TWICE A HERO

by Susan Krinard

  The creases deepened between his strong brows; Mac saw more puzzlement than anger in his expression. Didn't the guy know when he'd gotten as good as he gave?

  But his apparent confusion didn't last long. "I see," he said. "I've heard of your type. Are you one of those female suffragists who think they're the equals of men in all things?"

  Female suffragists? Where'd he dig up that label? "I don't just think it, I know it. You have a problem with that?"

  For the first time he smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile. A spark of some undefined sensation shot the length of her spine. She could be playing with fire here, pursuing her own imaginary game with no thought to who or what this guy really was. She wondered why that edge of danger didn't trouble her any more than the bizarre coincidence of his appearance. The last time she'd felt this way was when she'd been on prescription muscle relaxants for a pulled shoulder.

  This is what Homer meant, she thought incoherently. You can get drunk on adventure. …

  "I'm not the one with the problem, Miss MacKenzie," he said. "It's clear you have more than you can handle. Is that why the disguise?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The trousers. The hair." He adjusted his stance to one that practically shouted masculine challenge. "You've done well disguising your gender—"

  Mac choked.

  "—but not well enough."

  His eyes were no longer fixed on hers. Now they were trained on her chest. She was suddenly, terribly aware that the rain had stopped, her shirt was clinging to the unimpressive curves of her breasts, and her nipples were still puckered.

  She might as well have been naked. Liam's clone spent a little too long studying that part of her, and his demeanor was no longer quite so pitying. There was a certain distracted quality to it, a slight loosening of his jaw and mellowing of his gaze. Mac was far less familiar with that kind of regard.

  The sensation of having a man look at her as if her body were of any interest whatsoever was so novel that she was momentarily incapable of any emotion but surprise.

  Until she remembered that this guy might be more than merely eccentric, and it was getting very close to sunset. The almost drunken feeling of invulnerability drained in an adrenaline rush from her body. She took a step away from him, forcing herself to keep from wrapping her arms across her chest.

  "Did you consider this masquerade a way of ensuring your safety?" he asked, scowling ominously. "You're fortunate it worked this long."

  What was this stuff about hiding her sex? He thought she'd come to Tikal disguised as a boy, and that made about as much sense as the rest of the things he'd said.

  "I wasn't trying to 'disguise' anything," she retorted, unable to help herself. "I just decided to leave my high heels and miniskirt at home."

  "You should have stayed at home, Miss MacKenzie. Your guide could have slit your throat, or worse. You're more a fool than he was."

  She tried to imagine that young man slitting her throat and felt an unexpected need to defend him. "No way. Sure, he left without me, but I can make it back just fine on my own."

  "Back to where? How long have you been alone?"

  Serious warning bells rang in Mac's mind. This time she listened. All at once it seemed like a good idea to let him believe she wasn't alone. For all she knew, he might be contemplating slitting her throat.

  "Oh, not long," she said airily. "In fact, he's probably right down the trail. I think I should go find him."

  Yes, very good idea. The game had gone on long enough. Mac turned cautiously toward the path her erstwhile guide had cut through the jungle.

  And realized a moment later that something wasn't right. The ragged clearing that had been there before was—gone. The heavy rain had obscured everything until a few minutes ago, and then she'd been too absorbed by Liam's double to pay attention.

  Now she noticed. A few steps away from the temple and she was hitting waist-high foliage—not as dense as in the jungle itself, but thick enough to trip her up at a moment's inattention. She stopped and scanned the area. Yes, she was in the right place. She had to be. The temple and ruins were exactly the way she'd seen them when she'd emerged from the path.

  Okay. She must have gotten more confused than she'd thought when she'd been lost in the tunnel. She kicked and batted dripping plants out of her way until she reached the place where a certain crumbling stele had marked the path's end.

  The stele was still there. The path wasn't. Mac checked her alignment again. This was the right place. The jungle closed in like a wall where the path should have been, solid and impenetrable.

  "I know plants grow fast in the jungle," she muttered, "but this is ridiculous…"

  "Is something the matter, Miss MacKenzie?"

  Mac stiffened. She'd had her back to Liam's improbable twin all this time, and she'd never heard him take a single step. He moved up beside her now, jerking his chin toward the fortress of young trees, vines, and intertwined bushes. "Is that the way you came from Tikal?" he asked. "You said you'd walked here."

  "I did," she said. "There's a path, right here."

  He brushed past her and examined the area, one brow cocked. "Perhaps you'd point it out to me. My vision isn't as keen as yours."

  Mac just managed not to glare at him. She marched forward. Trailing lianas slapped across the nose. Damn it, it had to be here. A few broken branches, at least. Something.

  The stranger leaned against a convenient tree trunk, arms folded. "Do you need assistance, Miss MacKenzie?"

  Definitely patronizing, that was the word for his tone. She ignored him and paced a few yards away, still searching. It wasn't her imagination; the break in the dense vegetation simply wasn't there.

  Mac wanted very badly to sit down and swear in the myriad creative ways Homer had taught her, but she'd be damned if she'd let Liam's annoying clone see her defeated. Great set of priorities, Mac, she chided herself. But she was coming up blank. She'd have to make a circuit of the ruins, keep searching…

  "There is no path."

  She whirled to face him in spite of her best intentions. "I didn't fly here," she snapped.

  "But he did abandon you."

  "The guide? Yes. I mean—no, he cut me the path, and it was right here."

  He pushed himself away from the tree. "I know these ruins. The only path is the one I made, on the other side of the temple. It leads to my camp."

  Great. Mac lined herself up with the stele and made another attempt at the jungle wall.

  "It'll be dark in a few hours," he said behind her. "Whatever suffragist cant you hold dear, Miss MacKenzie, or however you came here, you can't travel through the jungle alone."

  She almost shivered at the certainty in his voice. Better to be alone in the jungle than here with you, she thought irrationally. But he refused to read her mind. He strolled up beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body even amidst the sweltering humidity.

  "And I doubt your unusual lantern will cut you a way through the forest," he said. His gaze dropped to the flashlight hanging from her belt.

  It momentarily occurred to her that the flashlight was probably in more danger from this hunky weirdo than she was herself. Hadn't he said he'd broken his lantern?

  "Oh, it's not so unusual," she said hastily. "You can probably pick one up in Tikal. In fact"—she backed farther away from his solid, muscular bulk—"I'm sure they have them. Cheap, too."

  He cocked his head at her. It was a peculiarly boyish gesture very much at odds with the rest of him. "In Tikal? Interesting. I've never seen one like it. Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

  Before she could protest he'd liberated it from her belt and was turning it over in his broad, callused hands. Mac found herself watching his examination with reluctant fascination.

  It really was as if he'd never seen a flashlight before. And that was crazy, because he wasn't unkempt enough to be the jungle hermit she'd thought at first he might be. His accent was as Americ
an as hers, with a slight lilt that might have been Irish. He spoke too distinctly to be completely wacko.

  So, she admitted, she was still curious about him. Too curious. Too interested in a total stranger who was almost charismatically attractive but also arrogant and insulting. Not to mention strange.

  And as for his resemblance to a certain photograph—could it be possible that he was a descendant of O'Shea's? No. O'Shea had died without children to carry on his name. Mac felt instinctively for the pendant around her neck and remembered that it had been lost in the tunnel, along with Homer's cap.

  She was lucky that was all she'd lost.

  "If you don't mind," she said, holding out her hand. He ignored it. Her Liam clone had become quite obsessed with switching the flashlight on and off, focusing the beam on the trunk of a tree and then the crumbled stone of a nearby building, drawing patterns with the light.

  "How does this work?" he demanded, shaking the flashlight until the batteries rattled. "Electricity?"

  Come on. "You know—batteries," she said caustically. "And they're going to be dead before I get back if you keep that up."

  He stopped suddenly and studied her with those piercing gray eyes. "Batteries?" he repeated. "This small?" He turned the flashlight upside down and located the little sliding panel to the battery compartment.

  "Hey!" Mac made a grab for the flashlight, but he kept it easily out of reach and tucked it somewhere in the back of his belt.

  Mac revised her earlier speculation about Liam's double. Maybe he was an exceptionally clean hermit. Or he'd been living in some country where they didn't have flashlights. Or he'd escaped from an asylum somewhere.

  "Listen," she said in a low, even tone. "You can keep the flashlight as soon as I'm back in Tikal. I promise. Just let me use it to get there in one piece."

  "But you won't be going alone. I'll escort you there myself, and have a word or two with the man who left you."

  "Thanks, but I don't need your help, and there is no—"

  He fixed her with a look that silenced her instantly. The only person who'd ever been able to do that to her was Homer, and she wasn't about to let this guy have the privilege.

  "Excuse me, but—"

  "I'm not your fool of a guide, Miss MacKenzie," he said softly. "You have two choices. Come willingly or be carried."

  He'd do it, too, of that she was certain. His tone brooked no arguments. Why he was so intent on "helping" her she couldn't figure out, but she knew she wasn't going to get rid of him. She'd simply have to make the best of it.

  And there was at least one good thing to be said for the man—he appeared to know about the jungle. Maybe it wouldn't be so terrible to have him with her. Once in Tikal proper she'd be able to get to the hotel and ditch Liam Junior.

  "All right," she said. "What do you suggest?"

  "You do have some sense. Wait here." He turned on his heel and strode back to the tunnel entrance.

  Mac used the time to dig in her backpack for mosquito repellant and a potential weapon. There was a small Swiss Army knife—her father's, sent back from Vietnam—but other than the flashlight, which her new friend had confiscated, that was about it. So if he attacks me I can give him paper cuts.

  She lost her sense of humor when her would-be escort returned with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, the unmistakable butt of a gun sticking up from one of the pouches on his belt, and a wicked machete in his hand. A stained Panama hat sat on his damp hair.

  "Do you think you can carry my haversack, Miss MacKenzie?" he asked with a frown. "I'll need my hands free for the machete."

  The canvas bag didn't seem particularly heavy, but he clearly expected her to refuse. His impression of her was pretty mixed-up, and maybe that wasn't such a bad idea.

  "Sure," she said. "No problem."

  He hesitated and passed it to her somewhat gingerly. It took a bit of balancing, and she could feel several objects rolling around inside. Another potential weapon if it came to that.

  "Are you sure you can manage it?" he asked. "I can't have you losing it."

  "It doesn't exactly weigh a ton. I won't drop it, if that's what you're worried about."

  He gave her a dubious examination and decided to take her word for it. He lifted the machete; light glinted off the blade, and Mac flinched in spite of herself. He dropped his hand and scowled at her.

  "Your prudence comes a little late, Miss MacKenzie, but there's no need to be afraid. I'm not going to attack you."

  His black expression belied his assurance, but she wasn't about to betray another hint of unease. "I'm not afraid. It so happens I know how to defend myself. And anyway, you won't need the machete once we find the trail."

  He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "women" and "irrational." "Stay well out of my way," he commanded aloud. She stepped aside as he took a savage swipe at some hapless bush with his machete.

  She had an urgent desire to grab the flashlight from his belt and brain him with it instead, but she obeyed. After two more energetic blows—considerably more powerful than those used by her guide earlier in the day, making an impressive display of the muscles in his back—his motions became less choppy and more rhythmic, almost graceful. Mac kept watch for the original path. There was still not the slightest sign that it had ever been there.

  The jungle closed in around them like a hungry predator. Almost at once the light faded, turned to false dusk by trees and bushes and every conceivable type of tropical vegetation. Mac reminded herself that any threat from the jungle's scaled and furred inhabitants was likely to be in her own mind. There was no way in hell she'd let her gallant escort, with his strange attitudes about women, know she was even a little bit nervous.

  "Tell me, Miss MacKenzie—"

  Mac congratulated herself for hiding the way she nearly jumped out of her skin. He'd stopped to rest—not that he was breathing particularly hard, or sweating any more than she was. He was marvelously alive and strong and very… virile. Disturbingly so.

  "—now that we've established that you didn't come to the jungle alone," he went on, "how did you get to the Petén? You must have come by ship—was it Champerico or Belize? What expedition of fools did you dupe into bringing you here?"

  That line again. It was beginning to get a bit old. "Oh," she said, counting on her fingers, "let's see. There was Allen Quartermain and Indiana Jones and Professor Challenger. Lord Greystoke couldn't make it at the last minute."

  The quiet lasted long enough to make her wonder if she'd finally gone too far. She glanced at his face, heavily shadowed in the faint illumination. He certainly seemed angry enough.

  "I don't know them," he said.

  He didn't know them? Somehow she didn't think it would help to tell him it was a joke. A little distraction was probably a better idea. "Uh—where did you come from? Originally, I mean?"

  "San Francisco," he said, distracted. "I would have known if another expedition had arrived."

  San Francisco, yet? Curiouser and curiouser. Downright scary, in fact. Mac cursed her inability to cut her own way through this green perdition. It had taken nearly an hour to reach the mystery ruins from Tikal; the return journey wasn't likely to be any faster.

  At least Liam's double was too preoccupied to question her farther. He pulled a compass from a pouch at his belt, consulted it, and started off again, as single-minded and tireless as an automaton. Mac concentrated on her footing in the mud and swatting mosquitoes while she balanced the canvas sack over her shoulder.

  When she checked her watch again she was startled by the time that had passed. They'd definitely been walking an hour; at this very moment they should be standing in the central plaza of Tikal. Unless he'd taken her the wrong way…

  "Hey," she said, slowing. "I think we—"

  Only some last-minute instinct kept her from walking into Liam Junior. He stood loose-limbed, the machete at his side, head lifted. Mac followed his gaze around a patch of jungle that appeared n
o different from all the rest.

  "Why are we stopping?" she asked.

  He looked at her as if she'd said something stupid. "We're there."

  Mac went on her guard. It was apparent they weren't in Tikal—a wide, groomed clearing would have marked the main ruins, and there was nothing much like a clearing ahead. Nothing but endless forest on every side.

  She gathered her patience. "We must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. This isn't Tikal. Maybe it's a little farther on—"

  "I've been to Tikal before, Miss MacKenzie. Maudslay took his photographs after my first expedition—"

  "Maudslay?" Was he joking now? "You were here a pretty long time ago in that case. He took those photos in the 1880s. I think the place has changed a bit since then."

  His stillness was as heavy as the humidity. When he spoke again, his voice was eerily gentle.

  "Are you mad, Miss MacKenzie, or merely perverse?"

  Perverse? He was calling her perverse? "Look," she said. "I just want to get back to my hotel—"

  "Hotel?" He laughed—a deep, hearty baritone rumble. "Do you ordinarily regard native huts as hotels? Your taste is none too fine. Or perhaps you refer to the… accommodations in Flores? You'll have another twenty miles of walking to reach it."

  Mac opened her mouth and closed it again. Something very strange was going on here. They were talking at cross-purposes, and nothing he said made sense. "I mean the hotel in Tikal," she said carefully. "Near the park entrance. It so happens I know the ruins pretty well myself, and this is not Tikal."

  "I see." Abruptly he turned and strode to a nearly solid mass of vines and trees and bushes a few yards away. "You claim to know the ruins, Miss MacKenzie. You are in the midst of them." He grabbed a handful of vines in his left hand and yanked. Beneath the covering was stone—cracked, massive stone.

  They were standing directly next to a Maya temple. It towered above them, almost entirely obscured by leaves and vines, two or three times the height of anything in the ruins they'd left. Bigger than anything outside of Tikal within a fifty-mile radius.

  He must have led her north, into the deeper jungle, and not south to the more populated areas near Tikal. But what was his purpose? If he'd meant to hurt her, he could have done it several dozen times since they'd met.