a quick shower, she changed into one of her casual outfits, loose-fitting cargo pants and a plain white shirt. She put her knife holster around her waist. Covering her eyes with sunglasses and her dark hair with a baseball cap, she left the apartment.
Isabel spoke Spanish fluently, thanks to her Venezuelan mother, but she didn’t sound local, and she couldn’t disguise her femininity. Instead of trying to pass for a man, or a native, she stayed quiet and wore nondescript clothing. This tactic, along with moving around a lot, had kept her alive the past two years.
But she’d grown weary of running. Puerto Escondido had a low-key atmosphere and fantastic surf conditions. She didn’t want to leave.
Isabel bypassed the taco stand outside her apartment, her stomach growling. She usually had her groceries delivered and ate in. On rare occasions, she grabbed a quick bite on the other side of town. This stand was too close for comfort.
Climbing into her Jeep, she returned to the neighborhood by The Pelican, parking nearby. She’d never done surveillance before, but she’d read up on the subject. Approaching it from the watcher’s perspective was a novel experience.
She chose an outdoor café with a good view of the hotel, sitting down with an iced coffee and a shrimp sandwich. After polishing off her meal, she helped herself to a newspaper, pretending to read. Brandon reappeared a short time later. He left his hotel and strolled east, toward the cluster of restaurants. She watched him from behind the newspaper, praying he wouldn’t choose the café.
Again, she was struck by how attractive he was. He appeared relaxed and slightly rumpled in lightweight trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. Although he was obviously a tourist, he had a low-key vibe. His clothes fit well, accentuating a rock-hard physique. Scuffed hiking boots suggested he was an all-around outdoorsman, not just a beach bum. His short hair glinted like bronze in the sunlight. Her fingers itched to test its thickness.
She twisted her hands in the newspaper as he passed by.
Isabel wasn’t the only woman in the vicinity who was aware of his presence. Two European girls in tank tops and gypsy skirts came out of a souvenir shop to gawk. They were pretty, if you liked braless bohemian babes. Brandon apparently did. He smiled at them, saying something that made one of the girls laugh and clutch her beaded hemp necklace.
A stab of envy pricked Isabel’s heart. She hadn’t flirted with a man, or dressed to impress, since she’d left California. In her former life, she’d worn flashy miniskirts and spike-heeled Louboutins. She didn’t miss the expensive clothes, her swanky Hollywood Hills apartment, or even the rebellious rich boys she used to date, but she missed people. She missed friends, and familiar faces, and companionship.
Brandon didn’t linger with the girls, to Isabel’s surprise. They watched him go, giggling together before wandering back toward the beach.
Isabel frowned behind the newspaper. He’d invited her to lunch, but ignored two sexy young ladies on the prowl? That didn’t add up right. Maybe she’d misinterpreted the situation. She folded her paper and put it back in the rack, tossing some coins on the table before she left the café.
He made another unexpected choice in selecting a place to eat. There were several palapa-style restaurants in the area, but they were all more expensive than the simple taco stands downtown. Instead of wandering into a touristy bar and grill, he walked east a few blocks, locating a busy street vendor.
Isabel stayed out of sight, pretending to shop for jewelry and handcrafts while Brandon put away more tacos than she could count. When he was finished, he thanked the vendor and headed back to the main drag. There were a couple of sports shops near the beach, including Smokey’s, which rented surfboards.
Brandon stopped at EcoTours, the store next to Smokey’s. It was closed, so he perused the sign in the front window. The business offered outrageously expensive tours to remote locations of Oaxaca, including the “secret” beach they’d just visited. Some surfers would pay anything for a chance to ride a virgin wave.
Brandon took his cell phone out of his pocket, dialing the number on the sign.
Isabel let out a frustrated sigh. She could show him the least-crowded spots around here for a fraction of the price. He’d found Playa Perdida on his own, probably by noticing her vehicle parked at the side of the road.
If he wasn’t American, and a possible threat, she might have approached him as a guide. She could use the money. But she couldn’t take a chance on him recognizing her as Izzy Sanborn. The way he’d looked at her, as though he was picturing her naked, had made her squirm with a pleasant sort of discomfort. He was in his late twenties, at the most, and her photo spreads had been very popular with young men.
He moved on, ducking into the least authentic place in all of Puerto Escondido: Señor Frog’s Cantina. The bar catered to loudmouthed college students and hosted wet T-shirt contests. It was a puke party every night.
“Ugh,” she said, disappointed by his bad taste. She couldn’t follow him in, so she took a small notebook and a pen out of her satchel. Propping her back against a brick wall on the opposite side of the street, she got some work done, scribbling notes about this morning’s session at Playa Perdida. In the past few months, she’d sold several articles to Wave magazine, written anonymously as the Lost Surfer.
The paycheck was small, but she’d been delighted to receive it. She had a fake ID as Isabel Sanchez and a PO Box set up here in Puerto Escondido. When the check came, her heart had swelled with pride.
It was the first time she’d earned money with her brain.
An hour later, Brandon came out of Señor Frog’s, and she’d outlined a new article. He must have knocked back a few drinks, because he had the loose-hipped gait of a man who was feeling his spirits. Isabel put her notebook away, relieved. He was just another party animal surf jock. A paid assassin would be more circumspect.
She followed him back to the hotel anyway, not worrying overmuch about being seen. He took a wrong turn, wandering down a cobblestone alley. This late in the afternoon, the area was quiet, dim and deserted.
Isabel removed her sunglasses and put them in her pocket, annoyed by his recklessness. Not only was he drunk and alone in a foreign country, he was begging to get mugged. He might as well leave his wallet on the beach while he went for a swim.
He disappeared around the corner and she hurried after him, sticking close to the back of the building. She paused at the edge, listening for footsteps. Her hand wavered by her knife, fingertips tingling. She heard nothing.
Afraid of losing him, she stepped out of the alleyway. A flash of movement startled her into action. She leaped backward, drawing her knife. Brandon caught her wrist in a crushing grip and spun her around, shoving her against the wall.
Gasping in pain, she dropped her weapon. When he eased his hold on her wrist, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and slammed her left elbow into his midsection. Whirling to face him, she aimed a hard right at his throat.
He blocked it easily. Too easily.
Isabel realized a couple of things at once. First, he wasn’t drunk. Second, he knew how to fight. Third, he was surprised to see her.
“You,” he breathed, backing up a step and holding a palm to his midsection. “I thought somebody was trying to rob me.”
She flattened her back against the wall, her heart thumping in her chest. She’d
