by JoAnn Ross
Despite the fact that she'd dressed comfortably in a camisole top and shorts, by the time they were five miles out of Calderitas, her clothing was clinging damply to her skin. Her hair, in its usual braid down her back, felt like a heavy, wet rope. Dust drifted over the interior of the Jeep. Mingling with the perspiration glistening her skin, it made unattractive streaks down her arms and legs.
She had been tempted to ask Sam to take the turnoff that would have led them to Laguna Bacalar—the Lagoon of the Seven Colors. The idea of plunging into the cooling waters was definitely appealing. But she was forced to acknowledge that any delay—no matter how refreshing—would only prolong the agony. Oh, how she longed to reach Valladolid, where they would be spending the night before continuing on to the Mayan ruins in the morning. Right now, she'd give everything she owned for a bathtub—preferably filled with ice cubes.
"Can't you go any faster?" she asked crankily after they'd been on the road for what seemed like hours. She had been studying the map spread across her thighs and was distressed that they had not made an encouraging amount of progress.
The look Sam gave her appeared to question her sanity. "Sure, if you want to break an axle. In case you've noticed, sweetheart, this road isn't exactly the Massachusetts Turnpike."
His casual mention of her hometown expressway got her attention instantly. It wasn't much, but she was astute enough to realize that she'd just been handed a clue to his background.
"You've been to Boston."
"A few times," he responded noncommittally.
"So," she mused aloud, "you must have lived on the East Coast."
He couldn't resist a half smile at Davina's less-than-subtle digging. "I grew up in Philadelphia," he was surprised to hear himself telling her. "My wife was originally from Boston; we lived in Manhattan."
"You're married?" If she had found this unwilling attraction to Sam McGee unsettling, Davina was appalled at how the idea of Sam's having a wife proved even more distressing.
Sam's face resumed its usual grim expression. "I was married. Past tense."
"Oh."
Davina's gaze moved over Sam's rugged features, taking in his shaggy hair, dark beard and bronzed skin. His shoulders stretched the seams of the white cotton shirt, and as the perspiration-soaked material clung to the rigid lines of his torso, it revealed muscles that were the obvious result of hard, physical labor—and lots of it.
"I can't picture you in Boston," she murmured truthfully. "Or Philadelphia or Manhattan, either, for that matter."
Instead of appearing offended, Sam surprised Davina by laughing. It was a deep, robust sound that pulled some cord deep within her.
"Neither could I." Lines she had only briefly noticed fanned outward from his eyes, hidden by the dark glasses he wore in deference to the sun's glare. Momentarily beguiled, Davina could only stare in response.
"There's a jug of water in the back," he offered suddenly. "It'll have to do for now; as soon as we get to Felipe Carrillo Puerto, we'll stop for lunch and something cool to drink."
Davina had no idea what had caused Sam's abrupt change in attitude, but she was certainly relieved that his earlier ill humor seemed to have evaporated. Unfastening her seat belt, she climbed onto her knees and reached over the back of the seat to retrieve the water jug. When the Jeep hit yet another bump, she was momentarily jostled, but Sam reached out and steadied her before she could lose her balance.
She told herself that it was probably only her imagination, or a case of impending heatstroke, but her body temperature seemed to leap an additional hundred degrees at his touch.
"Are you okay?" he asked as she managed to turn around and sit down once again.
"Just fine."
Davina realized she was holding her breath as she waited irrationally for some ancient Mayan spirit to strike her down for telling such an outrageous falsehood. In truth, she was still shaken by the extent of arousal Sam McGee was able to instill in her with a single look, a casual touch.
Davina was a scholar; she'd spent her life delving into thick texts, seeking answers. In the same manner that she planned her days—indeed, her life—in minute detail, she preferred neat, tidy solutions to problems. The fact that she could not easily explain away these feelings she was experiencing for Sam McGee was both exciting and frightening at the same time. He was like this country, she decided, eyeing him surreptitiously: remote, dangerous and strangely, inexplicably alluring.
"You're a helluva sight more than fine, Davina Lowell," he said under his breath.
His eyes, shielded by the sunglasses, were unreadable, but the huskiness of his voice told its own story. As his gaze flicked over her, moving from the top of her blond head down to her shell-pink toenails, Davina could feel herself literally melting into the seat.
"Would you like a drink of water?" she asked with feigned calm.
"You know what I want, Davina."
Yes, she knew. She had lain awake most of last night thinking of nothing else. Every self-protective instinct had warned her against this man. Even now Davina knew that a wise woman would have thanked the man politely when he had shown up at Molly's this morning, paid him for his time and sent him on his way. Although Sam McGee's reputation as a guide was unparalleled, he certainly wasn't the only man in Mexico capable of reading a map. But, Davina admitted with a characteristic lack of self-deception, he was the only one she wanted.
She took a drink of the lukewarm water before answering. "I know," she admitted, offering him the jug.
"Thanks."
His long, deep swallows made his throat muscles ripple in a way that was anything but calming. Davina wondered how she could possibly be feeling desire when she was so damnably hot and uncomfortable.
"So," he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and positioned the jug between his legs, "what are we going to do about it?"
Davina shook her head, pretending a sudden interest in the stands of mahogany, cedar, sapodilla and palm trees lining the roadway. "I don't know."
He arched a challenging brow. "Don't you?"
Her lips firmed at his tone. She was grateful for his arrogant behavior. It reminded her that despite his rather earthy appeal, this was not a man any woman would want to get involved with. She had no doubt that Sam was quite proficient in the physical aspects of lovemaking, but he lacked the capacity for tenderness and compassion that would give the act meaning.
"Don't tell me you're one of those women who doesn't believe in mixing business with pleasure," he said into the lingering silence.
"I certainly am."
"Really?" The lazy, masculine challenge in his tone only served to irritate her further.
"Perhaps you're in the habit of falling into bed with every woman who makes the mistake of wandering into that seedy cantina, Mr. McGee, but I'm very particular about the men I make love with."
Sam had to fight the urge to smile when she pulled out that stiff, no-nonsense schoolmarm tone. He wondered if she realized what a challenge she offered when she got up on her high Bostonian horse. What man wouldn't want to be the one to strip away that veneer of cool composure to discover the uninhibited woman he suspected dwelt within?
Of course, there was always the chance that Davina was as crisp, and as no-nonsense a person as she was struggling at this moment to appear. No, Sam decided, her trip down here disproved that theory. Whether she would admit it or not, the lady was a dreamer.
But women who were dreamers alone had no appeal for him; a mere dreamer would have stayed at home in Massachusetts, poring over her ancient text, envisioning what it would be like to search for a fabled city of gold. What he found himself drawn to was Davina's adventurous heart.
Despite the fact that he knew this entire expedition was nothing but sheer folly, Sam had spent much of the past night pondering the outside chance that she might actually have stumbled on to something. It was more than the chance for fame and fortune that had captured his unwilling imagination; it was the quest
. How long had it been since he'd been excited about something? Too long, he decided.
Not wanting to dwell on the reasons for that, he returned the conversation to its initial track. "Have there been that many men in your life?" he asked, irritated to discover that he didn't like the idea of other men having shared her bed—her life.
She stiffened. "Really, Mr. McGee, my personal life is—"
"None of my business," he finished blandly.
Davina nodded her blond head. "Exactly."
"So what about the illustrious Professor Stevenson?"
"What about Brad?"
"Is your relationship with Brad merely professional?" He slanted her a long, considering look. "You know, he really isn't the right man for you, Davina."
His lazily drawled statement dripped with self-assurance. Furious, Davina fought the perverse urge to jump out of the moving Jeep and walk back to Calderitas.
"You've been hired to lead me to Naj Taxim, Mr. McGee, nothing more. Nowhere in your job description does it mention offering opinions concerning my love life." She met his maddeningly calm gaze with a furious glare. "Besides, you couldn't begin to understand anything about my relationship with Brad," she tacked on hotly.
Realizing that his eyes had drifted from her face to her breasts, which rose and fell with every deep breath she took in an attempt to calm herself, Davina folded her arms over her chest.
Sam swerved to avoid hitting a lizard—a considerate action that took Davina by surprise. Just when she was wondering if he might not actually be as hard-hearted as he seemed, he returned his gaze to her flushed face.
"I know that self-proclaimed expert on Toltec fetishes doesn't satisfy you."
"Not only are you disgusting," she spat back, "you're dead wrong. Bradford Stevenson satisfies me perfectly in every way; he's everything I could possibly ever wish for in a man."
"Is that so?" he inquired blandly. "Then how do you explain the fact that you spent most of last night wondering how it would be when the two of us made love?"
Sam wondered when he had ever seen anything as lovely as the soft rose color that drifted into Davina's cheeks. When had he last been with a woman capable of blushing?
Her turquoise eyes broke free of his to stare out at the scenery. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He quirked a challenging brow. "Don't you?"
Davina shook her head emphatically. "No." When the word quavered, she repeated it with more vigor. "No."
"If we're going to be working together," he murmured enticingly, "the least we can do is agree not to lie to each other, Davina. There could well be times in the next few days, or weeks, when our lives might depend on knowing we can trust each other."
Trust Sam McGee? The man must think she had a screw loose.
Biting down his frustration at her refusal to answer, Sam pulled the Jeep over to the shoulder. Cutting the engine, he took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it.
"The jungle has enough secrets of its own," he said slowly, keeping his eyes on hers. "Let's not add to the ones we already have going against us."
Damn him. Obviously he realized that her resistance to that deep, velvet voice was very low. Davina's face was set in firm, argumentative lines, but her soft eyes gave her away.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she lied weakly.
"Lovely," he murmured, half to himself.
When she arched an inquiring brow, he gave her a slow, seductive smile. "Your eyes," he explained. "They remind me of the sea. Serene and inviting one moment; then, without warning, they turn dark and stormy. I've come to the conclusion that the turbulence is even more inviting—more exciting."
A strange, alien warmth began to stir deep inside him, but Sam forced it down for the time being. "I spent a great deal of time last night wondering how your eyes are going to look when we make love," he said solemnly.
Unable to resist touching her, he reached out and trailed a finger down her cheek. "They'll appear a great deal like they do at this moment, I think: wide, slightly vulnerable, but laced with a tumultuous passion that's crying out to be released."
Her heartbeat, as it thudded out of control, could have belonged to someone else. "How much tequila have you had to drink today?"
"Not a drop."
Derision flashed in her eyes, replacing the unwilling desire. "Oh, really? Why do I find that extremely difficult to believe?"
A faint but unmistakable irritation flickered in his eyes. He drew in on the cigarette. "Yesterday was—" he paused, as if to choose the correct word, "—difficult. You picked a bad day to arrive in Calderitas."
"From what I've seen thus far, I strongly doubt that Calderitas has many good days."
The desire that had risen to thicken the already steamy air between them slowly evaporated like morning mist under a blazing sun. Sam stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, discovering belatedly that he didn't really want it after all.
"It all depends on how you look at things," he said at length. "What you want out of life."
Briefly, for this single isolated moment, Davina forgot both the animosity she had felt for this man from the beginning, and the unwelcome jolts of desire that had occurred with uncomfortable frequency. Instead, she found herself wondering once again what had possessed a man like Sam McGee to turn his back on the world in order to eke out a miserable living as the owner of a decidedly tacky cantina at the very edge of civilization.
"What do you want out of life, Sam?" she asked quietly.
Damn her. Ever since her untimely arrival yesterday, Sam had spent too many hours reviewing his life—in particular that past five years—in minute detail. Davina Lowell reminded him of things he'd left behind; people he had turned his back on; life that, for all it had to do with who he was now, could have belonged to some other man—in another world, in another time.
On the best days, Sam refused to give in to lengthy periods of introspection, finding them nothing but a waste of time and mental energy. To be forced to dwell on such matters on a day when his head felt as if it were stuck in a vise only irritated him more. He was in no mood to be charitable.
For a fleeting instant, his eyes had been unguarded, and Davina thought she could detect a flicker of pain in their amber depths. Before she could be certain, however, he had slid that now familiar scowl over his features.
"Right now," he muttered, "I just want to get this wild-goose chase over with." Throwing back his head, he took another long drink of water before placing the jug on the seat between his legs.
As they continued down the deserted highway, Davina found her eyes continually drawn to the way the hair on his taut thighs gleamed like black gold. When he muttered a low curse and shifted abruptly into second gear, swerving to avoid hitting a particularly deep pothole, she stared, entranced by the play of muscles as he slammed down on the clutch.
"Thirsty?"
As his voice broke into her consciousness, Davina dragged her gaze guiltily to his face, not surprised to see a bold, knowing expression on his dark features. He had been well aware of her feminine scrutiny and couldn't resist the chance to let her know.
"Not particularly. Thank you, anyway, though." Her tone was crisp, her eyes averted, as she returned her attention to the map.
Sam glared down in frustration at the glossy blond head. "The hell with it," he ground out. A moment later, he pulled the Jeep once again to the side of the highway, cut the ignition and tossed the water jug into the back of the Jeep.
Davina glanced up from her pretended scrutiny of the road map. "What do you think you're doing now?"
"What I should have done the minute you walked into the cantina."
His fingers dispensed with Davina's seat belt before she could utter a single word of protest. A moment later, he pulled her into his arms.
Davina reeled from the raw hunger of Sam's lips as he crushed his mouth to hers. Despite the fact that she hadn't been able to help fantasizing about this kiss during the unrea
sonably lonely hours the previous night, she could not have imagined the tempest that suddenly swirled around her and Sam in the moist, heavy air. Passion scorched away protest, need dissolved reason, as they were caught in a storm-neither of them could control.
Sam was not gentle, but Davina didn't want gentleness. There was an aggressiveness in the kiss, a harshness that might have frightened her had her own needs not been equally as powerful, as urgent. Her lips clung to his, avidly, hungrily; her hands fretted over his back in a desperate need to touch, to feel. When his hands cupped her breasts, Davina arched against him, inviting increased intimacies; when his fingers trailed up the warm flesh of her thighs, a soft moan escaped her throat.
Needs—hot and unrestrained—surged through Sam's body until he thought he'd explode. Just as he had not rationally planned this kiss, neither could he have predicted Davina's forthright response. He struggled for some slender thread of sanity, telling himself that if he didn't call a halt to this now, he'd end up taking her in the back of the Jeep. Not that it would be the first time Sam had resorted to such tactics, but something told him that this woman was different.
Colors were swirling in Davina's head—brilliant, glorious colors that echoed the flaming warmth surging through her body. Crimson, gold, amethyst—dazzling hues that tilted and shifted like facets of a child's kaleidoscope. When Sam suddenly pulled his head back, breaking the heated contact, she nearly cried out in dismay.
"Sam?" She blinked slowly as she stared up at the granite face.
Her turquoise eyes, darkened with unmistakable desire, reminded him of a storm-tossed sea and made Sam doubt his sanity. There he was, on the brink of making love to a passionate, willing woman, and he was backing away from what he sensed could be an unequaled experience. What in the hell had Davina Lowell done to his mind?
"I thought you were in such a god-awful hurry to get to Valladolid." His chest rose and fell as he fought to catch his breath.