by Beth Ciotta
Spenser tensed. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“You’re in love with her.”
He was. But given his history and these circumstances, he feared the admission would be as good as a death sentence. “I don’t even know her. We only met three days ago.”
“I was head over heels for Lana the moment I laid eyes on her.”
“That was different. She wasn’t hung up on some other guy.” Duke paused mid-sip. “Déjà vu.”
Spenser suppressed a surge of panic. “River isn’t anything like Jo.”
“No, she’s not. But you were in love with Jo and Jo was in love with Andy.”
“And I was convinced I could win her over.” Shameful memories battered Spenser. He drank more tequila to dull the pain.
“The other guy—”
“River’s ex-fiancé.”
“Any chance he’ll show on the scene?”
Spenser hadn’t considered that. “I don’t think so. He dumped her at the altar. Joined an extreme tour.
Doubt he even knows or cares where she is.”
“You don’t know that for sure.” Duke drummed his fingers on the wicker table. “What if he has second thoughts? Gets drunk one night and calls River, hoping to reconcile? What if he learns she’s having a family crisis and races to her aid?”
Spenser said nothing.
“Where’s the tour?”
“Peru.”
Duke stared. “Fuck sake, Spense.”
If so inclined and if fate was a truly cruel cocksucker, David could be in the Llanganatis in a matter of hours. Then it would be Spenser, River and David. A triangle of old and wannabe lovers.
Déjà vu.
Almost.
“Difference is,” Spenser said mid-thought, “we’re not searching for Atahualpa’s ransom. We’re searching for River’s father.”
“Who was searching for Atahualpa’s ransom.”
Again, Spenser held silent.
“Facing your demons and hoping to dodge the curse. Tough assignment.”
“You’re not a superstitious man, Duke.”
“No, but you are. At least where Atahualpa’s ransom is concerned. No wonder you’re getting shitfaced.”
Spenser topped off his glass. He wasn’t drunk, but he was getting there. It wasn’t solely about numbing his self to the past, but to River. Even though he’d sensed and felt her desire, she kept throwing up roadblocks. Namely David. It was too close to his dealings with Jo for comfort.
Duke sighed. “Tough is relative. River won’t be able to heft the supplies for a three-day journey. And that’s if the weather cooperates. Which it usually doesn’t. You should al ow for a week or two. You need help.”
“She won’t like it.”
“Do you care?”
Spenser grunted. What he cared about was River’s safety. His mind ticked ahead.
“Normally I’d suggest a few reliable guides, but as soon as you mention Kane’s name—”
“I have someone in mind.”
Duke angled his head. “Gordo?”
“If I invited Gordo, River would assume he was here on business. To film the journey.”
“You have to admit it would make a hell of an episode for Into the Wild.”
“I know, but I can’t go there.”
“Okay. Not Gordo. Who then?”
“Cyrus Lassiter. He’s made more trips into Llanganatis than anyone I know.”
“Can’t argue that. Still—”
“Like you said, no one else will do it. Plus, I like Cy.”
“Don’t see how that figures as a credential, but you would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I saw Andy’s faults. You didn’t. When you’re ready to have that discussion, let me know.” Duke stood. “The lodge is booked solid, but if you need somewhere to crash, Lana and I have a pullout sofa—”
“I’m good. Thanks.” He’d already resigned himself to the hammock on River’s terrace. He just needed some time. Some space. If he was lucky, he’d pass out from the booze instead of lying there, pondering ways to seduce her or obsessing on the challenge ahead.
“Would it help if I told you, again, that you weren’t at fault for Andy’s death?”
“No. But thanks.” Heart heavy, Spenser watched his old friend go. He blocked welling memories of his army days, the good times, the bad times, the times spent with Duke and Andy. He especially didn’t want to think about Andy. He drank more tequila and focused on his current dilemma. Any definitive clues to finding Henry Kane had been stolen by those scumbag bandits, along with any notes about the treasure or his so-called contact with General Rumiñahui—a man who’d been dead for centuries.
Had the professor smoked toad venom, hoping to connect with the spirits, specifically Rumiñahui? Had he made contact with a lost tribe and misinterpreted something they’d said? What was the real story behind Kane and his botched expedition? Had he made a unique discovery or had he lost his mind?
Spenser would give a year’s salary to read that journal. Although if it were in his hands just now, he doubted he’d be able to decipher the contents.
Vision blurring, he pushed out of his seat before he ended up under the table. Numb was one thing, comatose another. He thumbed on his satellite phone, dialed Cy midway to the bungalow.
“No, I don’t have any more info on Kane or his dead guides,” Cy grumbled, sounding distracted.
“The problem with cell phones and incoming call display,” Spenser said, “is that it negates an automatic courteous greeting.”
Cy grunted. “When have you ever known me to be formal? What do you want, boy? Be warned, my mood’s foul. Sorting through monthly bills and coming up short on funds.”
“I can help you with that.”
“How so?”
“Need your services.”
“For what?”
Spenser rolled his eyes as he navigated the boardwalk. “What do you think? I’m going into the Llanganatis. Going after Kane.”
“And the gold.”
Spenser hedged. He couldn’t think about that aspect. Every time he envisioned the lost treasure his temperature spiked.
“You know those mountains,” Cy said, sounding suspicious. “What do you need me for?”
“River’s coming along.”
“She’s crazy for trying. You’re crazy for letting her.”
“She won’t take no for an answer. I need your help, Cy.”
“And I could use the cash.” He sniffed, then chuckled. “Hell, I was bored, anyway. Starting point?
Time?”
“Triunfo. Tomorrow morning.”
“See you around nine,” Cy said, then signed off.
Spenser eyed the bungalow ahead of him, thought about the woman sleeping inside. How he’d like to curl up next to her and kiss her into oblivion. He stumbled up the steps and frowned at the damned hammock that would serve as his bed. Drunk, but not drunk enough to pass out, he was in for a long night.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
She was walking down the aisle. He was standing at the altar. He looked nervous. Her own stomach fluttered.
Butterflies.
She was nervous, too. A lifetime of stability. A lifetime with David. She should be giddy with excitement. Brimming with love. Burning with lust. Instead she felt queasy. Fretful.
More butterflies.
She could hear their wings beating. No, that was her heart. Racing. Zooming.
Buzzing.
Ears buzzing. Something buzzing. Something creeping. Crawling.
Bugs!
River’s eyes flew open. Her sluggish mind fought through the panicked daze. She’d been sleeping.
Dreaming. Where was she?
Ecuador.
Jungle.
Lodge.
Heart thudding, she clutched the cool sheet to her chest. She was locked in her bunga
low. Tucked into bed.
Safe.
So, why did she feel at risk?
She breathed deep as her eyes adjusted to the moonlit room.
She listened to the foreign sounds coming from outside. Monkeys? Birds? In the branches? On her roof? Closer still, a faint buzz. What—
Bugs!
Sweating buckets, River squinted up at the mosquito netting draped over her bed. It was moving. Oh, no. Oh, hell. Ninety percent of the animal species in the Amazon were insects. Not all of them flew, but by God they crawled. Spiders, beetles, ants…
That couldn’t be right. What about the insect screens over the windows?
Mosquitoes.
She couldn’t see them, but she sensed them.
And something else. Someone else.
The floor creaked.
Spenser?
Then she smelled the stink. A familiar stink. Road-bandit stink.
Oh. God.
She tried to scream, but nothing came out. What did he want?
The map.
Don’t give it up! Don’t give in!
Chest tight, River’s right hand balled beneath the covers. Her knuckles brushed against something cool and hard.
Her camera.
Before drifting off, she’d scrolled through the pictures just as someone would skim the pages of a book.
She grasped the Nikon, aimed at the stink…and shot.
Flash!
A bright explosion of light in a mostly dark room.
The intruder flinched and faltered. He thudded to the floor, yelped in pain, then coughed. Bandit number two!
River reached for the bedside lamp, meaning to throw it at him, got tangled in the netting.
Bugs!
The netting broke from the ceiling and covered her like a bug-infested shroud.
Shrieeeeeeek!
She squeezed her eyes shut, frightened and repulsed by the countless insects. Would they sting? Bite?
She felt hands, human hands. The intruder. She fought for all she was worth. “Get off. Get. Off!”
“Shit!” he hissed when her fist connected with his face. “Calm down, angel.” Spenser? She opened her eyes. He’d turned on the lights. Suddenly she was eye to antenna with a big-as a-Buick beetle! “Bugs! Get them off! Get them—”
“Stop fighting me, dammit. You’re making it worse.”
River forced herself to be still, even though her heart galloped and her skin crawled. Spenser freed her and immediately flung the bug-laden netting outside and over the terrace. “How did those things get in here?” he asked as he moved back inside.
Another man burst through the door. Duke. “What the hell?”
“River got tangled in her mosquito netting,” Spenser said. “Goddamned thing was covered with beetles and moths.”
Butterflies.
He stooped to help her to her feet. She saw the concern in his eyes, saw the annoyance on Duke’s face.
She’d freaked out. Over bugs. But it wasn’t just the bugs.
“No wonder,” Duke said as he strode to one of the windows. “Where’s the screen?”
“He must’ve taken it off,” River said, cursing the nervous hitch in her voice. “Guess that’s how he got in…and out.”
“Who?” both men asked.
“The bandit. I woke up and he was…here.”
“Someone was in this room?” Spenser grasped her shoulders. “Did he touch you? Hurt you?” She shook her head. “I shot him. With my camera,” she clarified. “Blinded him. Then I screamed. I guess I scared him off. I’m not sure. It happened so fast and I was…disoriented.”
“Disoriented from a nightmare, maybe?” Duke asked. “This is an exclusive resort, River. The property’s secure—”
“But not a fortress, right?” She glared at the man doubting her word. “I’m telling you someone was in here!”
Spenser threw his friend a look.
Duke cursed. “Fine. Stay with River. I’ll check outside.”
“Wait!” she called. “What if he has a gun? What if—”
“Duke can handle himself,” Spenser said as the man disappeared into the night.
“The way Mel handled himself? The way Professor Bovedine—” She broke off, fought tears.
“Who’s Professor Bovedine?”
Desperate to gather her wits, River pushed away from Spenser and bolted for the bathroom. She craved a hot shower, but settled for the sink. She soaped up a washcloth and scrubbed her face, hands and arms. She could still feel the netting, those bugs. Still worried that the coughing bandit was contagious. Common cold? Bronchitis? Tuberculosis?
Scrub. Scrub.
She glanced up and saw Spenser standing on the threshold, fil ing the doorway with his big body. His chest was heaving. His eyes were bloodshot. He smelled of liquor. She remembered then. “Are you drunk?”
“I was. Apparently a rush of adrenaline is as sobering as a cold shower.”
“I’m sorry I scared you. I’m sorry I freaked. Between the bandit and the bugs—”
“You mean the road bandit from this morning?”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible, River. How would he know you were here unless he somehow followed us? And to what purpose? Aside from your camera and the clothes on your back, he stole everything—”
“Not everything.”
“What—”
“No one’s out there,” Duke called. “Except for a couple of concerned guests and employees. Roused a lot of people with that scream.”
Blushing, River fol owed Spenser back into the bedroom.
“Found the screen, though,” Duke said as he moved to the open window. “Damn monkeys.”
“You think a monkey pulled off that screen?” Spenser asked.
“Happened before. Once. Some are more curious than others. More bold.” River shook her head. “It was a man.”
“Twelve-foot drop outside this window, sweetheart.”
“He could’ve climbed up the side of the bungalow,” River said. “Or swung over from a tree branch.”
“Like a monkey?” Duke asked as he refitted the screen.
She bristled. “He stank.”
“Monkeys stink.”
“Do monkeys slather themselves with some sort of strong-smelling herbal salve?”
“I caught a whiff of that,” Spenser said to River. “Thought maybe you were sore from zip-lining.”
“I’m hunky-dory,” River snapped. “More than I can say for the bandit. He has an awful cough. An unmistakable cough,” she said, driving home the point that her intruder had indeed been the road bandit from this afternoon.
Duke raised a skeptical brow.
River grabbed her Nikon from the bed. “I took a picture.” She scrolled back one frame. “Damn.” The shot was distorted. A wash of light. An indistinguishable shadow. It proved nothing.
Spenser looked over her shoulder. “You said you were disoriented. Maybe…”
“I could swear.” River sank onto the edge of the mattress. Had she dreamed it? Imagined it?
“I’ll walk around the grounds,” Duke said. “Put the staff on alert as a precaution.” He eyed River and Spenser. “Want me to send over some coffee? Cola?”
Maybe he thought she was still high on coca tea. Or maybe he smelled the liquor on Spenser. Maybe they’d been drinking together. Had she been the topic of conversation? Had Spenser mentioned her
“quirks”? The run-in with the road bandits? How she’d gotten lost? Combined with the coca tea/zip-line incident and now this, Duke no doubt thought she was a nut.
“We’re fine. Thanks, Duke.” Spenser walked the man out, then locked the door. He turned and regarded River with an enigmatic look. “I’m staying.”
“I’m glad.”
“All night.”
