Hot on the Trail Page 4

  "My father and I were very close. If he were dead, I'd know it." She shook her head forcefully. "I know he's alive somewhere out there. Just as I know he's found Naj Taxim."

  Sam found himself unreasonably affected by her earnest expression. "Why do you think he's found the one place men have been seeking for centuries?"

  "Because he's one of the world's leading authorities on the Maya, and Naj Taxim was his obsession. The fact that he didn't return from his last trip to look for the city proves he's located it. I'm afraid that he's being held captive by the people living there."

  "I'll say this for you, sweetheart, you've got one hell of an imagination." Before she could respond, something clicked in the back of Sam's mind—something unbidden and decidedly unwelcome.

  "What's your father's name?"

  "Jordan Lowell. Have you heard of him?" Davina asked hopefully.

  "We may not be the hub of civilization, Ms Lowell," he countered, "but even in Calderitas, the name Jordan Lowell garners its share of recognition."

  Damn. As he felt the heavy mantle of responsibility settling down over his shoulders, Sam wondered why he hadn't made the connection before. It must have been the tequila, he decided. In a futile attempt to forget the events of five years ago, he had numbed his brain just enough to block out the name of the one man he could never, under normal circumstances, forget.

  Sam didn't believe Davina Lowell's farfetched story about Naj Taxim. He didn't even believe Jordan Lowell was alive. Before shifting his interest to cultural anthropology—specifically the discovery of lost tribes—the scientist had developed a world-renowned reputation as a brilliant archaeologist. Sam doubted that there were any ruins left anywhere in the world that Davina's father had not explored. The man was a veteran explorer; skilled in jungle survival. If he were indeed alive, he would have made his appearance known long ago. But Davina believed her father to be alive. And until she had been proved wrong, the woman was just stubborn enough to keep looking for him.

  At that moment, Luis suddenly appeared beside the table with their dinner, giving Sam a much-needed respite from this conversation. He needed time to think, to figure out what in the hell he was going to do about Davina's absurd quest.

  Luis remained silent as he placed the steaming plates on the table, quickly escaping what he obviously perceived to be the starting battleground of World War III.

  "Eat your dinner before it gets cold," Sam instructed gruffly, waving his fork toward her plate. "Then we'll talk."

  Davina was growing extremely tired of his overbearing behavior but, seduced by the tempting aroma, she turned her attention toward her meal.

  "It smells delicious," she admitted. "What is it?"

  "Huachinango a la veracruzana. Red snapper, Veracruz style," Sam translated with a rare, genuine smile. "I think . you'll like it."

  Davina had already determined that Sam did not give away many smiles. As she felt herself succumbing to its warmth, she was strangely relieved that such occasions were few and far between. There were times, albeit fleeting, when the man could appear almost handsome, in a rough-hewn sort of way. When the craggy lines of his face softened inexplicably, when his tawny eyes warmed to sparkling gold and his teeth flashed white against bronze skin darkened even further by several days' growth of beard, Sam McGee was strangely, strikingly appealing.

  "If it tastes anything like it smells, I'll love it," she agreed quietly, dropping her eyes to her plate to keep him from seeing her confusion.

  Fortunately Sam appeared much more interested in his meal than in Davina's strange reaction to his sudden good humor. She was undeniably relieved as he allowed her to sample the exquisitely prepared fish, rice and corn in silence.

  3

  Later, over cups of rich, dark coffee, Sam returned the conversation to Davina's reason for being in Calderitas.

  "So the lady has an urge to explore the jungle." He plucked an orange from the basket of fruit Luis had placed on the table after removing their dinner plates.

  "That's right."

  He had nice hands, Davina considered irrelevantly as she watched him peel the fruit. Strong, wide, with long fingers and square-cut nails. For a fleeting moment she wondered what those hands would feel like on her body. Shaking her head with dismay at her errant fantasy, Davina vowed to stay away from Luis's margaritas. As she was unaccustomed to liquor, the alcohol had obviously gone to her head.

  "In order to find Naj Taxim, the fabled lost city of the Maya," Sam continued. Intent on peeling the orange, he missed the blatant desire that had flashed across her face. "And let's not forget your missing father, the world-famous archaeologist, Jordan Lowell."

  Davina nodded. "Right again."

  He dug his thumbnail between two segments of the now-peeled fruit. "Want a piece?"

  "Thank you." She accepted the slice of orange, relishing the explosion of its sweetness in her mouth. "It's delicious."

  "Veracruz supplies the rest of the country with most of its fruit." Sam leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a half smile. "You know," he said conversationally, "I've spent all afternoon and evening trying to decide whether you're certifiably crazy or if you've just spent too much time out in our Mexican sun."

  So he really wasn't going to take her seriously after all. Davina wondered why she had thought he might. She stood up. "How much do I owe you for dinner?"

  "Sit down," he said with a sigh. "As for dinner, it's on the house."

  "I always pay my debts, Mr. McGee."

  "Fine. So pay for your supper by telling me why you believe Naj Taxim is anything more than a myth."

  Davina eyed him suspiciously. "Why should you care what I believe? It's obvious that you've already made up your mind."

  "Let's just say you've piqued my interest, sweetheart." He motioned toward her abandoned chair.

  Secretly needing to talk to someone—anyone—about her plan, Davina sat down. "It's a long story."

  "I've got nothing else pressing to do at the moment." His tone was faintly amused.

  "Do you promise that you'll withhold judgment until I've finished?"

  "Why don't you just start at the beginning?"

  "I'm an associate professor of archaeology, specializing in Mesoamerican cultures."

  "Where?"

  "Boston University."

  "It figures."

  "What figures?" She could hear the edge of sarcasm in his voice, but was unable to discern its meaning.

  "The clothes," he pointed out. "I should have recognized that skirt; all it lacks is the obligatory alligator stamped on your backside." His tawny eyes swept over her dismissingly. "Aren't you a little old for the pretty look, Ms Lowell?"

  "If you're going to insult me, I'm leaving," she warned.

  "Go ahead." Sam's gaze shifted to the doorway. "Raoul just showed up again; perhaps you can sweet-talk him into walking you back to Molly's."

  "You're despicable," Davina said through clenched teeth.

  Sam's only response was an uncaring shrug. "So you keep telling me. Continue on with your story," he suggested as he lit a cigarette.

  Her expelled sigh ruffled her bangs. She'd come too far to give up now, Davina reminded herself. And as unattractive as the prospect was, right now Sam McGee was the only thing she had going for her.

  "My father is on staff at Harvard. Two years ago, he received a letter."

  "Stating the existence of a secret map to the lost city of the Maya."

  She looked at him in surprise. "Why, that's right. How did you know?"

  He drew in on the cigarette. "Lucky guess. What did he do?"

  "At first, he thought it was a joke—or at best a less-than-subtle scam. We both did; Brad, too."

  "Brad?"

  "Bradford Stevenson, my father's assistant. Actually," she elaborated, "Brad is beginning to develop quite a reputation of his own in academic circles. His paper on Toltec fetishes was quite well received."

  "Good for old Brad," Sam responded dryly. "I take it
Stevenson doesn't agree with your theory about Naj Taxim."

  "Not really," Davina admitted, looking down at the table.

  Sam watched her hands twist together in her lap. He was obviously venturing into sensitive conversational territory, but if he did end up going along with Davina Lowell's harebrained scheme, he didn't want to run into any surprises along the way. Like a jealous protégé—or lover—he suddenly wondered exactly how close a relationship Davina had with her father's assistant.

  "He also doesn't believe the old man's still alive."

  Davina lifted her eyes to meet his. "No."

  Sam would have had to have been blind to miss the shadow that passed over those unique blue-green eyes. Old Brad had obviously let her down. Sam wondered why he should even care that the guy had hurt her. He shook off the atypical feeling of sympathy.

  "What happened to change your father's mind?"

  "I didn't know at first," she admitted. "My father was a very busy man. He didn't have time to share all the details of his work with me. But something certainly happened to change his mind—something so important that he left before the end of the term."

  She managed a slight smile. "Actually, according to Brad, the administration was livid. But not only is my father tenured, he brings the university a great deal of prestige, so there wasn't much they could do."

  The sad little smile moved to her eyes. "I know what you're probably thinking," she said. "And you're right: Daddy is a prima donna. But he's my father. And I love him."

  Sam studied her intent face. Actually, when she wasn't arguing, Davina Lowell was a decidedly lovely woman. Not beautiful—at least not in the traditional sense of the word— but when her face was lit with enthusiasm, as it was now, she possessed an inner glow that made her skin gleam like pearls. And the intelligence in her soft-turquoise eyes added a dimension he was unused to seeing in the women of his acquaintance.

  While the cotton skirt and prim white blouse she was wearing were decidedly asexual, they couldn't entirely hide a figure that, although a little skinny for his taste, at least had curves in all the right places. All in all, Sam decided, a man could do a helluva lot worse. He wondered if she would show the same enthusiasm she felt for her work in bed, and decided that with the right man, she just might.

  He felt her looking at him curiously and realized he'd been lost in his own erotic thoughts. "You were telling me what changed your father's mind," Sam said, reluctantly returning his mind to the conversation at hand.

  Davina leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with an inner excitement that, if they had been talking about anything else, would have served to further his sensual fantasies.

  "He found proof of the city's existence."

  Sam calculated roughly how many times in the past five years he had heard a similar story: hundreds, at least.

  The legend of Naj Taxim was an evocative one, hinting at a secret city of gold, the final palaces belonging to a dwindling civilization and erected before the jungle had reclaimed its own and the Maya had all but vanished. The search for Naj Taxim had been going on for centuries. First the Spanish conquistadors had sought it, followed in turn by treasure seekers from every corner of the globe. The archaeologists came in to the Yucatan in droves, seeking a treasure that transcended the rumored bounty of gold, jade and precious jewels.

  Naj Taxim made the kind of story a man liked to contemplate while alone in the dark recesses of the jungle on a starry night. Sam had certainly thought about the lost city on such occasions. But it was sheer fantasy—as ethereal as moonlight, as unreachable as a star.

  He didn't want to begin to guess how many more wide-eyed optimistic fools would arrive in the Yucatan, clutching maps promising fame and fortune, before the world ran out of suckers.

  Davina's words broke into his thoughts. "The map is authentic," she stated firmly. "I know it is."

  "Yeah, just as authentic as the map to Atlantis the jerk sold some other mark last week. And don't forget the one for the Seven Cities of Cibola. Not to mention the one and only map to the Lost Dutchman's Mine. I hear he has those printed up by the thousands."

  "You're a cynic, Mr. McGee."

  He lifted his glass in acknowledgment. "And you're a fool, Ms Lowell."

  She lowered her eyes to the table. "Since you think so little of me, it's probably best that we won't be working together," she said in an oddly disappointed tone.

  There was something undeniably appealing about the woman when she allowed these fleeting glimpses of vulnerability. It was almost enough to make a man want to take care of her, protect her. Not wanting to ever be responsible for another living soul, Sam shook his head to clear it of that undesirable thought.

  "You can't really intend to go through with this half-baked idea."

  "Of course I do. And excuse me if I don't think rescuing my father is a half-baked idea," she retorted.

  His expression softened. The change was almost imperceptible, but there was no mistaking the genuine sympathy Davina suddenly saw in his eyes.

  "Look, I understand your concern; I also can see why the idea of your father's death would be a difficult one to accept. But—"

  "He's not dead," Davina insisted firmly.

  "You can't know that for sure. The jungle has a way of keeping its secrets."

  Her eyes met his strangely sympathetic ones calmly, levelly. "If my father were dead, not only would I know it, I would accept that fact, as well. But he's not, Mr. McGee. He's somewhere out there and I'm going to find him."

  "The same way you're going to find Naj Taxim."

  Davina refused to react to the scorn in his tone. "I happen to have done some investigative work of my own and found in my father's office an ancient manuscript referring to the existence of the map; along with a list of everyone he had corresponded with concerning Naj Taxim. The list turned out to be even more extensive than I'd first thought, so I ended up sending out hundreds of letters of my own."

  "Last month I received a letter from an individual who said he had heard about my search. He also claimed to be the man I'm looking for—the man who sold my father a map to the city a little more than fifteen months ago, right before his disappearance. Obviously that's what brought him down here."

  She took a deep breath before continuing. "Don't you see, Sam? All I have to do is get my hands on that map and I'll know where to find him."

  It did not escape his notice that in her enthusiasm, Davina had forgotten to maintain the distance of formality. She'd called him Sam. For some inexplicable reason he found himself liking what her throaty voice did with his less-than-lyrical name.

  "How much did it cost you?" he asked wearily. He hoped that Davina was wealthy enough to be able to shrug off a few hundred lost dollars. The academic world was not known for its high salaries.

  "A five-thousand-dollar down payment with the remainder due when I meet my contact at Chichen Itza."

  Sam stared at her. "Five thousand dollars?"

  Davina nodded. "That was the down payment. I still owe him five thousand more."

  Sam was struck with the sudden thought that Davina was actually carrying all that money around on her. She was lucky to still be alive. He considered that whoever had perpetrated the hoax on first Jordan Lowell, then his daughter, probably wouldn't bother sticking around to get the second half of the payoff.

  Still, if the guy was from around here, there was a chance he knew him. One thing about running a cantina in this part of the world was that every crook, con man and renegade in the peninsula came through that door sooner or later.

  "What's the name of your illustrious map salesman?" he asked suddenly.

  "I don't exactly know," Davina admitted reluctantly. "The name he used in the letter turned out to be an alias."

  Sam wasn't at all surprised by that little revelation. "Lady, you've got chump written all over you. When are you going to accept the fact that you and your father got conned, pure and simple?"

  "I know the city exists; my fat
her's manuscript describes it down to the last stone. Now all I need is the map."

  "And if you don't get it?"

  "I will." Davina could not—would not—allow herself to believe otherwise.

  "You realize, of course, that your ancient manuscript could be a phony. Like your alleged map."

  "I've had it examined," she argued. "It's dated 1519, and all the tests I've had done on the paper corroborate that fact. Have you ever heard of Gonzalo Guerrero?"

  Sam shook a cigarette from a pack on the table. "It doesn't ring a bell. Is that the name your crooked map salesman goes by?"

  Davina decided to ignore his sarcasm for the sake of a truce, no matter how tenuous. "Guerrero was a Spaniard. He and another Spaniard, a lay brother, Geronimo de Aguilar, survived a shipwreck off the coast in 1511."

  A spiral of blue smoke rose to the ceiling as Sam lit the cigarette. "I suppose this little tale of derring-do is documented."

  She nodded firmly, her tilted jaw daring him to challenge the validity of her story. "It certainly is. By several unimpeachable sources."

  Sam decided he rather liked the way Davina could look so serious about her work. It had been a long time since he'd met anyone who had a true sense of dedication. Actually, now that he thought about it, the last individual he'd met with that character trait was Jordan Lowell. Like father, like daughter, he mused. Both were single-minded, stubborn dreamers. And this latest stunt proved they were both as crazy as hell.

  "I believe you," he said simply.

  Davina was surprised by his easy acceptance. She continued her story hesitantly, vaguely waiting for a renewed argument. "Anyway, the men had been serving the Maya as slaves when Hernan Cortes learned of them and hired Aguilar on as an interpreter in the Aztec conquest."

  He drew in on the cigarette. "What happened to Guerrero?"

  As she leaned toward him, Davina's eyes gleamed like gems. "That's the fascinating part. It turned out that he'd married a Mayan woman and converted. His body had been painted in the Mayan tradition and his ears mutilated. He had also cut his tongue in sacrificial fashion."

  "Sounds like a charming fellow," he murmured dryly. "Is he the one who wrote your treasured paper?"