six came up fast. Lying down again, he headed for the rising swell and paddled hard, standing up just as it gained momentum. His footing was off by a fraction. He lost his balance and the board went flying, propelled by the force of the wave.
Managing to avoid the reef, even while the whitewash swirled like a vortex around him, he felt the tug of his leash and followed it back to the surface. After securing his board carefully, because he’d been hit in the face by a rogue surfboard too many times to count, he cast another glance at the beach. Isabel looked bored.
He redoubled his efforts. His next few tries were more successful, and he fell into a nice rhythm. Although he didn’t forget his audience, he started surfing for himself. Ten minutes after he paddled out, a set of high overheads rolled in behind him. They rose up from the sea like liquid monoliths, ten thousand gallons of pure power.
He positioned himself at the top of the swell and let it take him. The wave moved so fast he hardly had to paddle. Holding steady, he popped up, bracing his feet on the surface of the board and lifting his arms.
A split second later, he cut to the right, and the curl folded over him in a perfect hollow. The feeling was so exhilarating he let out a triumphant shout as he maneuvered through the tube, fighting to stay inside.
Now this—this was how it felt to be alive. Here, he was in his element, with a powerful wave all around him, a killer reef beneath the surface and a sexy woman waiting for him on a deserted beach.
The ride wasn’t his all-time best, but it was pretty damned good. In the top ten, for sure. He executed a serviceable cutback and sank into the whitewash as the hollow closed out, narrowly avoiding a run-in with the razor-edged reef.
When he broke through the surface, he steadied his board and wiped the water off his face, laughing out loud from the rush.
Isabel was gone.
His smile faded as he searched the edges of the mangrove for a glimpse of her retreating form. There was only a trail of small footprints heading into the jungle. She’d ditched him as soon as he got distracted. It was bad form, but not necessarily suspicious. He was a strange man; she had cause to be wary.
Instead of running after her, he waded out of the water and followed at a steady pace. This particular beach was only accessible by boat or via a twisty footpath. If Isabel’s Jeep hadn’t been parked by the side of the road, surf rack half-hidden by foliage, he’d never have found the entrance.
And if she hadn’t written an “anonymous” article about this little-known spot for a popular surfing magazine, he’d never have found her.
Brandon still didn’t know where she lived, but he knew what she drove, and Puerto Escondido wasn’t a big city. He could probably locate her residence in short order. He could also tie her up and throw her in his trunk, if he had to. But strong-arm tactics were a last resort, and he wasn’t supposed to make a scene.
He didn’t want to alert the Mexican authorities—under any circumstances.
So he hitched his surfboard under one arm and navigated his way through the tangle of vines beyond the beach. The jungle appeared impenetrable. There were a few machete marks on the thick palm fronds, forming a barely discernible path. He could smell decomposing vegetation and recent rain. Life and death, blended.
Birdcalls echoed through the pungent depths. A buzzing sound started, growing louder in his ear. He slapped the mosquito on his neck, killing the noise.
After a summer in breezy San Diego, the humidity took some getting used to. The instant the salt water on his skin evaporated, beads of sweat formed on his chest. The jungle seemed to suck up every breath of air and inch of space. It was dark, too. When his eyes adjusted, he could no longer see footsteps on the ground, only hacked-up edges of plants and fallen leaves.
His surfboard shifted, growing slippery against his armpit.
He reached the edge of the clearing in time to watch Isabel’s Jeep fly down the road, leaving him in the dust. Squinting at the sudden brightness, he stared after her, his blood pumping with adrenaline.
She was faster than he’d expected. Stronger, more resourceful. He was going to enjoy catching her.
Chapter 2
Isabel didn’t lift her foot off the gas until she was five miles away.
She flexed her fingers around the steering wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror once again, her heart racing.
There was nothing behind her but dust.
Brandon had parked his rental vehicle, a midsize SUV, behind her Jeep. If he wanted to, he could follow her.
But why would he want to?
She took a deep breath, trying to relax. She’d run through the jungle like a maniac, half-convinced he was chasing her. Maybe she was overreacting, but his unexpected arrival had shaken her to the core. Leaving her back to the beach had been careless. She usually looked over her shoulder everywhere she went.
How could she have let him sneak up on her?
Muttering curses, she traveled south on the main highway for another mile before she pulled over, parking her Jeep behind a copse of trees. There she waited, monitoring the light flow of traffic as the sun crept high in the sky.
Brandon’s silver SUV passed by less than fifteen minutes later, his shortboard sticking out of the back like a white flag.
She’d known at a glance that he didn’t belong here. It took an experienced surfer to handle that break, but he wasn’t a pro. He didn’t travel with an entourage of photographers. His board was a rental. Big shots brought their own gear.
He wasn’t a burnout, either. Puerto Escondido attracted its share of scraggly potheads who were more interested in getting blazed than honing their surfing skills. Brandon didn’t fit that mold at all. With his close-cropped hair, clean-shaven jaw and sharp blue eyes, he looked like a straight arrow.
He was also hot as hell. His features were rugged and masculine, his physique taut. Something about him suggested wealth or privilege. He was wearing light gray boardshorts and nothing else. He had muscles like an endurance athlete, not a heavy weight lifter. She could have stared at his chest all day.
Her first reaction to him had been panic. She’d registered his height and broad shoulders and assumed he was one of Carranza’s men, come to kill her. Realizing that he wasn’t Mexican didn’t ease her anxiety. It wouldn’t have surprised her if the drug lord had recruited an assassin from outside the cartel. But Brandon had wasted the perfect opportunity to take her out, and he didn’t look like a thug.
Maybe she should have had lunch with him.
Shaking her head, Isabel started the engine and pulled out of her hiding place, following his SUV back to town. It wasn’t smart to get distracted by a killer body and a handsome face. Over the past few days, she’d felt uneasy, as if someone was watching her. Perhaps Brandon was the culprit.
He stopped at The Pelican, a nice hotel within walking distance of the most popular beach in Puerto Escondido. Isabel made a left on the nearest cross street and circled around, catching a glimpse of him entering the hotel courtyard.
She continued driving, hoping
