In the next instant, she realized that Brandon had stopped talking for a different reason. The bus had arrived at a military checkpoint, and uniformed soldiers were poised to step on board for a routine inspection.
She froze in her seat, trapped.
Chapter 8
Brandon slouched down and adjusted his baseball cap, tugging the brim a little lower on his forehead.
“Let me do the talking,” he said as two soldiers climbed the steps at the bus’s front entrance.
Isabel, whose lips had drained of color, didn’t argue. Although her Spanish was far superior and she understood the local idiosyncrasies better than he did, he couldn’t let her take the lead. If these men performed a thorough search of his belongings, they’d find a lot more than a gun strapped to his ankle. There were several layers of deception to strip away. He was posing as Ben Garcia. Brandon North was another alias. He had documents on his person with his real last name on them—Knox—but he couldn’t brandish them before they crossed the border. Doing so would endanger both their lives.
The first soldier looked about eighteen. He made his way down the aisle, a hard expression on his smooth young face. Isabel caught his attention, but he didn’t give Brandon more than a cursory glance.
The second soldier wasn’t quite as green, and Brandon prayed that his agenda didn’t include shaking down tourists or searching for fugitives. This man, even his entire squad, might have a picture of Isabel in their back pockets, courtesy of Manuel Carranza.
The uniformed officer noticed Isabel the same way his partner had, with a flicker of male appreciation but no special interest. So far, so good. His gaze moved to Brandon, assessing his long legs and European-made hiking boots.
“Citizenship?” he asked in heavily accented English.
There was no sense in lying. “U.S.”
“Passport?”
Brandon decided to stick to Isabel’s plan of claiming their passports had been stolen. Although the military probably didn’t have photos or detailed descriptions of them, their names could be listed as persons of interest. “Can we talk about that outside?” he asked, exchanging a worried glance with Isabel.
The soldier agreed, stepping aside to let Brandon pass. Bribes were always better brokered away from prying eyes. While they escorted him out the back entrance, Isabel stayed in her seat, quiet and still. Ready to bolt.
As they exited the bus, Brandon gave the soldiers his best clueless American impression. “I don’t have my passport, man. Almost all of our stuff got stolen in Oaxaca
City.”
The younger soldier had no idea what Brandon had just said. The older one appeared to understand the important parts. “No passport?”
“I know we need to get it taken care of, but I didn’t want to screw up our itinerary by traveling back to the embassy in the middle of our vacation. I told my girl it would be okay to wait a few days and now she’s going to freak out. Can you give me a break?”
“Remove your bag and open it,” the older soldier said, impatient. He either didn’t believe Brandon’s excuse or didn’t care.
Complying with the orders, Brandon shrugged out of his backpack and unzipped the main compartment, which had nothing he needed to hide—from them, anyway. “Let’s make a deal,” he said, leaving the Wave inside and pulling out a men’s magazine. The first soldier’s eyes widened when he saw the lingerie-clad female on the front cover. The second was more interested in the pair of twenties Brandon slid between the pages.
“My girlfriend is already pissed,” he said, wondering if Isabel was using this opportunity to shimmy out a side window and run into the jungle. “You’ll be doing me a favor by taking this skin mag off my hands. If she sees it I won’t get laid for a week.”
The soldiers rifled through the rest of backpack, ignoring his bribe attempt. Brandon’s stomach tightened with unease. Refusing to submit to a search and seizure wasn’t an option in Mexico, but he couldn’t allow them to pat him down. Pulse racing, he calculated the odds of drawing his weapon.
Not good.
He’d have to start running. These men knew the area, so they’d catch him easily, but the disturbance would give Isabel a chance to slip away. For the first time in his life, he considered jeopardizing the mission to protect his target.
To his intense relief, extreme measures weren’t necessary. After checking his backpack for illegal contraband, the soldiers didn’t hassle him further. The older officer took the money, handing his partner the magazine. Both appeared satisfied. They advised Brandon to report his stolen passport to the U.S. consulate and sent him on his way.
He got back on the bus, sweating bullets, and took his seat next to Isabel. A moment later the bus pulled away from the checkpoint.
She held herself tense beside him, her hands twisted in her lap. He didn’t fool himself into thinking she’d been concerned for his welfare. While he’d been contemplating risking his entire career for her, she’d been plotting a quick escape. He knew she’d ditch him in a heartbeat if she felt threatened.
She leaned closer, her lips almost touching his ear. “What did you give them?”
Damn his traitorous body for reacting. “Forty dollars and a dirty magazine.”
After a brief pause, she asked, “How dirty?”
“Dirty enough,” he said with a harsh laugh, removing his sunglasses. Isabel was featured in the magazine they’d accepted as a bribe, and the photos inside were very provocative. She was wearing striped knee socks and tiny white panties with a cropped T-shirt, her hair in a cute ponytail. The effect was sporty and girlish and very Lolitalike. He felt a little perverted for responding to it.
Having that particular issue among his possessions, along with the new edition of Wave, was too big of a coincidence to explain away.
But getting rid of it also put them in jeopardy. If Carranza had employed the government’s help to find Isabel, and Brandon was fairly certain that was the case, it was only a matter of time before they tracked her down. The taxi near Tehuantepec would be discovered. Military personnel would be questioned about unusual foreigners. The magazine might get passed around the office, or make its way into enemy hands.
Brandon wished he hadn’t been carrying it.
“We can’t stay on this bus,” she said.
“Agreed.” It would be best to find another mode of transportation altogether.
“Do you have anything against hitchhiking?”
“Nope.”
Several hours passed before they arrived at the next town, and Brandon didn’t get any more rest during this leg of the trip. He kept glancing back, expecting to see military trucks or flashing lights. Isabel stayed stiff and silent in her seat. She probably regretted their previous conversation about her “anonymous” article.
Brandon had always found it easy to gather personal information from his targets; people loved to talk about themselves. Often, the details were uninteresting or distasteful. He filed them away for future reference, unmoved. With Isabel, every facet of her life fascinated him and he couldn’t distance himself from her emotionally. The more he knew of her, the more he wanted to know. And he’d begun to resent the role he was playing.
They exited the bus with the other passengers and started walking down the highway. Brandon felt dangerously exposed. It was also muggy as hell. Judging by the clouds gathering on the horizon, they were in for rain. He wouldn’t mind an afternoon shower, cooling his overheated skin and washing the stink of the bus away.
Luckily, the rules of hitchhiking worked in their favor. Couples had a higher success rate than single men, and attracted safer rides than single women. In Mexico, stranded tourists were a welcome sight—they usually had cash.
A small car pulled over for them in no time. “Adonde van?” the driver asked.
“Tapachula,” Isabel said.
With a jerk of his chin, the driver invited them to climb in. There was a woman with a baby on the passenger side. She stepped out to give them
access to the backseat, offering a friendly smile. The space was cramped, one side stacked high with woven blankets and shawls. Brandon tried to scoot over, but he couldn’t make room for Isabel. He couldn’t really fit himself; he was too tall to sit comfortably in most economy cars.
Once again, she ended up on his lap.
He spread his knees wide to accommodate her. She settled in, perching on one thigh rather than snuggling up to his crotch. When the driver’s wife returned to the passenger seat, they were all wedged in tight.
“Están bien?” the driver asked, making sure they wanted to ride this way.
“Sí,” Isabel replied, shifting her weight on him. Their only other option was to walk along the road and wait for another car.
The driver stepped on the gas and turned the radio on, blasting something that sounded like Spanish-language country music. The noise served to insulate them further. Brandon clenched his teeth and prayed for strength. During the long motorcycle trip to Oaxaca City, his aching head had prevented him from enjoying the feel of her body. A different sort of discomfort was bothering him now. Although she made an effort to avoid direct contact, bracing her arms against the seat and balancing on his thigh, her struggles were in vain. Heat and intimacy swelled between them. She smelled of cheap bar soap and sultry female perspiration. He caught a hint of coconut on her breath and smothered a groan.
Don’t think about—
Too late.
Last night, he’d watched the towel creep up her thighs as she slept. It fell away from her breasts first, draping across her flat tummy. Her nipples were soft and dusky, so tender-looking he wanted to weep. Then she rolled over, treating him to a view of her shapely bottom. It looked firm and supple and smooth as silk.
And now, that part of her was teasing his erection. Because she was sitting at an angle, her body half-turned toward him, he suffered the additional agony of her breasts in his face. With every bump in the road, and there were many, she rocked against him.
He was sweating like crazy, but so was she. The car had no air-conditioning, and very little breeze made its way to the backseat. While he watched, a tiny drop rolled from the hollow of her throat, nestling between her breasts.
It was embarrassing to be this turned on when there were three strangers in the car—one of them a baby. Isabel had to be aware of his arousal, because she wouldn’t meet his eyes. The car lurched over another speed bump, throwing them together. Her breasts jiggled from the impact, nipples jutting against the thin cotton tank top. His gaze moved from that gorgeous flesh to her lovely face, noting that her cheeks were flushed.
God, she was hot.
Instead of apologizing for his hard-on, or pretending it wasn’t there, he repositioned her on his lap, letting her feel all of him. After a moment of resistance, she reclined her body, resting her head on his shoulder. Neither of them was relaxed; he could feel her rapid breaths and quickened heartbeat. But at least they were acknowledging the need between them. Maybe now it would go away.
She held herself very still, as if trying not to squirm against his erection. He tried not to picture her in a fishnet bikini, the fabric playing peekaboo with her taut nipples, exposing the slick folds between her thighs. Nope. Not going away.
He smoothed his palm over her belly, feeling it quiver. She covered his hand with her own, pressing tight. With his other hand, he laced his fingers through hers. They stayed locked together, trembling and desperate, for what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, his erection subsided a little, and her tension eased. He thought she might fall asleep on him. If the rhythmic jostle of the highway hadn’t been broken up by annoyingly random speed bumps, he might have drifted off himself.
As they approached Tapachula, Brandon started to come back to his senses. The blood was circulating to his brain again.
Staying in Chiapas was out of the question. They had to cross the border tonight. After another close call with the authorities, they couldn’t afford to stop moving. There was also no way he could continue to keep his hands off her if they shared another tiny hotel room. The temptation to toss her down on any available surface, and throw his career out the window, was overwhelming.
He didn’t give a damn about delivering the goods anymore. He just wanted to get at her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to her. Nothing.
When the driver turned his radio down, Brandon gave Isabel a gentle shove, moving her pert bottom away from his distended fly. “Van a Guatemala?” he asked, hoping they could travel straight through.
“No. Está cerrado.”
Brandon frowned. Guatemala was closed?
“The road is closed,” Isabel interpreted for him.
“Why?”
“Por la festía.”
Her expression was blank for a moment before she clapped a hand over her forehead. “Today is All Saint’s Day.”
“Sí,” the driver’s wife said, patting the baby, who had started to fuss.
Isabel stared at Brandon. “And tomorrow is día de los muertos.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Day of the Dead. There will be a festival, parade, processions … .”
“Will the road be closed tomorrow, too?”
The driver nodded, claiming there would be no through traffic in Tapachula for the next two days. He considered this a happy coincidence. His wife sang the praises of the celebration, claiming it attracted visitors from all over Mexico and Central America.
“I’m sorry,” Isabel said to Brandon, chagrined. “I didn’t even think of it. Day of the Dead is a very popular holiday on the Isthmus, like Christmas. The townspeople gather to visit the graveyard en masse.”
“How far to the border?” Brandon asked.
The man said it was about twenty miles. Isabel was in great shape, and so was he, but they couldn’t walk that distance safely. The heat and humidity would slow them down, and they’d be out in the open for too long.
Isabel thanked the couple for the ride, exchanging pleasantries with the mother about her chubby baby, and Brandon handed the driver some cash for his trouble. They both waved as the small car sped away, leaving them near a popular hotel.
“We’ll have to stay,” she said. “At least for tonight.”
“Yep.”
She arched a brow at his clipped tone. “Would you rather see if we can rent bikes or something?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the darkening sky. It was late afternoon, and it smelled like rain. At this latitude, sudden showers were common. “Maybe tomorrow. Right now, we’re stuck.”
Her mouth tightened with displeasure. The money she’d saved was rapidly diminishing, but she wasn’t going to ask him for anything. “I’ll get us a room.”
While she went inside Hotel del Camino, Brandon surveyed their surroundings, noting the bizarre holiday decorations. Posters depicting elegantly dressed skeletons graced most of the storefronts. A group of women were hanging wreaths of vibrant orange flowers on every lamppost. In addition to the roadblock signs, there was a large paper banner at the town’s front entrance with rows of grinning skulls.
Although he knew he was in a surly mood, it seemed a little macabre—and devil-may-care—to throw a party for Death. What did the revelers do in the cemetery, dance on graves? Then again, he didn’t have any room to judge. He’d lost his virginity to his high school girlfriend at the cemetery on Halloween night.
Isabel left the hotel with a piece of paper instead of a room key. “They’re full because of the holidays. We can check elsewhere, but we might not find anything. The woman inside recommended a casa de huespedes.”
“What’s that?”
“A guesthouse or extra room offered by a host family,” she said, showing him the printout, which was a simple map of the city. “This one is in a rural area, away from the center of town.”
Brandon didn’t like the idea of imposing on a family, but he wouldn’t have felt comfortable in the hotel, either. A remote
or little-known location would be safer. And if they had limited privacy, he might survive the night.
They bought a few basic provisions at the market and grabbed some street food on the way out of town. Brandon could have eaten a dozen of the three-bite tacos Isabel purchased. The grilled fish tasted like it had jumped out of the ocean ten minutes ago, and the spicy red sauce drizzled over the top added a bright burst of flavor.
When he was finished with his to-go plate, he licked the sauce from his fingers and wished for more.
Isabel offered him fruit instead. She had a clear plastic bag filled with chopped melon. Without really thinking about it, he leaned forward, letting her pop a juicy slice into his mouth. As he chewed and swallowed the refreshing bite, she slid another piece of fruit between her lips, sucking gently.
Damned if that didn’t remind him of something.
His cynical side suspected she was doing this on purpose. She had to know she’d driven him crazy on the bus earlier today. No straight guy on earth could watch a sexy woman lick a Popsicle without picturing himself in its place.
He forced himself to stop staring at her sweet-looking mouth and focus on the journey. “Where is this place?” he asked, eying the dark clouds overhead.
“The woman said a few miles.”
They’d already walked at least three and the humidity was killing him. He felt irritable for a number of reasons. Sleep deprivation, sexual frustration, general anxiety. When thunder cracked in the sky, and the heavens opened up, his outlook didn’t improve.
They were both soaked in minutes. Isabel began to shiver, but she didn’t slow down or complain. Although his boots were weatherproof, her ratty canvas tennis shoes offered no protection from the rain. Or the pebble-strewn road, for that matter. If they had to cover several more miles, she’d get blisters.
“How are your feet?” he asked.
She gritted her teeth. “Fine.”
The dirt road turned into wet mud, slippery and thick, adding another layer of difficulty. She slid sideways, almost losing her balance. He reached out to grip her wrist, steadying her. “Let me carry you.”
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