Running Wild

by Susan Andersen

  “That works for me.” She headed for the shelter, but then stopped halfway there. “But first I’ve gotta pee.”

  He offered her the lantern. “Take this and wait here a sec. I’ll grab you some TP from my pack.” He unzipped the entry flap and tossed it back. The tent’s opening was larger than she expected and he bent in half but entered it easily enough.

  He was back in seconds and tossed her a plastic bag with a flattened roll of toilet paper inside. “You want me to go with you?”

  She was half-tempted, but if she could handle wildlife when she was a little girl, she could darn well handle it now. “No, I’m good. I’ll just be a minute.”

  She was back not a whole lot longer than she’d predicted and found him still standing next to the tent.

  “Let me take that.” He reached for the battery-operated lantern. “I put your purse thing in the vestibule.” He indicated the fly that stretched out beyond the boundaries of the tent, then made an after-you gesture. “Pick whichever side you’re most comfortable on. I only have the one mat and sleeping bag, but it’s so warm I doubt we’ll need to cover up so you can sleep on whichever you think will work best. There’s a door and vestibule on both sides so we won’t have to crawl over each other.”

  “Fancy.” She bent to peer inside and eased out a small breath of relief when she saw it looked reasonably roomy. She let herself in the way she’d seen him do. Then, turning, she saw he’d bent over to peer in at her.

  “Which side appeals to you?” he asked.

  “I like sleeping on the left.” She was also more drawn to the puffy sleeping bag than to the not particularly comfortable-looking thin mat.

  “Left, it is,” he said. “If you want to do up the zipper on the door I’ll go around and let myself in on the other side.”

  She did so and looked around as she unhooked her bra and removed it through the sleeve of her top. This wouldn’t be so bad. It wasn’t nearly as cramped as she’d expected.

  Which made her wonder what kind of conditions her folks had to contend with on Munoz’s coca farm. They were accustomed to living rough, but what if the cartel goons had just tossed them in a closet or set them to working the fields for twelve hours a day? They were in their sixties, for pity’s sake, and likely weren’t as strong as they once were.

  The zzzip of the zipper unfastening on the other side of the tent interrupted her thoughts and she turned to watch Finn climb inside. He was around the six-foot mark and his shoulders were wide. And suddenly what she’d thought was a generous hunk of space shrank.

  She eased off her sandals and set them aside, then flopped down atop the sleeping bag. “Good night,” she murmured and turned away from him onto her side. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep but she had an awful feeling the much-needed slumber might be elusive. Things rustled as he did whatever he did to get ready for bed and a hint of his scent wafted in her direction.

  As she breathed in the bouquet of some no-nonsense guy-type soap, laundry detergent and the faint underlying aroma of man, she was surprised to find it curiously comforting. And perhaps that was why, between one breath and the next, she did exactly what she feared she’d not be able to do.

  She tumbled headfirst into the deep, dark abyss of oblivion.

  * * *

  FINN AWOKE FROM a great dream of having a woman sprawled over him to discover that a woman was, in fact, half-sprawled over him.

  For a second, he didn’t know where the hell he was. Cracking an eye open, he tipped his chin to look. Magdalene was in his arms and memories of yesterday started filtering back into his brain. Unless those were part of an elaborate dream as well.

  She slept on her side, partially plastered against him. Her head rested on his chest as if he were her personal pillow, her breasts nestled against a section of his rib cage and one shapely arm draped across him diagonally. Her right leg was slung across his thighs and bent at the knee, her kneecap dangerously close to brushing his morning wood.

  But if she’d been drawn to him in her sleep, clearly he’d been equally magnetized. Hard to say otherwise, considering his own arm wrapped around her in return. More damning, that hand cupped the lower curve of her breast. He gazed at it blurrily through slitted eyes.

  Okay, this didn’t appear to be a dream. A soft guffaw escaped him. No shit, Sherlock. If he were dreaming she’d be buck-naked and crawling all over him, performing epic pornographic acts.

  He shifted the hand cupping her breast and stroked his thumb down the warm curve to her nipple. The weight in his palm jiggled slightly and her nipple hardened beneath the barely there layer of the thin T-shirt separating their bare skin.

  Nope. Definitely not a dream.

  Yet still he floated in a half world, caught between sleep and full consciousness as he lazily gave the nipple caught between his thumb and the side of his index finger a gentle tug. And oh, yeah. She liked that. Watching with sleepy satisfaction, he repeated the process, loving the drowsy, appreciative sounds she made in her sleep and the way she rocked her hips with restive sexuality against the side of his.

  Then she suddenly went still—and he was abruptly wide-awake with the knowledge that she likely was as well.

  Not to mention the realization that he’d been caught feeling her up with all the finesse of a fourteen-year-old achieving second base for the very first time. His hand on her breast went slack and he slid it surreptitiously to her lower rib cage. Then had to swallow a snort.

  Because, really? Like if you’re stealthy enough she won’t notice you’ve been getting all handsy with her tit?

  Without raising her head from his chest, she slowly tilted it back to look up at him. Her sleepy blue eyes were still heavy lidded. “Well, this is awkward,” she murmured. But, yawning, she didn’t look the least bit discomfited as she pushed back to sit on the rumpled sleeping bag next to his mat. “Sorry about that. Nancy always said I was a bed hog.” She yawned again, long and luxuriously, stretching with feline voluptuousness.

  He had to drag his gaze away and clear his throat. “Yeah, and I apologize for copping a feel. My only defense is I was mostly asleep.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, that and I’m a man.”

  She made a rude sound. “And therefore can’t resist latching on to any boob within touching range?”

  He winced, because put like that, it sounded even lamer than he’d thought. Still, he nodded gamely, pushed up onto his elbow and raked his hair back with the fingers of his free hand. “Something like that. I plead the guy gene.” He reached for the Levi’s he’d kicked off after she’d fallen asleep last night and pulled them on, lifting his hips to tug them up over his butt. Lowering the latter back onto the mat, he zipped up.

  Then he rolled to his feet and extended a hand down to assist her up. He ignored the jolt that shot through his system when she slapped her palm in his.

  “Look,” he said as he hauled her to her feet, “what’s done is done, so there’s not a helluva lot I can do about it now. But I can heat up some water so we can have a cup of coffee and wash up.” Hey, he had sisters. He knew the store chicks put in things like hot water and makeup and hair doodads. Plus, who didn’t appreciate a cup of coffee after a night camping out?

  As if to prove his point, Mags’s face lit up. “That would be so great.” Then she narrowed her eyes at him. “But don’t think I don’t know when I’m being managed.”

  Busted. But he merely shrugged once again. “Just using knowledge gained from my sisters. Especially Hannah. She likes camping, but the girl goes nowhere without her makeup and the promise of water that someone else heats.”

  “I think I’d like her.”

  “I think she’d worship you. I thought she hauled a lot of that stuff around, but your makeup kit leaves hers in the dust. If she ever saw it I’m pretty sure she’d bow before you and say ‘I’m not worthy.’” He gave her a crooked smile and retrieved his backpacking stove from his pack, along with the set of nesting pots. After pouring water from the water bot
tle into the largest container, he connected a bottle of white gas to the single burner and ignited it with his Bic. He balanced the pan atop the burner, made sure everything was steady, then adjusted the heat.

  “That’ll take a minute or two,” he said and turned to see her fidgeting. Refraining from saying any of the smart-ass remarks that popped to mind, he tossed her the plastic bag containing the toilet paper.

  She snatched it out of the air and trotted off for the jungle-type woods, sending a flock of birds winging toward the trees. He counted several other types of birds while she was gone, some colorful, others surprisingly dull for South America. All of them twittered, chirped or cried raucously overhead as they flew across the clearing or hopped from branch to branch along the forest line.

  One landed not far from him and pecked up a line of army ants that Finn was happy to see appeared to be a one-off thing. He’d seen a Discovery Channel show once that had shown hundreds of those ants boiling over a carcass and picking it clean. The ten or so the bird had just gobbled up were as many as he cared to see up close.

  It occurred to him while Mags was in the woods that he needed to apologize to her about a couple of the careless things he’d said. Luckily, before he could make himself all tense over the prospect, the water came to a boil and he got out the coffee fixings. Magdalene demonstrated impeccable timing when she strolled back into camp just as he finished making them each a cup. He handed her his one and only mug, keeping the cardboard cup for himself.

  She took a sip and moaned softly. “Oh, my Lord, that’s good.” She looked around. “Where did you dispose of the grounds?”

  “This is instant, there are no grounds.”

  She blinked at him. “No way this is instant coffee.”

  “Hey, I’m from Seattle, darlin’, and you gotta know what that means. We’re famous for our excellent coffee, both real and instant.”

  She grinned at him over the rim of her mug, then suddenly snapped her fingers. “Hang on,” she said and crossed to the tent to pull her big purse out of the vestibule. Squatting in front of it, she carefully set her coffee cup on the ground, then pawed through her bag. A moment later she made a sound of discovery.

  “Something to go with the coffee. Here, catch.” She tossed him an energy bar. “It’s no B. T. McElrath Salty Dog bar, but at least it has a little chocolate on it.” Lowering her butt to sit cross-legged on the ground, she opened her own bar, then picked up her mug again.

  They ate in silence for a while. Finn killed off his energy bar, which he’d found surprisingly tasty. It just went to show that if you were hungry enough, even girlie food tasted good. He crumpled the wrapper and tucked it in his pocket. He’d dispose of it when he got up. Right now, he planned to just sit here and enjoy a few minutes of peace while he drank the rest of his coffee.

  Eventually he drained the last sip. Propping his wrists on his kneecaps, he stared at the empty cardboard cup he held in the gap between his up-drawn knees as he turned it around and around. Then he blew out a breath and looked across the short distance separating him and Magdalene.

  She’d removed that fancier-than-average rubber band binding the end of her damp braid and was running her fingers through her hair to separate the strands. And, holy shit. She suddenly had crazy wavy hair that he couldn’t help but stare at.

  Who knew blond hair could contain so many different shades?

  She seemed more at peace this morning. Yet even seemingly relaxed she projected the same sense of energy he’d noted yesterday.

  And, Jesus, had it truly only been less than twenty-four hours since both their lives had been flipped sideways? With everything that had happened, it seemed a lot longer since he’d first clapped eyes on her.

  On top of the emotional upheaval of having drug-cartel minions on their ass, every time he looked at Magdalene it was as if he saw a different woman. She went from one appearance to the next, and it was like hanging out with a damn chameleon. Her coloring remained the same, yet somehow she managed to project the notion of different women of varying ages, ideologies and sexual natures.

  Take last night, when he’d watched her with Frederico the Cretin. She’d come across as someone in her early twenties, which he was pretty certain she wasn’t. And even with her hair covered and minimal makeup she’d seemed more sexual than anything she’d projected up to that point. She’d been friendly and admiring, and yet at the same time somehow slightly aloof, and he’d watched it draw the asshole into her orbit as if she were a one-woman magnetar.

  But thinking about the situation that had sent them on the run again placed him squarely back on the hot seat. “Hey, Mags?” he said. She looked over at him and he eased out the breath he’d inhaled. “Look, I just wanna say I’m sorry about my trash talk last night.”

  Her apparent relaxation dissipated and her eyes shuttered. “Yes, so you said last night,” she agreed in an nonencouraging tone.

  He got that he should respect her obvious unwillingness to discuss it, but he really needed to get this off his chest, so he plowed on. “I know I apologized then, but I want to say it again. You were right, it was an asshole thing to say and forget what I said about the guy gene—I can only plead a long stressful day and not enough sleep. But my mom and sisters and girl cousins and aunts and grannies would be ashamed of me. And on my own behalf I sincerely am sorry.”

  “Fine,” she said flatly. “You’re forgiven.”

  “That sounded a little less than sincere, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  He thought about the way he’d blown her off when she’d told him about her folks shipping her off to boarding school when she was thirteen. The truth was, since then he’d tried to imagine what it would have been like being separated from his family when he was that age.

  And discovered he simply couldn’t. There had been times, especially during puberty, when he’d dreamed of vacations away from all his brothers and sisters and the assorted extended-family members who were constantly in and out of their house. But it was his brother Dev who’d had the real problem with the lack of privacy in their family; Finn had merely wanted an occasional break. The thought of being separated from his family entirely was a whole nother kettle of cod. Her only family was at the mercy of a drug cartel. Not that she’d exhibited so much as an inkling she wanted to talk about that. Still, it had to be painful and stressful squared for her. The drug trade wasn’t exactly an industry known for its compassion.

  Mags was clearly not thrilled with him bringing up last night’s snafu, however, so he’d wait for another time to apologize for his insensitive crack about her being lucky to be sent away from everything she’d known. For now, he rose to his feet.

  And got right down to business. “What do you say we break camp and pack up? Then we need to spread out the map and see what we can come up with as a decent alternative to the Pan-Am route.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “JUAN CARLOS!” Victor Munoz tucked the phone receiver between his ear and his hunched shoulder. Leaning back in his chair, he swung his feet atop his desk and crossed his ankles to admire the soft gleam of leather in his hand-made Italian sandals. “It is good to hear your voice, cousin. How have our guests settled in during the adjustment period since I sent them to you?”

  Silence throbbed over the line for a moment. Then his cousin said, “This is the reason I called, Victor. So I need to know up front—do you want me to say merely what you want to hear? Or do you want the truth?”

  That didn’t sound promising. His smile disappearing, Victor steadied the phone with his thumb and two fingers, dropped his feet to the floor and sat erect. He reached for the humidor. “The truth.” He didn’t add “of course,” because this was Juan Carlos he was talking to. And his cousin knew him well—he didn’t always react well to the truth.

  “The truth is, the Delucas are a pain in my ass. Maybe not the senor so much. But the senora? Ay-yi-yi! She is showing great signs of becoming the carbuncle on my butt.”

  Vic
tor rolled his eyes at the ceiling but didn’t lose his temper. “Believe me, I know precisely what that feels like. I thought the farm would be the best place for her, though. I figured it would be the one place she couldn’t make trouble.”

  Juan Carlos snorted.

  “What the fuck is she doing?”

  His cousin’s sigh filtered down the line. “The question is more what isn’t she. She’s talking to people about their working conditions or the compensation they should be getting for a hard day’s work. She’s talking to them about medical coverage. I don’t even know what that is, but the fact that they don’t have it is sure as hell getting everybody all hot under the collar. Worse, it’s causing insubordinate mutterings.”

  “Sh-h-hit.” Victor selected a cigar, clipped the end and fished his lighter out of his pants pocket. He took a moment to light up, then said flatly, “That woman could only benefit from a bullet in the back of her head.”

  “My thought exactly. If Tia Augustina didn’t scare the crap out of me, I’d dump the pair of them in the jungle and let nature do its job.”

  “I have a line on the Delucas’ daughter, who’s down here to visit them. Unfortunately the story we strong-armed the neighbors into telling anyone inquiring about them sent her away, but I’ve got my men out looking for her. Once we find her we’ll have the leverage we need to keep the parents in line.”

  “Let’s hope to hell that happens soon,” Juan Carlos said sourly. “Or I fear we’ll have a revolt on our hands.”

  * * *

  THE RENTAL CAR started making suspicious noises around hour four of their drive south. When Finn gave it gas, it leaped forward for a second, then started cutting out, accompanied by an almost cartoonish coughing and wheezing. Neither of them was laughing, however, when he finally eased the vehicle to a stop at the side of the road. Mags had been taking deep, even breaths to keep from grumbling aloud since the first sign of trouble. But why did cars always have to choose the middle of freaking nowhere to stage their breakdowns?