Treasure Hunting

by Jenna McDonald

  Black hair fell over golden skin as he turned his head, looking back at her. Scars pulled across hard muscle, thin lines and larger, deeper marks. “Why?” There was a note of almost hidden suspicion in his voice.

  She shrugged to convey nonchalance. “Just curious.” Maybe he could only change at night. Except he’d changed during the day, when he’d been drugged. Had he been able to change as a child? And if so, could his parents change? He had social skills, so she very much doubted that, like Tarzan, he’d grown up in the jungle.

  He edged gingerly onto the passenger seat of the Jeep, the lines around his mouth tightening as his shoulder moved. Meg hopped into the driver’s side, starting the engine with a cough and a jerk. She winced. “Sorry about that.”

  Santiago said nothing.

  Her mind turned back to the puzzle of the cat-man. If he hadn’t grown up in the jungle, then he’d been in a village. Surely someone would have noticed him changing into a jaguar and reported it. Or maybe they knew, and had kept him secret. She glanced sidelong at Santiago, then turned her eyes back to the rutted path. And, of course, there was the science of it.

  That didn’t interest her nearly as much as the social aspect. After ten seconds, she got bored and dismissed it from her mind. His family was a fascinating concept, and she opened her mouth to ask. A look at his face silenced her.

  His skin had gone ashen, his grip on the door handle tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His mouth was a thin, pressed line, and pain rode heavily in his gaze.

  Meg faced front and worked harder to avoid potholes.

  Chapter Three

  “How far is your camp?” Meg rubbed the back of her skull against the headrest, itching at the sweat trickling across her scalp. Santiago’s eyes were closed, but she knew he wasn’t resting. His muscles were tense, beads of sweat standing out against his chest, along his temples, making his black hair damp. She dragged her eyes back to the road, scolding herself half-heartedly that this really wasn’t the time to ogle him.

  But lordy, he had a nice chest. Simply not looking didn’t mean she couldn’t remember it; all angles and planes, hard muscles and very little hair—just enough to emphasize shadows on golden skin. She thought of his purr, and nearly purred herself. She sighed. The weight of a gaze pulled her eyes back around, and she saw Santiago peering at her sidelong, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as if he knew exactly what thoughts ran through her mind.

  Clearing her throat, she shifted in her seat, suddenly warm. Okay, she’d been warm before, but now she was downright toasty. “Um. Your camp?”

  “It’ll be a while.” His voice was like rough velvet stroking down her flesh. “A few days.”

  “Oh.” Well, that was unexpected. Damn. “Maybe we should have lunch,” she suggested, and snuck another look at him. He’d grown quieter as the day crept on, lines of pain slowly etching into strong features.

  “Yes,” he rumbled. “That might be good.”

  The nice thing about the jungle, despite bugs the size of small airplanes and heat like a volcano, was that you didn’t have to look for parking when you decided you were ready to stop. Meg stopped, stomped on the emergency break, and declared them parked.

  “Do you need help?” She glanced over at the man beside her.

  Lips pursed, eyes staring straight ahead, he nodded once.

  Concern threaded through her. In her experience, men didn’t admit to needing any kind of help. He must have been hurting.

  “Hang on.” Unpeeling herself from the vinyl, she slid out of the car. He hadn’t moved by the time she got around to the other side, and she spent a moment wondering if he expected her to lift him out. Things could get awkward in that case. She supposed she’d at least cushion his landing…

  Squashed under a hunka hunka burnin’ love. There were worse ways to go.

  Then he twisted carefully, a warm hand settling on her shoulder for balance as he climbed from the Jeep. She didn’t move, trying to be as rock-steady as he might need. When his feet landed on the ground and he was no longer swaying, she came eye-to-pectoral with an utterly perfect torso. Sweat inched down the crease between his muscles, sped over the ridge above his abs, and slid helter-skelter down the center of a six-pack. Maybe even a twelve pack. It hit a snag in his belly button, worked its way out, and dropped past a flat abdomen before soaking into the blanket, which sagged low on his hips.

  Meg swallowed.

  Nope, she still felt utterly incapable of thought.

  She licked her lips.

  It didn’t help.

  She even cleared her throat.

  She could still taste what she imagined he’d be like. Oh, God. She could smell him, all male and musk and something a little wild.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes to break the spell. That worked. A little, anyway. Taking a deep breath she opened her eyes and met his gaze, her gut clenching in expectation. Her last boyfriend had hated it when she’d stared like that. Then she looked up—way, way up—into Santiago’s face.

  Full lips curved, black eyes warm, the sharp planes of his face softened by amusement.

  Meg grinned and relaxed. “How’s it feel to be a sex god?” she asked before she realized what was in her head. She blanched, then heard her words and knew someone was looking out for her. She’d spoken in English.

  He lifted a single black eyebrow questioningly.

  “Never mind,” she said in Spanish, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “Lunch?” This time, she managed to stop any more sexual remarks before they left her mouth.

  He could smell her, sweat and jungle and that indefinable female smell. Even worse, the very definable smell of lust. His shoulder hurt, and he somehow doubted he could do anything about the lust-smell, and yet it hovered in the damp air between them like some sort of drug.

  On the other hand, at least he knew she was attracted, too.

  Santiago sat, uninjured shoulder braced against a tree trunk, and watched her move from the Jeep to the spot they’d chosen. Her clothes brushed against her like a lover’s hands, hiding and revealing with every step. He shifted his legs and tried to think about something less sexual. Trees. Trees were completely and totally nonsexual.

  He’d had sex in a tree, once.

  He cursed under his breath and finally moved, rubbing his injury against bark. That got his mind off the woman.

  “You okay?” she asked in Spanish, frowning as she dropped a duffel bag of food on the jungle floor. “You look pale. Let me see your bandage.”

  “It’s fine.” His words were quick; he was half afraid that if she touched him it’d be more than he could stand. He knew she’d have soft skin, the hands of someone who spent most of their time indoors. Gentle fingers would glide over his shoulder and back, stroking down his spine as if he wouldn’t notice—

  Damn it. She hadn’t even touched him and he’d lost the battle. Santiago shifted his legs, and the blanket with them, into a slightly more concealing pose.

  “Don’t be dumb,” Meg said, apparently unaware of his dilemma. “Let me see.” She’d already kneeled behind him, wedging herself between the tree and his skin, one leg tucked up against his ribs. He imagined her flesh beneath her clothes, soft and pale, muscles defined but not bulging. Delicate hands swept his hair out of the way, then skimmed down his shoulder to the medical tape.

  He winced as she peeled it off, focusing on the pain to bank his arousal.

  “Well, the infection hasn’t gotten any worse.” Her breath ghosted over his ear. She moved, her thigh brushing against his hip. His stomach tightened, and he resisted the urge to turn and see just how close her mouth was to his.

  “Good.” His voice came out in husky tones. Seemed like it had been husky since he’d first woken to find her kneeling before him.

  “I’m just going to change this.” She stood and strode back to the Jeep. Tossing the old bandage inside, she fished out a new, clean one, and walked back.

  Santi
ago took a deep breath to settle himself, to steel himself for the torture about to come. Oh, God, he didn’t know if he could take much more of this. She knelt behind him again and the very air seemed to warm. Then she rubbed cool cream over the wound, making the pain subside. Next came the cloth itself, and the worst bit—the tape. Specifically, the way she smoothed the tape over his skin, the pads of her fingers over his damp flesh, the occasional graze of a nail.

  Just lust, he reminded himself, and a tourist probably wouldn’t appreciate being bedded by someone she’d seen turn from a jaguar into a man. Besides which, it’d hurt his shoulder like hell itself.

  He clung to that thought, even when the scent of heightened arousal spiked at his back. Damn women. Then he smiled slowly, entirely too self-satisfied. Maybe in a day or two, when the infection was better, maybe she wouldn’t mind so much being bedded by a Tezcatlipoca. She was certainly interested.

  He angled his head to watch her over his shoulder. Her pupils were large in clear blue eyes, dilated despite the sunshine.

  Definitely attracted.

  Meg snuck glances at Santiago throughout their brief meal, noting that he only picked at his food. Granted, the food wasn’t gourmet, but she’d seen men chow down through worse.

  If his camp was several days away…well, she thought the infection was under control. But she kept thinking it wasn’t bad, and then she’d actually look at it and be surprised. It had to hurt like hell. She guessed he had a ridiculous pain tolerance.

  “Is there a doctor at your camp?” She hoped he’d say there was.

  After a moment’s pause he answered, “There’s a curador.”

  She didn’t know the last word, so she eyed him, waiting.

  “Like a doctor,” Santiago clarified.

  Great. Some kind of crack-pot healer who’d feed him chocolate beans and declare him well. Not that she was skeptical. Of course, she was looking at a man who could turn into a jaguar. Or a jaguar who could turn into a man. Now there was a strange thought. Then she shook her head clear of confusion, and decided being a little less skeptical was probably wise.

  Santiago stretched his neck, wincing briefly. Reaching up with his left hand, he rubbed the muscles above the gunshot wound.

  “Hurt?” She flinched with sympathy pain.

  He peered at her, a bare smile twisting his lips. “A little.”

  “Hey, I know sarcasm when I hear it.” Smiling, she lifted her hands. “Is there anything I can do?”

  He began to shake his head, hair spilling over his shoulders, then paused. “Distract me.”

  Meg valiantly bit back the sexual reply.

  “Tell me about your home,” he continued, apparently unaware of the thoughts his first words had caused.

  Really, wasn’t making lecherous comments supposed to be a male thing? She pushed that from her mind and thought about home, settling back against a fallen log. Feeling a tickle, she turned and saw a trail of ant-like things, and leaned forward. “I’m from America. I mean, the United States.” She hesitated. “Do you know about the U.S.?”

  The look he gave her spoke volumes, all of it rounding back to the fact that he wasn’t stupid.

  “Right.” She laughed. “And which one of us changes into a jaguar?”

  The look dissolved. Amusement danced in his eyes. “Touché.”

  A cat-man who spoke French. Huh.

  “Wellll,” Meg said after a moment, drawing the word out as she wracked her brain for something distracting. “My life isn’t actually interesting,” she finally apologized. “I’m a sociology professor at a university in Los Angeles—California,” she added, uncertain that he’d know L.A. even if he did know the U.S. Then she mentally laughed at herself. Hell, L.A. had Hollywood: people who didn’t really know where the U.S. was probably knew about L.A.

  “Do you enjoy it?” he asked into her pause.

  She smiled, nodding. “It pays decently, it’s interesting, and it gives me lots of time off to come here.”

  He smiled briefly. “You come here often?”

  “As often as possible,” she confirmed. She grinned, growing animated. “There are possibly hundreds of ruins, just hidden in the jungle. After all, it’s not hard to find stone markers where fields used to be cultivated. But the trees are so thick that you can’t see far—you could walk within twenty feet of an ancient ruin and never know!”

  Santiago listened, looking amused. “That could be frustrating.”

  Meg sighed happily, just the thought of finding the remains of a civilization enough to make her heart go pitter-patter. She gave herself another moment of enjoying the thought, then pulled her mind back to the present. What else might distract him?

  “My parents live nearby—I mean, close to me. In L.A. But my sister moved to Italy. Something about the food being better.” She grinned and shrugged. It had been an excuse, of course. Maggie had really just wanted to move to Italy. “And…” She floundered, running out of things to tell him. “I think that’s everything.”

  “I see. No boyfriend?”

  She refused to let her smile dim. “I broke up with my fiancé almost a year ago. No one since him.” Saying she’d broken up with him sounded much better than him breaking up with her, even if that was the truth.

  Santiago’s eyes softened, his head tilting. She had the distinct impression he saw more than a human could. “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, trying to not care. “It happens.” If it hadn’t happened more than once, for the same basic reasons—that she was, in a nutshell, too crazy—it wouldn’t hurt so much.

  “It happening,” he said quietly, “doesn’t make it any easier.”

  For a long moment Meg just looked at him, his golden skin mottled by shade, eyes nearly black. “Yeah.” Her smile was without humor. “But you keep going, right? How about you? Do you have family?” She ran the sentences together, not wanting to talk about painful relationships, hoping she could distract him.

  “Tragically,” he drawled, “a large one.”

  She laughed, old pain falling away. “You don’t mean that.”

  His eyebrows rose, a quiet snort huffing through his nose. “You obviously don’t have a large family.”

  Meg relaxed against the tree again, feeling content, happy with life. “How many siblings?”

  “None. But enough cousins to make up for it.” Santiago’s dark eyes sparkled.

  “Pshaw,” she scoffed. “I have lots of cousins. They don’t count.”

  “Do they live with you?” he asked archly.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “They count.” He smiled, his expression warm. She felt herself respond, not simply lecherously—which was so easy with a half-naked cat-god—but something warmer uncurling in her stomach. Something she hadn’t realized was missing until it appeared.

  He shifted his weight restlessly, a long-fingered hand reaching up to rub at the cap of muscle on his shoulder.

  “You all right?” She kicked herself for a stupid question. “Never mind,” she muttered, eyes closed. “Just never mind.”

  Something tickled the back of her neck, and she shook her head as she sat forward. “We should probably get going. Your home is—” Something else tickled under her shirt. She squirmed, saw an ant-thing on her arm, remembered the trail on the tree, and screeched. “Oh, Christ!” she yelled in English, leaping up and dusting at her clothes. A bug fell from her curly hair onto her nose. Her voice hit ranges operatic sopranos would envy. “Oh, fucking hell!” Yanking at her shirt, she wriggled furiously to get it over her head before something started biting her or—worse—crawling on her. “Ew ew ew ew ew,” she chanted into dirty material. She jumped at another tickle, cursing as she heard deep, masculine laughter, twisting vainly in an attempt to get the bugs off while still tangled in cloth.

  “Let me help,” Santiago said, still laughing, and she felt hands grab her shirt and yank it off over her head.

  “So sick, so—so—gross—” she panted, still twis
ting and brushing, skin crawling with many-legged critters.

  “Okay, hold still.” Big hands skimmed over her flesh, rubbing away real and imaginary bugs. He moved behind her, brushing off her back, down her hips, over her rear, her legs, then up again to fluff her hair, chuckling the whole time.

  “It isn’t funny, you asshole,” she grumbled in English, scratching at her arms, pale skin now exposed. She could have been embarrassed, but, hell, her bra was as decent as any bikini.

  Santiago was still laughing, breath hitching across her ear. Then his fingers moved, tickling over her waist, sending Meg into a screeching burst of movement.

  “You ass!” She leaped away and whipped around to glare at him.

  His dark eyes were wet with tears, the hard planes of his face broken by a grin, muscles rippling above the blanket he’d tied around his hips. He clutched at his stomach with both arms, wheezing, “Ow, ow,” through every few hilarious breaths.

  She stared at him, arms crossed, ignoring the fact that she was wearing her granny bra and khakis slung low on her hips. “You’re a dickhead,” she said in English, wishing she knew how to say it in Spanish. The locals had refused to tell her.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head and tried in vain to control his breathing. “I couldn’t resist.”

  “Try.” But her ire fled and a traitorous smile lurked at the corners of her lips.

  “I will. I’m sorry.” Santiago grinned unrepentantly, bending to pick up her shirt with his good arm. He shook it out, checked it for bugs, and handed it back with a sweet sort of look. “Forgiven?”

  Meg glared at him, grabbed her shirt out of his hand, and checked it over herself. “This time,” she growled, but couldn’t keep from laughing when she looked up.

  His dark eyes twinkled, mouth sliding into a warm smile. He reached out, brushing a curl out of her face and tucking the lock behind the shell of her ear. “Thank goodness.” His voice was nearly a purr once more. As natural as anything, he leaned in and kissed her. His hand eased around the back of her head, threading through her hair, cupping her skull.