by Beth Ciotta
CHAPTER EIGHT
BAÑOS CAME ALIVE at night.
Lively voices and music filtered up from the street and floated in through the open window of Spenser’s third-floor hotel room. He considered stuffing tissues in his ears. He was that desperate to avoid the memories the sounds and smel s prompted. Instead, he shut the window and cranked the air. He turned up the television set. He checked his voice mail, pondered the lack of messages from Necktie Nate—what were those execs up to?
He thought about the favor he’d asked of Gordo earlier today. His partner had promised to call as soon as he tracked down the former Andean guide previously associated with Professor Kane. Spenser needed the guide to confirm or deny a story. Gordo preferred playing detective to solitaire, so he’d hopped a puddle jumper south. It had only been a few hours, still…
Spenser dialed his partner, anxious for an update.
No answer.
Ten minutes later, he tried again.
“Do you know how many Juan García’s there are in Lima?” Gordo asked.
“A lot?”
“I said I’d call when I had something to report.”
“Sorry I couldn’t give you more to go on, Gordo.”
“Remind me why I’m doing this?”
“Because it’s more fun than sitting around Cajamarca with your thumb up your ass?” Gordo grunted.
Spenser closed his eyes and willed away thoughts of River’s desperate determination. “Because Cyrus Lassiter has been known to exaggerate and no one can back him up on this. Juan confided in him and him alone.”
“If what Lassiter told you is true, and if Juan wasn’t exaggerating, then Henry Kane’s raving mad.” Spenser massaged his temples.
“Helluva thing to break to his daughter,” said Gordo.
“I need verification.”
Silence.
Spenser imagined his partner scratching his beard and then rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’ll find Kane’s guide,” he finally said. “If not tonight, then tomorrow.”
“I’ll wait for your call.”
“Sure you will.” Gordo disconnected.
Spenser tossed the phone on the bed and glanced at his watch: 10:15 p.m. At this hour Gordo was trolling bars, known hangouts for guides and thril -seekers. By 1:00 a.m. his friend would be three sheets to the wind and feeling no pain.
Sober and miserable, Spenser fell back on his rented bed and stared up at the cracked ceiling. For the umpteenth time in the last five hours, he thought about his outing with River. He’d been a bastard, but he’d wanted her to understand the danger associated with Llanganatis. He hadn’t told her everything he’d learned from Cyrus about her dad’s cursed expedition, because he wasn’t sure how much was true. Cy was a good man, but eccentric. The treasure hunter’s eccentric nature had made him the odd man out. He’d been known to embellish stories simply to garner attention. His take on Kane’s expedition had been troubling. Spenser had wanted to spare River the gruesome details—real or imagined. Even though she played the tough chick, on the inside she was a wary lamb. The dichotomy was a powerful aphrodisiac. The entire time that he’d been trying to warn her away, he’d ached to hold her close. To kiss away her worries. Kissing River was fast becoming an obsessive fantasy.
He closed his eyes and groaned.
Love at first sight was a curse all its own.
The antiquated TV and ineffectual air conditioner droned in the background, along with the muffled sounds of the street. He was blocking memories, craving tequila and damning River Kane when his cell rang.
“What?”
“Nice greeting.”
“What do you want, Jack?” His best friend and soon-to-be official brother-in-law. In truth, Spenser knew what the man wanted.
“I want to know you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re in Baños.”
“So?”
“You swore off that town. Swore off that legend.”
“I don’t care about the legend.”
“Liar.”
“What do you want, Jack?”
“Your sister’s on my ass. About you. About River.”
“River’s fine.” She, too, was holed up in her room. Thinking or sleeping or watching TV, and no doubt cursing Spenser. He’d booked the room across from hers. The two times she’d stepped out, he’d stepped out, too. Both times she’d glared, done a one-eighty and slammed her door in his face. The scent of laundry-fresh bug repellent had lingered in the air, taunting him as keenly as Chanel 5.
“I spoke to Gordo,” Jack said. “He told me who River’s dad is and where you think he might be.” Shit.
“Are you going after Professor Kane, Spense?”
“I’m going to drive River to the nearest airport and put her on a plane bound for the States.” The sooner, the better. “Then I’m going to get back to business and search for El Dorado. I’ve got a show to film.” He hoped.
“What about Kane?”
“The authorities are aware he’s missing. If they learn anything of consequence, they’ll contact his daughter.”
After a tense pause, Jack said, “You’re an expert on that region, that legend. If Kane used Valverde’s guide or even that other guy’s map—”
“Brunner.”
“You could probably find him. Dead or alive. At least River wouldn’t be left wondering. Also…maybe you could find closure yourself, Spense.”
“Face my demons?”
“Whatever it takes to move on.”
Spenser swung out of bed and nabbed a bottle of pain relievers from his backpack. “Kylie see eye to eye with you on this?”
“She wants you to let go and move on.”
“But she doesn’t want me to trek into the Llanganatis.”
“Hell, no.”
Spenser washed down the tablets with a swig of Inca Kola. He opened the window and breathed deep.
Bittersweet memories swirled along with the cool air and salsa music.
He thought about River, acknowledged another kind of ache.
He wanted to move on.
“If I go,” he said to Jack, “there better be a wedding to attend when I come back.”
“Nothing would keep me from marrying your sister. Again.”
Spenser grinned. “I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnected just as another call came in.
Cyrus Lassiter.
The crusty treasure hunter had promised to call if he remembered anything more about Kane and his expedition.
“More news on the professor, Cy?”
“Not exactly,” the treasure hunter shouted over lively background noise. “This is about his daughter.” Spenser tensed.
“I’m at El Dosel,” Cy said. “And so is she.”
CHAPTER NINE
RIVER COULDN’T DECIDE what had been riskier, climbing over her hotel balcony to the next balcony, then to the next two over, knocking on a stranger’s sliding glass door and exiting into the hall through said stranger’s room or…entering a bar on her own, a bar in a foreign country, a seedy bar patronized, as far as she could see, exclusively by men.
Her body vibrated with nervous adrenaline—a weird sort of high—as she assessed the boisterous, crowded room.
El Dosel was a smoky, dimly lit, testosterone-charged hole-in-the-wall. Taking in the decor, which could only politely be described as rustic, she reminded herself she wasn’t here for the ambiance. Or even the drinks. She was here to find a guide. According to Antonio, the waiter she’d met earlier today, El Dosel was the local watering hole for tour operators and treasure seekers. Telling one from the other was impossible. But she was determined to find someone who would help her locate Henry.
That someone would not be Spenser McGraw. She’d never met a more infuriating, chauvinistic control freak. Booking a hotel room across from hers? Following her every move? The man was practically stalking her.
Yet she was sexually attracted to him. Fiercel
y attracted.
Talk about twisted.
A purely shallow attraction, she assured herself. One that could be managed. Every time Spenser popped into her head, she kicked him aside with thoughts of David. Accommodating, sensible David—
before his meltdown.
Dredging up the confidence and calm she used when speaking with potential clients or anal-retentive wedding planners, River skirted a few tables and moved to an open spot at the end of the bar.
The bartender, a swarthy, rail-thin man with a pencil mustache greeted her. Sort of. “American?” River sighed. “Oh, good. You speak English.”
“Are you lost?”
“No.” The mere thought struck fear into her heart. She hugged her sling pack containing her GPS and map.
“I don’t want any trouble. You,” he said in an accented voice, “are trouble.” River practiced her superior people skills. She smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Augusto.”
“Augusto, I’m looking for a private guide. I was told I could find one here. Could you please point me toward a reliable, English-speaking, trustworthy, inexpensive guide?” He smirked. “You ask much.”
“I’ll settle for someone who knows the Andes like the back of his hand, speaks broken English and won’t cost me a fortune.”
He pointed out a half dozen men.
After thanking him, River moved toward the least grungy and intimidating of the six. He was enthusiastic…until she mentioned Llanganatis.
“Wait,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you the woman who’s been asking around about Professor Kane?”
At last! Someone who acknowledged her father’s existence. She’d hoped not to bring his name into this. That supposed curse was a hindrance. Plus, Henry had warned her off treasure hunters and this place was full of them. But this was too promising to ignore. She urged the man to lower his voice and adopted a pacifying smile. “All I need—”
“I cannot help you.” He jerked away as though she were diseased.
Undaunted, River moved on. She got the same response from her second and third prospects. The fourth turned her down before she finished her opening line. They all knew who she was and they all put stock in the curse. These locals were downright spooked. She got the strong sense Spenser hadn’t been completely honest with her. There had to be something more to the story, worse news regarding Henry’s expedition. Something that legitimized the curse.
River took a calming breath. She refused to leave without a hired guide. Maybe if she blended in, she’d put them more at ease.
She scanned the smoky bar, snorted. Blend. Right. Who was she kidding? She looked like a Barbie doll in a room full of G.I. Joes. Her only other option was to flirt. Could she play that game? Trump fears of a curse with her own seductive charm?
Uh, no.
She wasn’t that worldly. She certainly wasn’t that foolish. Back to blending. At the very least she could pepper her vocabulary with a few curse words and sip on a drink. River loosened her scarf and returned to the bar. “I’ll have a beer,” she said, because asking for a glass of wine in a pit like this would defeat her goal.
“What kind of beer?” asked Augusto.
“What would you suggest?”
“Aside from you leaving?” Frowning, he served her a bottle of something called Pilsener.
She wanted to ask for a glass, but didn’t. “Thank you.” She smiled.
He didn’t.
Since she didn’t see a cocktail napkin, she cleaned the lip of the bottle with the sleeve of her shirt then sipped. Pilsener tasted like Miller Lite. The danger of getting tipsy on one light beer was nil, especially since she had a high tolerance for alcohol, but she did caution herself to drink slowly. She did not want to have to visit the bathroom in this dive.
“Heard you’re looking for a private guide.”
River looked to her right.
“I’m your man, lass.”
“Beg to differ, mate.”
She looked to her left.
“I’m your man.”
She didn’t figure either was her man. But either could well be her guide. The men flanking her—one dark, one light—were rugged and intimidating and probably just what she needed to survive the inhospitable and dangerous cloud forest. They were also foreigners. Scottish? Australian? Maybe they weren’t skittish about regional superstitions.
“My name is River Kane. My father is Professor Henry Kane. Does that scare you?” They both laughed.
She thought about the journal in her sling. She’d pored over that damned journal for three straight hours. Written in broken and cryptic passages, much of the contents still baffled her. But she had found a map. At least half of a map. The preceding page had been ripped out. “I need someone to take me to a certain point in the Llanganatis Mountains. Does that scare you?” One man angled his head.
The other raised a brow. “No. But it’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
The blond man’s lip twitched. “For starters…a few drinks.” SPENSER VACILLATED between worried and pissed on the fifteen-minute drive across town. How the hell had River slipped past him? How the fuck had she learned about El Dosel? Thank God for Cy. If River got into serious trouble, he was certain the man would step in. But damn, Cy was pushing sixty.
Sure he was in great shape, but he was no match for several men closer to Spenser’s age and build.
Men who’d spent too much time alone on the trail, in the wild. Men juiced on booze and intent on ravaging a pretty young woman like River. At the very least she’d get her ass pinched or patted and an earful of lewd invitations. His temper spiked just thinking about it. River wasn’t tough or worldly. She wouldn’t know how to handle randy, rough-and-ready adventurers. She wasn’t Jo.
Joviana Mendez.
The name conjured a rush of melancholy and shame. Her exotic features, sharp mind and husky laugh teased his senses. Spenser blocked the memories. He couldn’t deal with the past and River’s present situation.
Jaw clenched, he parked his jeep in a spot he knew well. Strode down an alley he knew well. On his previous two visits to Baños, he’d frequented El Dosel, hanging out with fellow lost-treasure enthusiasts, soaking in the stories, the knowledge, swilling mind-bending amounts of liquor. It’s where he and Andy Burdett, an army buddy, had fallen head over heels for Joviana, an expert on Andean culture and legends. The closer Spenser got to El Dosel the more the past threatened to suck him in.
The more he thought about Andy and Jo. He experienced a moment of ball-shrinking guilt as he crossed the threshold, but then Cy was at his side, pointing at a huddle of cheering men, and every fiber of Spenser’s being focused on River.
“Gerry and Mel roped her into a drinking game,” said Cy. “If she wins, she gets her choice of one of them as a personal guide at a discounted rate.”
Spenser knew both men. Gerry had settled in this area years ago. Mel came and went. They both made a decent living as private guides for thrill-seekers and treasure hunters. He wouldn’t put it past either one of them to get a woman drunk, then lure her to bed.
“How many shots has she had?” Spenser asked Cy as they serpentined through abandoned chairs and tables.
“Just a couple. Won more than she’s lost. Still, she’s a wisp of a gal. Young, too.” Kylie had described River as being petite, fair and in her late twenties. Just now, surrounded by leathery-skinned, cynical, seasoned men, she barely looked the legal limit.
Christ.
Spenser pondered the best way to whisk that “wisp of a gal” out of here without raising hell. He noted faces. Some he recognized. Some he didn’t. Some nodded in respectful greeting. Others, who recognized him as the star of Into the Wild, regarded him with a combination of curiosity and envy.
Many would welcome a brawl. He didn’t want to give them one. He didn’t want to land his ass in jail or to give someone a chance to make off with River while he threw punches in her defense.
>
When he shouldered through the huddle, River was knocking away Gerry’s overly friendly hand. He saw red, but stayed cool. He focused on River. She looked like a lamb in the clutches of wolves. Her blond curls were tousled, halo-like, around her pale, wide-eyed face. She wore the same faded denim jacket she’d worn earlier today, but she’d changed scarves. This one was fluffy and—Christ almighty—
