by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
‘Damn you, Slade McClintoch!’
She yanked down the zipper of her denim shorts, pulled them off, and high-kicked them on to the shrub next to the T-shirt. At least she’d come to her senses before it was too late, recognizing what he was up to, that he was taking advantage of her disorientation and turning it into fun and games time for his own selfish pleasure.
There was grim satisfaction in recalling the glazed look on his face when she’d begun to struggle beneath him. It had been the look of a man who’d almost managed to snag a prize he knew he didn’t deserve and suddenly saw it being snatched out from under his nose.
‘No, sweetheart,’ he’d whispered huskily, his breath a sigh against her lips, ‘don’t stop now.’
But she had, pounding her fists against the rock-hard wall of his shoulders, telling him to get the hell off her. When he’d drawn back and stared down at her as if she’d gone crazy, she’d rolled away from him, yanked open the drawer of the rickety bedside table, pulled out her father’s revolver, and jammed it into his side.
Oh, that moment was worth remembering!
‘Get up,’ she’d said, while the color drained from his face, and he had, by God. He’d risen obediently to his feet, then tried to sweet-talk her into putting the gun down, into admitting that she’d been a willing participant in the kiss and not the outraged victim of his insufferable ego.
And then he’d moved, fast as lightning, his hand clamping down on her wrist, his leg thrusting between hers and sending her tumbling off balance. When it was all over, the revolver was in the corner and she was sprawled across the bed—back in McClintoch’s arms.
‘A word of advice,’ he’d said with a mocking smile. ‘A woman who pulls a gun should first learn how to use it.’
‘I know how to use it,’ she’d started to say, but he’d kissed her into silence, his mouth moving on hers with swift arrogance, although that time his kiss had done nothing but turn her rigid with fear.
She needn’t have worried. McClintoch had rolled away from her and risen to his feet.
‘Relax, baby,’ he’d said with a contemptuous smile. ‘I’d sooner sleep with an anaconda.’
Then he’d strolled to the door, opened it, and vanished from her life like a bad dream.
A bad dream, she thought, shuddering. Yes, that was what his brief intrusion into her life had been, a bad dream. And now, she thought as she stepped into the water, now it was time to set it aside and forget it had ever happened. She would concentrate on what came next—first the long trek back to Italpa and then the exciting business of bringing the Eye home to the museum in triumph. A year from now she’d have her doctorate, and Slade McClintoch wouldn’t even be a memory.
She sighed, luxuriating in the silken feel of the water. It felt cool in comparison to the hot, breathless stillness of the air. She glanced around before reaching behind her and unclasping her bra, but there was nothing to worry about. Who was going to see her? The campsite was easily half a mile away. She drew back her arm and the bra went sailing into the reeds.
‘To hell with you, Slade McClintoch,’ she yelled, took a breath, and dove beneath the water. She came up sputtering in the centre of the pool just as a pair of scarlet macaws swooped overhead. The birds landed on a branch, cocked their handsome heads, and shrieked.
Brionny pushed the wet hair back from her face. ‘What is it?’ she said, laughing. ‘Do you think I’m being too harsh on the man? Believe me, I’m not. He’s a number one, el primo rat. That’s just what I’d tell him if I ever saw him again.’
Which, thank heaven, she would not.
Smiling, she fell back into the water and let herself drift. She felt better than she had in days. Maybe it was finally getting wet all over instead of just being soaked with her own sweat. Maybe it was saying out loud what had been bottled up inside her for two weeks. Whatever it was, she felt free. It was as if she’d exorcized a ghost. Slade McClintoch was gone, poof, just like that. She would never think of him again, never—
‘I don’t believe it,’ a voice roared. ‘Dammit, woman, what in hell are you doing here?’
No, Brionny thought, no, no, no—
She dug her feet into the sandy bottom, shoved forward, and stared across the water.
‘Oh my God,’ she whispered, and dove for cover.
It couldn’t be. But it was.
Slade McClintoch was standing on a rise just across the way.
No, Slade thought; no, it couldn’t be.
But it was. It was the woman from the Hotel Florinda, Brawna Stevens, or Brianna Smith—dammit, what was her name? He’d asked the desk clerk before he’d left the hotel—
Brionny. Brionny Stuart. Her name had slipped his mind but nothing else about her had. The cap of shining golden hair. The eyes as blue as summer and as wide as a fawn’s. The way the soft curve of her breast had felt, thrusting against his hand—and now the quickest glimpse of that breast, rising rounded and full, tipped with pale rose, a flower blooming softly against the green water of the pool.
His body tightened as memories rushed back. The feel of her in his arms. The heat of her, and the perfumed scent—
The unyielding obstinacy of her. The disdain. The ease with which she’d shoved a gun into his gut.
His face set in grim lines as he made his way toward the water. The woman was a spoiled brat. He’d grown up poor in a town owned by people like her; the contempt with which she’d treated him brought back a thousand ugly memories. He knew exactly how she viewed anyone she deemed unfit to exist on her social plateau.
The only unusual thing about Brionny Stuart was that she had a damnable ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She’d managed it at the Florinda and she was managing it now, in the middle of the jungle, lolling around as if she were in a backyard swimmingpool where there was nothing evil lurking in the shadows.
Slade fought back the desire to spin around and check out the jungle behind him. There was no need to do it, not after he’d already done it a dozen times in the past couple of hours, ever since a Mali-Mali arrow had gone zinging into a tree just ahead of him. After enough years in places like this you knew when something was meant to kill you and when it was meant to warn. The arrow had been a message, but he wasn’t sure how to read it. Was he being told to go back, or was he being warned away from something that lay ahead? He had to know, before he could send any of his people into possible danger, and so he’d gone on, not knowing exactly what he was looking for but certainly not expecting to find this.
Ahead, in the pool, the woman finally surfaced, just enough so her head and neck stuck up from the water. What in hell was she doing here? There was nobody cleared for this area but his surveying crew and a couple of archaeologists—bad news in itself, considering what they were after. It was touchy enough bringing a crew and equipment into the jungle. Letting a pair of driedup scientists look for and maybe walk off with a sacred stone would only make matters worse.
Dammit, but this place was getting as crowded as Central Park on a summer Sunday. A construction crew. A pair of weasely mummies from some museum. And now whatever party of tourists the woman was with—God, what a mess.
Slade put his hands on his hips, glared at Brionny Stuart, and let her have the full force of his anger.
‘Get out of that water,’ he snarled.
Brionny’s mouth firmed. ‘You can’t frighten me,’ she said, wishing the words would make it so. Her heart was hammering so hard she was afraid it was going to explode.
He laughed in a way that made her blood go cold. ‘Want to bet?’
‘I’m not alone,’ she said quickly.
‘I agree. Your bath tub’s probably teeming with life. Piranhas. Leeches. Water-snakes.’
‘It isn’t,’ Brionny said quickly. Too quickly. He was trying to scare her, and she was helping him do it. ‘I checked,’ she said, with more assurance than she felt. ‘Anyway, I didn’t mean that. I meant that I didn’t come down here by myself.’
> Slade made an elaborate show of looking around. ‘No?’
‘No. My guides—’
‘Come on, Miss Stuart, stop the bull. There’s no one here but you and me. Now, get your tail out of there. Fast.’
‘I’m not alone, I tell you. If you so much as take a step closer, I’ll scream.’
‘You’ll…’ He shot her a look that was part incredulity, part disgust. ‘By God, lady, you have one hell of an inflated opinion of yourself. What do you think’s going on here?’
‘I know what’s going on,’ Brionny said, mentally measuring the distance from where she crouched to the bank where her pistol lay hidden among the reeds. ‘You’ve been following me, and—’ His bark of laughter cut her short. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘You. You’re what’s funny. You think I’ve followed you for the past—what’s it been since that night? Ten days? Two weeks? Do I look like some love-smitten boy?’
‘You expect me to believe it’s just coincidence that’s made you turn up here?’
Slade glowered darkly and folded his arms over his chest. ‘One of life’s lousiest lessons is that fate is not necessarily kind. Do us both a favor, OK? Get out of that pool before I come in and get you.’
Brionny looked toward the bank again. If he’d let her get to her clothing, that would put the pistol within arm’s length.
‘I’m counting to three, lady. One. Two. Th—’
‘Let me get my clothes,’ she said, nodding toward the adorned shrub.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Turn your back first.’
He glared at her, his face expressionless, then shrugged. ‘Two minutes,’ he said impassively.
He turned away, his long legs planted firmly apart. Brionny hesitated, then paddled furiously for the bank. Water cascaded from her body as she rose and stepped on shore.
‘Ninety seconds and counting.’
The bra. Where was the bra?
‘Eighty seconds.’
Never mind the bra. She grabbed her T-shirt, tugged it over her head with shaking hands. Her shorts clung to her wet underpants, then snagged as she zipped them up.
‘Fifty seconds. By the time I turn around, you’d better be—’
He heard the click of the safety as she released it. Son of a bitch, he thought wearily, and raised his eyes to the sky.
‘Turn around, Mr McClintoch.’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you’re making one hell of a mistake.’
‘I said, turn around.’
He did, slowly, his hands lifted. Well, he thought, despite what had happened in the hotel room, she was right. She knew how to use the gun. She was standing erect, holding it in a no-nonsense, two-handed grip. Her hair was plastered to her head, her feet were bare, she wore no make-up at all that he could see. Except for the sweet, lush outline of her breasts beneath the damp T-shirt and the long, curved line of her hips and thighs, she looked like a fourteen-year-old—a fourteen-year-old with a gun she wasn’t afraid to use.
‘Take it easy,’ he said quietly.
She looked at the gleaming machete that hung from his belt. ‘Drop that machete, Mr McClintoch, and then start walking this way.’
‘Sure.’ The machete fell to the ground. ‘Just do me a favor. Put the safety back on, will you?’
Brionny waved him towards the foot trail that led back to camp. ‘I said, start walking.’
‘Sure,’ he said again, and as he did he shot a horrified look over her shoulder and yelled, ‘Look out!’
Even as she spun around, Brionny knew she’d been had. But the realization came a second too late. Slade was on her instantly, moving with the speed and grace of a big cat. They fell to the ground together, rolling over and over, his hand clasping her wrist, forcing the pistol up and away.
‘Let go of me, you bastard,’ she panted.
‘Let go of the gun,’ he said.
‘No! No, I—’
His hand closed over hers. The shot was an explosion of sound, echoing and re-echoing across the little clearing. The macaws screamed and rose up with a whir of wings, and then there was silence. Slade was lying across her, one hand still clasping her wrist, the other clutching the gun.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ he said softly.
Brionny’s pulse began to gallop. ‘Yes, I have. They’ll hear that, in camp; they’ll come after me—’
He rolled off her and got to his feet. ‘Get your shoes on.’
She stared at him while her heart slowed its gallop. ‘What?’
‘Come on, Stuart. We haven’t got all day.’
She did as he’d ordered, her eyes still on his. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To your camp.’ She watched as he checked the safety catch, then tucked the pistol into the waistband of his jeans. ‘How far is it?’
‘You mean you’re not…you won’t—?’
He shot her an amused look as he retrieved the machete. ‘I know this is going to come as a disappointment, sweetheart, but I’ve no designs on your body—delightful though it may be.’
She flushed. ‘Then why did you follow me? Why did you sneak up on me? Why—?’
‘Where are you camped?’
‘Up the trail. But—’
She stumbled as he put his hand into the middle of her back and pushed her forward.
‘Do you think you can manage to talk and walk at the same time?’
‘I can even manage it without you poking at me,’ Brionny snapped, twisting away from his prodding hand. ‘How about telling me what’s going on, McClintoch?’
‘Ah, how quickly we forget our manners. A little while ago I was “Mister” McClintoch.’
‘Dammit, McClintoch—’
‘Do you know El Kaia Gorge?’ Brionny nodded. ‘Well, I’m with the construction crew that’s surveying on the other side of it.’
‘You mean you work for the company that’s going to build that road?’ Her face registered distaste. ‘I might have known.’
Slade’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s the problem, Stuart? Do people who put in an honest day’s labor offend your delicate sensibilities?’
What offended her sensibilities was the thought of a road through the jungle, but there was no reason in the world to explain herself to this man.
‘If you work on the far side of the gorge,’ Brionny said coolly, ‘then what were you doing crossing it?’
‘Sorry, lady. If you folks had a “Keep Out” sign posted, I didn’t see it.’ His smile thinned. ‘All I saw was an arrow, shot into a tree on the trail ahead of me.’
‘Such poor aim,’ she said sweetly. ‘What a pity.’
‘It wasn’t poor aim at all,’ he said, giving her another little shove. ‘It was deliberate. The arrow was a warning.’
‘Well, of course it was. Somebody was telling you they don’t like the idea of that road, McClintoch. Surely you can—’
‘It was a Mali-Mali arrow.’ He flashed her a cool smile. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of them.’
‘I’ve heard of them.’ Certainly she’d heard of them. Hadn’t she just helped Professor Ingram make off with their fabled treasure?
‘Then you also know they’re not a tribe to fool with. They’re tough and dangerous.’
‘Don’t be silly. They’re just secretive and—’
‘They’re also headhunters—or didn’t your guide bother mentioning that?’
‘They used to be headhunters,’ Brionny said, giving him a pitying look. ‘There’s no proof at all that they still—’
‘Listen, I’m not going to get into a debate here, Stuart. The point is they’re angry about something.’
‘Of course they are. Your road. Why else would they shoot at you?’
Slade grabbed her arm. ‘Be quiet!’
‘Why? Because I’m saying something you don’t want to—’
She gasped as he clamped his hand over her mouth and drew her back against him.
‘Look,’ he said, his lips against her ear.
Brionny looked.
She saw the campsite just ahead, and Professor Ingram still sitting at the foot of the tree, his notebook in his lap.
‘So?’ she said, around Slade’s fingers, her voice automatically dropping to the same whispery level as his. ‘I don’t see—’
‘I don’t either. Where are the other tourists?’
‘What tourists? There’s just the professor and me.’
‘The professor and…’ He groaned. ‘No. You can’t be.’
‘Can’t be what?’
‘Are you saying you’re the archaeologists searching for the Eye of God?’
Brionny went very still. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘Don’t answer a question with a question,’ he said irritably. A woman. And an old man, he thought, staring at the professor’s white hair. ‘Didn’t you people at least have the brains to hire native porters and guides?’
‘We’re not fools, McClintoch. We have seven men who—’
Who weren’t there any more, she thought, staring at the campsite. Where was everybody? When she’d left the cook had been preparing lunch, while the other men talked softly among themselves.
‘Stay here.’
Slade’s voice was low and taut with command. Brionny opened her mouth, prepared to tell him she didn’t take orders, but then she thought better of it. Something was wrong. Very wrong. No sign of the guides, no sounds, no movement…
The hair rose on the back of her neck. Professor Ingram hadn’t stirred in all the time they’d been watching him.
She watched as Slade circled the little camp, then carefully made his way into it. He squatted down beside the professor. After a minute he rose to his feet and turned to her, but by then she understood.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he? she said, her voice quavering a little.
‘Yes,’ Slade said bluntly. ‘From the looks of him, I’d say he had a heart attack.’
Brionny let out her breath. ‘Then, it wasn’t—he wasn’t—’
‘No. Your professor died a natural death.’
She nodded. It all added up. The way Ingram had looked the past months, the bouts of weakness he wouldn’t admit to…