Treasure Hunting

by Jenna McDonald

  She grinned, recognizing her expression as sappy even without the benefit of a mirror, and crashed through the forest. Every time her mind wandered she remembered something little. Something like the way he’d smiled at her that first day, still-yellow eyes seeming warm, full lips tipped up at the corners. The way his fingers felt against her chin when he’d pulled her gaze away from the fire. Talking into the evening, his voice a purr along her skin, soothing and beautiful. Laughter, unbridled and easy.

  Why she hadn’t realized this whole love thing earlier, she wasn’t sure.

  A mud puddle yanked her out of her musings. She pulled her foot out of the hole, shaking off the worst of the grime, grateful to have boots. Then she changed direction, stomping through the jungle again. She was getting quieter, she thought proudly. Now she only sounded like a dozen elephants, rather than a herd. She was also getting better at sneaking through the foliage without having to chop it all down.

  She wondered what her parents would think of Santiago. They’d like him, of course. She was certain of that. Would he tell them about being able to change into a jaguar, or would that be a secret between them? Maybe—

  She ran into a fleshy wall. Backpedaling quickly, she looked up. And then up farther.

  God, she sure appreciated the whole, “Let’s run around naked,” thing going on in this village. Except this particular god-man didn’t look happy. Neither did the one behind him.

  Her skin prickled, hair lifting off the back of her neck. “Can I help you?” she asked in Spanish.

  The one in front started to talk, and the one behind began to translate.

  “It’s time to go,” the one behind said, smirking.

  She forced her expression pleasant, if cool. “Thanks, but I can find my way back to the village.”

  The one in front listened while the translator did his job, then he shook his head and spoke again.

  “Frieda said you have a plane to catch. It’s our job to make sure you get there safely.”

  She glanced around, then forced her gaze back to the men. “That’s all right. I’m just going to get a later flight.”

  “You already know Santiago will be fine,” the translator said. “Time to leave.” He stepped to one side, jerking his chin toward a spot behind him. “We brought you a car.”

  Through the trees, she could make out one of the snaking dirt roads that linked the villages, and the red of a Jeep. Her Jeep, she suspected, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know how they’d gotten it back.

  “Thank you,” she said calmly and firmly, “but I’m going to wait for Santiago.”

  The two men exchanged pitying looks. The one in front slouched to the side, leaning against a tree trunk.

  “Santiago,” the translator said, “already has a family.”

  “Yes, and you’re all very nice—” she began, but the man spoke right over her.

  “A wife and children. Here. You should go before you upset them further.”

  The ground dropped out from under Meg. The man in front grabbed her biceps, steadying her. Had a family? Wife, kids? That wasn’t possible. They’d—he’d—

  Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed it back. Insects buzzed, too loud in the overheated jungle. He had a family. Maybe they did things differently here. Maybe having a fling on the side wasn’t unheard of. Maybe—

  “Maybe I should go home,” she murmured through numb lips.

  The two men nodded. The grip around her arm tightened, supporting her as she staggered out of the forest.

  “Who?” She didn’t resist as they handed her up into the Jeep. Hot vinyl burned her thighs, and she put her hands under the sensitive skin for protection. The car started with a jerk, coughing to life and rolling down the dirt road.

  “Frieda,” the translator rumbled, sitting behind them in the bed of the car.

  So the boy was his. And the baby was his. And of course Frieda. She was young and beautiful and kind. The road blurred, and Meg sharply blinked back tears. She lifted her chin, refusing to look back at the jungle and the village behind her. She wouldn’t cry for him. She barely knew him, that much was painfully obvious. Barely knew him, and had only met him a few days ago. She wasn’t in love. No one fell in love that fast.

  She dug her fingernails into the undersides of her knees, and tried to ignore the tightness in her throat. She wasn’t entirely successful.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is an interesting premise,” Meg hedged, twiddling her pen between thumb and index finger, “but you might want to narrow it down a little.”

  Her student’s face fell. “But narrow it down to what?” There was a whine in the girl’s voice.

  Meg grasped her rapidly failing patience with both metaphorical hands and hung on. “Do a little research on this topic, and I’m sure you’ll find something.” Unless she was an idiot, which Meg hadn’t yet ruled out. But professors weren’t supposed to say things like that out loud, so she bit the inside of her cheek and closed her door firmly when the girl left.

  She collapsed back in her chair, staring at the bland cream-colored ceiling of the university office. She needed a painting up there to stare at. Something green. A jungle scene.

  She grimaced and straightened, fixing her eyes on the pile of papers to be graded. The last thing she needed was anything that reminded her of the jungle. Christ, it had been two weeks since she’d come home, it was a week and a half into the semester, and she couldn’t stop thinking about…all of it. But most especially, she couldn’t stop thinking about Santiago.

  She didn’t want to think about him. It hurt too much.

  She’d had blood work and a pregnancy test done, and everything was as he’d said: no diseases, no babies. Nothing to tie her to him except half a dozen days—not even that—out of the thousands she’d already lived. Surely the hurt would fade with time. It was what she told herself when her mother asked what was wrong or when her colleagues said she was acting oddly and maybe she should use her sick days.

  It would fade with time.

  Her vision blurred, and Meg closed her eyes. She wouldn’t cry. She hadn’t cried since she’d gotten home, and she sure as hell wouldn’t start now. She wouldn’t cry. And if she said it often enough, she might even believe it.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and stared at the papers, willing herself to read them. They were only a line or two each—ideas for the essay due at the end of the semester. It should have been easy enough to go through them quickly.

  She stared at them for another five minutes, all focus lost as she remembered the way Santiago felt, the musky, male scent of him, the brightness of his black eyes.

  Cursing herself, she stood and gathered her things, stuffing them into her briefcase before heading out the door and down the hall. She could do this at home, and if she needed to zone out for a while she could do that, too.

  “Dr. Westfield,” the department secretary called as Meg stormed past. “Meg!”

  She glanced back over her shoulder, pausing with her hand on the doorknob. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  Amy hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. It’s not an emergency.”

  Meg shoved her way outside.

  ***

  That night Meg drank too much wine. Her students paid for it the next morning despite her best attempts to be civil. She locked herself in her office during her hour break, swallowing two Aspirin and hoping they’d kick in quickly.

  Someone knocked.

  She sat, silent, willing whoever it was to go away.

  “Meg, a Mr. Valdez has been trying to contact you,” Amy called through the door.

  Meg frowned. “I don’t know a Mr. Valdez,” she snapped.

  “I’ll tell him,” Amy answered, and footsteps retreated.

  Meg groaned and let her head fall back against her chair. Now she owed Amy an apology. She was gearing herself to leave her office and head down the hall when a masculine voice bellowed, “The hell she doesn’t!”

>   She blinked. Then she reached over and hit the button-lock on her door. Irate student? Irate parent? You’d think university kids would fight their own battles, but every semester she had to firmly inform at least one parent that she wasn’t going to pass their darling dear-heart simply because they “came from good stock”.

  “Meg!” the same voice said, much closer, framed by Amy’s, “You can’t do that!” and then her more strident, “Someone call campus police!”

  “Meg,” the voice said again, right outside her door. It dropped lower, rubbing like velvet over her spine. “Meg.”

  She knew that liquid-sin voice. Except he hadn’t been able to speak English. She stood so quickly her chair slid back, and fumbled with the lock before yanking the door open and looking up, way up, into black eyes and golden skin, straight black hair falling just past his shoulders.

  She stared at Santiago, emotions awhirl, and said the only thing she could think of. “Since when do you speak English?”

  He smiled, his whole face warming. “Since always.”

  “You bastard!”

  “You know him?” Amy asked, still hovering in the hall as if, given a signal, she’d tackle him herself.

  “Yeah, it’s fine.” Meg’s answer was quick. She grabbed the sleeve of Santiago’s suit—suit?—and dragged him inside. Letting go, she slammed the door, then leaned against it and glared at him.

  He was wearing a suit. White shirt, no tie, black jacket and pants. His collarbones peeked between the lapels, a glimpse of perfect skin reminding her of the way his flesh moved and shifted over his muscles. The jacket fit him flawlessly, accentuating broad shoulders and narrowing to his trim waist, his slacks falling just so over the tops of his black shoes.

  “You speak English and you have enough money to wear Armani?” she snapped, fighting down the urge to wrap her arms around him and breathe in his scent.

  “It’s not Armani,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “It’s—”

  “I don’t care!” She stopped, one fist pressing against her chest as if she could keep her pounding heart from bursting through. He was here. He was here, and she didn’t know if she should hope he stayed or knee him for cheating on his wife. She’d always thought she’d knee the guy, but now that she was faced with him—Christ. She’d missed him.

  “Meg,” he said softly. “Why’d you leave?”

  She stared at him. Swallowed. Licked her lips. Finally, she forced out, “You’re married.” And then, as if that was all she had needed for the pain of seeing him to break through, the lump in her throat gave way to anger. “You’re married and Frieda and those boys deserve to have a dad that isn’t buggering off to another country! You son of a bitch!”

  He dodged her punch, his reflexes faster than human, and stepped in to grab her fist before she could throw another one. “I’m not married,” he said, inches from her face. She couldn’t just ignore him.

  “What do you mean you’re not married?” she shouted, not caring who in the department might hear her.

  “I’m not married. I’ve never been married. I only go home a few times a year, and I certainly don’t have children in that village.”

  Meg stared at him. The bottom had dropped out of her world again. She needed a vacation. One where she didn’t find jaguar-men. “You don’t—?”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “But they told me—”

  “They’re assholes.”

  She nodded. That, she could agree with.

  “They don’t like outsiders. They’re afraid of being discovered.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t married. He hadn’t cheated on anyone. He pressed close and she became aware of the door against her back, her breasts brushing his chest with every inhalation. His scent surrounded her.

  “That’s the only reason you left?” he purred, his gaze on her mouth. “Just the wife?”

  “That’s a damn good reason,” Meg protested. He inched closer, nose brushing hers, hand sliding around the back of her neck. “Wait a minute!” She shook her head to clear it and nearly bashed him in the face. “If you don’t live in that village, where do you live?”

  He smiled. “New York. But I’m willing to change offices and come here.” His smile faltered, and his eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “That is, of course, if you’d like—”

  She didn’t wait for him to complete the sentence. Grabbing a fistful of hair, she dragged him down, opening her mouth under his, almost laughing when it took a full second before he responded in kind.

  Then he pushed her up against the door, a thigh between her legs, tongue sliding between her lips. After a while they broke apart, panting.

  “I’m not done with being mad at you about lying to me,” she said between breaths.

  “I never lied to you,” Santiago rumbled, nibbling on her ear.

  “You lied by omission. Letting me think you didn’t speak English. Not bothering to tell me you didn’t live in the jungle. Wait—you’re the reason the village has rubbing alcohol!”

  “I’m one of the ways, yes,” he agreed. His hand slid up over her ribs.

  “You do not own a boating business!” she accused.

  “I do!” He pulled back just a bit, looking offended. Then he smiled sheepishly. “Well, not boats. Yachts. And I’m only one of the owners.”

  He owned a yachting business? Meg couldn’t quite wrap her mind around that. “You are such a cad,” she growled.

  He smiled, body pressing against her. “Cad? Who says cad anymore?”

  “Obviously, I do!” She squirmed, biting her lip against squeaking when his fingers found her nipple through her shirt. “Next time you go home, I’m going with you.”

  “I’ll take you to all the best ruins,” he agreed, laughing as he kissed her again, and again.

  She grinned. “Marry me.”

  He stopped, pulling back, scowling. “If you would just give me a few weeks, I’ll ask you.”

  “I don’t want to wait a few weeks.” She shrugged. “Marry me.”

  “Damn it! That’s my line!”

  “You’re not saying it fast enough. Marry me.”

  He glowered, then chuckled softly.

  “Marry—” Meg began again, only to be forced to a stop when a hand covered her mouth.

  “Marry me,” Santiago requested. “You’ll get to see my annoying, over-protective, lying family a few times a year, and you’ll probably find fur in disturbing places. Your cat will hate me, and the food bill will triple in meat products alone.” He smiled and removed his hand. “Say yes.”

  “Since you make it sound so appealing,” Meg laughed, “yes.”

  He bent to kiss her, and she pulled back. “How’d you know I have a cat?”

  He sighed, leaning his forehead against hers. “Obviously,” he muttered to himself, “I’m not doing this seduction thing right.”

  “How?”

  “I can smell him on you.” Santiago shrugged.

  She thought about that for a long moment. “All right,” she said finally. “I can accept all those conditions. As long as there are no barbs.”

  He blinked at her, slowly and methodically. Like a cat. “No barbs.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  He blinked again. “You’re talking about cat-penis barbs, aren’t you?”

  She grinned.

  Santiago closed his eyes, a crease appearing between his brows, then finally opened them again. They’d gone yellow. “You know,” he purred, “we’d better check.” Then he grabbed and lifted her, depositing her on the desk.

  Meg yelped, wrapping her arms around his neck. Laughing, she helped strip his jacket off and started unbuttoning his shirt.

  This was, by far, the best treasure she could ever want.

  About the Author

  JB has two devoted dogs who faithfully listen to each and every story, and a conure who tells her when she’s writing badly. When she isn’t cackling maniacally or hatching a new plot, she trains animals and their
owners. In the thirty seconds a day when she can’t be found on horseback, training dogs, or writing, you can find her on her blog at jennabreen.livejournal.com. Or, if you wish to privately encourage her insanity, you can email her at Jenna.B.McDonald@gmail.com. She will be forever gleeful.

  Is Emma ready for a bite?

  The Wallflower

  © 2008 Dana Marie Bell

  A Hunting Love story

  Halle Puma Series Book 1

  Emma Carter has been in love with Max Cannon since high school, but he barely knew she existed. Now she runs her own unique curio shop, and she’s finally come out her shell and into her own.

  When Max returns to his small home town to take up his duties as the Halle Pride’s Alpha, he finds that shy little Emma has grown up. That small spark of something he’d always felt around the teenager has blossomed into something more—his mate!

  Taking her “out for a bite” ensures that the luscious Emma will be permanently his.

  But Max’s ex has plans of her own. Plans that don’t include Emma being around to interfere. To keep her Alpha, Emma must prove to the Pride that she has what it takes to be Max’s mate.

  Warning: This title contains explicit sex, graphic language, loads of giggles and a hot, blond Alpha male.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Wallflower:

  Emma realized Max had stopped moving. Looking up at him, she found him staring down at her with a quizzical look. “Well?”

  Emma blushed. She’d been rubbernecking in Max’s house, trying to take in everything at once. “It’s incredible.”

  He smiled with satisfaction. “If there’s anything you want to change, you’ll have to let me know.” Gently he placed her on the quilt. “This is now as much your house as mine.”