Into the Wild (7 page)

R
IVER COULDN'T DECIDE
what had been riskier, climbing over her hotel balcony to the next balcony, then to the next two over, knocking on a stranger's sliding glass door and exiting into the hall through said stranger's room or…entering a bar on her own, a bar in a foreign country, a seedy bar patronized, as far as she could see, exclusively by men.

Her body vibrated with nervous adrenaline—a weird sort of high—as she assessed the boisterous, crowded room.

El Dosel was a smoky, dimly lit, testosterone-charged hole-in-the-wall. Taking in the decor, which could only politely be described as rustic, she reminded herself she wasn't here for the ambiance. Or even the drinks. She was here to find a guide. According to Antonio, the waiter she'd met earlier today, El Dosel was the local watering hole for tour operators and treasure seekers. Telling one from the other was impossible. But she was determined to find someone who would help her locate Henry.

That someone would
not
be Spenser McGraw. She'd never met a more infuriating, chauvinistic control freak.
Booking a hotel room across from hers? Following her every move? The man was practically stalking her.

Yet she was sexually attracted to him. Fiercely attracted.

Talk about twisted.

A purely shallow attraction, she assured herself. One that could be managed. Every time Spenser popped into her head, she kicked him aside with thoughts of David. Accommodating, sensible David—before his meltdown.

Dredging up the confidence and calm she used when speaking with potential clients or anal-retentive wedding planners, River skirted a few tables and moved to an open spot at the end of the bar.

The bartender, a swarthy, rail-thin man with a pencil mustache greeted her. Sort of. “American?”

River sighed. “Oh, good. You speak English.”

“Are you lost?”

“No.” The mere thought struck fear into her heart. She hugged her sling pack containing her GPS and map.

“I don't want any trouble. You,” he said in an accented voice, “are trouble.”

River practiced her superior people skills. She smiled. “I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name.”

“Augusto.”

“Augusto, I'm looking for a private guide. I was told I could find one here. Could you please point me toward a reliable, English-speaking, trustworthy, inexpensive guide?”

He smirked. “You ask much.”

“I'll settle for someone who knows the Andes like the back of his hand, speaks broken English and won't cost me a fortune.”

He pointed out a half dozen men.

After thanking him, River moved toward the least grungy and intimidating of the six. He was enthusiastic…until she mentioned Llanganatis.

“Wait,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you the woman who's been asking around about Professor Kane?”

At last! Someone who acknowledged her father's existence. She'd hoped not to bring his name into this. That supposed curse was a hindrance. Plus, Henry had warned her off treasure hunters and this place was full of them. But this was too promising to ignore. She urged the man to lower his voice and adopted a pacifying smile. “All I need—”

“I cannot help you.” He jerked away as though she were diseased.

Undaunted, River moved on. She got the same response from her second and third prospects. The fourth turned her down before she finished her opening line. They all knew who she was and they all put stock in the curse. These locals were downright spooked. She got the strong sense Spenser hadn't been completely honest with her. There had to be something more to the story, worse news regarding Henry's expedition. Something that legitimized the curse.

River took a calming breath. She refused to leave
without a hired guide. Maybe if she blended in, she'd put them more at ease.

She scanned the smoky bar, snorted. Blend. Right. Who was she kidding? She looked like a Barbie doll in a room full of G.I. Joes. Her only other option was to flirt. Could she play that game? Trump fears of a curse with her own seductive charm?

Uh, no.

She wasn't that worldly. She certainly wasn't that foolish. Back to blending. At the very least she could pepper her vocabulary with a few curse words and sip on a drink. River loosened her scarf and returned to the bar. “I'll have a beer,” she said, because asking for a glass of wine in a pit like this would defeat her goal.

“What kind of beer?” asked Augusto.

“What would you suggest?”

“Aside from you leaving?” Frowning, he served her a bottle of something called Pilsener.

She wanted to ask for a glass, but didn't. “Thank you.” She smiled.

He didn't.

Since she didn't see a cocktail napkin, she cleaned the lip of the bottle with the sleeve of her shirt then sipped. Pilsener tasted like Miller Lite. The danger of getting tipsy on one light beer was nil, especially since she had a high tolerance for alcohol, but she did caution herself to drink slowly. She did
not
want to have to visit the bathroom in this dive.

“Heard you're looking for a private guide.”

River looked to her right.

“I'm your man, lass.”

“Beg to differ, mate.”

She looked to her left.

“I'm your man.”

She didn't figure either was her man. But either could well be her guide. The men flanking her—one dark, one light—were rugged and intimidating and probably just what she needed to survive the inhospitable and dangerous cloud forest. They were also foreigners. Scottish? Australian? Maybe they weren't skittish about regional superstitions.

“My name is River Kane. My father is Professor Henry Kane. Does that scare you?”

They both laughed.

She thought about the journal in her sling. She'd pored over that damned journal for three straight hours. Written in broken and cryptic passages, much of the contents still baffled her. But she had found a map. At least half of a map. The preceding page had been ripped out. “I need someone to take me to a certain point in the Llanganatis Mountains. Does
that
scare you?”

One man angled his head.

The other raised a brow. “No. But it'll cost you.”

“How much?”

The blond man's lip twitched. “For starters…a few drinks.”

 

S
PENSER VACILLATED
between worried and pissed on the fifteen-minute drive across town. How the hell had River slipped past him? How the fuck had she learned
about El Dosel? Thank God for Cy. If River got into serious trouble, he was certain the man would step in. But damn, Cy was pushing sixty. Sure he was in great shape, but he was no match for several men closer to Spenser's age and build. Men who'd spent too much time alone on the trail, in the wild. Men juiced on booze and intent on ravaging a pretty young woman like River. At the very least she'd get her ass pinched or patted and an earful of lewd invitations. His temper spiked just thinking about it. River wasn't tough or worldly. She wouldn't know how to handle randy, rough-and-ready adventurers. She wasn't Jo.

Joviana Mendez.

The name conjured a rush of melancholy and shame. Her exotic features, sharp mind and husky laugh teased his senses. Spenser blocked the memories. He couldn't deal with the past
and
River's present situation.

Jaw clenched, he parked his jeep in a spot he knew well. Strode down an alley he knew well. On his previous two visits to Baños, he'd frequented El Dosel, hanging out with fellow lost-treasure enthusiasts, soaking in the stories, the knowledge, swilling mind-bending amounts of liquor. It's where he and Andy Burdett, an army buddy, had fallen head over heels for Joviana, an expert on Andean culture and legends. The closer Spenser got to El Dosel the more the past threatened to suck him in. The more he thought about Andy and Jo. He experienced a moment of ball-shrinking guilt as he crossed the threshold, but then Cy was at his side,
pointing at a huddle of cheering men, and every fiber of Spenser's being focused on River.

“Gerry and Mel roped her into a drinking game,” said Cy. “If she wins, she gets her choice of one of them as a personal guide at a discounted rate.”

Spenser knew both men. Gerry had settled in this area years ago. Mel came and went. They both made a decent living as private guides for thrill-seekers and treasure hunters. He wouldn't put it past either one of them to get a woman drunk, then lure her to bed.

“How many shots has she had?” Spenser asked Cy as they serpentined through abandoned chairs and tables.

“Just a couple. Won more than she's lost. Still, she's a wisp of a gal. Young, too.”

Kylie had described River as being petite, fair and in her late twenties. Just now, surrounded by leathery-skinned, cynical, seasoned men, she barely looked the legal limit.

Christ.

Spenser pondered the best way to whisk that “wisp of a gal” out of here without raising hell. He noted faces. Some he recognized. Some he didn't. Some nodded in respectful greeting. Others, who recognized him as the star of
Into the Wild,
regarded him with a combination of curiosity and envy. Many would welcome a brawl. He didn't want to give them one. He didn't want to land his ass in jail or to give someone a chance to make off with River while he threw punches in her defense.

When he shouldered through the huddle, River was
knocking away Gerry's overly friendly hand. He saw red, but stayed cool. He focused on River. She looked like a lamb in the clutches of wolves. Her blond curls were tousled, halo-like, around her pale, wide-eyed face. She wore the same faded denim jacket she'd worn earlier today, but she'd changed scarves. This one was fluffy and—Christ almighty—pink. Spenser shelved the erotic image of removing that scarf and tonguing her slender neck. He also shelved the thought of wringing that lovely neck. Had she no common sense? “You made your point, baby. You win. Let's go.”

He expected her to glare at him. She did.

He expected her to look drunk. She didn't.

“Spenser McGraw,” said Mel. “Long time, no see. What brings you to these parts, mate?”

He gestured to River. “My girl.”

She stiffened.

“We had a fight,” Spenser added before she countered his claim. “I won't take her where she wants to go, so she came here looking for someone who will.” He shot her a stern look. “That about nail it, angel?”

She glanced at her drinking pals, at the restless spectators. “Just about.”

The fact that she played along proved she was uncomfortable with her current circumstance. Maybe she sensed, as he did, a brewing fight.

Gerry wrapped his muscular arm around River's petite shoulders. “She doesn't sound all that fond of you, Spenser, yeah?”

“She's fond of me.” Spenser hauled River out of her
chair and into his arms. He kissed her. For show. For selfish reasons. For the thrill of it. To his surprise, she kissed him back.
Passionately.
Fire shot through his body, igniting lust and a fuckload of desires he'd considered ash. The fragile angel nearly brought this devil to his knees.

With a fricking
kiss.

“Oh, aye,” Gerry said through Spenser's lustful haze, “The lass
is
a wee bit fond of you.”

“Damn,” Mel complained.

Gerry and Mel were dogs, but they wouldn't sniff after a fellow adventurer's woman. At least that used to be their stand. He hadn't been around them in years. Hadn't been in El Dosel since…

He could feel the walls closing in. Could feel the presence of Jo and Andy.

Spenser grasped River's hand and led her out of El Dosel before he lost it. Before she came to her senses and slapped him, or kneed him, or gave him hell. Before Mel and Gerry saw through the ruse and decked Spenser in order to abscond with a beautiful, vulnerable treasure.

She tripped and lagged a little, the first sign that she hadn't been completely immune to the two shots of rum.

He was still reeling from that kiss, but she'd also stoked his temper. Once outside the bar, Spenser blew. “Do you have any idea of the danger you put yourself in?” he railed while urging her toward his jeep.

“Yes.”

“And all because you're determined to find your dad.”

“Yes.”

“I could shake you.”

“Go ahead! It'll give me good reason to sock you. Something I've been itching to do all day. How dare you stalk me!”

“I'm not stalking you. I'm protecting you. There's a difference, goddammit.”

“I could've handled Gerry and Mel.”

“Looked to me like they were handling you.” He tossed her into the passenger seat.

“Unlike you?” she railed.

“Difference is I have no intention of bedding you.”

She glared. “I don't like you, either.”

“It's not a matter of like or dislike, angel. It's a matter of morals.”

“Mel had morals.”

Spenser choked on a laugh.

“Gerry was…frisky, but Mel didn't lay a hand on me.”

“Trust me, he wanted to. And after a few more shots…
Jesus.
A goddamned drinking game? Clouding your judgment with alcohol? Putting yourself in a compromising position? What were you goddamned thinking? Strike that,” he snapped as he swung into the driver's throne. “Obviously, you weren't thinking.”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“Stop acting irresponsibly.”

“I didn't. I had a plan!”

“Did it involve sleeping with Gerry or Mel in order to secure a guide? Because that's where that scene was headed, sweetheart.”

Wide-eyed and red-faced, she squirted sanitizing liquid into her palms and rubbed her hands like she was scrubbing away vermin. “You,” she gritted out, “are an ass.”

He shifted into gear and left El Dosel in the dust. “Maybe. But at least I don't fog women's minds with liquor in order to screw them.”