Hot on the Trail Page 2

  He nodded. "Not only that, I'll walk you to your hotel."

  The salt-rimmed glass had been on the way to her lips. At his words, she lowered it to the table. A bit of the icy liquid sloshed over the top of the glass.

  "I'm certainly not staying here overnight."

  He reached behind him, plucking a towel from an empty table and began casually mopping up the spilled drink. "Of course you are."

  It had been necessary to release her in order to clean up the liquid. Realizing that she was suddenly free to leave, Davina began to stand.

  "I wouldn't do that," he said laconically. "You've already managed to draw attention to yourself. If you walk out of here alone, little lady, I guarantee you're going to find yourself in more trouble than you bargained for."

  "I've got to get to the plane," she insisted, growing frantic as she looked down at her watch.

  At that moment, the steady drone of the old World War II cargo plane sounded overhead. "If that's the plane you're talking about—and it must be, because it's the only one in town—I think you've just missed it."

  "Damn. Since when is anything ever on time in this country?" Frustrated, Davina took a drink of the margarita, finding it surprisingly good.

  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "So now we can get down to business."

  "I was mistaken about that," she ground out, irrationally hating his suddenly friendly smile. "I came to Calderitas to hire someone. I thought you were that man. It's obvious that you're not."

  He reached for the bottle, then appeared to change his mind. "And you're quite an expert on men," he said quietly, lighting a cigarette instead. "What did you say about having experienced thousands?"

  "Not 'experienced.' 'Studied.'"

  He looked at her with renewed interest. "I'd heard college curriculums had changed since my time, but if it's possible to major in the opposite sex these days, I just might consider going back for an advanced degree."

  The surprising knowledge that this uncouth man had any type of college degree was overshadowed by the idea that whatever his official field of study had been, Davina would bet her last nickel that women had been his specialty.

  "I majored in anthropology," she said stiffly. "With an emphasis on Mesoamerican archaeology. And believe me, Mr. McGee, that macho attitude you've obviously worked so hard to perfect only demonstrates that some men have not evolved very far from the cave."

  If he was offended by her accusation, Sam failed to reveal it. Instead, a flicker of wry amusement teased at the corners of his lips. "Do you know I once read that every woman should marry an archaeologist?"

  "Really," she said in a tone of blatant boredom.

  His grin was swift, bold and decidedly wicked. "Really. That way, the older she gets, the more interested he gets."

  Davina shook her head, not bothering to conceal her frustration over the way this interview was turning out. "Don't you take anything seriously?"

  "I certainly try not to."

  "Mr. McGee—"

  "Sam," he corrected.

  Davina opted for middle ground. "Watch it, McGee," she warned. "You're in danger of becoming a stereotype."

  He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. "That's right, you're an expert on men, aren't you?"

  "Man," she corrected. "I'm an expert on man. A bipedal primate mammal anatomically related to the great apes but distinguished primarily by notable brain development, with a resultant capacity for articulate speech and abstract reasoning."

  "That's quite a mouthful," he said admiringly. "Is there one?"

  "One what?"

  "One man."

  Unable to resist the temptation, he reached out, allowing his fingers to play with a strand of blond hair that had escaped the thick braid at the back of her neck. Unnerved by the intimate gesture, Davina jerked her head away.

  Except for a slight narrowing of his eyes, Sam appeared unperturbed by her reaction. "Is there a man in your life, lovely—" His voice drifted off as he gave her a long look. "You haven't told me your name."

  "There's no reason for you to know it," she insisted, "since we're obviously not going to be doing business."

  "You know mine," he pointed out with whimsical logic.

  Actually, her name had preceded her by a good three hours. News traveled fast in Calderitas, and an attractive blond American was not an everyday sight. But he didn't think Davina Lowell would enjoy knowing that she had succeeded in providing entertainment for an entire town.

  Davina decided that the best way to escape this ridiculous situation was to humor him. "It's Davina. Davina Lowell."

  She glanced at the half-empty bottle. How much more tequila would it take until he passed out, giving her the opportunity to ask Luis to walk her to the nearest hotel?

  "Would you like another drink?" she asked sweetly.

  Sam appeared not to have heard her question. "Davina," he said, as if trying the name out on his tongue. "Davina Lowell." He nodded. "Good New England name. Ancestors stepped right off the Mayflower onto Plymouth Rock. You've spent your entire life in a historic red brick house in Boston, except for summers at the Cape. Your father's a lawyer, your mother occupies her time by doing charity work."

  "You have one sister. Younger," he decided after a slight pause, "who wants to be a social worker. Or a television personality… Are you trying to get me drunk, Davina Lowell?"

  "Not at all," she protested instantly, lying through her teeth. "And you're completely wrong about my family."

  "That's okay. You can tell me your life story over breakfast in the morning. I'm glad you're not stupid enough to try to get me drunk, Davina, because it'd take more than what's left in this bottle to do the job. And since my shipment didn't arrive on that plane with you today, I should probably begin preserving the inventory. What's the job you're offering?"

  "Do you really own this place?"

  "Such as it is. Not exactly what you're used to, is it?"

  "I don't spend a great deal of time in taverns."

  "Now, why doesn't that surprise me? The job?" he prompted.

  Davina took a second sip of her drink, finding it even better than the first. "This is good."

  "Luis uses fresh limes; most places use a bottled mix. Are you through stalling?"

  "I'm not stalling," she said angrily, annoyed that with time at such a premium, she had wasted so many days tracking down this man. First thing tomorrow morning she was going to search out the second prospect on her list.

  Several pairs of dark eyes were regarding her with undisguised interest. Realizing that her outburst had once again drawn an audience, Davina lowered her voice. "I was informed that you were a guide."

  "I used to be. Now I just hang around here, waiting for pretty American turistas to walk in the door."

  Davina glanced around the interior of the decidedly rustic cantina. "I can't believe you get that many tourists."

  "You're right. Most of the ones who look like you end up at Cancun." He studied her thoughtfully through the haze of blue cigarette smoke. "Actually, now that you mention it, all the ones who look like you end up at Cancun."

  "You sound as if you're familiar with the place."

  He shrugged carelessly, but Davina couldn't help noticing that his lips, which had been nearing a smile, were now pulled into a taut, grim line. "I used to spend some time there."

  Despite her avowed lack of interest in Sam McGee, his gritty tone undeniably piqued her curiosity. Try as she might, she could not picture this disreputable individual in the glittering playground of the wealthy.

  "Really? Did you own a tavern there, too?"

  Sam ground out the cigarette in a shell masquerading as an ashtray, then splashed a generous amount of tequila into his glass. Tossing back his head, he swallowed it before answering.

  "I was in a different line of work in those days. Now, if we're through with the obligatory getting-to-know-you chitchat, I'd like to get down to brass tacks. What's the
job and what are you paying?"

  Well, considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed just during the time she had been in the cantina, the man could certainly be coherent when he wanted to, Davina considered. She was beginning to realize that her initial impression might have been a bit hasty. Sam McGee appeared to be a more complex individual than he had seemed at first glance.

  "I want to hike across the peninsula."

  He had been in the process of refilling the glass, but at her words, he slammed the bottle down onto the table and stared at her. "Look, lady, if you're tired of the beaches on Cancun and want to move on to Acapulco, it's a helluva lot easier to fly there."

  "It won't work. I need to hike it. And I need a guide. A sober one," she tacked on pointedly.

  Ignoring her sarcasm, he poured another drink. "I must be drunker than I thought," he mused aloud. "You're a hallucination, right?" he asked hopefully.

  "I'm not a hallucination. But you are drunk."

  "Obviously not drunk enough," he muttered, fixing her with an irritated look. "So why don't you let me in on what possible reason a nice, properly brought-up lady like you could have to go marching around in that malarial jungle?"

  Reminding herself that of the three men on her list, Sam McGee's rather sketchy credentials were the best suited to her purpose, Davina decided to give the man one last chance to redeem himself.

  "I'm going to have to ask you to honor the secrecy of my expedition."

  He seemed to be fighting back a smile as he viewed her sober expression. "Far be it from me to breathe a single word to a living soul."

  Davina noted the sarcasm in his tone. "This is serious, Mr. McGee."

  "You were going to drop the 'Mr.,' remember?" He lifted his right hand. "I promise, on my word as a former eagle scout, not to tell anyone about Ms Davina Lowell's top-secret expedition. There—does that make you feel any better?"

  "You were an eagle scout?"

  "Why do you find that so hard to believe? We were all young once."

  Davina knew that. But a boy scout? Reform school, she mused, her gaze taking in his hard amber eyes and defiant, jutting jaw—now that, she just might accept.

  "It doesn't really matter what I believe," she said finally. "The important thing is that you give me your word."

  "You have it."

  She inclined her head in a brief, formal nod. "Thank you."

  "Of course you'll have to decide for yourself whether or not my word is worth anything."

  Once again Davina asked herself why she was even considering telling this man about her plan. It was obvious they would never be able to work together. An expedition such as this needed one person in charge. She couldn't imagine Sam McGee ever taking orders from anyone, let alone a woman.

  "You may be unprincipled, but you're just old-fashioned enough to believe that a man's word means something," Davina decided after a long, thoughtful pause.

  As Sam leaned back in his chair once again, his lips quirked. "Thanks—I think," he said dryly. "So now that I've promised to keep your secret, why don't you tell me about this mysterious quest."

  Davina took a deep breath. She had only stated her purpose aloud to one person: Brad. Expecting enthusiastic support from the man she expected to marry someday, Davina had been more than a little hurt when he had practically laughed her out of his office.

  "I'm going to find Naj Taxim."

  The chair legs hit the floor with a resounding crash. "You are kidding."

  She shook her head. "Not at all."

  His tawny eyes narrowed consideringly. "I thought you claimed to be an educated woman."

  "I am. In fact, I'm the third generation of Lowells to receive my doctorate before my twenty-third birthday," she added proudly.

  "Congratulations. So how old are you now?"

  "I'll be thirty-one in September. However, I don't see what my age has to do with anything."

  "I was just wondering how long it took a Lowell to garner any common sense," he drawled. "I guess you're late bloomers, huh?"

  Davina frowned. "You don't have to be so nasty. If you don't want to take me to Naj Taxim, just say so."

  "I don't want to take you to Naj Taxim."

  "Well, I suppose that leaves me with Alexander Morrison."

  "Morrison?" Sam growled, suddenly alert.

  "That's right. He's the second man on my list. I'm sure he won't be afraid to guide me across the peninsula—especially when it means getting his name in all the history books."

  "Morrison would have to be able to read to give two hoots in hell about that," Sam shot back. "And for your information, lady, I'm damn well not afraid."

  "That's what you say," she accused sweetly. "But it's a moot point, isn't it? Since by this time tomorrow I'll be in Veracruz, hiring Mr. Morrison to guide me to the legendary lost city of the Maya."

  "You'll have to wait a few days."

  "Why?"

  "For Morrison to get out of jail."

  Davina felt her heart sink to the sawdust-covered floor. "Jail?"

  "Jail."

  "I don't suppose you know what the charges are?" she asked hopefully.

  "He got in a fight."

  "Oh." Davina felt immensely relieved. From what she had seen of this part of the country thus far, that was standard operating procedure.

  "With the woman he lives with," Sam tacked on significantly.

  There was a long pause while Davina considered the implications of that statement. "Oh."

  "Oh," Sam mimicked. "Is that all you can say?"

  "The woman," Davina ventured tentatively, "was she hurt?"

  He shrugged. "A black eye, some bruises, couple of cracked ribs. Oh, and I heard she lost her two front teeth in the scuffle."

  "That's an obscene way to treat a woman!" Davina was truly aghast at his words.

  "Why don't you tell that to Morrison when you're alone out in the jungle with him," he suggested in a bland, uncaring tone.

  Davina had had more than enough of Sam McGee's mocking attitude. "I just may do that," she snapped, rising from the table to march toward the door. On her way out of the cantina, she stopped briefly at the bar.

  "Thank you for the margarita, Luis," she said with a genuine smile. "It was the best I've ever had."

  The young man seemed embarrassed by her words of praise, but smiled nonetheless. A moment later, a husky roadblock, dressed in the garb of a French merchant marine, appeared in her way.

  "Don't be in such a hurry to leave, cherie," the man drawled drunkenly. "Why don't you and I go for a little stroll and get better acquainted?" Gray eyes the color of cold steel roved from the top of her head down to her feet. Davina felt goose bumps rise on her arms.

  "I'm sorry," she protested, trying to move around the obstruction, "but I don't think that would be such a good idea."

  He grabbed her arm as she attempted to pass. "Have a drink while you think it over." His smile was nothing less than a leer. "Luis, my man," he called out, "a drink for the lady."

  The sailor's arm was the circumference of a tree trunk, making escape impossible as he pulled Davina against him. "We don't get many blondes in Calderitas," he said, dispatching the tie at the end of her braid with a single, deft movement. His thick fingers wove harshly through the intricate braiding, releasing lush waves that rippled over her shoulders. "You'll be a nice change."

  He said something in rapid-fire French that had the men seated at the bar laughing uproariously. Davina could tell she would be getting no help from that quarter. Her desperate eyes darted to the table at the back of the cantina. It was deserted.

  "Please, I really have to go." She hated to beg, but at this point, Davina wasn't going to worry about false pride—not when so much more was at stake.

  Ignoring her request, the sailor took the drink Luis reluctantly placed on the bar. "Here," he sneered, lifting it to her tightly shut lips, "you need to relax. One of Luis's margaritas will loosen you up so we can have ourselves a fun party."

&nb
sp; As he tipped the glass, the icy liquid ran down her chin and onto the front of her blouse. The man swore a string of virulent oaths.

  "I said, drink," he growled, his hand tangling in her hair as he pushed the glass against her lips.

  As his steely eyes dropped to the stain darkening the material over her breasts, Davina decided to fight, whatever the consequences. The man's intentions were obvious; she had nothing to lose.

  Saying a small mental prayer, she took a deep breath and prepared to make her move.

  2

  "The lady has already had a drink."

  Despite her earlier irritation with Sam McGee, Davina was admittedly relieved to hear the sound of the familiar, gritty voice.

  "So?" the French sailor challenged. "Since when is there any law against her having another? It's not like you to turn down business, McGee."

  The icy liquid sloshed onto the floor as he swayed, appearing dangerously close to passing out. "Luis, a pitcher of your famous margaritas for the lady and a bottle of absinthe for me. We're going to have ourselves a little party." His arm curled around Davina's waist.

  "I'm afraid you've misunderstood the situation, Raoul," Sam said to the Frenchman in that low, dangerous tone he had used when ordering Davina to stay at the table. "Ms Lowell is with me."

  The man's enormous hands instantly fell away, as if burned. The margarita dropped unheeded to the floor, darkening the sawdust underfoot. "Hey, Sam," he protested, backing away, holding his palms in front of him as if for protection, "I did not mean anything. I had no way of knowing that you had already staked your claim."

  "Now you do." Although Sam's tone remained soft, almost amiable, his tawny eyes were as hard as agate. He returned his attention to Davina. "Ready to go, sweetheart?"

  Her initial fear was metamorphosing into a slow, simmering rage as she realized that the sailor was not apologizing to her, but to Sam. More than anything, she wanted to tell the smugly self-satisfied man that she didn't want his assistance; that she didn't need it.

  But she could feel the interested stares of the cantina's patrons and knew that Sam had been right about one thing: Raoul was merely an example of the trouble a woman could find herself in by entering a waterfront tavern unescorted.