such as flowers and trees. The odors in the air ranged from spicy perfumes to the tantalizing scents of food cooking somewhere in the terminal ahead of her. The level of excited expectation she felt keenly within the crowd matched her own.
Where was Rafe Antonio? Anxiously, Ari peered around. People were jammed ten deep along the cordoned-off area for passengers coming out of Customs. The faces of the awaiting families buoyed her spirits. Happy cries drifted over the tumult and she felt as if she were standing in a waterfall of languages, the air rent with the joyful calls of friends and family to the arriving passengers. The glut of people ground to a halt every time one of the awaiting families rushed forward to greet a loved one.
Ari found herself glued front and back to people who had patiently stopped to allow others ahead of them to greet one another. Everyone seemed highly tolerant of the practice. Around her, people were smiling. She relaxed somewhat. If this had been a North American airport, people would have pushed forward, elbowing their way out of the crowd. Not here. Ari marveled at the generosity of the people here and found her anxiety abating.
Standing on tiptoe again, she searched the masses of people. The crowd crept forward and she eagerly stepped along. It stopped and she pushed herself up on tiptoe once more. There! No… Well, maybe… At the very back of the crowd a man was standing. He was spectacularly handsome, his head and shoulders rising above nearly everyone around him. Rafe Antonio was supposed to be six foot five inches tall—a basketball player’s height, in Ari’s mind. Yes, this man was tall. Gorgeously handsome. Could that possibly be her guide for the coming months?
The man she was gazing at had tousled, wind-blown black hair, one dark lock dipping across his broad, golden forehead. He was wearing sunglasses which gave him the aura of a movie star. But the sweat-stained, short-sleeved khaki shirt he wore told her this was no movie star, but a man not afraid of hard work. The shirt was open, and dark hairs curled across his chest. Ari liked his square face and the strength of his jaw. His mouth was relaxed, the upper and lower lip the same thickness, with the hint of dimples surrounding them. He had a nice, kind mouth, Ari decided.
This man couldn’t possibly be her guide. He was far too handsome, far too above the crowd; someone so confident in himself that Ari didn’t dare think that he was, indeed, her mentor. Yet she liked the way he stood—relaxed, yet alert, his broad shoulders thrown back, his chin lifted regally. Oh, if only he was her guide! Ari giggled to herself. Her father would just die if he could get inside her head! Looking down at the picture in her hand and then standing on tiptoe once again, Ari wasn’t sure. She hoped it was Rafe Antonio. He looked like he’d just come off the Amazon, sweaty and dirty, but that didn’t deter her, nor did his unshaved face. It only made him look that much more of an adventurer, dangerous to her vulnerable emotional state.
Something niggled at Rafe as his gaze raked over the crowded airport terminal. He was a man used to picking up subtle sensations around him. Sometimes his life had depended upon such perturbations of warning. Yet this wasn’t a danger sensation, but something else he couldn’t put words to. The fact that he couldn’t quite pinpoint it made him uncomfortable. A sizzle of anticipation wound through him. Every once in a while he’d catch sight of someone with blond hair bobbing up and down in the dense crowd. He couldn’t quite catch sight of her, except for that cap of sunlight she wore. Was that Arianna Worthington? The rich socialite daughter of the secretary of the Navy? His instincts told him yes.
The thought made Rafe move closer, although he tried to tell himself he couldn’t care less about this woman he had to babysit for Morgan. Oh, he’d tried to talk Morgan out of the assignment. Rafe didn’t have time for rich young women who were out on a lark. His business was deadly serious and dangerous. He needed someone like Arianna right now like he needed a choke collar around his neck. Life in his region was unsettled and dangerous. Rafe didn’t want to take time tending to the needs of a norteamericana who had never been in a jungle in her life.
He didn’t try to elbow his way into the pack of awaiting people. Instead, he made his way behind the crowd, toward the exit. Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his stained and dirty khaki trousers, he smiled to himself. By meeting her at the airport filthy and unshaved, he hoped that she’d turn tail and run back to the States. He had been working on the houseboat engine, at the wharf, for six hours before having to come here. In the steamy, humid heat, he’d sweated plenty, adding to the dirt, grime and grease. He knew a lot about rich women, and Rafe figured that this one would find him absolutely repugnant. Hopefully, she would refuse to go anywhere with him because he looked like a filthy pig with no manners.
From this angle, Rafe could catch better glimpses of the golden-haired woman who stood in a mass of dark-haired people. Yes, he was sure it was her. His mouth drew into a hard line of impatience. Every time she thrust up on her toes, he caught sight of her for a few seconds. She was far more beautiful than the photo that had been faxed to him by Perseus yesterday. His heart pounded briefly every time he was able to catch a glimpse of her. Why did she have to be so beautiful? The only reason he’d grudgingly agreed to meet this rich woman who wanted a jungle adventure was because Morgan would write him a check for one hundred thousand dollars, a donation to his foundation to help the Juma, who were reeling from losing half the people of their village in a bioterrorist attack. Rafe wanted the money to pay for long-term medical needs for those who had survived, and without such American dollars being pumped into the village, many would suffer in great pain and misery for many, many months to come. So Rafe had capitulated; a socialite brat for three to six months in exchange for money for one of the Indian villages he was charged with helping and protecting. Reluctantly, he studied her as she approached, trying not to seem as interested as he really was. Arianna Worthington wore a raspberry-colored cardigan drawn around her shoulders, the sleeves tied in a knot and hanging down the front. Her hair was gold like the sun itself, thick and lying in a gentle frame around her oval face, curling softly about her small shoulders. But it was her eyes that intrigued him: large, slightly tilted and the color of the sky he sometimes saw over the Amazon when the clouds decided to part long enough to grant him a view. She looked younger than twenty-five—somewhere between a gawky teenage girl and a woman, he grimly decided as he watched her try to balance the luggage she carried. As the crowd thinned out, he started toward her.
This was all he needed—an immature girl on his hands. Even a rich socialite woman would be better than this. Rafe, on the other hand, was mature beyond his years. His lifestyle, his responsibilities and the inherent dangers surrounding him, guaranteed that. His expectations fell further as he drew closer to her. She wasn’t even self-confident, more like a frightened rabbit in unknown surroundings. Great. The word babysitter rang in his head and he felt anger.
In his world, he was a loner; he had accepted what he was a long time ago. His family was disdainful of his life as a backwoodsman. His father had disowned him because Rafe had refused to fill his parents’ expectation that he would become a rich, powerful aristocrat in Brazil’s government, as every son in the Antonio family had for the last two hundred years. Rafe was proud of what he did, but he did it alone. And not with something like this bedraggled-looking blond norteamericana hanging around his neck.
Rafe fought the protective feelings that rose in him as he looked at her. He noticed everyone looking at her, too. And why not? She was the only blonde in the airport. More than that, she was beautiful in an awkward though arresting way. The black, ankle-length cotton skirt decorated with splashes of pink, fuschia and plum flowers that she wore swung with each small step she took. In one hand, she clutched a piece of paper—probably his photo. In the other, a Panama straw hat, the type that could be rolled up and crushed into a suitcase.
Looking like a pack animal with her huge purse and two attending black nylon bags, she labored under the weight. Seeing an opening in the crowd, Rafe slid smoothly through it in order to reach her. As he moved around several people, murmuring his apologies, he saw her catch sight of him.
Ari sucked in a huge gasp of air. It was him! The Hollywood star! Gulping, she froze. Rafe Antonio
