Tempted by His Target (9 page)

If she turned herself in, she’d probably go straight to jail, trading one miserable existence for another.

And if she didn’t, she was destined to keep running forever.

The bus station was busier than she’d anticipated, and the terminal was filled with early-morning passengers. She bought third-class tickets, the only kind available in many rural areas, to Tapachula. From there it would be a short trip to Guatemala.

While they waited for their bus to board, she paid for a cup of yogurt at the snack shop. Brandon bought a ham and cheese torta from a female vendor on the sidewalk, washing it down with fresh-squeezed orange juice.

“How long will it take to get to there?” he asked.

“All day.”

“Can we cross the border tonight?”

She shrugged. “It depends on the bus schedule. We’ll probably have to wait until morning.”

He didn’t ask what they would do after they crossed the border, assuming they made it that far. The La Familia drug cartel was determined and resourceful. They had no qualms about bribing the authorities or harming innocent people. Isabel hoped Carranza’s men were on a wild-goose chase to Mexico City, but she couldn’t bank on it.

“We’ll be entering an area called the Isthmus,” she said. “There are rebel soldiers here, and all throughout Chiapas, so the government has its own men patrolling the area. We can expect military checkpoints and routine searches.”

He emptied his container of juice. “Great.”

“Foreign travelers have been sympathetic to the rebels, so they’re often targeted for questioning.”

“And for handouts?”

“Yes,” she said, inclining her head. “Like the local police, military men will accept money when it’s offered.”

“That’s a polite way to describe highway robbery.”

She stiffened, getting defensive. These weren’t her people, but after several years in Mexico she felt compassion for them. “Most government employees can’t afford to feed their families on the wages they’re paid. Do you know that mailmen work for tips? Hunger, not greed, is the real motivation.”

He smiled easily, his teeth a brilliant flash of white. “Sounds like you’re a rebel sympathizer.”

The teasing accusation caught her off guard. She’d been too busy looking out for herself to worry about politics or human rights. On the other hand, the Mexican government’s corruption had sealed her in quite neatly, and she resented that. If La Familia had less power, she’d have more freedom. “I have enough problems of my own.”

He couldn’t argue that point.

“If we’re questioned, let’s say our passports got stolen,” she continued. “We’ll pose as a couple on vacation. I’ll be…Maria Garcia.”

“Am I Mr. Garcia?”

“Whatever. Pick a first name.”

“Ben.”

She committed it to memory and they worked out a few more details, waiting until the bus was about to leave before boarding. If the authorities were looking for them, specifically, it wouldn’t matter what they said, but it made her feel better to have a plan in place. As the bus pulled away from the station, she glanced around for suspicious characters. The other passengers appeared to be regular people on their way to work. Every few miles, the driver collected more. Soon the bus was full.

Isabel had become accustomed to this mode of travel. She liked listening to the friendly chatter of passengers and watching the landscape change. The road to Tapachula was scenic, marked by rolling hills and rocky cliffs. But on a day already fraught with tension, these elements were hardly relaxing.

Unflappable as ever, Brandon made a pillow out of the crook of his arm and leaned his head against it, ready to drift off.

She noted that he looked tired, rather than bored. “Did you sleep last night?”

“I was letting you sleep.”

Her mouth dropped open. “What about the night before?”

He made a noncommittal sound, drowsy.

She calculated the hours he’d dozed in the back of the cab as two or three, at the most. No wonder he was exhausted. Although it was smart to rest in shifts, with one person standing watch, Isabel was annoyed with him for taking the sole responsibility. Who did he think he was, her bodyguard? More importantly, how much time had elapsed after her towel slipped off, and before he covered her?

A flush crept up her neck as she thought about him ogling her while she slept. Last night, in the bathroom, he’d wanted her. His eyes had burned with it, his face stretched tight across his cheekbones. She hadn’t been aware of his interest at first. His reluctance to stand had been a clue, and his heated gaze another, but he hadn’t tried to touch her.

Why?

Having sex with him was a bad idea; the situation was complicated enough. Even so, the chemistry between them was sizzling and she longed to act on it. If he’d kissed her, rather than initiated a conversation, she probably would have melted in his arms.

It had been so long—she might have exploded.

While he slumped against the window, his breathing deep and even, she squirmed beside him, restless and frustrated. Brandon struck her as a man who knew his way around the ladies. He assessed risk for a living. Surely he understood that making a move had a higher success rate than asking permission. Either he didn’t think she was worth the effort, or he had serious reservations about going to bed with her.

How conceited she’d been to assume his motives were sexual! She’d enjoyed believing he would endanger his life for a chance to get in her pants. Apparently, he’d rather admire her nude body from afar than touch it with his bare hands.

Maybe he just wasn’t that into her.

She studied him from beneath lowered lashes, irritated by his mystique. His sunglasses were still on, his head resting against his bent arm. His other arm was draped across his lap, obstructing her view. She wished she’d done a more thorough examination of his manly parts last night, when he’d most assuredly been aroused.

With a heavy sigh, she pulled her gaze away from him. It was useless to blame Brandon for not trying hard enough to seduce her. She was the one who’d said no. What would have happened if she’d removed her towel instead? He might have taken her against the wall, right then and there.

Shivering at the idea, she pulled her notebook out of her messenger bag. Reading over the article she’d outlined just two short days ago made her heart ache with regret. Once she crossed the border into Guatemala, there’d be no turning back. If she purchased fake documents, she could keep traveling, but she’d never see Playa Perdida again.

She doodled in the margins, her thoughts drifting. Instead of penning an ode to surfing or a standard travelogue, she fantasized about rewriting history. In her former life, she might have fallen for Brandon at first sight. She pictured a handsome young man and a flirty young woman meeting on a deserted beach. They enjoy an amazing surf session and she accepts his offer to have lunch. Then he invites her to lounge at his hotel pool. They sip piña coladas all afternoon…and she passes out drunk.

Isabel scribbled over her drawing of an umbrella-topped beverage and tore the page from the notebook, crumpling it up.

Maybe her reasons for avoiding intimacy were just as complicated as Brandon’s. She’d never had sex sober. Most of her encounters had been sloppy and soulless, hard to remember, best forgotten.

Inside, she still had the same insecurities. The emptiness that had compelled her to seek male attention was still there. But now she couldn’t dull her inhibitions with drugs and alcohol. She wasn’t a party-loving, barely legal bad girl anymore, either. Sex with Brandon might be an awkward disappointment for both of them.

While she pondered this disturbing crux of her life, in which all of her problems seemed to have collided into one another, Brandon slept on. They passed smog-burping mescal factories and endless rows of agave. She could almost taste the sharp, smoky flavor of the potent liquor they produced.

Finally they arrived at Arriaga, a midsize industrial no-man’s-land. The bus driver announced a thirty-minute break for refueling. Brandon roused at the sound of the intercom, glancing around.

“Let’s go,” she said, dying to stretch her legs.

He shrugged into his backpack and followed her down the aisle, ducking his head as they exited the bus. After using the restrooms, they strolled through the open market, browsing the local crafts and produce stands. He bought some snacks for the road and she selected a coconut Popsicle, unwrapping it on the way back to the bus stop.

“Do you want to switch seats?” he asked.

Nodding, she preceded him. Her butt was already numb from sitting, but it was nice to have a window view. She expected him to slouch down and fall asleep again. Instead, he watched her eat the Popsicle, moistening his lips.

She licked a creamy drop from the underside. “Want some?”

A flush crept up his neck. “No thanks.” It was almost noon, and incredibly hot inside the bus. She could see sweat gathered at his hairline and feel the heat of his body next to hers. Although he smelled like deodorant and hotel soap, some of the other passengers sported an earthy, unwashed odor.

Turning her face to the window, she finished her Popsicle. The scent of hard work and soiled clothing and even farm animal by-products didn’t bother her so much these days, but she preferred a clean breeze.

“Why did you start surfing?” he asked, out of the blue.

She put the Popsicle stick away and took a quick sip of water, contemplating the question. “I grew up a few blocks from the beach. There were always surfers walking down the sidewalk in front of my house. I never got tired of watching them on the waves.”

“And you wanted to learn?”

“Not at first. My mom wasn’t the sporty type, and I wanted to be just like her, so it didn’t occur to me to try until I was eleven or twelve. Then I started noticing the surfer girls—and how much attention they got from the boys.”

He smiled, acknowledging this universal truth. A bikini-clad female with a surfboard turned heads everywhere she went.

“My dad bought me a pink shortboard one summer, and he paid for lessons. He was so proud when I won my first contest.” The memory was bittersweet, because her parents had disagreed about her involvement in the sport. Her father had encouraged her to travel the world, reach for the stars. Her mother had wanted her to stay home, be safe. “Later that year, he got remarried, and…”

“What?” he pressed.

She lifted one shoulder. “He didn’t visit anymore.”

His mouth twisted with derision. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. He didn’t visit much before—they’d been divorced since I was five—so I was thrilled by his interest. I kept surfing, and winning, thinking if I just tried a little harder, did a little better, he’d come back again.”

“But he didn’t?”

“No. Never.”

“What an asshole.”

She laughed a little, agreeing with him. But her eyes felt hot and her throat tight, because after all these years, it still hurt. “How about you?” she asked, lobbing the question back at him. “Why did you start surfing?”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “My mom surfs.”

“No way,” she said, delighted.

“She taught me the basics when I was a kid.”

“That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Groaning, he lifted the lenses of his sunglasses to massage his eyes. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

She laughed again, reassessing his appeal. With his strong features, rock-hard body and rumpled appearance,
cute
wasn’t the first word that came to mind. But, like it or not, he seemed to have developed a sensitive side, along with a delicious set of muscles, and that didn’t take away from his masculinity in the least.

If anything, it made him more attractive.

“My dad’s athletic, too, but his sport is football,” he said.

“And you do both?”

He nodded. “I played ball in college but wasn’t pro material.”

Forcing herself to look away, she stared out the window once again. He abandoned the conversation and dug into his backpack, finding a magazine to read. She did a double take when she saw the cover:
Wave
.

“Where did you get that?” she asked, breathless.

“On the newsstand in San Diego,” he replied. “Why?”

Her first article, “Lost Beach,” was published inside. She hadn’t received an author copy and she’d never seen her words in print before. “I heard they were doing a piece on Puerto Escondido.”

“They did,” he said, flipping to the right page. “Check it out.”

Trying not to appear overeager, she accepted the magazine, her heart racing as she pored over the glossy pages. The two-page spread had several wide-angle shots of Playa Perdida, taken by a professional photographer. In bold italics, an insert read, “I’m alone in the barrel. It’s a jade-green hollow, deadly tropic, filling my soul with exhilaration.”

Her lips parted with pleasure, her eyes soaking up every detail.

“Good, right?”

Realizing he was watching her intently, she attempted to school her features into a less ecstatic expression. “Do you think so?”

“It inspired this vacation.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I had some time off and I wanted to take a surf trip. I was considering Mexico but dismissed Puerto Escondido as too well-known, and a little too big, to be honest. After I read the article, I changed my mind.”

Isabel couldn’t imagine a nicer compliment to her work. “What about it appealed to you so much?”

Leaning close to scan the pages, he said, “The idea of doing something totally original and a little bit crazy, I guess. There’s a line about what it means to be on top of the world if no one’s around to see it. I could relate to what he was saying about self-validation and getting away from the crowd.”

“He?”
she repeated.

Brandon looked up from the text. “What?”

“The article is anonymous.”

“Oh, right.” He settled back in his seat, regarding her with curiosity. “You think a woman wrote it?”

Damn her impertinent tongue. She closed the magazine, shoving it toward him. “I don’t have any idea.”

“It has a masculine slant. ‘Conquering virgin territory, riding untried waves.’”