Primitive Nights (30 page)

She stood on tiptoes to press a sweet kiss to his lips then whispered, “Good. Now let’s get this over with. I have a meeting with some very important government officials that I don’t want to be late for.”

Emily cleared her throat. “Shall we?”

She guided them to a door at the opposite end of the room and Damon took a deep breath. It did little to ease the tightening in his chest.

His people, his tribe, under the rules of white men.

The portly man with several chins slammed his hand down on the table. “See here, young man. We make the decisions, not you.”

Damon stood and placed both hands on the smooth wooden surface of the table between them. It groaned with the pressure he exerted in an effort not to reach out and wrap his fingers around the man’s throat. “You do not have the right to tell me what I can and cannot do. My people did not agree to live by rules set down by you or anyone else.”

The man’s jowls shook with his ire. “Yet you will accept our help?”

“Your help is not worth living under your rule.”

The woman sitting next to the obese man set her hand on his equally bulbous forearm. “My goodness, gentlemen.” She looked pointedly at Damon, and he returned her stare. “For starters, Mr. Hanson, you will sit down. I will not tolerate any more of your outbursts. This is not how things are done here.”

“Too right.” The man reacted with a smug smile.

Then her sharp eyes turned on him. “We do not behave this way, even if a certain board member is acting as though we do, thereby setting a bad example.”

The man seemed instantly quelled and Damon dropped back into his seat. Myla’s hand found his beneath the table. Her silent support was all he needed. He could, and would, get through this.

The woman took a long sip of her water before she spoke again. “Now, Mr. Hanson. The restrictions Mr. Prisnell is trying to describe mean only that you cannot accept others into your tribe without our knowledge.”

“I do not—” Her pointed glare made Damon hold his tongue. The woman was somewhat frightening. And he thought that strange sound coming from Myla’s throat may have been a laugh. He slid her a quick glance but she seemed to be listening, very intently, to what the other woman said.

“As I was saying. The reason for these restrictions is so we will be able to keep accurate records of your population. Births, deaths, marriages and the like. We do this to make sure we can fund the needs of your tribe, both in terms of medical supplies and in the case of natural disasters.” She paused. “That does not mean you cannot accept new members to your tribe or have them leave if they choose to join another. We require that you keep us apprised of any such changes. Is this acceptable?”

Damon nodded, and for some reason, he felt like a scolded child. He could not wait for this meeting to end. If for no other reason than to remove himself from the woman’s omniscient eyes. “Yes. This I can accept.”

“Good. And you understand the division of the land?” She continued before he finished the last word.

Again he nodded. “It is more land than we need.”

She smiled then, and it softened the severe lines around her lips. “That may be. However, it is our hope that your tribe grows stronger as the years pass. The wellbeing of your people is our mission.”

The weight of trusting lessened. “What more do you require?”

She held her hands open. “There is nothing else. Your people may move when they are ready.” She pushed up from the chair and held her hand out. When he stood as well and closed her hand in his, her smile grew. “We will send aid workers to meet them. Any who are still too ill for travel can stay where they are. Our doctors have big hearts, they will go to them.”

“Thank you.”

She nodded and turned to Myla. “Ms. Jordan, Endurance International owes you a great deal of thanks. Please accept the board’s gratitude, and I hope you will be able to attend the annual meeting next month. It would be an honor to present you a well-deserved Service Award in person.”

Damon did not know what the award was, but he knew it made Myla smile. Her cheeks blossomed with color and she stammered a bit when she spoke. Whatever it was, it meant a lot to her.

His mother walked over to stand next to him. “You did well today, son.”

“I can say the same for you.” He turned to put an arm around her shoulders. “I am sorry for becoming angry before.”

“Don’t be.” She patted his arm. “I will be taking the aid workers back.”

Her soft confession stirred a mixture of hope and dread deep in his stomach. “Why you?”

“I’m—uncertain—where I wish to be right now.”

This, he could easily understand. “Are you sure you wish to do this? You are home now. You have accomplished what you wished.”

She smiled. “Always the leader. I will find Seiret, and he can lead the aid workers back. You will see, when you return, we will have a new home built already.”

He did not doubt what she said. His people were strong. “I can go if you wish to stay.”

“No. You must be here for Myla. She still has a very long day ahead of her. If you thought this was difficult, wait until you see what she must deal with in the government.”

“Be careful, Mother. And tell Seiret, he is boss.”

Myla joined them then and her smile couldn’t have been any brighter. She hugged him, whispering in his ear, “I am so proud of you.”

Myla still couldn’t believe it was Damon. He walked toward her, only the slightest hesitation in his steps revealing his discomfort. Even though she’d helped him dress earlier that morning and had seen him in his clothing all through the long day, it still amazed her how good, how natural he looked in his new clothes.

She’d bought the shirt and slacks that morning before they’d left for the E.I. offices and had laughed when he’d first put on the shoes. Now, he looked like he’d always worn them. Even so, she didn’t know if he would ever look as he should in anything other than his sarong.

The white of his shirt accentuated his dark skin and the slim fit of his cargo pants showed every bulge and muscle of his body. There wasn’t a woman he passed who didn’t turn and watch. Not that she blamed them. She found him impossible to overlook as well.

“That toilet room was very large.” He smiled and sat next to her on the long bench situated against the wall outside the International Trade Commissioner’s office. “Though white men have the strangest habit of talking while they relieve themselves.”

A laugh erupted before Myla could stop it. She didn’t know if she wanted to hear more. Curiosity won. “Talk? About what?”

He shrugged, his eyes moving nonstop as he took in the people and objects around them. “One man talked about money, and the other thought he was pissing into the wind.” His brows furrowed. “When I told him it was best to relieve yourself with the wind at your back, he zipped himself into his pants. Screamed like a woman, too.”

Myla nearly sprayed her coffee all over the man sitting next to her, and she coughed when the hot liquid went down the wrong way. “Oh, Damon. Every day I spend with you is a joy.”

“For me as well.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

The door to the commissioner’s office opened and a pretty blond woman poked her head around it. “Ms. Jordan? Mr. Hanson? You can come in now.”

Myla took a deep breath and pulled her bag up on her shoulder. This was it. The man they were about to meet would be their liaison between the Peruvian authorities and InterCorp’s representatives. Everything she needed rested safely in the files she’d brought, and still her nerves were on end. Her stomach fluttered as she walked through the door, and she was glad for Damon’s silent presence. Every difference, every change she’d hoped to make was about to be realized.

The blond woman rushed past them to open another door, and when they stepped into the large office, a bald man in his mid-fifties waved them in. “Come, come. Please take a seat. We have a representative from InterCorp joining us, Ms. Jordan. It is, of course, only fair that they have a chance to defend themselves before we must inform the local authorities of your accusations.”

Myla sat down in the plush seat across from the commissioner’s desk while Damon stood next to her. “Yes, of course.”

The commissioner rose and extended his hand to Damon. “Allen Dempsey.”

Damon returned the handshake awkwardly, and while he introduced himself, Myla coughed to cover the laugh that threatened when Mr. Dempsey’s face registered the pain Damon’s grip caused. He wiped his hand against his pant leg several times, wary eyes never leaving Damon’s as he sat back down.

In the next instant, he called out. “Barb, send in Mr. Harris.”

Her heart froze. Harris? It couldn’t be. No, Harris was a common name, though not in Peru, she corrected silently. Still…

Then the door opened, and she twirled around in her seat. Tall and very much alive, John walked into the room. His eyes moved from the commissioner to Damon before settling on her, a small smile tugging at his handsome features.

She stood, her legs shaking. In shocked silence, she crossed the room to stand before him, uncertain of what to do. If she hugged him, she feared he might evaporate and this would all be a dream. Tentatively, she reached a hand up to touch his face. “John?”

“Yeah. It’s me, baby.”

His arms went around her in a small hug before he stepped back. Myla staggered under the emotions that poured over her. He was alive. “How? Where?”

He brushed past her and shook the commissioner’s hand. With a quick, dismissive glance at Damon, he settled into the chair next to hers.

She walked over and sat again, her mind refusing to function. “John, where have you been? We all thought you were dead.”

The commissioner cleared his throat, and John sighed. “Myla, this is hardly the place or time to discuss such intimate matters.” He opened his briefcase and pulled out several documents. “Now, as the official representative for InterCorp Oil, I am formally filing a notice to suppress any and all evidence Ms. Jordan claims to have. Not only are any documents or pictures she may have inadmissible should we go to court, they are the property of InterCorp Oil, as Ms. Jordan was in our employ at the time such
proof
was obtained.”

Myla stared at him. Whatever twilight zone portal she’d passed through on the way in was in full working order. This was all too bizarre. John looked the same. Same light brown hair and dark blue eyes, same muscular body, though his clothing was a much finer quality…

She shook her head. Perhaps she’d drifted to sleep in the cab and any moment she would wake up. She pinched her thigh. The pain was there, and so was the situation before her.

Commissioner Dempsey scanned the papers John set before him then laced his fingers together. “Ms. Jordan? May I see your evidence?”

Her hands shook violently as she pulled her papers from the bag and dropped several. Damon retrieved them for her. Concern etched the lines of his handsome face, and she tried to smile reassuringly.

The attempt failed miserably, so she ignored his gaze and stuffed the papers back into order. Pictures, copies of documents, confessions from other employees. Trying to calm her scattered mind, she handed the documents over to the commissioner.

The air in the room thinned as Mr. Dempsey flipped through the pages. After several long moments, he looked up. Beady eyes met hers over the rim of his thick glasses. “Did you steal these documents?”

“No.” Her voice rang flat in the room.

“Then would you care to tell me how you came by them.”

“I copied them while I was at work.” Oh, this was
so
not good.

John settled back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Ms. Jordan, it looks like Mr. Harris has the right of it here.” He wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief. “These papers were gained in an illegal manner, which will make them inadmissible in court.”

“Illegal manner?” She shot from her chair in disbelief. “What about the illegal manner in which InterCorp Oil is pushing these tribes from their lands, killing their people? What about the illegal scouting and drilling? You can see it all in my photos. Hundreds of barrels of oil, off the books. And no account of where they’ve gone.”

John stood as well. “This is obviously another of E.I.’s ploys to ruin the company’s good name. InterCorp brings millions of dollars in trade commission alone into Peru. Just because a group of tree-huggers snapped a couple of pictures before the barrels were marked and labeled doesn’t mean we are guilty of anything.”

Myla slammed her hand on the desk. “That’s a lie, and he knows it.”

John shrugged. “Any proof you claim to have was taken by deception. For all we know, you could have doctored these photos.” He ran a hand over the pile until they were spread out across the desk. “There are no originals here, I see.”

Anger suppressed her shock. “The originals were in my journal. Of course that was in the helicopter that conveniently crashed and burned.” She watched him carefully. Could he have known? At this point she didn’t know what to think. “Too bad for InterCorp that I didn’t die.”