Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (12 page)

But it was obvious this wasn’t his part of the world. They’d never send him on a mission to some country where he couldn’t speak the language.

They. Mission
. Where had that come from? Pain shot from one side of his head to the other as he chased the elusive fragment.

Nothing.

Actually, he was certain of something else. Laine Halliday was an intriguing woman. A tad too trusting, way too strong-minded—yes, he was also certain he wasn’t accustomed to taking orders, particularly from a female several years his junior. But she’d protected what she called his battered Brit butt with surprising skill and determination. The picture of Laine standing on the trail, both hands aiming her toy gun at his attacker’s back, would stay with him forever.

Or would it? He’d heard some amnesiacs, when they got their memories back, forgot what had happened “in between.” Uh-uh. Impossible to forget Laine Halliday. It wasn’t going to happen.

Come to think of it, she’d been in the bathroom a long time. She hadn’t looked all that great after the accident . . . was she all right? Darcy heaved himself off the bed, stumbled across the room, and pounded on the door. “Laine. Laine, love. Save a dash of hot water for me, there’s a good girl.”

No answer. The shower continued to run.

“
Laine?” Louder this time. No answer. Darcy twisted the knob, discovered the door wasn’t locked. Stupid girl. Too trusting by half. How could either of them know if he was one of the good guys?

He threw open the door . . . and stood there, transfixed, as Laine turned off the water, the clear glass of the shower framing her back, from a riot of dripping bronze curls to narrow waist and nicely rounded nether cheeks—

Darcy slammed the door, leaned his forehead against it, sucking in ragged breaths. He’d learned something—he wasn’t a rapist. He probably wasn’t even a bad guy. And at some time good manners had been drilled into him, and it was likely he continued to practice them.

Ah!
Another revelation. He could feel his body stirring to life. Maybe not enough for anything exciting, but there was hope for the old man yet.

How old was he anyway? He felt like Methusaleh, but rather thought he was a thirty-something. No matter. What counted was, he wasn’t dead yet.

“
You’re re-named,” Laine shot at him as she breezed through the door, wearing a trail outfit somewhat cleaner than the one she’d had on. “Peeping Tom!”

“
Sorry. How did you know?”

“
Blast of cold air. And I’m not deaf.”

“
You were in there so long I was worried.”

“
About having enough hot water!”

“
Is there? Enough left?”

“
Guess you’ll just have to find out.” Laine ran her fingers through her springing curls, tousling them even more.

Darcy rather thought he didn’t care for red-haired, green-eyed women. Too volatile, too high maintenance. But there was something about this one . . .

Effing right, there was something about this one. Something that said they weren’t going to sleep shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip tonight. He was going to sleep in his bed, and Laine in hers, and that was bloody well that.

Too bad. Whoever he was, he seemed to have remarkable stamina. He was coming back fast. And he’d have at least another day or two with Laine before they reached Lima . . .

If they reached Lima. For a moment he’d almost forgotten.

A good way to be dead, real fast.

Darcy walked into the bathroom, made a show of not slamming the door. Taking a look in the mirror, he groaned. No woman in her right mind would consider a man who looked like
that
. If he didn’t have amnesia, he still wouldn’t recognize himself. Laine might have to put a bag over his head before they’d allow him on the tarted up tourist train back to Cuzco.

And where had that name come from? How had he known the train’s sleek broad-windowed carriages would be filled with tourists who might not care to ride with a man who looked like he stepped out of a Belfast riot?

Maybe they didn’t even let backpackers on the VistaDome. Maybe they’d be stuck here, waiting for the local or the super-expensive Hiram Bingham train? Adding another big dent in the Fantascapes credit card.

It was coming back
.

He
—whoever he was—was coming back.

Excitement surged. Darcy pulled off his clothes and stepped into the shower.
Ye-es!
He was going to be a someone again.

While Darcy was cleaning up, I ordered
arroz con pollo
from room service—figuring even a Brit would like that—and a bottle of white zin. If he thought that was too girlie, too bad. He probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway, but what the hell, it seemed like the right moment for it.

The clothing I’d ordered for him arrived before the food. Tighty whities, blue jeans, leather belt, and a T-shirt with a full-color picture of Machu Picchu. Thank God for hotel gift shops. I was almost tempted to run down for something a bit more interesting for myself, before realizing this wasn’t the right moment for vanity
. Keep the man at arms length, Laine. If not way across the room
. When being stalked by an assassin, cozy, comfortable, let’s-let-down-our-guard just didn’t cut it.

Not that I didn’t think Darcy probably had a lot going for him under all that bloody black and blue, but this wasn’t the time for personal itches to rear their scary heads. I had a job to do. And if I was going to do it with my usual efficiency, sex had no part to play. Really. But I could still feel the burn of his hand on my hip before our world exploded in combat last night . . .

I cracked open the bathroom door and tossed the clothes inside.

When Darcy came out, biceps rippling below the white cotton knit sleeves, the jeans hugging him a bit more ferociously than I’d planned, my mouth dropped open. I stared. The patch on his head was gone, his dark hair gleamed, and his swollen flesh hinted at classic good looks beneath the bruises. Even in jeans and a Machu Picchu shirt, he looked like a lord of the manor. Like servants should come dashing into our room, bowing and scraping, asking m’lord when he would be pleased to dine. Out of all the names in all the world I’d chosen Darcy. Go figure.

Our food better come soon, or I was likely to feast on Darcy instead.

Why, oh why, hadn’t I sneaked down to the gift shop for some sexy little nothing of a dress? I’d settle for clean, unwrinkled slacks and shirt . . .

All for the best, I reminded myself sternly. Bodyguards weren’t allowed to play with their charges. Bad form, and all that. But if we ever got out of this mess . . .

Blast it!
Did he have to look at me as if I was dessert? Did I have to notice the bulge below his belt? Our vic was recovering just fine, thank you very much.

A knock at the door. Thank God for room service!

We ate with the concentration of two people who’d been on a diet of trail food, in addition to hiking five hours since dawn and surviving a car wreck. At last, over coffee and chocolate mousse, we looked up, exchanged rueful grins, and got down to business.

“
Did you hear something before the tire blew?” Darcy asked.

“
You, too?” He nodded. “But if someone wants you dead,” I said, “why not finish you off on the mountain? And why did the attacker on the trail—the one I’d swear was talking Russian—not have a gun? Seems pretty inefficient for an assassin.”

“
Maybe I didn’t lose the fight.”

“
Huh?”

“
The man we saw, the alleged Russian, was almost as badly dinged up as I am. Maybe he lost his gun in the fight, was out for a while too. It’s possible I hit my head falling off that wall you were on. That, until then, I was in better shape than he was.”

“
You’ve put some thought into this.”

“
Right.”

I nodded slowly. “So he watches from somewhere while we rescue you, then comes in for the kill as soon as there’s enough light to find his way down the ruins.”

“
It’s a possibility.”

“
But he ran the other way . . . and didn’t pass us on the trail, I’m sure of that. It’s not as if there’s much room for traveling off-trail when you’re hugging the side of a mountain.”

“
So who shot the tire out?” Darcy mused. “And if the man on the trail warned a confederate that we got away, he definitely has better comm equipment than we do.”

“
Maybe it was just a blow-out,” I offered hopefully.

Glum silence as we contemplated that one. Neither of us believed it.

“
You really pissed someone off,” I said, “if you’ve got more than one person after you.”

“
What about you?” Darcy asked. “You piss anyone off lately?”

“
Me?” I squeaked. “I do weddings, fancy vacations. The only person I occasionally annoy is Arlan Trevellyan, a Canadian who likes to think he’s in the same business we are. Truthfully, he’s just a glorified tour leader. He’s a jerk, but he’d probably faint if someone waved a gun at him. Carry one? No way, no how. He might shoot off his cutesy pedicure.”

“
You’ve seen his pedicure?”

“
Hyperbole,” I grumbled, and reached for my coffee.

“
Still,” Darcy mused, “we can’t be absolutely certain your Russian on the trail was after me. He might have been after you.”

“
I’m not the one who’s black and blue. At least not until the taxi.”

“
So,” Darcy stated flatly, “you’ve appointed yourself my bodyguard, and we’re having room service not just because we’re too exhausted to walk to the dining room.” Glumly, I nodded. “Maybe we’re both targets,” he suggested, sounding almost cheerful at the thought.

“
Two sets of assassins?” I whispered, then shook my head. “That knock on the head skewed your brains, Brit. I’m nothing more than collateral damage.”

“
Maybe I can stand out on the terrace, wave my arms, and say, “Give it up, guys. I don’t remember a damn thing.”

“
You’re funny,” I said, managing a smile. “And I’ve discovered something else about you.” He gave me an intense stare from steel gray eyes I would never want to see consumed by anger. Oh, yes, Darcy would make a very bad enemy. Not too hard to understand why the hunters were out.

“
What?”

“
You talk high-class Brit. Nannies, governesses, Eton, Oxford, House of Lords—that kind of English. Except when you called me ‘love’,” I added judiciously.

“
What about my basic Anglo-Saxon?”

“
Brits are more casual about profanity than Americans,” I informed him a trifle loftily. “And being attacked, then bossed about by an American female doesn’t exactly call for the same language as being presented to the Queen.”

Conversation lagged as Darcy took time to consider my remark. “You don’t think I worked my way up from boot boy?” he inquired, straight-faced.

I snorted. “I think you were born with the proverbial silver spoon. Or at least a lot of class, if little money.”

“
So maybe I needed money, did something I shouldn’t to get it . . .?”

“
Or maybe you put your classy education to work for MI-6 and got in over your head?”

“
If I were working Peru,” he countered, “I’d be able to speak Spanish.”

“
Hot pursuit? You’re after someone, and there wasn’t time to stop and learn the language?”

“
Possible . . . but it doesn’t feel right.”

“
And why a Russian?” I sighed. “At least I’d swear that was Russian I heard. And he
looked
Slavic. Which is a truly ridiculous thing to say about a mugger on the Inca Trail.”

Darcy ran his hand through his hair, winced when he hit the still swollen bump. “So what’s your connection to Russians?” he asked.

“
None,” I asserted. I mean, Viktor didn’t count. He was just another client, right? Yet . . . there was Viktor’s fight on the fishing pier. The dead man washed up on the doggie beach just to the south. Ludicrous. An impossible connection, not worth mentioning.

Darcy didn’t question my word. I felt, well,
squirmy
inside. Not that I’d lied exactly . . .

“
So when do we get out of here?” he asked.

“
The earliest train to Cuzco is the VistaDome at 3:30. Until then we lie low and pray nothing more happens.”

Darcy pushed back his chair, lay down on his bed with his hands behind his head. “In other circumstances this must be the ideal lovers’ hotel,” he offered, perfectly straight-faced, as if he hadn’t dropped a bombshell. “I looked through the brochure on the table. In addition to the privacy of being at the far end of civilization, they offer terrace dining, mountain views, nature trails, orchid walks, bird walks. Twenty minutes from Machu Picchu. A veritable Shangri-la. Yet here we are, stuck in our effing vine-covered cottage. Too bloody bad. Maybe we can come back some time.”

Stunned, I stared at him. Where had
that
come from? Was he saying he’d like to do this again some time when he could . . . when
we
could enjoy ourselves?