Kitabı oku: «To Protect a Princess», sayfa 3

Chapter 4

He’d lost his mind. He’d gone over the edge, spiraled out of control, broken his most critical rule.

“I’m sorry about your horse,” Dara said from beside him as they hiked up the trail from the bridge.

Logan grunted. The missing gelding was the least of his problems right now.

“You don’t think he’s lost, do you?”

“He won’t go far.” His words came out brusque, rougher than he’d intended, and he clamped his already rigid jaw. She didn’t deserve his bad temper. It wasn’t her fault he’d lost his self-control.

But damn, he was angry. Angry that he couldn’t complete that freight run. Angry that he was trapped in the mountains with another vulnerable woman. Angry that he’d given in to the insane desire to kiss her.

And hungered to do it again.

He hissed, struggled to get a hold on his ragged temper as he strode up the dusty path. What was wrong with him? Bad enough that he was stuck with her for the next few days, that he was responsible for keeping her safe. He couldn’t compound the problem by doing something he would regret.

His body wouldn’t regret it.

He slid his gaze to her sweet, full breasts, and his blood surged. This woman had riveted him since the moment he’d seen her. And she’d felt better than he’d imagined—soft, sultry. And the way she’d reacted to that kiss, shivering, rocking against him, making him burn for more.

Disgusted at himself, he picked up his pace on the rocky slope, battled the need that pounded his veins. So they had chemistry. Staggering chemistry. The kind of chemistry that tempted a man to break every rule and blind himself to the past.

It didn’t matter.

He had no business touching Dara. Not now. Not ever. She was off-limits to him. Prohibida.

And they had a treacherous trek ahead of them. It would take days of hard riding to get her across the mountain to another town. He couldn’t afford a distraction that could get them killed.

He lifted his head, determined to get his mind on track, but a flash of light across the river made him stop. He frowned, focused on the trees crowning the opposite ridge, felt the skin shiver in the back of his neck. Was someone there? Those renegades should have given up, headed down to a village by now. Or had he only imagined that flash?

The wind rose, keening through the stark stone canyon, spiking the air with the threat of rain. He narrowed his gaze on the woods, remembered the plume of dust he’d seen on the trail.

And a deep sense of foreboding rippled through him. He wasn’t a fanciful man. He’d bet his gelding there was someone else on that ridge. Which meant he had to keep his wits about him—and end this madness with Dara now.

He turned his attention to the woman beside him. The breeze whipped her silky hair loose, and she tucked the stray strands behind her ears.

“Look, Dara.” Her eyes swiveled to his, and he gentled his voice. “I’m sorry about that—” that moment of mind-blasting pleasure “—for what happened back there.”

A blush flared on her cheeks, turning her skin a dusty rose, and she folded her arms under her breasts. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Sure it was.” He could have—should have—stepped away. He rubbed the back of his neck, appalled by how badly he’d lost control. “It won’t happen again.”

“I understand.”

She sounded hurt, not relieved, and he frowned. “Do you?”

“Sure.” Her gaze skidded away. “You thought I was reckless.”

He bit off a laugh. “Darlin’, that was the entire problem. I wasn’t thinking at all. You made me burn.”

Her blush deepened, but her eyes locked on his. “I did, too,” she whispered. “I thought it was…amazing.”

Heat rushed to his loins. A hot surge of hunger clawed at his gut. And the desire to go to her, to stroke those soft, ripe curves, to ravage her lips, her mouth, slammed through him so hard that his hands shook.

He hauled in a breath to cool his blood, but he couldn’t disguise the need in his eyes, the ache that was pounding his veins. Everything male in him reacted to the promise in her voice, that kiss.

Against his better judgment, he stepped close, too close, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. He inhaled her scent, felt heat rising from her velvet skin, hungered to bury himself in her warmth. “You’re playing with fire, darlin’.” His voice scraped the quiet air.

He reached out, stroked his palm up that silky throat, traced the delicate line of her jaw. Her breath hitched, her pulse stumbled under his thumb, sending a rush of lust through his blood. And her dark, wild eyes stayed locked on his—mesmerizing, aroused.

Fire blazed inside him, a deep, carnal pull that incinerated his nerves. “But be damned careful what you offer,” he warned her, and his voice turned huskier still. “Because I’ll take it. Don’t think I’m better than any other man.”

Especially when they were out here alone.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, flicked back up. Desire burned in those witchy eyes, along with a hint of doubt. And that stopped him. He despised losing control, liked being manipulated even less.

He dropped his hand, stepped back, putting some badly needed air between them. He knew all about guilt. He dreamed it, breathed it, shouldered the crushing weight of it day after relentless day. And he’d be damned if he’d add more regrets to the list.

No matter how tempting this woman was.

His temper rising again, he turned on his heel, tried to pull his mind away from the need. She’d been warned. Now he had more important things to worry about, like how to keep her safe.

The trail wound along the bluff above the plunging gorge, through tall, parched clumps of grass. He picked up the pace, anxious to find his horse, feeling too exposed on the open cliff.

But then another flash of light caught his eye.

He stopped, scanned the opposite cliff. He hadn’t imagined that flash this time. That had been sunlight glinting off glass.

He watched, his lungs still now, his pulse drumming a slow, steady beat. The wind teased the hairs on the nape of his neck, ruffled the tufts of dried grass. There was no movement, no sign of life on the opposite ridge.

“What’s wrong?” Dara asked, stopping beside him. “Are those men still there?”

“I doubt it.” He didn’t move his gaze from the trees. “They’re probably heading to the nearest bar by now.” They’d lie in wait, drink up their courage, plan to ambush them when they came off the hills.

Someone was out there, though. He knew it, as surely as he knew how to breathe. He scanned the cliffs again, the sunbaked earth sloping to the blown-up bridge. Nothing moved. But he’d learned the hard way not to ignore his instincts. And his nerves screamed that someone was on their trail.

Someone more deadly than the local thugs.

“Is it…there isn’t someone else out there?”

He caught the anxiety in her voice, and his heart rolled. He shifted his gaze to her. “You have reason to think there’d be?”

“No.” Her dark eyes slid from his.

Was she lying? He studied the nervous pull of her lips, the worry creasing her delicate brow. And his suspicion rose. If she’d led him into a trap…

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked, her voice pitched higher now. “I mean, nobody can get across since you blew up the bridge.”

“There’s another place,” he said, still not taking his eyes off her. “Another bridge about an hour ahead.”

She nibbled her lip, met his gaze, the worry clear in her eyes. “And someone could cross there?”

“Maybe. It’s on an old trail. Most people don’t know it exists.” And the bridge hadn’t been maintained in decades, not since a landslide blocked it off. It would take a desperate man to try to cross.

But he knew all about desperation, the lengths it could drive a man. And if someone was out there, he needed to know. Only a fool headed into these mountains unaware.

He wasn’t a fool. And he wouldn’t let any woman, no matter how appealing, turn him into one.

But he was a man without a horse, without supplies.

Without much time.

“Come on.” He turned abruptly, stalked up the slope, shot a frown at the darkening sky. Storm clouds were moving into position over the mountains now, their lead-lined bottoms edging out the vibrant sky. And rain could be deadly out here, bringing on flash floods and mudslides. But they needed to find out who they were up against before they headed to higher ground.

Dara caught up with his long strides a second later. They walked in silence up the slope, their boots thudding on the hard dirt. “So how do you know about the bridge?” she asked.

He reined in the suspicion building inside, slid her a glance. If she was lying, he’d find out soon enough. “I use the old trails when I’m hauling silver or gold.”

“You’re a miner?”

“No. I’m not that desperate.” Not anymore.

“What do you mean?”

He paused, whistled for the gelding, then caught up to her again. “You’ve never seen a mining town? They’re slums,” he told her when she shook her head. “Worse than slums. There’s no running water, no sanitation, no laws. Just violence and disease. Mercury poisons the water, the air. Human waste runs in open pits down the roads.”

His mind flashed to the squalor and suffering, the dull hopelessness in the children’s eyes. The same blank look he would have had in his eyes if he’d stayed.

He thinned his lips. “The mines are worse. They’re not fit for animals. The operations up here aren’t modern, and there aren’t safety regulations or laws—at least none they enforce. Tunnels collapse. Men die. The miners chew coca leaves all day so they’ll be numb enough to dig.”

“But…that’s awful,” she said, and stopped. And he saw the horror in her eyes, the shock. “Why would anyone live like that?”

“Desperation.” A feeling he knew well. “They either dig or die. There’s nothing else they can do.”

Her gaze stayed on his for a beat, and something moved in her eyes, a glimmer of understanding, empathy. She looked away.

They started walking again, and for a long moment neither spoke. Their footsteps crunched on the hard dirt path. A hawk glided past, then banked on a current of air. “Is that why you have the dynamite?” she finally asked. “For the miners?”

“Yeah. I haul the finished metal down to the nearest town and bring back supplies. I was supposed to meet a miner in that village, but he didn’t show.”

Her gaze slid to the pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and a small crease furrowed her brow. “Your job sounds dangerous.”

He shrugged. “Most men leave me alone.”

Instead, they’d attacked his wife.

The thought barreled out of nowhere, catching him off guard, and he scowled. He never dwelled on the past, never discussed his wife. He didn’t have to. He would carry the burden of her death until he died.

“Logan.” Dara touched his sleeve, and he stopped, looked into her sultry eyes. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to cause problems for the miners or keep you from your job.”

The concern in her eyes drew him in, pulling him deeper, sparking a flicker of warmth in his chest, the flame of a long-buried need. Tempting him to move closer, to surround himself with her gentleness, her sympathy, her ease.

He shook himself, jerked his gaze away.

But he had to admit she seemed to care, more than his wife ever had. María had hated the mountains, resented the time he’d spent away from her, blamed him for taking her from the city she loved.

In the end, she’d been right to despise him. He’d failed to protect her. He’d let her die. Hell, he’d even failed to find the men who’d killed her. Her murderers still walked free.

And now he had another woman’s life in his hands.

The earth vibrated under his feet then, and the drumming of hooves interrupted his thoughts. Tension whipped through him, and he grabbed her arm. “Back here.” Moving quickly, he jerked her behind a boulder beside the trail.

“Isn’t that your horse?” she whispered as he pushed her down.

“Maybe.” But he wouldn’t take any chances until he was sure. He blocked her from view, tugged the pistol from his jeans, took position behind the rock. But she pulled out her own gun, and he shot her a warning glance. She’d better not do anything rash. That had been damned reckless behavior back at the bridge.

Behavior he’d better nip fast.

The gelding trotted into view, and she started to rise. “Wait.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder and held her down.

The gelding scented them, came to a halt, but Logan didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the trail, listened hard. The cool wind brushed his face. Sparrows chirped from a nearby bush. When a chinchilla crept into the path, he finally let Dara go.

“It’s clear. Hey, Rupe.” He tucked his pistol away, strode to the horse.

“Is he all right?” Dara asked from behind him.

He circled the gelding and checked his hooves, eyed the lather dried on his coat. “Nothing a brush won’t fix.”

“I’m glad.” She reached out and stroked the gelding’s nose. “He’s a gorgeous horse.”

“He’s smart, loyal. That’s more important than looks.” In horses or people.

Another lesson he’d learned the hard way.

He checked the cinch, the packs, then glanced at Dara again. Her cheeks were flushed. Shadows smudged the skin around her eyes. Loose strands of hair had escaped her braid, and gleamed like black silk against her neck.

She looked weary, disheveled. His sympathy rose, but he quickly crushed it down. He couldn’t afford to indulge her. He couldn’t even fully trust her. They had a long, dangerous trek through the mountains before he could get her to a decent town.

Time to make that clear.

“You’re in for a rough ride,” he warned. “The trails are narrow and steep, the air thin enough to make your lungs burst. And the rains are coming. That’s going to make it miserable, muddy, and cold.”

Her full lips flattened. “Don’t worry. I can make it.”

“And there isn’t much food. I work alone, so I don’t carry extra supplies. So if you’ve got some Roma rule about sharing food, you’re out of luck.”

“I said I can make it. I’m stronger than you think.” She lifted her chin, and challenge glinted in her velvet eyes. “And I’ve never been one to follow the rules.”

Heat bolted through him, and he scowled. This wasn’t the time to remember their kiss. “You’ll follow my rules. We’re not playing around out here. A mistake in these mountains can get you killed.”

She straightened her back, opened her mouth as if to protest, but he drilled his gaze into hers. “I mean it, Dara. When I say run, you run. That was damned reckless what you did at the bridge. You either obey my orders or you’re on your own.”

He saw the mulish look in her eyes, but he held her gaze, making sure she understood. Survival wasn’t a game. He’d seen too many people die to play around. She finally flushed and looked away.

Satisfied, he held out his hand. “Give me your bag. I’ll tie it on the horse.”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Not willing to waste more time, he swung himself into the saddle, then reached down and hauled her up.

She settled behind him, and he wheeled the horse around, then urged him into a lope—and tried not to think about the soft curves pressed to his back, the ecstasy of that kiss. Because he wasn’t kidding about the urgency. If there really was someone out there, he needed to find out fast.

He pressed the horse into a gallop, depending on the hard ride to keep his mind on track. But despite the danger, despite the pace, his unruly mind kept veering to the swell of her breasts, to the soft, moist heat of her mouth, returning to that kiss again and again.

And he couldn’t help wondering how much experience she had—or which rules she’d be willing to break.

By the time they reached the bluff above the abandoned bridge an hour later, his frustration was reaching the flash point. He slowed the horse, then reined him in by a eucalyptus tree, glad for the short reprieve. “We’ll stop here for a minute.”

He helped her off, winced when she staggered away from the horse. But he bit back his words of sympathy. She might be stiff now, but the ride would get harder yet.

He leaped down after her, pulled his binoculars and rifle from the pack, while she hobbled toward a bush. He didn’t loosen the gelding’s cinch. If someone was out there, they had to be ready to ride.

His nerves ratcheted tight now, he crept as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared, and crouched behind a rock. The canyon was deep, hedged in by bluffs stripped bare by the constant wind. A hundred feet below him, the ancient rope bridge swayed over the plunging gorge like a stringy, tattered net.

Still using the boulder to shield him, he rose, scanned the opposite ridge for signs of life, careful not to let the afternoon sun catch the binoculars’ lens. The trail leading down to the bridge was steep, treacherous even before the landslide had blocked it off. Now it would be suicidal to even try.

He charted a path through the landslide debris, angled the binoculars down.

And stopped. Right there, picking his way through the rubble, was a man leading a mule.

Logan’s lungs went still. He zeroed in on the man, noted the ammo pouches on his assault vest, the Dragunov sniper rifle slung over his chest. Former military. Moved like a professional.

And he’d come armed to kill.

Logan didn’t believe in coincidence. That man was hunting them. But why? The dynamite in his packs wasn’t worth much, except to the miners who needed supplies. And he wasn’t hauling silver or gold.

Which left the woman.

His mouth thinned. The renegades wanted her for obvious reasons. There weren’t many females around. And a terrorist might try to hold her for ransom, to fund some personal war. But a sniper? Why would a sniper pursue an archeologist?

Unless the woman had lied.

Her footsteps crunched behind him, and he rose. His face burning, so angry he couldn’t speak, he seized her arm and yanked her back through the trees, his vision hazing with every stride.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding breathless. She trotted beside him to keep up. “Is someone there?”

“You might say that.” He stalked to the horse and released her arm, his blood rushing hard through his skull.

She’d lied. The damned woman had lied. Just what the hell was she up to?

“So what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice anxious, high. “Blow up the bridge?”

“No.” The cliff was too unstable, too exposed. And that sniper would pick him off before he could set the charge.

Which left two choices. They either outran that man or they died.

He sprang into the saddle, jerked her up behind him. “We’re going to ride hard,” he warned. “You can use the time to think.”

“Think?” Her hands clutched his waist.

“About the truth.” He twisted in the saddle, and his gaze nailed hers. “Because when we stop, you’re going to tell me what you’re really doing out here.”

Chapter 5

Dara had never seen a more furious man. Tension vibrated off Logan’s shoulders and powerful back as he stood in the rocky ravine, watering his horse at the creek. His jaw was clamped in a rigid line, his profile as unyielding as the granite slabs on the towering peaks. Anger simmered in every move.

The cool wind gusted up the narrow canyon with a rumble of thunder, and she shivered and rubbed her arms. For the past two hours they’d climbed at a reckless pace, cutting across plunging hillsides, backtracking through shallow stream beds, edging around valleys so steep she’d grown dizzy when she’d braved a glimpse down.

And Logan hadn’t spoken the entire time. He’d been restless, alert, checking frequently for signs of pursuit, his AK-47 at hand.

The thunder rolled again, drumming through her aching forehead, and she glanced uneasily at the darkening sky. The land had stilled, the air hushed as the storm approached, turning as ominous as Logan’s temper.

And just as ready to explode.

He left the creek and prowled back to her then, leading his hulking horse. She eyed the barely leashed power in his forceful strides, the dark eyes burning beneath the brim of his weathered hat.

And a sudden flutter skimmed through her nerves, hummed in her blood. Angry or not, everything about this man appealed to her. Just the memory of that kiss made her body pulse with heat.

He stepped close, forcing her to look past his steel-hard chest to meet his eyes. And that virile maleness swamped over her again, that electric awareness that made her forget to breathe. She pressed her hand to her belly to quiet her nerves.

“All right, let’s have it.” His deep voice broke the charged silence. “What are you doing out here? And I want the truth this time.”

She turned to the gelding, stroked the elegant nose sloping beneath the silver brow band, buying time while she chose her words. Her colleague had warned her not to tell anyone about the dagger, not even Logan Burke. The danger of theft was far too great.

But Logan didn’t care about treasure. He helped the miners, made a living hauling silver and gold. She slid him a glance, eyed the taut grooves bracketing his masculine mouth, the implacable planes of his face. And she knew that she could trust him. This man was honest, honorable. She felt it down to her bones.

“I told you I need to find Quillacocha, the lost Inca city,” she said. “And that’s true. I do need to find it. But not to study the tomb. I’m looking for the dagger, the Roma dagger. The one from the legend—the Gypsy’s Revenge.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t move. He continued to watch her, alert, intent, like a dangerous predator studying his prey. Only a slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes indicated he’d heard.

“You probably know the story if you’re part Roma,” she said. It was a standard childhood tale. The Indian goddess Parvati, impressed with an eleventh-century king’s courage in battle, rewarded him with three sacred possessions—a necklace, a dagger, and crown. Combined, these treasures gave the Roma king the power to rule the world.

But then a hot-headed prince rose to the throne, lusted after a forbidden virgin, and misused those powers to take her. Heartbroken and disgraced, the woman cursed the Roma king and condemned the Gypsies to roam.

Soon afterward, the Roma were driven out of India, their priceless treasures lost. Generations of archeologists and fortune hunters had searched for the treasures ever since.

Logan shifted, made a low, rough sound of disgust. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Who hasn’t? That necklace was in the news for months.”

Dara nodded. The discovery of the necklace in a Spanish bank vault had rocked the world—and not just because it was Nazi war loot. It was proof that the treasures existed, that the legend had a kernel of truth. And when the Spanish government decided to return the necklace to its rightful owners—the Gypsies—experts from around the world had converged on the palace to get a closer look.

She’d been there that fateful night. She’d stood behind her parents as they waited to receive the necklace—and watched them die.

The memory surged, catching her unprepared, and she clutched the gelding’s neck. She closed her eyes, struggled to ward off the inevitable parade of images—their splattered flesh, their pooling blood, her mother’s vacant eyes.

She swallowed hard, battled the nausea rising in her throat, tried to push the horror aside. She’d had three months to come to grips with her parents’ murders. Three months of flashbacks, nightmares, grappling to find logic in two tragic, pointless deaths.

She opened her eyes, dragged her gaze to the unyielding man beside the horse. “I don’t know where the crown is,” she said quietly. “No one does. But the dagger is here in Peru. I’ve studied documents from the time of Pizarro, the conquistadores. And about two months ago, I figured out where it is.”

“In Quillacocha.” His voice was flat.

“Yes, in the royal tomb.” She tightened her grip on her pack—the backpack that contained her research, the diagrams of the tomb, proof in case anything happened to her. “I’m sure it’s the Roma dagger. The description fits it exactly—the patterned wootz steel they used in India at the time, the gold hilt inlaid with amber, the engravings of the sun and moon. And once we get to Quillacocha, I know exactly where to look.”

“The only place you’re going is the first town over the pass. You can get a bus to Cusco, and then a flight to Lima from there.”

“But—”

“Forget it.” His eyes turned fierce, and her heart beat fast. “There’s no way I’ll take you to Quillacocha. It’s going to be dangerous enough trying to cross that pass. I’ll be damned if I’ll risk your life—or mine—for a chunk of gold.”

“I’m not going to keep it.” Even the idea shocked her. The dagger was a symbol for the Roma people, an artifact steeped in legend, history. A treasure so ancient, so powerful, that a secret society was slaughtering her people to find it. Their people, since Logan was Roma, too.

“I’ll hand it over to the authorities as soon as I get it,” she said. “My colleague’s taking care of the permits now.”

He shook his head. “I don’t care what you plan to do with it. It’s still not worth your life or mine.”

He was wrong. She was her people’s leader. She had a duty to keep them safe—even if it cost her life.

“I don’t have much choice,” she said, subdued now. “I have to find it.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Not for her. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “Either way, I intend to find it. The Roma need that blade. It will get them pride, hope for a better future, for justice.”

“Justice?” He let out a bitter sound. “If you believe that, then you’re a fool.” He leaned toward her, and the sudden anger in his gaze made her want to step back. “No one cares about justice. Not for the Roma, not anyone. In this world, only the strong survive—and they look out for themselves.”

She stared at him, appalled by his cynicism, at the bitterness tingeing his voice. “But…that’s not true. How can you say that? You care. You help the miners. You haul their silver and gold.”

“That’s my job. I’m not doing it to be nice.”

“I don’t believe that.” He risked his life to carry that gold. And he’d returned to the bar to save her.

“Believe it.”

“But—”

“I’m not a hero,” he warned, his voice so fierce she stepped back. “So don’t make me into one. I live alone, work alone, and I don’t get involved. Not with you, not anyone. Not for anything.”

His words lashed at her, his fury underscored with something starker, something that sounded like pain. He turned his broad back to her and stalked away, leading his gelding to a rocky ridge.

Her stomach churned as she watched him go, at the darkness she’d heard in his voice. She knew all about pain, about guilt. She lived with the terrible irony that her parents—the beloved royal couple, respected and revered by their people—had died while she, the one not worthy to lead, had survived.

But unlike Logan, she didn’t have the luxury of withdrawing into the wilderness and living alone. She had a duty, a responsibility to her people. And they desperately needed her help.

She followed him along the rocky trail to the outcrop, then stopped a short distance behind. She studied the set to his powerful shoulders, the tension in his rigid stance.

And she knew that even if he refused to help her, she owed this man an apology. Whatever had happened to him in the past, whatever had driven him to this lonely exile, he didn’t deserve more grief.

Thunder rattled the earth again, making the gelding prance, and the sky turned darker yet. She shivered, moved closer to Logan, tried to figure out what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, her voice subdued. “I couldn’t tell you about the dagger at first because I didn’t know if I could trust you. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Not you, not the miners. I didn’t know they’d have to go without their supplies.

“If you don’t want to help me, I understand.” Her voice quivered, her throat closed up at the thought of hiking these mountains alone. Even in the few hours she’d spent with him, Logan had made her feel safe. “But I have to find that dagger. I can’t give up.”

She stepped beside him, placed her fingers on his iron bicep. He flinched, and she dropped her hand. “If you won’t take me there…” Her stomach lurched, and she sucked in a breath. “Could you at least draw me a map, tell me where it is?”

He turned around then. His hard gaze clamped on hers, and her pulse sped into her throat. He moved close, so close she inhaled his potent heat, felt the sexual pull of his mouth. “There’s only one problem with your story, darlin’.”

“What?” she breathed.

“You’ve got a sniper on your trail.”

“A sniper?” Shock rippled through her. “Are you sure?”

“I know what I saw.”

Her head felt light. A stark chill crept up her back. She’d hoped, prayed, that it was only an antiquities hunter on her heels, a rival archeologist who’d gotten wind of her find. But a trained killer…that could only mean…She shivered, suddenly shaky, and pressed her trembling hand to her lips.

“I’ve seen plenty of archeologists in these hills,” he continued, and his hard gaze drove into hers. “Treasure hunters, drug smugglers, revolutionaries. But that man’s a pro. And he’s hunting you.”

“He’s not…” Her voice faltered, but it was pointless to evade the truth. Logan deserved to know what they were up against. She’d forced him into this mess.

“I think he’s a member of that secret society, the Order of the Black Crescent Moon.”

Logan didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on hers. The wind gusted again, lashing them with freezing rain, but she ignored the drops, the cold. “You’ve heard of them?”