Into the Wild (10 page)

“What do they want?” she whispered to Mel.

“Everything.”

She watched in horror as he handed over his car keys. She hadn't anticipated being separated from
all
her belongings! The thought of being stranded in the middle of nowhere without her survival equipment pushed all of her panic buttons. “Wait!” she blurted. “Medicine! Insect repellent!”

Mel shot her a menacing look. She knew she sounded like a lunatic. Instead of pleading for their lives, she'd begged for bug spray. And oh, God, her phone was on the floor, her GPS in her sling pack and her road maps… “Please—”

“¡Silencio!”
bandit number two yelled, the lapsed into a hacking cough.

“What part of keep your mouth shut didn't you understand?” Mel muttered. “For Christ's sake woman, do you want to die?”

No,
she didn't want to die. Hence her pleas. She swallowed the urge to explain while bandit number one searched her coat pockets. Unimpressed with her gloves and a waterproof camera covering, he reached inside her coat and started patting her down.

Bile rose in her throat as his hands groped. Was he searching for something or just copping a feel?

Just then bandit number two yelled something from the Hummer. He sounded pleased, except for the coughing. Good Lord, was he contagious?

Bandit number one yelled something back, then barked at River. She didn't understand his order, but there was no mistaking his intention when he yanked her toward their bandit truck. At least he hadn't discovered the map hidden in her bra. For the time being, at least, her dad's secret was safe.

“We had a deal,” Mel shouted. “Hummer for the woman.” Catching himself, he switched to Spanish.

Apparently the deal was off. They were taking her. For what? Rape? Ransom? Petrified, River dug in her heels.

The next instant blurred. Mel morphed into some sort of ninja fighter and kicked serious bad-guy butt.
Swing, punch, swipe, kick.
He pulled a handgun as the bandits grappled for their weapons. “Run!” he shouted at River.

Was he crazy?

“Run, dammit! Hide!”

Sheer panic gave her the speed of an Olympian. River dashed for cover. Behind her she heard scuffling and gunshots.
Oh, God.

She ran fast and hard, into dense brush and trees. She jogged every day. She had stamina, strength. She could run as though her life depended on it. Which, oh, God, it
did.

More gunfire.

Mel.
Was he injured? Dead? She felt guilty for leaving
him. She should go back and…what? It would be better if she found help. She kept running. She cut left, then right.
Don't make it easy for them to follow,
she thought wildly.

More trees, more brush.

She tripped on something, fell hard to her hands and knees.

She listened past the pounding of her own heart, the rasp of her labored breathing. Silence.

No gunshots.

No voices.

No approaching footfalls.

Lungs burning, River rose to her shaky legs. She swiped her mud-and-guck-caked hands on her pants, mourning the loss of her liquid sanitizer—six twelve-ounce bottles of Purell.
Dammit.
She looked around, trying to get her bearings.

Her senses buzzed with a familiar panic, her precious control close to breaking.

GPS—
gone.
Detailed Ecuadorian road map—
history.

River Kane—
lost.

Just when she thought it couldn't get worse, the bleak, gray skies poured rain.

S
PENSER NAVIGATED
the rutted, muddy road, cursing the midmorning storm and contemplating the many ways a deceptively angelic spawn of Satan could die. Given the dangerous area, and River's reckless companion, he could think of several. One scenario involved Spenser himself wringing her pretty neck. He'd been nurturing his anger for an hour. When he caught up to her he'd…

His phone chirped. Maybe it was River. He glanced at the caller ID. Not recognizing the number, he traded pissed for professional. “Spenser McGraw.”

“I'm in deep shit, mate.”

Mel.

“Talk to me.”

“Road bandits,” the Aussie said in a tight voice. “Tried to take River.”

Spenser's blood ran cold.

“I told her to run. Killed one bastard. The other got away in my Hummer. I copped the bandit's wheels. Tried to follow. River needed her medication, but,
dammit,
I'm wounded.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough.”

“What about River?”

“Unharmed.” Mel groaned and swore a pained blue streak. “I'm dumping the body and the truck and going underground for medical attention.”

“Why underground?”

“Are you listening? I killed a man. I'm a foreigner in bloody South America.”

“Self-defense.”

“I have issues with the authorities. Not taking the chance.”

Spenser wasn't in the mood or mind-set to argue. Mel could take care of himself, but the naive germaphobe? The woman who wouldn't circle the block without her GPS? “Where's River?”

Mel told him the precise whereabouts of the showdown and the direction she'd taken when she'd run off. “Don't imagine she'll venture far. Skittish about the unknown.”

He'd noticed. For some reason, it chafed that Mel had noticed, too.

“Find her and take her home, mate. Locals pegged this one. Her dad's expedition is cursed.”

The C-word rippled through Spenser, slowly, miserably. He signed off with Mel and relived every
cursed
moment in the Llanganatis with Jo and Andy. He refused to give in to the guilt, the regret. He couldn't afford a pity party. He was on a rescue mission.

 

T
HE DOWNPOUR
had diminished to a misty drizzle by the time Spenser found her. Unfortunately, even though
Mel's coordinates had been precise, the heavy rain had made River difficult to track. Even with his extensive survival training. Two hours after Mel's initial call, Spenser spotted her, hunkered against a tree, her knees clutched to her chest.

Not wanting to spook her, he approached with care. “River, it's Spense.” She didn't look up, didn't speak. Her gaze was fixed on her muddy trekking boots. Was she in shock? Injured? Kneeling, he pushed back the hood of her rain jacket and studied her pale, damp face. “Are you hurt?”

“I didn't lose it,” she said in a soft choked voice “Lose what, hon?”

“Control. This time I didn't freak out. This time I stayed in one spot. Made it easier for someone to find me.” She finally met his gaze. “It worked.”

He wanted to ask what she meant by
this time,
but he was momentarily transfixed by a pair of glassy green eyes. Even though tears brimmed, she refused to let them fall. Her unique blend of strength and fragility fascinated him as surely as the Holy Grail.

“I would've found my way out, but the rain washed away my path. If I'd only had a map, but those bastards took
everything.
”

Spenser blinked at the explosive anger simmering below the surface.

“My medicine, my bug spray and disinfectants. My phone and GPS. I think I made them mad when I begged them to leave my things. Like they needed a flipping
road map of Ecuador? They
live
here. Bandits,” she clarified.

He wrapped his hands around hers, offering comfort and heat. Her cargo pants were soaked and, even though her slicker looked thermal, she was shivering. “Come on, hon. Let's get you out of here and dried off.”

She sleeved raindrops from her thick lashes. “What about Mel? We have to find Mel. He could be hurt or—”

“Mel's fine.” Or at least he would be. Maybe. “He called and told me where to find you.”

She scrunched her brow. “I thought the bandits took his phone.”

“Guess he took it back.” Probably from the one he killed.

“Why didn't
he
find me?”

“He said he's searching for your medicine.” Another half truth. He worried she'd fall apart if she knew he'd been shot. “What kind of medicine, River?”

“Primaquine. You had him wrong, you know. Mel's a nice guy.”

He didn't know about nice but Mel had elephant-size balls and a strong sense of chivalry—at least where River was concerned.

“If anything happens to him—”

“Mel can take care of himself.”

“But they had guns. He was outnumbered and—”

“Stop.” Spenser hated that she was torturing herself and despised the jealously she stoked with talk of Mel.
It was petty and conjured memories of another rivalry.

He couldn't go there. Wouldn't go there.

“I'm a wedding photographer, not a photojournalist. I don't do war zones. I don't do…this. I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for…Henry. Selfish bastard. This is his fault. When I find him…” She choked back a sob.

“He better be alive, dammit.”

Chest tight, Spenser scooped River into his arms. “Time to fly home, angel.”

“No! Have to press on,” she said in a shaky but deter mined voice. “Need closure. Need direction. Need—”

“Shh.” He backtracked through the thicket, conscious of her petite form and vulnerability, her uncontrollable shivering. He cursed the bandits who would've harmed her and mentally praised the man who'd saved her skin. Looks like he owed Mel Sutherland.

“We should call the police,” River croaked.

“Mel's handling that end.” Since he owed the man, Spenser wouldn't complicate Mel's life by alerting the authorities. Hell, between internal corruption and a significant increase in violent crimes, the Ecuadorean police had their hands full. Chances of catching a rural bandit and retrieving an American tourist's luggage were slim to none. As soon as she was calm, he'd explain the situation. Until then he was handling this fragile pack age with kid gloves.

Spenser placed River in the passenger seat.

“I'm filthy,” she said.

At first he thought she was worried about getting
his leather seats dirty, then realized she was gawking helplessly at her muddy hands.

“Mold, bacteria, decaying animal parts. Who knows what was in that jungle slime? It's even under my fingernails.”

He remembered her penchant for obsessively sanitizing her hands. She wasn't merely concerned about cleanliness, she was paranoid about germs.

“I hope those bandits choke on my Purell, not that they'd drink it,” she rambled on, “but you know what I mean.”

Again, he was surprised by the fire in her voice, albeit a controlled fire. He almost wished she'd burst into tears. Tears he could handle, but this volatile repression…he was at a loss. He nabbed his water bottle, soaked his kerchief and pressed it into her hands. “I have soap in my gear. Hang on.” He hustled around and opened the hatchback, located his toiletries and hurried back.

She looked at him as though he'd handed her a bar of gold. “Thank you,” she whispered, then started scrubbing.

Meanwhile, Spenser unzipped her jacket to make certain she was fairly dry from the waist up, raising a brow at the plastic-wrapped camera hidden beneath. “Looks like they didn't steal
everything.
”

“Only my means of survival,” she grumbled, as he tugged off her sodden boots and thick socks. “And knowledge men would kill for.”

Spenser slowly straightened and braced his hands on the jeep's roof.

“They didn't understand English. Maybe they won't be able to read it,” she said, still scrubbing. “I have to get it back. I have to tell Mel where to look.” She looked at him wild-eyed. “Give me your phone.”

He didn't budge. “What knowledge, River? What does Mel have to get back?” Was this about her father? His expedition? The treasure?

She focused on him, blinked, and suddenly she was less shocky. She passed him back the kerchief and soap. They were back to square one—her not wanting his help. “Thank you for finding me, but…I can't do this with you. I need…someone else. Someone I can trust.”

She trusted Mel, but not him? That was one hell of an insult. Then he remembered. “For what it's worth, that phone conversation you eavesdropped on? My partner and I have been at odds with the studio on the next episode of
Into the Wild.
That phone call was a power play. I have other things to save aside from you.”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm just—” Screwed. She was under his skin, in his blood. Just like, Jo. Only she wasn't anything
like
Jo. “Shit.”

“I wasn't eavesdropping. I came over to talk to you and overheard…I didn't listen to the whole conversation.” She frowned. “What do you mean a power play?”

“The show's producer wanted to send me to the end of the world. Ushuaia,” he clarified. “To explore Argentinean cuisine on the Southern Fuegian Railway. Like
viewers need another Anthony Bourdain or Michael Palin.”

River blinked.

“Never mind. Bottom line—Nate wanted me to be somewhere and I'd promised to be with you. I had to give him something.”

“Something big, you mean. Like the Lost Treasure of Llanganatis. Like I said,” she snapped. “You sold me out.”

“Do you see Gordo?”

“Who?”

“Gordo Fish. My cameraman.”

She bit her lower lip, glanced over his shoulder. “He could be hiding in the brush.”

“He's not.” The drizzle had subsided, the sky was beginning to clear, but Spenser's mood grew darker by the second. Usually women showered him with flattery and sexy come-ons. This one blasted him with insults and shoved him to arm's length. “Do you know how worried I was when I discovered you'd checked out of your room? In the midst of my packing, my sister called. She didn't want you to feel pestered so she pestered me. Had to lie my freaking ass off.
River's fine. I'm fine. Everything's good.
Then I find out you've taken off with Mel Sutherland, a man with a reputation for being a hound and a hothead.”

“And you're a serene monk?”

“I don't like how it makes me feel when I think you're in danger, angel.”

“I don't like how it makes me feel when you look at me like that,” she whispered.

He wanted to pull her into his arms, to cherish and protect. More than anything, he wanted to kiss her. Deeply. Intensely. “Then stop being so damned…intriguing.”

“You think I'm intriguing?”

“Like an ancient puzzle. I could work you for a life time and never grow bored.”

He'd shocked her. Hell, he'd shocked himself. Knowing he was head over heels and admitting it out loud were two different animals. Just now he felt like a jackass.

“David thought I was boring.”

“David's an idiot.”

“And controlling. Not David. Me. He accused me of being controlling. On our wedding day. At the altar.”

“Then he's a bastard.”

“I'm not controlling. I just need order. I need—”

He kissed her—deeply, intensely—satisfying his own needs. At first she surrendered—pliant, willing—and he swore he tasted heaven. But then he felt her palms on his chest—resistance. His senses crashed back. She was vulnerable and he'd taken advantage. He eased off. “Bad timing.”

She averted her gaze, licked her kiss-swollen lips. “I don't trust this.”

“You mean you don't trust me.”

“I'm in love with David.”

“So you keep saying.” Spenser pushed out of the
jeep, breathed deep, seeking serenity or at least one goddamned clear thought.

God knew what thoughts raced through River's head. After a moment, she cast him an enigmatic look. “Mel said you don't have the balls to go back into the Llanganatis.”

The Aussie had taunted Spenser with even more, things he wished River hadn't overheard. Things he loathed talking about. “Unfortunately, I have the balls to do whatever you ask of me, angel.”

“Do you use lines like these on every woman you're trying to…impress?”

“No. I usually fall back on clichés. Those don't come with you.”

She hugged her middle and shivered. “How far are we from Triunfo?”

His mind shifted from sex to another kind of thrill altogether. Anyone following Brunner's map in search of the lost Incan gold started their quest in Triunfo, a small village high in the Andes. “Was it Mel's idea to take Brunner's route?”

“Who's Brunner?”

Spenser raised a brow. “Why Triunfo?”

“How far?”

Christ, she was evasive. “Two hours. Roughly.”

She scanned the area. “Which direction?”

The anxious hitch in her voice had him digging in his backpack. “Here.” He thumbed in coordinates, then placed his personal GPS unit in her hands.

“This is a lot fancier than mine,” she said, staring down at the backlit screen.

He heard awe and relief in her voice. More than ever he was curious about her obsession with maps. He was curious about a lot of things.

“Henry mentioned Triunfo in his journal.” She met his gaze. “That's what the bandits stole. Part of what they stole. I need it back.”

She'd been in possession of the professor's journal? Spenser had watched the old guy jot notes in a worn leather book when they were talking about the Seven Cities of Cibola. Had he recorded notes about Atahualpa's ransom? Penciled his route? His theories and conclusions?