Excerpt Bonds

Outside, the sun blared with such magnitude Renata needed both hands cupped around her face to shield her eyes. Brilliance flashed off the water of the free-form pool, bounced into the cloudless sky and echoed back into the aqua-colored ocean, lending the atmosphere an aura of blinding white light. When her vision adjusted, she discerned the cabanas, painted pink doors to her left, painted blue doors on her right.

"How quaint," she mumbled. "Pink for girls, blue for boys."

Like matching bookends, two small-statured Balinese men gestured to the couple at the head of the line, waving their bright yellow shopping bags in the air. Clarice and Gilly approached them, took their respective bags and entered through the first doors in the rows.

Within seconds, Clarice's screeches of protest reached the other contestants. "Oh, no! I'm not spending a month in the jungle in this skimpy thing."

"Skimpy?" Renata nudged an elbow into Connell's ribs. "What does she mean skimpy?"

Before Connell could reply, the small man on the left gestured to her to accept a shopping bag.

"Go on," Connell urged, pushing her forward. "How bad could it be? Just remember what's at stake here. One million dollars."

With a hesitant nod, she took a few steps on shaky legs while her eyes tried to perceive what exactly lay hidden behind the yellow plastic. Why couldn't she have Superman's x-ray vision for just a day?

One million dollars. She stepped into the tiny changing room and closed the door. For one million dollars, I'll wear a bikini for a month�

When she plunged her hand into the shopping bag, she pulled out a halter-top and khaki shorts. She peeked inside to see if she might find another shirt, a jacket, anything else to use as a cover-up. The only other items inside were a pair of cotton socks and thick-soled hiking boots. No bra buried in the bottom. Obviously, the executive staff of Maximus Productions would use any underhanded trick to grab television ratings, even the jiggle factor.

Then again, the outfit made sense. What other garment could she change without removing handcuffs? Her alternative might have been a slinky little tube-top. And running around the jungle in a halter beat bouncing out of a tube-top any day of the week.

Fully dressed, as it were, she shoved the door open and stepped out to find Connell waiting.

"I sure hope they've imported sunscreen by the gallon or I'm likely to resemble a hamburger patty before this is over." Switching to a heavy brogue, he added, "We Scotsmen don't handle the sun verra well, ya ken."

Compared to her outfit, his garb covered even less flesh. No shirt at all, just shorts, above the same socks and boots she had. Maybe these television executives weren't so stupid after all. No doubt Connell's appearance on this game show would make women tune in to watch in droves.

In her opinion, there was something about a man who did physical labor for a living too appealing to resist. There was something so natural in the fluid motions of sinew and bone accustomed to balancing on precarious rooftops or steel girders one hundred stories up. Something that balancing a billion-dollar advertising account didn't provide. There was something in the raw sculpture of arms and legs bulked up by lifting, pounding, and working with heavy materials. Something that could never be artificially manufactured in a pristine, air-conditioned gym for a man who spent hours seated behind a desk. It was something simple, yet impossible to find anywhere. Anywhere, except in the perfection of the man who stood before her now, wearing little more than a boyish grin and a pair of khaki shorts.

What was wrong with her? This was Connell, for God's sake. Connell, who'd only agreed to go along with her cockamamie scheme to keep their organization from sinking into financial ruin.