Into the Wild (11 page)

Of course he had.

Spenser's senses buzzed with the familiar anticipation of unraveling an ancient mystery. He had a hundred burning questions. He also had concerns. “Take off your pants.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“They're soaked, River. Take them off or I'll do it for you.” He turned away, resisting the temptation and allowing her privacy. “Catch pneumonia and you won't be going anywhere. You can wear something of mine for now.”

Mind racing, he returned to the hatchback and rooted through his gear. He counted to twenty, giving her ample time to shuck her pants, while bracing himself for the sight of a half-naked angel.

He should've counted to fifty. He wasn't amply
prepared for the sight of her bare legs. The fragile angel had killer legs, runner's legs. Toned, shapely. He imagined kissing his way up those milky smooth thighs. Imagined parting her legs and…

He jerked his gaze to her feet.
Get a grip, McGraw.
“You'll swim in these,” he said, thrusting a pair of his sweatpants and socks into her lap, “but they're dry.”

Instead of standing there, ogling while she wiggled into his pants, he rounded to the driver's side and climbed in.

“Thank you,” she said in a small voice.

“You're welcome.” He harnessed X-rated thoughts while she shimmied into his pants. Somehow, someway he had to smother this infatuation with River Kane—otherwise it could be the death of her. Or him. Or both.

Fuck.

“I'm sorry I eavesdropped,” she said. “Sorry I assumed—”

“Forget it.” He keyed the ignition and hit the road.

“If we're going to do this, we should keep things professional.”

“Agreed.”

“No kissing.”

“Got it.”

She fell silent then cleared her throat. “About Mel—”

“What about him?”

“We should tell him where we're going. In case he finds my stuff.”

“Mel won't find your stuff. Consider your stuff lost. How much do you remember of your dad's journal?”

“Bits. Pieces. I reviewed it a lot over the last two days. What do you mean, Mel won't find my stuff?”

Too aggravated to sugarcoat it, Spenser opted for the truth. “Mel was shot. He's seeking medical help.”

“Oh,
no.
”

“He'll be fine.”

“But what if—”

“What-ifs are a waste of time and energy.” He'd whatiffed his expedition with Jo and Andy to death.

“But what if—”

“Fine.” He redialed the last incoming call, frowned when it rolled over to voice mail. “It's Spenser,” he said. “Call me.” He glanced at River, who'd turned an even whiter shade of pale. “Don't think the worst. He's probably with a doctor.”

“Maybe he couldn't make it to a doctor. I can't believe this. I endangered Mel, my father.” Still clutching the GPS, she drew her knees to her chest, dropped her forehead and shuddered.

“River—”

“Just take me to Triunfo.”

As much as he wanted to pick her brain about the contents of the journal, River's battered body and spirit gave him pause.

Triunfo would have to wait.

Diablo Jungle Lodge
Province of Cotopaxi
Altitude 9,300 feet

A
SHOWER HAD NEVER
felt so good.

Face raised to the low-pressure drizzle, River allowed the water to wash away the grime, to warm her chilled bones. She didn't even care that she didn't have her flip-flops to protect her bare feet. The shower stall, though small, was pristine. Everything about her private thatch-roofed bungalow, though rustic, was pristine. Yes, it was in the middle of the jungle. Yes, it was elevated on wooden stilts, reminding her of a treehouse, but it was equipped with anti-insect window screens, electricity and hot water. The queen-size bed sported fresh linens and mosquito netting. As paranoid as she could be, she doubted she was susceptible to athlete's foot, bedbugs or malaria at the Diablo Jungle Lodge. According to the pamphlet on the simple plank desk, this was an all-inclusive, four-star resort.

When Spenser had pulled up to the main building of the sprawling eco-resort, she'd balked. According to his GPS unit they were only forty minutes from Triunfo.
She didn't want to waste another day, plus she couldn't afford this place.

“You can't afford anything,” he'd reminded her.

Rude, but true.

For the first time, she'd focused less on her stolen supplies and more on her lost funds. No cash. No credit or debit cards. She was at Spenser's mercy. At least until she arranged for her bank to wire her some money.

She thought about the terrible men who'd robbed her at gunpoint, the criminals who'd tried to rob Mel of his life. Each moment played out in vivid color, just as if she'd snapped individual frames with her Nikon.

Fighting tears, River shampooed her hair twice, then used the complimentary conditioner. She soaped her body, rinsed, then soaped up again. “You're being ridiculous,” she told herself. “You can't wash away memories.”

The image of Mel fighting those bandits, the sounds of gunfire, riddled her with guilt. If she hadn't enlisted the Aussie guide, he'd still be in Baños swilling rum with his pal Gerry. Instead, he was gunshot, having narrowly escaped death.

Because it was easier than accepting full responsibility, she blamed Henry Kane and his stinking obsession with Atahualpa's ransom. Maybe there was something to that curse. First Professor Bovedine. Now Mel Sutherland. She couldn't help connecting the two incidents, even though it wasn't logical.
Random violence,
she told herself.
Different countries.
Plus, Spenser said Mel would be all right. Why think the worst?

Because it was how she'd been raised.

“Your delicate constitution makes you a lightning rod for disaster, River.”

Or so she'd been told—again and again…

River turned off the water and nabbed a thick towel. “Pull it together,” she told herself. Not that she'd fallen apart. Not completely. Not like in Mexico. Still, Spenser had seen a glimpse of her delicate side. The side she'd worked hard to overcome. He'd been so kind…until she'd pissed him off.

Seconds later, he'd flustered her by looking at her like…like a man besotted. He'd likened her to an ancient puzzle.
“I could work you for a lifetime and never grow bored.”
Who said stuff like that? Not any man she'd ever dated. Certainly not David, although he had bought her a couple of mushy Hallmark cards. But those were someone else's words, not his.

Worse though, David had never kissed her like…a man besotted. Spenser's lips transported her to another dimension. His tongue incited new sensations, unleashed unknown desires. His intoxicating kisses made her ache for things she'd only read about in an erotica novel she'd received at her bachelorette party. No doubt Spenser was just as skilled in the bedroom (and various other locations) as the book's fictional hero.

Spenser
oozed
sex. He also oozed a fair amount of bull. He'd gazed into her eyes and intimated a lifetime. She doubted he was capable of much beyond a one-night stand.

Spenser McGraw. International treasure hunter and hunky star of
Into the Wild.

He was the kind of man women flocked to. The kind of guy who had groupies.

Was he intrigued with River because she wasn't impressed with his celebrity status? Or, in spite of his vehement protest, was he using her as a means of landing the story of a lifetime? It had to be one or the other. Maybe it was both. Or maybe he had a different motive altogether. It didn't matter. Bottom line: He didn't want her for her. He didn't even know her. They'd been acquainted for what, three days? She didn't believe in love at first sight. Didn't trust spontaneous lust. Maybe if she called his bluff… What would
he
do if
she
intimated she'd fallen madly, deeply in love?

Damn him for screwing with her mind.

River towel-dried her hair then slathered her body with herbal lotion. She nurtured her frustration with Spenser and the feelings he invoked because it was better than obsessing on Mel's fate. She prayed Spenser was right and that he'd made it to a doctor. She prayed he was healing. Being responsible for a man's death was beyond her coping abilities, and her coping abilities were damned impressive.

Head throbbing, chest tight, River shrugged into the complimentary bathrobe. The hem dragged the floor. The sleeves were too long and the sash almost wrapped around her waist twice. She hated that it made her feel small, adding to her fragile mood, but anything was better than slipping back into Spenser's sweats. There'd
been something uncomfortably intimate about wearing his clothes. Uncomfortable, because she had no business having intimate feelings for another man when she was in love with David.

David who didn't have the balls to stick around and work out their problems.

Unlike Spenser, who had the balls to do anything she asked of him (so he claimed), including taking her to a place where something bad had happened, something that had left him
crippled with guilt.
Thinking back, Mel's words had been somewhat ominous. More than ever she pondered the wisdom of enlisting Spenser as her guide. Was he somehow incompetent? What did she really know about the man?

About as much as he knows about you.

A knock startled River out of her musings. Pulling the sash tight, she checked to make sure the amulet and treasure map were still hidden where she'd stashed them, then moved to the door. She expected Spenser. Instead, an attractive middle-aged woman stood on the bungalow's private terrace bearing gifts.

“Spenser purchased these in the gift shop and asked if someone could deliver them to your room,” she said. “We're short-staffed so as soon as I was able I brought them over myself.”

River stared. Spenser had bought her clothes?

The woman, who sounded and looked American, glided in like she owned the place. “Something to wear to dinner,” she said, flaunting a silky purple dress. “And something to relax in.” Striped drawstring pants and a
green long-sleeved tee. “He was right,” she said as she hung the clothes in the closet. “You are petite. But I think these will fit. If not,” she turned and smiled, “you can return them.”

“I…thank you.” River's cheeks burned. “I don't have any money. For a tip, I mean. I'm so embarrassed.”

“Don't be. I wouldn't take a tip if you offered. Lana Campbell,” she said, offering her hand in greeting. “My husband, Duke, and I own this place.”

“I'm doubly embarrassed.”

“Spenser's an old and good friend.”

“Mortified, then.”

Lana's smile never faltered. “I'm just glad he's put the past behind him. Can I get you anything else? A snack to hold you over until dinner? No telling when Spense will be back from Ambato.”

He'd escorted her to the bungalow, told her to shower and catch a nap. Said he'd be back in a while. He hadn't said anything about Ambato, wherever that was. And what did Lana mean about Spenser's
past?
Was her observation tied to Mel's taunts?

River's head spun. “Thank you but I'm not hungry. I'm…” She massaged her throbbing temples, her tight chest. “What's the elevation here?”

Lana eyed River and frowned. “Hell's bells. Altitude sickness? Why didn't Spense just say so? I'll be back in ten minutes with coca tea. Ah-ah,” she said, cutting River off. “I insist. It will help.”

River wanted to say that she wasn't as frail as she looked. But this instant, that probably wasn't true. She
felt physically and emotionally raw for a dozen different reasons. She needed to recover before Spenser returned. He'd want to talk about the journey ahead. Which meant she needed to decide how much to tell him. The bandits had robbed her of the journal, but not of her means of locating her dad. They had the cryptic written clues and observations, but she had the map. Or at least a portion of it. Still, she had to be careful. Had to think smart. If coca tea would relieve at least some of what ailed her, then she wasn't about to turn it down. She ached to ask about antimalarial tablets, but didn't figure that was something the eco-lodge stocked in their gift shop.

“Are you sure I can't bring you some food?” Lana asked as she backed over the threshold.

“I'm sure,” River said, forcing a smile. “But I'd kill for some insect repellent.”

Hotel Coronado
Ambato, Ecuador
Altitude 8,455 feet

“I
SHOULD SQUASH YOU
like the bug you are.”

Gator, who'd been slumped in a cushioned chair, recovering from an unexpected tussle with a crazy-ass Australian, stiffened.

The Conquistador had been in his own world for the last fifteen minutes, carefully skimming every page of the worn journal. Suddenly, he was across the room and yanking Gator to his feet.

Bam!

Gator flew backward from the force of the other man's blow. His skull cracked against the marble floor. “Shit!” Blood gushed from his throbbing nose. “Fuck!” Nauseous, he pushed into a sitting position, loosened the bandanna around his neck and stemmed the bleeding. “What the hell?”
Cough. Hack.

“The map's missing.”

“What?”

“The second half of the map.” His employer waved the open journal in front of Gator's face, but all he saw
was stars. “She ripped it out,” he growled. “Did you search her?”

“No, but, Pablo did.” Gator swallowed a wave of bile. “Or at least he started to.” He'd stopped when Gator found the journal and shouted, “Mission accomplished.” Gator had ordered Pablo to the truck. It should have been a clean getaway, but the stupid prick had tried to take blondie, and the Australian had gone ballistic.

“I gave you specific orders.”

“I followed them.”

“But you didn't get the map.”

Gator burned with anger and frustration. The roadside robbery had been a goatfuck, but at least he'd raced away with the goods.

So he'd thought.

He'd searched River's camera bag and purse while Pablo had detained her and Sutherland. He'd found the journal, recognized the writing—same as on the partial map he'd stolen from Bovedine. He'd seen notations and drawings. He'd been so certain and he'd been
right,
except…Blondie had torn out a vital page. Not his fault, but by God he was suffering the consequence.

“If that map's not in my hands by tomorrow, you,” The Conquistador growled, “are dead meat.”

“I don't know where she is.”

“I'll find out.” The man had endless sources and deep pockets, yet nobody knew anything about him.
More ghost than conquistador,
Gator thought as the crazy bastard placed a call.

Tired of addressing his employer by his pretentious
alias (
The
Conquistador? Why not just Conquistador? Or—if he insisted on formality—Mr. Somebody or Another?),
the
Gator decided to think of his outlaw boss as Con. He wouldn't say it out loud—with his luck it would earn him a thrashing—but he'd think it.

Nose throbbing, Gator pushed to his feet and headed for the ice bucket. While he'd been doing the dirty work, Con had flown ahead and retreated to this posh suite. Gator noted bottles of quality booze, a box of cigars, a laptop computer and a table strewn with charts and maps. He'd seen those maps when he'd first come in, recognized the names scripted in the headers. Valverde, Guzmán, Spruce and Blake. The adventurers Con had mentioned before. Apparently they'd all charted maps or guides. There was another map by someone named Brunner. Con had been drinking whiskey and comparing those maps with the partial map Gator had stolen from Professor Bovedine.

If anyone could find that treasure, Gator thought, it was the mysterious, devious, intensely focused man who'd hired him. By his own bragging, Con had been studying the legend and region for years. He was determined.
Obsessed.

Again, that partial map, Kane's map, caught Gator's bleary eyes. No doubt about it. It had been ripped from the journal that was now—thanks to him—in Con's possession. All his employer had to do was crack Kane's code. All Gator had to do was get the
other
half of the map—the half on blondie's person—and he'd,
they'd,
have the means to locate a king's ransom.

“I should have Miss Kane's location within the hour,” Con said as he snapped shut his cell and poured himself another drink.

Gator pressed a makeshift ice pack to his busted nose, envisioned a confrontation with blondie. All her belongings—her duffel, camera bag and purse—were in this suite. He'd concentrate this search on her person. “Could get rough.”

Con toyed with the silver sacrificial knife—more booty from Bovedine—before stabbing it into the table. “Harm River Kane and I'll slice off your dick,” he said, then returned his attention to the whiskey and journal.

Dead or dickless. Gator was tired of the threats, the physical and verbal abuse. He should collect payment for services rendered and walk away, but something told him he was in too deep. Con wouldn't let him walk. He'd have to slip away and run…without payment.

Fuck that.

“Pour yourself a drink, then order in some food. You look like you're going to pass out. I need you fit and alert.”

Said the man who just broke my fucking nose.
Gator poured three fingers of straight whiskey, contemplated the motivation and mind-set of the man currently skimming a cryptic journal while fondling a pair of satin panties he'd pulled from blondie's duffel.

Motivation: Eight billion dollars.

Mind-set:
Cra-zee.

Gator downed the liquor and poured another glass.
He helped himself to a Cuban cigar, then eyed the most expensive item on the room service menu. One way or another, The Conquistador would pay.