by JoAnn Ross
Davina could feel the jackhammer beat of his heart under her fingertips and realized that he had an amazing amount of self-control to stop while his body was still encouraging fulfillment. She knew that if she wanted to emerge from this with a vestige of self-esteem she would have to display the same restraint.
"I was." Despite her whirling head, her tone was matter-of-fact.
Sam plunked her unceremoniously back onto her own seat. "Then we'd better get this show on the road." His fingers, as they twisted the key in the ignition, were not as steady as he would have liked.
But he need not have worried; with her curious gaze directed at his shuttered features, Davina failed to notice. "I suppose so," she murmured distractedly. When he didn't respond, she turned her attention to the road.
Davina had no idea how long they remained that way, eyes directed straight ahead as they continued down the highway, not exchanging a word, but it seemed like hours.
Finally, when she couldn't stand the stifling silence any longer, she risked a look in his direction.
"Sam?"
"What?" He kept his gaze directed out the windshield, not trusting himself to remain unmoved by the soft vulnerability he knew he'd see on her face.
"I don't understand," she said quietly.
Biting back a low oath, Sam wondered how a woman with Davina's penchant for recklessness had managed to survive this long. So far, in the past twenty-four hours, she'd entrusted her luggage to one of Calderita's more infamous crooks, wandered unescorted into a waterfront cantina and announced her crazy plan to traipse across miles of jungle, seeking a damned city everyone knew was only legend, and a man who'd been declared dead more than a year ago.
In addition to all that, she didn't even have enough sense to tell him to go to hell after he'd practically raped her out on a deserted stretch of Yucatan highway. Like a moth flitting around a flame, Davina Lowell was playing with fire. The damnable thing about all this was that it was up to him to keep her from getting burned.
"For an educated woman, you sure can act like a dumb female," he pronounced.
Eyeing his grimly set mouth, Davina had the strange feeling that Sam was every bit as angry with himself as he was with her—perhaps even more so.
"Please don't be sorry," she said. "I'm not."
His answering look could have cut diamonds. Davina decided not to press her luck. She turned her head, pretending an avid interest in the scenery.
By the time they had reached Felipe Carrillo Puerto, Sam's bad humor seemed to have mellowed. His mood, though certainly not expansive, was no longer threatening, and his eyes had lost their brittle hardness.
The town, at the junction of three major highways, had developed into a pleasant commercial center. During lunch at a sidewalk cafe, Sam told her that it was a base for chicleros, the men who gathered the sap of the nearby chico zapote tree for use as the base of chewing gum.
Originally known as Chan Santa Cruz, the town had come into existence in the 1850s, when a rebel group of Maya settled in the area. Like the ancient Mayan cities, Chan Santa Cruz was a holy place, a ceremonial center where only a few of the leaders and priests were permitted to live. Davina remembered having read that the town had been the capital of the independent Mayan territory for almost half a century.
She pressed the soda bottle against her forehead, willing the icy condensation to work miracles and cool her overheated body.
"I thought this was supposed to be the rainy season."
"It is."
She cast a hopeful glance upward. "Then why doesn't it rain?"
Sam had to admit a grudging admiration for her; she hadn't offered a word of complaint all morning, when it was obvious that the enervating heat and humidity were causing her a great amount of distress. Of course, she had managed to start a little fire herself with that surprising response to his kiss.
He tipped the bottle of water he'd ordered for her, wetting a paper napkin. "Rain would only make it worse," he said as he reached across the small table and wiped her brow. "All it does is raise the humidity; the heat doesn't go away."
"That feels nice," she murmured, closing her eyes as he moved the damp napkin over her face.
Her cheeks were brightly pink, unnatural against the creamy complexion of the rest of her skin. She wasn't meant for a life in the jungle. Davina Lowell belonged in a drawing room in some Beacon Hill town house, pouring tea from an heirloom silver service crafted by Paul Revere. He could easily envision her surrounded with dark, gleaming wood, Oriental rugs and bookcases filled with leather-bound first editions. Sam decided to give her one last chance to change her mind.
"You can always call this off. No one could accuse you of not trying, Davina."
She opened her eyes, and Sam could not help but recognize the determination he viewed in those solemn turquoise depths. She had her father's eyes, he realized—as well as her father's ambition and academic bent. But there the similarity ended.
Her father would never have been capable of those flashes of fiery passion he had witnessed in Davina. The only thing Sam had ever known Jordan Lowell to get excited about was his work. It said something about the archaeologist's single-mindedness that despite the years he had known Jordan, despite the months they had worked together, the man had only casually mentioned a daughter. And never had he revealed that she was so attractive.
"I'm not going back, Sam. Not until I find Naj Taxim. And my father."
He dropped the napkin onto the red-and-white checkered oilcloth covering the wooden table. "Are all the Lowells this damn stubborn?" It was a rhetorical question; he knew the answer all too well.
"So I've been told."
Sam leaned back in the chair as he tipped the bottle of beer to his lips, eyeing her reflectively. After a long, thoughtful pause, he looked down at his watch. "Since you refuse to listen to reason, I suppose we should get going."
Davina cast one last wistful glance at the creaky paddle-blade fan, which had been putting up a valiant attempt to circulate the moist air. The slight breeze had been most welcome.
"I suppose so," she said agreeably, not wanting to admit that the idea of going back out onto that blistering highway was the last thing she wanted to do.
They were approximately five miles out of town when Davina could not keep her thoughts to herself any longer.
"Sam?"
He had barely heard her soft, hesitant tone over the drone of the motor. "Yeah?"
"About earlier—"
He brought his hand down viciously, forestalling her next words. "Forget it."
He knew what she was going to bring up and he damn well didn't want to discuss the subject. Sam didn't know which he regretted more—initiating that damned kiss or failing to follow through on it.
"I don't think I can," she said truthfully. Even now, she could feel the pressure of his lips on hers, the strength of his hands roving her body. Davina did not want to leave the issue unresolved.
The look he gave her was cold, hard. "Try."
5
Fifteen miles from Valladolid, the wind suddenly picked up. Pulling over to the side of the road, Sam put the top up on the Jeep as slate-black clouds rolled ominously across the sky, blocking out the sun. Moments later, the darkened sky opened up and the driving rain came down in torrents.
More accustomed to the gentle afternoon rains of Mexico City, Davina was somewhat frightened by the harshness of the storm. But she kept silent, allowing Sam to concentrate on maneuvering the car through the flowing washes. By the time they entered Valladolid, the second-largest town in Yucatan, she was exhausted. She was even too tired to offer the slightest murmur of resistance when Sam drove directly to a hotel in the center of town and, while she sank wearily onto a rattan chair in the lobby, registered them into adjoining rooms.
"I suppose it would be asking too much to hope my room has a bathtub," she said as they rode the elevator to the second floor of the hotel. The ancient cage creaked ominously as if complaining about the weight.
/> He smiled a little. "Not only do your accommodations have a bathtub, but the clerk on duty assured me that your room also boasts air-conditioning. It's one of the few in this place that does."
The idea of lounging in a tub of tepid water while the cool breeze from the air-conditioning duct blew over her made Davina want to fling her arms around Sam's neck in heartfelt gratitude. Instead, she gave him a wide smile.
"Sam McGee, I do believe you're a miracle worker!"
Davina looked as if she'd just gotten the deed to her very own diamond mine. Sam was surprised to find that she could be excited by such a simple thing; still, as unaccustomed to the heat as she obviously was, air-conditioning had to be a decided plus.
"Air conditioning." Davina sighed happily. "I owe you one, McGee."
Sam looked at her for a long moment. Just when Davina thought he was going to actually break down and say something personal, perhaps even profound, the elevator reached their floor and the drought-iron cage door opened.
"You don't owe me a thing," he responded with a careless shrug. "Don't forget, you're paying for this place."
His biting tone caused her newfound temper to rise. Why on earth had she expected any display of human warmth from this man? Fatigue, as well as discomfort from a day on the road in temperatures resembling a sauna, conspired to make her words rash. "How could I possibly forget?" she snapped. "With you around to remind me."
Sam appeared unperturbed by Davina's sarcasm as he unlocked the door to her room. "Perhaps I'm simply reminding myself," he said quietly as he placed her suitcase on the bed. Before his words had a chance to sink in, he had dropped her key on the top of the mahogany dresser and left the room.
Sinking onto the too-soft mattress, Davina stared at the door he'd closed behind him. If she lived to be a hundred years old, she'd never understand Sam McGee.
Later, as she soaked in an ancient, claw-footed bathtub, the water up to her chin, Davina asked herself why she even wanted to understand the man. He was ill-tempered, uncouth and unpleasant. He could no more understand how to treat a lady than she could fit into the rough-and-tumble life-style he obviously relished in Calderitas.
That was another thing, she considered, doing her best to chalk up reasons that she wanted nothing to do with her bad-tempered guide. If the man had one ounce of gumption, he wouldn't be hiding away from the world, content to sit around and drink tequila in that horrid cantina.
"It doesn't make any sense," she murmured, running the bath sponge over her arms. "If he's honestly so terrible, so unattractive, why can't I stop thinking about him this way?"
Because, an impish little voice in the back of her mind piped up, in spite of all his shortcomings, Sam McGee is one terrific kisser.
"That's ridiculous," Davina answered aloud. "I'm thirty years old, for heaven's sake. Grown women do not get all soppy over a man just because of a single kiss."
But, oh, what a kiss! the rebellious little voice pointed out accurately—much too accurately for Davina's comfort. She could feel the heat infiltrating her body even now.
She wasn't really sorry about the feelings he'd evoked. After all, he was a strong, physically compelling male. And she was a normal woman, with a normal woman's needs and desires. Add to that the fact that they were partners in what could only be considered a highly romantic, admittedly dangerous adventure, and it was only natural that she should find herself attracted to him.
When she looked at it that way—logically, scientifically—Davina felt immeasurably better. After all, such feelings of passion were to be expected under these conditions. She was only regretful that they were directed toward the worst possible candidate.
Exhaling a soft sigh, Davina leaned her head back against the tin-lined bathtub and closed her eyes. A moment later she had fallen asleep.
In the stifling heat of the unair-conditioned room next door, Sam paced the floor, damning himself for allowing a woman—and a skinny one at that—to get under his skin this way. Despite the fact that emotional involvement with Davina Lowell was the last thing he wanted, he couldn't keep himself from worrying about her—caring about her health, her happiness, her future.
He didn't want to care about anyone. That was what this self-imposed exile had been all about. Five years ago Sam McGee had deliberately, irreversibly, turned his back on responsibility. He'd shucked his custom-tailored suits, the Manhattan penthouse and the Lear jet without a backward glance. And Melanie.
A frown darkened his face as he thought back on his beautiful blond wife. Until this moment, Sam had not realized exactly how much Davina reminded him of her. Not in appearance—he couldn't imagine Melanie covered with a layer of Yucatan dust, her skin glistening with beads of perspiration. During the three years of their ill-fated marriage, he had never witnessed a platinum hair out of place. Her makeup had always been perfect, her clothing both immaculate and one of a kind.
In that respect, Melanie Kirkland had always reminded him of one of those damned pieces of porcelain she was always buying. Expensive, smooth and cold. Again, nothing like Davina, he was forced to admit; Davina had a potential for heat and passion that was overwhelming in its enormity. As his body began to glow with a white-hot flame at the memory of that fiery kiss, Sam lit a cigarette and forced his mind back to the comparison between Davina and his ex-wife.
It was their similar backgrounds, he decided as he drew on the cigarette, feeling the acrid, but strangely comforting smoke filling his lungs. Both women had been born into wealth and privilege. Both had strong, unrelenting fathers—fathers they adored; men whom they would always put before any others. Sam didn't regret the failure of his marriage. What did irk, however, was the fact that Melanie had never understood one thing about him: his feelings; his overwhelming sense of guilt over what had happened. She had, as expected, sided with her father, turning her back on a marriage that should have been declared legally dead at the altar.
Actually, the only thing about those days Sam found himself missing periodically was the hand-built Aston Martin with its four-wheel independent suspension, rack-and-pinion steering and twenty-three coats of lacquer that made looking into its finish like falling into a pool. Although he had never actually attempted the feat, there was something undeniably exciting about being behind the wheel of a car capable of going one-fifth the speed of sound.
Power was always exhilarating, and he had certainly attained his share of that over the years. But everything had its price, and Sam had learned the hard way that the higher the rewards, the greater the ultimate cost.
Unwilling to dwell on something that he could not change, Sam returned his mind to Jordan Lowell's daughter, who at this very moment was probably lounging in the bathtub, hidden by an enticing layer of bubbles. Lord, how he'd love to join her! Opting for the next best thing, Sam picked up the telephone and dialed Davina's room.
The shrill ring of the telephone eventually filtered its way into Davina's consciousness, jerking her out of her sleep just before she slid under the water. Grabbing a towel and wrapping it hastily around her body, she raced into the adjoining bedroom.
"Yes?"
"It took you long enough to answer the phone." Sam hadn't meant to complain. How could he explain that when she didn't answer on the first ring, he had been afraid she'd decided to go off to Chichen Itza herself?
Davina struggled to ignore the rush of sheer pleasure Sam's deep voice instilled. His irritated tone should have irked her; instead she was melting like honey under the hot sun.
"I was asleep."
"Oh." Damn, he should have thought of that. Where was his mind these past two days? "I'm sorry I woke you."
She noted the apology without commenting on it. Davina knew that words of contrition would not come easily for this man. She took the fact that he'd made the effort as an encouraging sign.
"It's just as well you did," she answered, allowing the smile to creep into her voice. "I was about to go under; you probably saved me from becoming yet another one o
f those dreary statistics on bathroom safety."
"Dammit," he snarled, "you could have drowned."
"I doubt that," Davina responded calmly. "If you got me out of the bathtub just to yell at me, Sam, I think I'll hang up now; I'm dripping all over the floor."
At the thought of Davina's nude body, only a few feet away, with nothing but a thin door—albeit a locked one— between them, Sam's blood began to boil.
"I called to invite you to dinner." He managed an offhand tone.
"I'd like that," she replied instantly. "What time?"
"How about an hour?"
"Could we make that thirty minutes instead? I just realized that I'm starving."
Sam wasn't surprised; she'd only picked at her lunch. "Thirty minutes it is."
He could hear the smile blossom in her voice. "Terrific. I'll be ready."
Personally, Sam considered that an overly optimistic promise. He'd never known a woman who could go from tub to dinner engagement in thirty minutes. Melanie had always taken a minimum of two hours to get ready, and she had had a host of individuals to assist. On more than one occasion, when looking over the stack of bills at the end of the month, Sam had complained that he should be allowed to claim her hairdresser, manicurist and dress designer as dependents on his income tax. Melanie had never found the statement the least bit amusing.
Shaking his head at the way his mind insisted on rehashing the past, Sam ran the water for his own bath. He scraped the rough cloth viciously over his body, as if he were hoping not only to scrub away memories of his former wife, but his unwilling desire for Davina Lowell, as well.
It took a herculean effort, but Sam managed to keep his erotic thoughts safely banked during dinner. Later, as he sat alone on the balcony outside his room, he was forced to admit that his display of self-control wasn't entirely his own doing. Davina's unfortunate choice of conversational topic had the same effect on his libido as a bucket of ice water, temporarily quelling any thoughts of bedding her that he might have been entertaining.