looked over his shoulder, spotted the uniformed policía standing on the corner. “Don’t do it, River.”
She arched a stubborn brow.
He met her obstinate glare. “I have news about your father.”
She visibly faltered.
“Is this hombre bothering you, señorita?” the cop asked in broken English.
“No, I…” She tore her gaze from Spenser, smiled sweetly at the approaching lawman. “I just wanted to thank you for…keeping the streets safe.”
Spenser translated for the man, added his own praise, then guided River toward his jeep.
“This better be good,” she gritted out.
“Actually,” he said, fighting the mystic pull of the Llanganatis, “it’s bad.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
RIVER BRACED HERSELF for the worst as Spenser steered his jeep toward the outskirts of town. He had news about her father. Bad news. “I never mentioned Henry to Kylie. How do you even know who he is?”
“You don’t want to know. You won’t like it.”
She didn’t press. It didn’t matter. Had she risked everything for nothing? Was she too late? Had Henry truly sacrificed his life for some stupid Inca gold? She blew out a breath and blinked away tears. Losing control wouldn’t do. Instead, she fostered anger. Her father had had the gall to send her his journal, to write that letter, to say he loved her…only to die?
Selfish to the end. “Bastard.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
River noted the stern-faced man behind the wheel. Today he was wearing aviator sunglasses and a variation of the clothes he’d worn last night. Brown cargo pants, trekking boots and baggy layered T-shirts. Sloppy never looked so good. She wished he had hair growing out of his ears or a fat wobbly wart on the tip of his nose. Anything to make him less attractive. She felt shallow and guilty for being so enamored with his rugged good looks. At least he was annoying today. Near as she could tell he’d left his good humor in Quito. “I wasn’t talking about you. Although, if the shoe fits…”
“Guess you’re still not yourself.”
“What?”
“Last night at the airport, you apologized for being rude. Said you weren’t yourself.”
The observation chafed. She was kind and tolerant by nature. And when she had to, she could fake nice to even the nastiest people. A quality that benefited her since she was in a people-pleasing business. But with Spenser… She blamed her lack of good humor on the extraordinary circumstances, most of which she couldn’t share.
“You followed me against my wishes, snooped into my history and now you’re about to share bad news.” River hugged herself against a chill that had nothing to do with the mild temperature. “Forgive me if I’m not feeling warm and fuzzy toward you, McGraw.”
He glanced sideways. “At least you dropped the mister.”
The chill gave way to scorching heat. This man radiated a primal aura that set her blood on fire. “This is insane,” River mumbled to herself. Given her feelings for David and the impending bad news, she had no business having lusty thoughts about Spenser. Although maybe it was a defense mechanism. Something to distract her from dark thoughts. As much as she resented Henry, she didn’t want him dead.
Unnerved, she looked away from Spenser and focused on the scenery. Buildings had given way to mountains covered in lush green vegetation. “Where are you taking me?”
“Someplace private.”
“If you’re afraid I’m going to have a meltdown when you deliver the news, don’t worry, I won’t. I didn’t even cry when David abandoned me at the altar.” Oh, hell. Why had she told him that?
“This is for me as much as you,” he said, skating over talk of her wrecked wedding. “I needed to get out of town for a while.”
She glanced at him. “Why?”
“Let’s just say I have a love/hate relationship with Baños.”
He veered off the road, taking a bumpy route through a dense copse of trees.
Where there are trees there are bugs.
She wasn’t fond of any bug, especially fire ants—nasty, stinging, blister-inducing creepy crawlers—but she feared mosquitoes. Specifically anopheles mosquitoes. They transmitted malaria. They killed one to three million people annually. Because her mom and grandma had recounted her brush with malaria so many times, River had become obsessed with the disease. She’d researched the subject to death. Anopheles mosquitoes typically attacked in the evening and early morning.
Evening was fast approaching.
She’d taken precautions—an antimalarial drug, bug spray, protective clothing. She still felt at risk. As Spenser drove deeper into the trees, she buttoned her denim jacket and looped her extra long gauzy scarf twice more around her neck, covering as much skin as possible.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little,” she lied. Across the way, River spied a waterfall. Frothy water gushed over the craggy mountain face between and an endless variety of trees. Momentarily distracted, she gaped at the breathtaking sight. “Beautiful,” she whispered, aching for the camera she’d left in her room.
“I’ve always thought so.” After parking, he rounded the jeep and handed her out.
Old-fashioned sensibilities.
River found that quality both attractive and annoying. She really disliked the way his innocent touch incited a sensual tingling. “I asked several locals about my father. No one had ever heard of him,” she blurted as they walked a narrow trail. “How is it you learned something?”
“I asked the right person. Someone who wasn’t afraid to talk about him.”
“Why would anyone be afraid to talk about Henry?”
“They think he’s cursed.”
Maldición.
River had a lot of quirks, but she wasn’t superstitious. Still, she had a bad feeling about this curse business. She waited for Spenser to explain. He didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t one for walking and talking. Willing patience, she kept stride and kept quiet. It wasn’t easy. Watching for flying blood suckers of death, she spritzed the air in front of her with insect repellent and walked through the life-saving mist.
“Have a thing about bugs, River?”
“Everyone should have a thing about bugs. Especially the kind that transmit deadly diseases.”
“Won’t argue with that.”
“But?”
He
