didn’t work out that way,” he said softly.
“Mr. Correa and the other man were in the hospital for weeks. Apparently Hugo Correa tried to escape by jumping out of the truck and took a bullet in his leg and it got infected. The other man, a guy by the name of Harrison Plumber, had a digestive disease of some kind. As soon as Hugo got out of the hospital, Santi Correa turned over the day-by-day operations of the foundation to his son and more or less resigned.”
Jack rubbed his eyes. “Ah mi dios,” he mumbled. Looking at her again, he added, “Just tell me who it was.”
“Who what was?”
“Who were you working with? And why? Did you do it for money? What other reason could there be, what else could you possibly want from these people?”
“Of course I didn’t do it for money!” she said, but the word money thundered in her head. Money. “I didn’t do it all,” she mumbled.
“People do terrible things when money is dangled in front of their noses,” he said.
She looked out the window at the ocean across the street. It couldn’t be …
“Hannah?”
She looked at him without really seeing him. She was remembering the day David showed up at her place with a bundle of money he wanted her to keep and had sworn her to secrecy. It had surprised her—their relationship had been a little rocky—and suddenly he was talking about marrying and moving far away….
How could that have anything to do with this? Yet now that she’d made the connection why couldn’t she get it out of her head? She sucked in a tiny breath.
“I know you seduced me the night before the ambush,” Jack said. “All I want from you now is the name of the man or woman who put you up to it.”
She barely heard him. She had to think. Operating on autopilot, she got out of the car and grabbed her handbag. Her instinct was to walk, to move, to get away.
He was at her side in a moment, taking her arm. One giant question raged like a wildfire through her brain. Had David been involved? And if he had, what did she do now? What could she do now?
They crossed the two-lane road to the far side, then threaded their way through rocks, driftwood and seaweed. Jack released her arm and she stumbled up against an old, dead tree lying on its side.
She turned immediately to face Jack. He looked amazing standing in the wind and sun, his white shirt stark against his skin, his cerulean eyes burning. Those eyes now seemed to watch the way she massaged her arm. Did she sense regret at the roughness of his grip? Probably not.
“You’ve been watching me for days, for weeks,” she said, relieved to have finally identified the cause of her uneasiness. Not that it helped much. His being on the scene might explain that creepy someone-is-watching-me feeling, but it was more than compensated for by his accusations and the potential for disaster his presence in Allota could mean. She added, “I’ve felt your eyes on me.”
“No,” he said. “I just got to California last night.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m not the one who lies,” he said.
She sank down on the log, trying to organize her thoughts. She had to get home—alone. To do that, she had to convince Jack she had nothing to do with the ambush so he would go look under another rock.
Squinting, she peered up at him through strands of windblown hair. “Whether you believe it or not, I’m no more or less than you thought I was the night we met.”
“A woman grieving over her boyfriend’s death.”
Over the guilt. She’d been about to tell David she didn’t love him, she wanted him to take his money and go away and then he’d died in a stupid accident. “Mr. Correa told me I could bow out of going with him to South America for the opening of the new school and I almost did. Everyone blamed my sadness on my grandfather’s illness and that was part of it, but the other part was all my inconsistent feelings about David’s death. In the end I went and that’s where I met you. You’d known David, you were sympathetic and kind. You talked to me, you helped me. It’s as simple as that.”
“Say it like it is,” he insisted, stepping in front of her. Leaning over, he pinned her in place with his arms, his brown hands stark against the bleached wood. He lowered his voice; his face was just inches from hers. “Don’t wrap it up in pretty words, cariño. Your boyfriend was dead less than a month. We had a couple of drinks, you cried, and then we had raw, messy sex. The next day, I slept in. I never sleep in. I was late leaving you. I felt groggy and slow. I was late getting to the Correa vehicle, too, and I played catch-up until the minute the lead car came across the overturned truck in the middle of the road and all hell broke loose. You weren’t there. Why not?”
His single-mindedness beat his words into her head like jungle drums. If this kept up she’d spill her guts, voice her concerns about David to get Jack’s focus off her. It was way too soon to do that; there were other people to consider. Struggling to stay calm, she said, “I was already at the school. I left right from the hotel. I wasn’t part of the caravan. I had to be there earlier to arrange things on that end.”
He shook his head. “So, you had nothing to do with anything.”
“No more than you did,” she said, and again thought of David and the last time she’d seen him. Oh, no, she had to be wrong. Softening her voice, she added, “If you had been in the car with Hugo Correa, it wouldn’t have changed a thing.”
“The two men who were in that car died,” he said. “They were my men, I should have been there.”
“I saw the pictures taken after the incident. I saw what they did. There’s no way you would have survived, Jack. It’s a miracle anyone did.”
“My job was to make sure everyone survived.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said, her voice raspy. “This is no one’s fault but the rebels who try to get their way by destroying innocent lives. You know their methods, you know better than anyone what they’re capable of. They recruit children. They support drug cartels to finance their so-called patriotism. They murder anyone who wants out. I work for a nonprofit organization started by a man who wanted to improve the education of children in South America, who wanted to help them build a future. How could you think I’d have anything to do with people like the GTM?”
He pushed himself away from her, hitching his hands on his waist as he continued to stare at her face, reaching who knew what conclusions. His gaze was still intense but dare she hope she detected a glimmer of doubt?
A year before, she’d noticed him the minute he walked into the hotel bar to meet with her to go over the plans for the next day. Tall, dark and handsome as the saying goes, and with those blue eyes that could peel the clothes right off a woman. Their attraction had been immediate and mutual, and he was right, the sex had been world-class.
Now, thinner but somehow stronger, less refined and honed by months of deprivation, he still exuded enough sex appeal to topple a dozen women in a single glance. The look in his eyes might not be soft and warm, but it had her sizzling inside and out and she wasn’t proud of it.
“I’m
