalled in vivid detail the way she’d removed his clothes, then, using her unscented lotion, first massaged his back, legs and feet with long, gliding strokes, much as he’d massaged her the night before.

But then she’d turned him over and given the same meticulous attention to his chest, arms and hands as she’d lavished on his back, never touching his penis, building an agony of anticipation even as she’d massaged the rest of him into relaxation.

She’d finished by switching her entire focus to his straining erection.

“The basic principle of male genital massage is to build a repeated peaking process,” she’d said in a smoky voice. “For me to slow down, stop or change what I’m doing before you come. So let me know when you’re about to climax.”

And then the sweetest torture he’d ever endured had commenced. She’d cupped him, caressed and teased him, stimulating him over and over with a variety of tempos and strokes that drove him insane. Every time he’d growled out that he was about to explode, she’d switch to something new or sweep her hands up and down the rest of his body until the urgent need to ejaculate subsided. Then she’d begin another slow build.

By the sixth time, his vision had glazed over and he was practically delirious. When he’d grunted that he couldn’t take it anymore, she’d leisurely rolled a condom over his aching erection, and proceeded to drive him wild once again by engulfing him in her wet heat, riding him with a slow rolling motion that had robbed him of whatever wits she hadn’t already stolen. When he finally came, the intensity of his climax had practically blown his head from his shoulders.

After wringing him out like a dishrag, she’d pulled the covers over them, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth and snuggled against him. It was the last thing he remembered until Paolo’s voice had awakened him.

And now that he was awake, he immediately wanted to see her. Touch her. Talk to her. Kiss her. Make love to her.

A huff of wry amusement puffed past his lips. Man, he really had it bad. Now he knew exactly what his dad meant when he’d described that first meeting with Mom. Bang. That was it.

Like father, like son.

Brett reached out and brushed his hand over the empty space where she’d slept, the place where she belonged, and disappointment filled him. Not only because he simply missed having there, but also because he’d planned to talk to her this morning about continuing their relationship once they arrived home.

For him it was a no-brainer, and he assumed she felt the same way, but he wanted to make sure she clearly understood that as far as he was concerned, this wasn’t simply an adrenaline-rush vacation fling. He figured he’d wait to drop the I-love-you bomb, but he planned to make his desire to continue seeing her clear.

Oh, well, plenty of time to discuss that. And glean some pertinent information from her-like her phone number and address.

Unable to wait any longer, he dressed quickly, then headed toward the kitchen tent. Kayla met him midway, greeting him with a smile and a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said, handing him the steaming mug. “I was just heading back to the tent to bring you this.”

“Thank you. And good morning.” He brushed his lips over hers, nearly laughing at the heat that zoomed through him at the casual contact. “Any oversleeping on my part is completely your fault.”

She raised her brows. “Is that a complaint?”

“Hell, no.” He wrapped his free arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “My only complaint is that you weren’t there when I woke up. I missed you.”

“I…I couldn’t sleep, so when I caught the first whiff of coffee, I figured I’d get dressed and score us some java.”

He leaned back and searched her face, noting even in the dim light the smudges beneath her eyes. “Couldn’t sleep? You feel okay?”

She smiled. “I’m fine. My mind is just full. Lots of thoughts, all whirling around.”

“Well, sweetheart, you emptied my mind last night.” He nudged his pelvis against hers. “Among other things. If Paolo hadn’t shouted out the rise-and-shine call, I probably would have slept for a week. I intend to write the author of Mastering the Art of the Erotic Massage a heartfelt thank-you note.”

She laughed and nudged him back. “The pleasure was mine.”

“Not entirely, I can promise you that.”

“I think we’re both all paid up now. You owed me pleasure-twice-because you cheated and let me win our bet, and I owed you an erotic massage. We’re even.”

He shook his head. “I seem to recall a mention of make-up sex in there somewhere which hasn’t happened yet. So you still owe me one.”

“Not that I mind being indebted to you, but the only way we can have make-up sex is if we get into an argument.” She rose on her toes and gently bit his earlobe, rushing more blood straight to his groin. “And arguing isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

Unfortunately Paolo chose that moment to walk by and clap him on the back. “Glad to see you finally dragged it out of bed, señor. Breakfast in five minutes, then we need to pack up quickly if we’re to arrive at Machu Picchu with the sun.”

“Five minutes,” Brett said with a groan. “Not nearly enough time for what I had in mind.”

“Me, either.”

He dropped a quick kiss to her upturned lips. “Hold that thought. At least until we’ve checked into our hotel this afternoon.”

The rest of the campers slowly exited their tents, all anxious for coffee. While they enjoyed their breakfast, Paolo filled them in on some of Machu Picchu’s history.

“The legendary lost city of the Incas was rediscovered in 1911 by an American team of archaeologists from Yale University led by Hiram Bingham. Of course, like most men, Mr. Bingham didn’t ask for directions and was actually looking for Vilcabamba, a stronghold of the Inca rebels, when he discovered Machu Picchu, and was convinced he’d been successful.

“Since the Incas didn’t leave written records, Machu Picchu remains shrouded in mystery. Some believe it was a sanctuary inhabited by high priests, others feel it was used for astronomical studies. Other theories include agricultural site and citadel. Or perhaps it is a combination of all or some of those. Most mysterious of all is that in spite of the exceedingly fine construction and architecture, Machu Picchu was built, inhabited and abandoned all in the span of less than a century-a tiny blip in time considering the four-thousand-year history of Peru. Today scholars still ask why?”

Paolo sipped his coffee, then continued, “Some suggest it was the result of wars between rival Inca tribes resulting in the mass execution of the entire community. Or perhaps it was a plague. Given the site’s pristine condition, scholars agree that it is unlikely that the Spanish conquistadors ever found Machu Picchu during their invasions as they made no mention of it in their meticulous chronicles.”

After finishing their meal, the group packed up their belongings and set out on the final leg of their journey, which, they found thankfully, was shorter and not as strenuous as the previous days’ hikes. They followed a broad, level path which wound gently through light woodland, the air cool and still. With the first streaks of light in the sky, their walkway was dappled with color from scores of butterflies flitting across the trail.