Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes)

by Blair Bancroft

  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?

  Or was he just pulling my chain? Bored, and enjoying the fun of rattling me, just for the sport of it?

  I swear I couldn’t tell, but my blood pressure threatened to explode my head. I stumbled to my feet, my system quivering like I’d been hit by a taser. Darcy. Lovers’ cottage. Was he making a date, or seeing if he could spook the American with the frou-frou job? No matter, I had no choice about what happened next. Our present security was ephemeral at best. Cuzco and Lima were faint lights at the end of a long black tunnel. I had a job to finish that had nothing to do with playing games with an amnesiac—and possibly dirty, rotten, lying—Brit.

  I checked my .22, checked my knife. Made sure the windows were locked, the door bolted. I retired to the bathroom and put on my ugly sweat-suit trail jammies and climbed into bed.

  Darcy didn’t bother to go into the bathroom to strip. Didn’t bother to turn out the light. Ostentatiously, I turned my back . . . but just before he climbed into bed, I peeked. He was down to his well-filled very-tighty whities. I gulped and ducked, pulling the covers over my head.

  A chuckle. The light went out.

  If we died before morning, we’d never know . . .

  “Bon soir, chère amie,” came drifting across the all-too short space between our beds.

  The literal translation—“Goodnight, dear friend”—was acceptable. The problem was, I knew chère amie was the euphemism British gentlemen used for their mistresses in the bad old days of the nineteenth century. And I was pretty damn sure Darcy knew it too.

  I wasn’t going to sleep a wink. Which, again, was probably just as well. Maybe that’s why Darcy did it. Just to make sure I stayed awake, keeping watch.

  Not really. The man was a tease. In that subtle Brit humor sort of way. If I lost him . . . let assassins take him out, I wasn’t sure I would ever recover. And it wasn’t just the inexplicable attraction that zinged and zapped between me and the beat-up Brit like a swarm of lightning bugs in perpetual motion. It was the Protect and Serve gene that governed my father and brothers. And surfaced with a vengeance in me as I’d held Darcy’s bleeding head in my lap on that hillside at Phuyupatamarca. During the past year or so I’d begun to suspect there was something more out there, waiting for me. Beckoning. Now that I was in it up to my neck, I was more excited than frightened. I welcomed the challenge. I was ready.

  Oh, really? Maybe I was suffering a delayed reaction from the coca tea Puma served with breakfast each morning on the trail? Megalomania worthy of a self-delusioned dictator? Let’s face it, I was a wedding and tour fixer from Golden Beach, Florida, not some Jane Bond wannabe.

  A snore.

  Darcy was asleep, and here I was with my puny .22, my teeny weeny knife, and wavering delusions of grandeur.

  It was going to be a long night.

  He opened his eyes to foggy mountain daylight pushing around the edges of the window draperies . . . and the world rushed back. He squeezed his eyes shut while it rolled over him, swamped his brain, thundered through every aching muscle, sent lightning shooting out the gash in his head. Bloody hell! He gritted his teeth and hung on while his stomach roiled and guilt swallowed him up. He was up to his neck in effing shit, and he’d involved a civilian—a civilian—who hadn’t a clue.

  Correction. The jumble in his brain was beginning to settle . . . show signs of clarity. By some incredible coincidence, he’d fallen on his feet. Right where he wanted to be. With a much tighter “in” with his mark than all their planning had promised.

  Someone was trying to kill him. Nothing new about that, though he hadn’t expected it here, so far out of his territory. Awkward, but at the moment it seemed to be working in his favor. The trouble was . . .

  His mind was clearing fast, snapping back to its customary cynical mode. Laine Halliday was nobody’s dummy. She was never going to believe his story.

  If their positions were reversed, he wou
ldn’t believe his story either.

  “Up, sleepyhead! I can tell you’re awake. Breakfast will be arriving any moment now.”

  “Go away.” Darcy kept an arm over his eyes, as if blocking out the sunlight. Or maybe reality.

  “Come on, Darcy. I ordered for eight-thirty. It’s one minute ’til.”

  Without so much as a glance in my direction, he threw off the covers and headed for the john. Odd. The Darcy I’d known for all of thirty hours would have looked at me, maybe managed a lopsided grin. At the least, a friendly grunt. But what did I know about his early morning habits? Yesterday, he’d waked just in time to crawl to Urqu’s unconscious body, grab his machete, and scare off an assassin. How could I possibly know how Darcy customarily began his day? After all, it wasn’t as if I were the bounce-out-of-bed, Miss-Merry-Sunshine type myself.

  Conversation over breakfast was nil. I tried, but the man who’d looked me over the day before with frank appreciation, sparked by flashes of humor, was gone. I told him I had reserved tickets on the VistaDome. He nodded and poured himself more coffee.

  Last night I’d flirted with a vision of a night at the Monasterio, a stolen night before we had to go back to the reality of the coastal plain and end our strange idyll on the steps of the British Embassy. This morning, I knew it was never going to happen.

  The bitter ache in my gut was really, really stupid, because I didn’t do one-night stands. Particularly not with men with no name . . .

  Oh, shit! “You’ve remembered, haven’t you?” I hissed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He looked up, the steel gray eyes so cool and remote I wanted to throw something at him. “I believe the proper expression is that I need to get my head together. I fear it’s rather a mess.”

  “And . . .?”

  “And you see before you a carefully laid plan that was shot to hell somewhere up on that blasted mountain. And, no, I don’t remember all the details. I do remember taking the train, the VistaDome, to Machu Picchu. I remember climbing up to the trail, with all the hikers giving me the eye because I was heading in the opposite direction than the customary traffic. I remember by-passing the hostel, just as we did yesterday, and climbing toward Phuyu-whatever-the-hell-the-name-is. And after that, nothing but a blank until I was lying, face down, in grass behind a stone wall that might have been Roman and wondering who I was, where I was, and how I’d got there.”