Short Fuse: Elite Operators, Book 2 by Rebecca Crowley Read Free Book Online Page A

hesitated a second too long before turning, like a kid who suspects his sister will steal his Monopoly money while he leans down to find the dice.
    As she raced to strip down to her underwear she was keenly aware of every sound from his side of the room, simultaneously worried he would turn around too soon and absurdly hopeful that he did. She heard his boots thud onto the floor, heard the bench creak under his weight. By now he had to be dressed, sitting down to put on the steel-toed rubber boots worn by every mine employee. She yanked up the zipper on her Garraway-branded coveralls and spun.
    And blinked.
    “Oh, sorry.” Warren hurried to drag on the boiler suit’s sleeves but not before she got an eyeful of his exquisite back and shoulders, smooth muscles creating perfectly curved topography on either side of his spine, a tattooed falcon swooping in the hollow just below his neck.
    She cleared her throat and turned around, declaring with false brightness, “You’re fine. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll help you with the gear. I’m not sure how the Copley operations compare, but—”
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    “You’ve never been down a mine?” She heard his oncoming footsteps and pivoted to face him.
    He shook his head. “Neither has my father, at least not since he was a kid. My grandfather introduced all the technological innovations that made the company successful. My dad just reads maps and watches the news, looking for fledgling African governments he can exploit.”
    “Governments who otherwise might have no capital with which to fund infrastructure like hospitals and roads, and who can create thousands of jobs with the stroke of a pen when they give Copley Ventures permission to mine.”
    His expression hardened. “What did you say about gear? We should hurry up. Roger’s waiting.”
    Guess we’ll conclude that debate another time. “Twist your belt around so those hooks are on either side. This one’s for your safety pack, the other’s for your lamp battery.” She grabbed two of the aluminum cases from a locker, tossed one to him and affixed the other on her belt.
    “What do I do with this?”
    “It’s a self-rescue kit. If the air turns toxic you open the case, blow into the rubber bag inside to inflate it, then strap it on like those masks you see in airplane safety demonstrations. Supposedly it’ll keep you alive for thirty minutes.”
    His nod bordered on indifferent. She had to smile.
    “I’ll be honest with you, Warren, you’re denying me the sadistic pleasure of the terrified looks I usually get when I explain this stuff.”
    He shrugged. “I can do a lot with thirty minutes.”
    Prove it. She bit her lip against several saucy double entendres and pointed to the rack of hard hats with lights mounted over the brims. “Grab one of those and attach the battery pack to the other belt clip. Make sure the lamp works and we’re good to go.”
    “Shall I grab you one as well?” He stretched to reach the few remaining hats on the top shelf.
    “I’ve got my own.” She reached into her gym bag and retrieved her customized miner’s hat, which was Garraway-blue with white, fluffy clouds all over. At the sight of it Warren cracked one of his fleeting smiles.
    “Let me guess, that refers to Garraway’s outstanding record on air pollution?”
    “It was a gift from my boss. Apparently I’m a blue-sky thinker. Plus it looks great in the press releases.”
    “Are you princesses almost ready?” Roger bellowed through the door. “It’s a gold mine, not a fashion show.”
    “On our way,” Nicola called back, and Warren trailed her outside.
    They followed Roger to the entrance of the head frame, the cement tower that stood over the mineshaft.
    “That’s the hoist house,” she pointed out to Warren, indicating the smaller structure beside the head frame. “There’s a huge wheel in there that winds up the cables taking the elevator up and down. The ore comes out on the