Hot on the Trail Read online

  Hot on the Trail

  By

  JoAnn Ross

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Epilogue

  "I don't remember asking you to wash my back."

  "Of course you did," Sam replied. "You ask me to touch you every time you look at me, whenever you smile at me with those soft, inviting lips. Your skin flames when I touch you. Here. And here."

  His fingers traced a line of fire down her throat and around each breast, leaving sparks on her skin. Davina was burning for him, her need unrestrained. She pulled his head down to her lips. "Kiss me," she demanded. "Really kiss me."

  His thumbs brushed against her nipples as he gave her a long, deep kiss. She tasted delicious. Sweet. Forbidden. "You're incredible," he said huskily. "Where have you been all my life?"

  "Boston," she whispered. "I've been in Boston."

  The flames that had been flickering between them flared, and he murmured, "At last I've found something to love about Boston."

  JoAnn Ross is a wonderfully prolific writer with such a vivid imagination that she never fails to delight us and readers with each new story. She was drawn to the setting for Hot on the Trail by her interest in Mayan culture, and to the theme by her love of vicarious adventure. "Real adventure," she says with characteristic humor, "is hard to come by when you're alone with your word processor."

  JoAnn and her husband live in Phoenix, Arizona.

  Books by JoAnn Ross

  HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

  77-DUSKFIRE

  96-WITHOUT PRECEDENT

  115-A HERO AT HEART

  126-MAGIC IN THE NIGHT

  137-PLAYING FOR KEEPS

  153-TEMPTING FATE

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  27-RISKY PLEASURE

  36-BAIT AND SWITCH

  For Cherry Campbell Wilkinson,

  who can always make me laugh,

  even when it hurts

  Published September 1987

  ISBN 0-373-25271-4

  Copyright © 1987 by JoAnn Ross.

  1

  Davina Lowell was an attractive woman. A damned good-looking woman, Sam McGee amended. She was also trouble with a capital T—trouble he had every intention of avoiding. He sat in the shadows nursing his drink as he watched her struggle to adjust to the lighting—no small feat, considering the contrast between the blazing outdoor sun and the dimly lit cantina. Eventually successful, she began tentatively looking around the room.

  While her dark blond hair and light-colored eyes—either blue or green; at this distance he couldn't quite tell—gave evidence that she was not a local, her impatient air indicated she could have come from another planet. If she was going to hang around Calderitas, she was going to have to learn to relax, Sam considered idly.

  Then he shook his head in self-disgust. His mind must be going soft from the tequila he'd drunk today. That woman stick around here? He eyed the bottle suspiciously; next thing he knew, he'd be tidying up the place for Princess Di.

  It was the weather, Sam assured himself, seeking an excuse for his uncharacteristic drinking. The temperature was in the nineties, the humidity nearly as high. The predawn thunderstorm, instead of cooling things down, had only added to the stultifying discomfort. The still air was pregnant with moisture, rendering the rusty paddle-blade fan next to useless as it creaked slowly and steadily overhead.

  The monsoons had driven more than one man to drink. When the rainy season came to this lonely, barren Yucatan Peninsula, the crime rate rose, doctors reported an increase in headaches, neuralgia and nervous complaints, and the hospitals' psychiatric wards became more crowded with each passing day.

  Still, Sam was forced to admit, he had never been one of those adversely affected by the monsoons. He had taken them in stride, as he took the heat, the dust, the blazing Mexican sun—and the isolation.

  When that excuse fell depressingly flat, he tried telling himself that today's birthday was to blame; after all, forty was a milestone in a man's life—a time to take stock of the past, to weigh deeds and misdeeds as one would entries in a ledger. Since that idea hit a little too close to home, he wondered how many years would have to go by before he could forget the past and look forward to the future. He had exiled himself from friends and family for five long, desolate years, and the pain had not ceased.

  It had admittedly lessened somewhat. At least now he was able to forget that debacle in the Amazon for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. That in itself could probably be seen as progress, Sam decided; down here one measured such things with a different yardstick than in the civilized world.

  Uncomfortable with such introspection, Sam returned his attention to Davina Lowell. He'd never seen a woman so obviously out of her realm. Unaware of Sam McGee's silent study, Davina surveyed the patrons of the tavern with definite misgivings. Although she hadn't expected Cary Grant, she had been hoping for someone who at least didn't remind her of an escapee from a chain gang. Any one of half a dozen men could be the individual she had come here to meet; not one of them looked at all promising. Taking a deep breath, Davina reminded herself of the importance of her mission as she crossed the room to the bar, her head held high, her spine stiff.

  The bartender proved to be the most promising subject yet but, in his mid-twenties, he was too young. His dark-brown eyes surveyed her with overt appreciation.

  "Senorita," he greeted her, his smile a flash of white in a dark complexion. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for a man," Davina began tentatively, aware of the fact that she had garnered the attention of every male in the room. She could feel several pairs of dark eyes burning holes in her back.

  With fingers that trembled only slightly, she dug into the pocket of her slim cotton skirt. She didn't need to turn around to know that the cantina's clientele found the gesture fascinating. Despite her nervousness, Davina managed to extract a folded piece of paper, which she handed to the bartender.

  "This man," she said.

  The young man's eyes widened as he read the name. "Are you sure this is the man you seek?"

  Davina inclined her head. "Very sure," she answered with far more aplomb than she was feeling at the moment. "I was told that I could find him here."

  For some reason that Davina could not discern, the bartender appeared caught between dueling loyalties. She was familiar enough with the Latin male to know that above all, he relished the opportunity to be of any small service to a lady. Yet something was definitely keeping this man from revealing the whereabouts of her quarry.

  Watching the little drama from his table concealed in the shadows, Sam shook his head in disgust. While her plain cotton blouse and skirt were a far cry from a seductive ensemble, they couldn't entirely conceal her slender but decidedly feminine curves. Didn't she realize that for a lone woman to walk into a place like this was like waving a red cape in front of a bull? Heaving a weary sigh of resignation, he pushed himself up from the table.

  "Is there a problem?"

  At the sound of an obviously American accent, Davina spun around, looking upward into a pair of tawny-gold eyes. "No problem at all," she said. "I was merely asking the bartender a question."

  "Is that so?" Sam's slow, lazy gaze moved over her. Her eyes, he noted, were neither blue nor green, but an incredible shade of turquoise. "Perhaps I might know the answer."

  Davina didn't like the masculine glint in the man's eyes. She belatedly realized that by coming in here without an escort, she had put herself in a perilous position. But it wasn't as if she had
been given any choice. Besides, if she couldn't handle one expatriate American masher, she had no business being here in the first place.

  "I doubt it." Her clipped tones designed to dismiss the rude stranger, Davina turned her attention back to the bartender. "Do you know where I can find Mr. McGee?"

  "Why are you looking for McGee?" the deep voice behind her asked.

  Davina didn't bother to restrain her irritation at the interruption. She was hot, tired, sweaty and losing patience by the minute. She hadn't come all the way to the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico to play Twenty Questions.

  "That's between Mr. McGee and myself," she snapped.

  Sam took her arm, deliberately turning her away from the bar. "Then you're in luck, sweetheart," he drawled. "Because you've just found him."

  As she stared up at the man, Davina's bleak gaze took in the hard amber eyes, the grim smile framed by several days' growth of black stubble. On top of his less-than-admirable appearance, she could detect the unmistakable aroma of alcohol.

  "Don't tell me that you're Sam McGee?" she asked with a groan.

  "Don't worry that pretty little head about a thing." Sam assured her. "While I'll admit that you're not seeing me at my best, I assure you that I'm up to anything you have to offer." His grin, rakishly suggestive, held no genuine warmth.

  "I came here to discuss business," Davina insisted, digging in her heels as he appeared prepared to drag her across the floor.

  If he was at all disturbed by her stiff tone, Sam gave no evidence of it. "So come into my office and we'll talk," he said, leading her to the table at the back of the room. "Luis," he called out to the bartender, "get the lady a drink." He eyed her thoughtfully. "A margarita."

  "I'd prefer water," Davina objected. "It's a great deal warmer than I expected."

  "It's the humidity; not many tourists come down here during the rainy season. Actually, not many tourists make it down here to Calderitas the rest of the year, either," Sam amended. "Make that a glass of water," he shot back over his shoulder. "And a margarita."

  He slung his body back into the recently vacated chair. "Something wrong?" he asked, looking up at Davina curiously when she remained standing beside the table.

  Davina wondered what on earth had made her expect this roughneck to hold her chair for her. She sat down and folded her hands primly in her lap.

  "Nothing's wrong," she assured him with feigned calm. As she heard the outrageous falsehood leave her lips, Davina decided it had to be the understatement of the century. From the moment her plane had landed, she had been experiencing a vague, ominous feeling of impending disaster. "If you don't mind, Mr. McGee, I'd like to get right down to business."

  He held up his hand. "Whoa, right there, lady. As a matter of fact, I damn well do mind. I don't know how it is where you come from, but down here in Calderitas, we don't believe in rushing things."

  "I understand that, but—"

  "Unless it's friendships." He poured a splash of the clear liquid into a glass. "Are you in favor of cultivating new friendships?" he asked amiably.

  "In the right circumstances. With the right people."

  Sam's eyes narrowed as he sipped the drink thoughtfully. "That might tend to narrow the field a bit."

  "It most certainly does," Davina agreed briskly. "Now. Mr. McGee, about my business offer—"

  "Call me Sam," he invited expansively. "We don't go in for formalities down here." He threw back his head and tossed off the tequila. When he refilled the glass once again, Davina made the decision that it was past time to leave.

  "Well, this has certainly been an enlightening conversation," she said brightly, not wanting to do anything to set him off. Davina had the distinct feeling that Sam McGee could be a very dangerous man if pushed. "But it appears that I was mistaken, Mr. McGee. I'm afraid I was looking for someone else."

  When she made a move to rise from the table, iron fingers suddenly curled around her wrist. "Sit down."

  He had not raised his voice but there was a dark, ominous look in his eyes that affected her more harshly than the loudest shout. She sank back down onto the wicker chair.

  "Really, Mr. McGee, I have to be leaving if I'm going to catch the afternoon flight out of town."

  "You haven't had your drink yet." He glanced over her shoulder. "Here comes Luis now. You wouldn't want him to think you didn't appreciate all his efforts to make that margarita, would you?" He gave her a mirthless smile. "Most of our patrons are willing to settle for something a helluva lot less fancy."

  Realizing that at that moment she wasn't presented with a myriad of choices, Davina weakly smiled her gratitude to Luis as he placed her drinks on the scarred wooden table. The young man smiled back encouragingly. Then, taking in Sam's granite face, he backed away from the table and faded into the smoke-filled room.

  Forgetting every lesson she had ever been taught about drinking foreign water, Davina gulped it down thirstily. Coming at this moment, after that long hot flight and the dusty walk to the cantina, the icy liquid tasted better than Dom Perignon.

  "You do that very well," she said at length, feeling worlds better now that she had quenched her thirst.

  Sam's only response was an arched brow.

  Davina tilted her head in the direction of the bar. "That air of silent intimidation. Poor Luis looked as if he were afraid you'd break him in half if he so much as uttered a single word to me."

  There was a rough, gravelly sound to Sam's answering laughter, as if he didn't do it very often. '"Poor Luis' killed a man with a knife before he'd celebrated his twelfth birthday. What makes you think I could intimidate someone like that?"

  Davina didn't have to consider her answer for more than a fleeting second. "He may have killed someone," she said decisively, her turquoise eyes drifting back across the room to study the young man who was busily wiping the bar with a rag, pretending to ignore her silent scrutiny. "But it was in self-defense. And even then the act didn't come easily." Her gaze was calm as it settled on Sam's face. "You, on the other hand, would probably have no compunction about killing another human being."

  He eyed her over the rim of his glass. "You seem to have me all figured out."

  She waved away his words with a delicate flick of her wrist. "You're not that complex."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "I've dealt with thousands of men a great deal like you."

  It was Sam's turn to look surprised. "Thousands?"

  If she was a hooker, she was without a doubt the classiest one he'd ever seen. And that included those who resided in decorated Manhattan penthouses that cost more to maintain for a week than this place earned in a year. He wondered if she could actually be suggesting working here.

  Is that why she had spent the day going all over town looking for him? Word of Davina Lowell's arrival had spread like wildfire, and he was forced to admit to some curiosity as to why she was searching him out.

  For some reason he could not discern, Sam was vaguely disappointed to discover her motive was one of the oldest in the book. Putting her to work would certainly draw the tourist crowd, he was forced to consider for a moment. Then, reminding himself of all the reasons he was living here in the Yucatan, miles from civilization, he sighed.

  "Sorry, sweetheart, but I'm not hiring any girls right now. Not that you wouldn't bring some class to the joint, but I run a clean shop. No smuggled artifacts, no drugs, no girls."

  He shrugged as he took another drink of the tequila. "Not that I wouldn't be willing to sample a bit of your hospitality—just in case you need a reference."

  As Sam's words sank in, Davina stared at him, not knowing whether she should feel flattered by the fact that he thought her attractive enough to make a living selling her body, or enraged that he'd believe her willing to ply her trade in what could only charitably be called a dump.

  "You're drunk."

  He lifted his glass in a silent salute. "The lady's perceptive as well as beautiful. However, in this case, you're dead wrong, s
weetheart. I'm a long, long way from being drunk—unfortunately."

  Davina had no intention of sitting by, watching this uncouth lout drink himself into oblivion. Besides, in ten minutes the plane would be taking off. If she didn't make it there in time, she'd have to spend the night in this unappealing waterfront town. At the moment, she couldn't think of any less attractive scenario.

  "I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor," she said stiffly. "If you keep it up, you should be out cold in no time at all. Now, if you'd be so kind as to unhand me, I'd like to leave."

  Sam glanced down at Davina's slender wrist, as if he had forgotten he was still holding it. "Can't," he finally said. "You haven't sampled Luis's margarita yet."

  Davina tugged her arm, discovering that she had only succeeded in encouraging his fingers to tighten further. "I don't suppose it would do any good to threaten to scream?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. People around here tend not to stick their noses into other people's business; it's a good way to get them cut off. Besides, you're a lot safer with me than you'd be with any of those bandits."

  "Oh, really?" Her tone was laced with thick sarcasm.

  "Really. As a general rule, I tend to prefer my women willing." His amber eyes scanned the room. "Unfortunately, several of these gentlemen aren't nearly so fastidious."

  His words tolled a warning in Davina's head. She had been so bound and determined to succeed in this that she had refused to admit to the hazards involved in her expedition. Now she was forced to admit that she might have gotten herself in over her head before she had even begun. Realizing that he was telling the truth about his disreputable patrons, Davina decided that the only option open to her at the moment was to humor Sam McGee. To a point, she added silently.

  "If I stay and drink Luis's damned margarita, will you let me go?"