case, and Professor Bovedine’s funeral was scheduled for tomorrow. Bad enough River wasn’t attending, she wasn’t about to add to the housekeeper’s grief by nagging her about the missing package. She knew River was keen to know the contents. The woman would call as soon as she found it. If she found it. And if she didn’t…
River nixed the idea that whatever Henry had entrusted to Professor Bovedine was forever lost. Obsessing wouldn’t do.
Shoving aside dark thoughts, she washed her hands once, twice and then splashed cool water on her face. Slightly refreshed, she used her elbow to manipulate the towel dispenser—a quirk she’d picked up from Grandma Franklin. “Public restrooms are infested with germs,” the woman was fond of saying. “Never touch surfaces and never, ever sit on the toilet seat.” She’d drilled the notions into River until she not only believed but practiced the rituals. If she did touch something, she attacked the germs before they attacked her. “Better safe than sorry” was almost as common a cliché in her family as, “It’s for your own good.”
Swear to God, the next person who said anything close to that was going to get the toe of her all-weather trekking boot up their…
Well, at the very least she’d tell them to mind their own beeswax. Playing it safe had cost her a would-be husband and saddled her with a business she wasn’t even all that crazy about.
Irritated now, River powdered her face and applied tinted balm to her lips. Ridiculous, since she planned on heading straight to her hotel and dropping into bed, but what if she miraculously ran into David? Stranger things had happened. Like her father and her ex being in the same foreign region at the same time. Not that she wanted to impress David. The plan was to give him a piece of her mind. To say all the things she should have said when he’d humiliated her in front of the preacher and thirty-eight wedding guests. She had a lot of questions, too. She wanted answers. Needed closure. She didn’t want to reconcile with David, although the more she thought about it, maybe she did.
She’d used that very excuse for zipping off to South America when she’d spoken to Ella. And then again with her friend Kylie. “I’m going to get back my life. I’m going to fight for the man I love.”
Romantic saps, they’d believed her. Although Kylie had insisted on hooking River up with her brother Spenser McGraw, who, as fate would have it, was also in Peru. “He knows the area,” she’d said. “You don’t. It’s unsafe for a woman to travel in that region alone.”
Maybe so. But no way, no how did she want to “hook up” with Spenser McGraw. The man hosted a treasure hunter show for the Explorer Channel.
Beware of the hunters.
She’d thanked Kylie for her thoughtfulness, but adamantly declined. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” (True) “I know what I’m doing.” (Lie)
Unfortunately, Kylie was bullheaded, insisting she had River’s best interest at heart, which only irritated River more. Did everyone view her as fragile? The phone call had ended badly, with Kylie questioning River’s state of mind and River doubting Spenser’s integrity. The moment she’d realized she’d hurt Kylie’s feelings, she’d apologized and hung up.
Before she made things worse.
River felt bad, but her blurted insult had come from an honest place. She’d never met Spenser, but she knew his type. If he visited his family twice a year, that was a lot. His preoccupation with legendary treasures and his career kept him in the field. McGraw was cut from the same cloth as Henry, therefore Kylie had cut him off at the knees. The man was a home-grown local celebrity, yet she was probably the only person in the county, heck, the state, who’d never seen his show. She had no interest whatsoever in a self-absorbed adventurer like Spenser McGraw. How Kylie worshipped her brother, even when she cursed him, was beyond River. Obviously they shared some sort of bond that River had never experienced with Henry. Ever.
Melancholy and angry, River freed her hair of the elastic band, fluffed her curls and reevaluated her appearance.
Lack of sleep. Jet lag. Frayed nerves.
“This is as good as it gets.”
She slipped her makeup bag into the pocket of her sling travel pack, pulled out her hand sanitizer and squirted. Airport regulation had allowed her three ounces. She was almost out. Luckily, she had a few larger bottles packed in her big duffel, along with other crucial necessities, including sunscreen, bug spray and antimalarial drugs. Ella would call her paranoid. River preferred cautious. People died from tropical diseases. She’d almost been one of those people. She didn’t remember anything about her battle with malaria—she’d only been two—but her family had drilled the fiasco into her head. Along with the time she’d gotten sun poisoning in Egypt, attacked by fire ants in Thailand and lost in Mexico.
Suddenly fearful about being separated from her suitcase, River hustled out of the bathroom and toward baggage claim. Thank God for the diagrams on the signs. As long as she had direction. As long as she knew where to go.
Her head throbbed, her chest ached. It couldn’t be a relapse, she calmly told herself. The symptoms were wrong. This was exhaustion. Lack of sleep and food. Stress. She wondered about Henry. Was he happy? Frightened? Dead?
His journal was tucked safely in her travel pack, along with her passport, wallet, handheld GPS system and other essentials. She’d reviewed his notes on the plane, but her eyes had kept blurring and her brain kept glitching. There was a lot to absorb, not all of it pertaining to his current predicament, and, though she knew she should’ve focused on clues about a South American treasure, she’d been mesmerized by the photographs tucked between the pages. Her mom had kept scrapbooks, but these had been in Henry’s possession. The family shots intrigued her most. Why had her father kept pictures of her when he was sorry she was ever born?
I love you. Since when?
Squashing conflicting emotions and ignoring her tight chest, River searched for the correct baggage carousel. So much luggage. So many people. Most of them speaking languages she didn’t understand. She felt a little overwhelmed. No, a lot overwhelmed. Maybe that’s why it was difficult to breathe. Maybe she was gearing up for a panic attack. She’d had them before. Whenever she felt lost. Only she wasn’t lost. She was at the Mariscal Sucre International Airport. And she certainly wasn’t alone. If she needed help, all she had to do was ask. Preferably someone who looked like they spoke English.
Like the man coming straight toward her.
European or American. Late thirties or early forties. Hard to tell from this distance. But his stride and posture telegraphed the confidence of a mature man. A sexy, secure man.
Wow.
Cropped sandy-brown hair and vivid green eyes contrasted greatly with his sun-bronzed skin. His mouth was…to die for. And the crinkles around his eyes suggested he smiled often, sort of like now.
Good Lord. Was he smiling at her?
He was still a few feet away and she was fuzzy around the edges. Even so…he looked familiar. If he wasn’t a male model, an actor or a rock star, he should be. Tall, fit and rugged. Even his cargo pants and baggy layered T-shirts couldn’t disguise his muscled physique. Maybe he was a sports celebrity.
She’d seen him before. Where, dammit? A magazine? A commercial?
If she could move, she’d nab her 35mm from her rolling bag. Her fingers itched to photograph male perfection.
River
