Читать книгу Running Wild - Susan Andersen, Susan Andersen - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

WHAT THE HELL are you doing, Kavanagh?

It was an excellent question, but Finn shrugged it aside in favor of transporting his backpack and an old beat-up carry-on suitcase Mags had retrieved from the trunk of the car into the tiny room they’d rented for the night in an El Tigre version of a B and B.

He gave the place a cursory glance. Boardinghouse was probably a more accurate description and he gazed over his shoulder, curious to see Mags’s reaction to their accommodations.

She didn’t even seem to notice. She looked worn-out and discouraged as she trudged behind him, that big ol’ purse of hers, which she’d been hauling around with such panache, all but dragging on the floor.

Something about the discouragement her posture conveyed made his gut clench.

Not that her expression lasted once she noticed him looking at her. Because the instant she did, her slightly cleft chin jutted skyward.

Masking the involuntary smile wanting to spread across his face, he dropped his pack and the suitcase to one side of the doorway just inside the cramped accommodations. Then he took one look at the narrow bed and any inclination to smile was wiped away. “I’ll take the floor.”

Given a choice, he’d have taken a different room. But of the three townships they’d come across during the hours spent driving south toward the Amazon, this was the only one that had offered a place with rooms to let. And this room had been the sole vacancy.

“Don’t be silly,” Mags said. “You paid for the room—you oughta sleep in the bed.”

“I’m a hiker, darlin’.” He tapped his backpack with the side of his foot. “I have everything I need right here.”

Looking around, he gave the room a closer inspection. The bedspread was threadbare but immaculate, and not so much as a fleck of dust marred the small scarred dresser next to the bed or the carved crucifix hanging above it. The only other amenity to grace the tiny room, a sturdy wooden chair, held two neatly folded towels and washcloths. All four were thin in texture but blindingly white beneath the light from the dresser lamp.

He turned back to Mags. Her I-don’t-need-your-stinking-help attitude, which seemed to blink on and off like a light in a defective socket, was nowhere to be found at the moment. During a stop a couple of hours back—the last one just before the sun went down with such startling speed—she’d washed off the dark makeup she’d applied in the gondola. And sometime between then and now her fair skin had lost its natural glow, her cheeks their wash of pink.

Squatting in front of his pack, he pulled his ultralight sleep pad out of the deep pouch on the pack’s side and unfastened the straps that attached the sleeping bag to the rucksack’s bottom. He carried both to a spot as far removed from the bed as he could manage and unrolled them. In less than a minute he had his nest prepared and, giving it a pat, he glanced up at Magdalene.

Only to see her sitting on the side of the bed, staring vacantly down at the long, pale fingers she’d threaded together in her lap.

“Hey,” he said softly, rising to his feet. He reached to stroke soothing fingertips to her shoulder, making her jerk and her gaze lock with his. He stroked his thumb over the spot he’d touched. “Didn’t the lady at the desk say something about a bathing room?”

She nodded. “Down the hall.”

“Why don’t you go grab a shower and I’ll see about getting us some food.”

For a moment she simply looked at him, then visibly gathered herself. “You speak Spanish?”

“Sure.” When she merely looked at him, he admitted, “A smidge, anyhow. I understand more than I speak—provided it’s not too rapid-fire.”

Her lips tipped up in a slight smile. “Unfortunately, it requires more than a smidgen in most of these out-of-the-way villages. The people who live in them tend not to travel far from home, so they don’t have the same familiarity working with tourists that their city counterparts do. Add to that how late it is and—” She rose to her feet. “You take the first shower and I’ll go talk to Senora Guerrero about where we can buy some food. I didn’t realize until you brought it up, but I’m starving.”

He watched as she walked from the room and wondered where this weird urge to comfort her, or cheer her up had come from. Hell, he’d grown up with sisters who could manipulate like nobody’s business to get what they wanted. Consequently, his more usual first response when presented with a female who looked at him with big, sad eyes would be to question if he was being played. Not to feel an urge to fix what ailed her.

So why the hell had he wanted to fix things for Magdalene?

He shrugged and let it go. She wasn’t his sister and she’d spent most of their time together bending over backward trying to get him to step away from her problems, not take care of them for her. Besides, offering her the shower had led to her assigning herself a task. And if nothing else, that seemed to give her back some of her energy.

So his job here was done.

He rummaged through his pack for a bar of soap and cautiously sniffed his T-shirt’s underarms to see if he dared put it on again after his shower. Fortunately, his deodorant had held up, but the shirt was limp and still slightly damp. Santa Rosa had been warmly springlike, cradled as it was in the foothills of the Andes. But with every foot of elevation lost and each mile farther south that they’d driven, it had become hotter—until sweat had pretty much been the order of the day. And looking at his watch, Finn saw that although it had just turned ten, even with the small room’s louvered window open, the night was hot and still.

But not quiet. There was a cantina on the corner and the sounds of guitars and merriment were a faint rhythm in the air. At the window insects clicked and whirred as they threw themselves against the thin screen. And somewhere among the cacophony of crickets out in the darkness, frogs croaked and an unidentified creature occasionally barked in a tone eerily seal-like.

He dug through his pack again to retrieve the Rat City Rollergirls T-shirt he’d changed out of in the gondola, then picked a towel up off the chair and headed down the hall. He washed his clammy shirt in the sink, wrung it out as best he could and carefully spread it over the basin. Then he stepped into the shower.

The space was narrow, the water pressure weak, and regardless of how cautious he tried to be, he couldn’t avoid bumping his shoulders or occasionally knocking an elbow against the enclosure walls. The water, however, was wonderfully cool. And when he stepped out several moments later, he felt refreshed.

But he still didn’t have a clue what he was doing here. He and Mags had stopped in a small town below Santa Rosa so she could call her neighbor from a landline. Her cell phone was low-tech and didn’t support international calls. Not that his smartphone was appreciably better. Coverage was spotty everywhere except in cities and more well-populated towns.

On the bright side the woman had been home, but it had taken her a while to find the correct letter from Magdalene’s mother and get back to them with the general location where Nancy Deluca had believed the grow farm to be.

At no time during their wait and the several additional hours they’d driven had there been any sign of Joaquin. So Finn could probably let her take it from here and get back to his vacation.

Except he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the minute he turned his back, Joaquin or someone like him would track her down. And the thought of leaving Magdalene on her own to twist in the wind chafed against every behavior he’d been raised to adhere to when it came to women. So he was sticking until she found the grow farm. And if his decision didn’t exactly thrill him?

It was still accompanied by a strange feeling of relief.

* * *

THE MERE SCENT of the rice and beans and the two fat shellfish-filled empanadas on the tray Mags carried cheered her up. She’d expected to be directed to the cantina for such a late meal, but Senora Guerrero had happily insisted on heating up leftovers for her and Finn.

The thought of the generously poured glasses of wine the older lady had included didn’t hurt her vastly improved outlook. The woman was a love. During their chat as the senora assembled the meal, Mags had admitted how exhausted, yet wired, she felt. Mrs. G. had promptly splashed some rich red wine into a glass for her, then poured the rest into the additional two goblets to add to the serving tray.

Mags acknowledged she was running on fumes. She’d rolled out of her cushy pillow-top bed in LA at zero-dark-thirty this morning and felt as if she’d been awake for a straight two days rather than the nineteen or so hours it had actually been. And the minute, the very instant, she finished eating, she planned to grab that shower, then tumble into bed.

What she didn’t intend to do was turn herself inside out any longer stressing over Finn’s involvement in her mama’s drama. He seemed okay with it—at least for the most part. She’d simply have to find a way to be so as well.

Arriving back at their shared room, she balanced the tray on one hip and freed a hand to turn the doorknob. After taking the platter in both hands once more, she used her left hip to push the door all the way open, then backed into the room, turning as the tray cleared the opening. She spotted Finn over by the chair, spreading a wet T-shirt atop his damp towel over the chair’s back. “You ready to eat?”

“Oh, hell, yeah.” He inhaled deeply through his nose. “Man, that smells good.” Finger-combing his hair back, he came over to her and took the tray. “Oh, God, you even scored us some wine. You are a goddess.”

“I know, right?” She shot him a grin. “About the wine, that is, not the goddess part. Give me hot food and a nice glass of red and for this moment, at least, life is good.”

He looked down at the platter in his hands. “Where do you want this?”

She liberated a plate, balanced her cutlery atop it and sank to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed. She patted the tile next to her hip. “Right here is fine.”

“Works for me.” He handed her a glass of wine and sat down next to her with his own food and drink. For the next several minutes the only sound in the room was the clink of silverware against the brightly patterned crockery and the slight tap of their glasses when they set them back on the tile floor between sips of wine.

After scraping up the last of his empanada, Finn set his fork on his plate and the plate on the tray and rested his head back against the side of the bed. “I’m beat,” he said. “I’ll take the dishes downstairs while you take your shower, then I’ve gotta hit the sack. I’ve been up since three a.m.”

“You just came in today, too?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes. And I only had a half hour’s more sleep than you.” She climbed to her feet and started gathering her towel and a few toiletries together. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

It wasn’t much longer than that when she returned to the room, but Finn was already sound asleep, an occasional snore erupting between deep, regular breaths.

She couldn’t prevent herself from staring at him as she towel-dried her hair. He hadn’t bothered unzipping his sleeping bag and he sprawled atop it in a posture that combined side and stomach sleeping. She knew it was hot in the room, but she found it hard to ignore the fact that he wore nothing but a pair of black-waistbanded, gray boxer briefs.

One muscular up-drawn leg stuck out to the side and his head was cradled atop biceps that looked much too hard to be comfortable. His back was an art-class study in wide shoulders, long, supple spine and the hard, rounded curve of a butt that gave way to yard-long, leanly muscled legs. And all that bare skin gleamed with good health beneath the lamplight he’d left on for her.

Pulling off the shorts she’d donned to traverse the hallway, she folded them atop her suitcase, then applied lotion to her arms and legs. Dressed in only her undies and a tank top, she quickly braided her damp hair, turned off the lamp and, tossing back the spread, slid between the sheets.

She fell asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.

* * *

IT FELT LIKE five minutes later when someone shook her shoulder. Trying to shrug the irritant aside, she rolled onto her side.

But the touch returned with even more insistence, and she cracked an eye open. “Mmmph?”

“Wake up, senorita,” Senora G. said in an adamant whisper. “You have to leave.”

Mags pushed up onto one elbow and blinked up at the older woman, trying to make out her features in the dark room. “Leave?” she repeated in confusion. “Why?”

“I walked over to the cantina to have a drink with my neighbors and a man came in demanding to know if we’d seen a couple answering to your and Senor Finn’s description.”

A cold dose of water to the face couldn’t have worked better to wake her fully. “A young man?”

“Sí. I did not like his looks.” A slight displacement of air against Mags’s face suggested Mrs. G. waved her hand. “Not his looks,” she amended. “His...manner.”

“If he’s who I think he is, you’re right to be leery of him. His name is Joaquin and he works for a dangerous drug lord.” Hearing a rustling, she raised her voice slightly. “Finn, are you awake?”

“Yeah. Did I hear Joaquin’s name?”

“Yes. We gotta get out of here.” She relayed the senora’s news.

He was a shadowy figure sliding off his sleeping bag, and she rose onto her knees to turn on the lamp. Blinking against the sudden light, she saw him crouched in front of his bedroll, readying its two pieces with swift efficiency for a return to their respective places on his pack.

He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Tell Mrs. G. that when Joaquin shows up here she needs to tell him the truth—that she rented us a room. And for her own safety, she should try to act surprised when he finds us gone.”

Mags interpreted for Senora Guerrero as she scrambled into her clothing, then translated Mrs. G.’s reciprocal warning to be as quiet as possible because Hector down the hall was both a light sleeper and an incorrigible gossip. Looking at her watch, Mags saw she’d slept longer than it had felt like. It was almost 1:00 a.m.

Finn finished dressing before her, and the instant he had his shoes tied, he carried his gear over to the backpack. After storing it, he glanced over at Mags’s suitcase, then turned those dark eyes on her. For a single brief, hot moment his gaze slipped over her still bare legs before rising to meet her eyes.

“We might not be able to get to the car and if that turns out to be the case it’s gonna be difficult to move fast hauling a suitcase. I have a little room in my pack for some of your stuff. You think maybe you can fit part of it into your purse?”

She nodded and grabbed a change of clothing, a sweater in case the evenings grew cooler than tonight, clean undies, socks, a pair of shoes to supplement her sandals and, after a brief internal debate, her performance gear. She handed a share of it to Finn and stuffed the rest into her tote. She pinned up her braid, tied another scarf around her head to disguise her hair color and used a pencil to quickly darken her eyebrows and draw a beauty mark next to her upper lip.

Finn swung the rucksack onto his back and came over to the senora. “Muchas gracias,” he said with palpable heartfelt appreciation and bent to press a fleeting kiss upon the older woman’s forehead. Then he turned to Mags.

“Let’s move,” he said briskly, and headed with long-legged strides for the door.

She followed in his wake.

The senora was right behind her. “Leave through the kitchen,” she said in a low voice.

Finn had already entered the room before Mags could finish speculating how much she dared raise her voice to translate Senora Guerrero’s instruction. He made a beeline for the back door, but Mrs. G. raced to place herself between him and the exit. She put a hand on his chest and pointed first to herself, then out the door.

Stepping back, he nodded, and the senora grabbed a lidded earthenware pot from the counter, turned off the kitchen light and opened the back door. She carried the pot over to a compost heap and emptied the kitchen waste onto it, glancing casually around the small yard as she did so. Straightening, she made a small, close-to-her-body hand gesture to indicate they should come out.

She and Finn had no sooner stepped into the yard when a pounding commenced on the front door and for a second Mags thought her heart had stopped. Then it thundered in her chest with such force she was surprised the entire neighborhood didn’t start yelling for her to keep it down out there. Mrs. G. scuttled past them into the kitchen and quietly closed the door behind her. Mags jumped when Finn’s work-roughened fingers suddenly wrapped around her wrist.

He placed the knife he’d liberated from Joaquin in her hand, and she saw that he’d retrieved the gun as well.

“Come on,” he breathed and edged around the corner of the house.

For a second she stared down at the knife in horror. Then she gave herself a mental shake and took a giant step to catch up.

He put a hand back to halt her when they reached the front corner of the house and cautiously he craned his head to look around its edge. Almost immediately, he pulled back and lowered his mouth to her ear. “There’s a guy keeping an eye on our car,” he said. “And there’s an SUV in front of it that’s too shiny and new to belong to anyone but city guys.” He hesitated, then asked, “What are your thoughts on distracting him while I disable it?”

Her stomach went queasy and she wanted to say, “Are you out of your freaking mind?” Instead, she whispered, “No problem,” and handed him back the knife. She yanked her tank top down to showcase some cleavage and tucked it into her shorts to keep it low and tight. “I’d better cut through the neighbors’ yards, though. Coming out of this one won’t help our cause.”

“Wait.” He gripped her arm. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” His voice was surprisingly fierce for a tone so low-pitched. “Because on second thought, putting you in danger doesn’t seem like such a hot idea.”

No shit, Sherlock, her mind agreed, so relieved she wanted to break into a dance. Because it really was a lousy idea. But her big mouth said, “And yet, it’s the only idea we have. And I really like the thought of you disabling their car. Otherwise, they’ll be right on our tushies, and if that’s the case I don’t think we’ll have a prayer of shaking them.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Here, then.” He thrust the gun at her. “Take this.”

Her hands flew back, palms out, in repudiation. “I’m not going to shoot the guy!”

“Then use it like a hammer if you need to,” he said in a hard whisper. “Because, baby, if it comes down to you or him, better that you’re the one who walks away.”

True. But still—

“I’ve never handled a gun in my life, Finn. He’s more likely to take it away and use it against me.”

“Then, here.” He held out the knife. “Take this back.”

“No. It’s too big and the same thing applies. Plus, you might need it to disable the car.”

He studied her for a nanosecond, then nodded. “Okay. You have anything small and sharp in that behemoth purse?”

“Yes!” She dug out a pair of pointy little manicure scissors and immediately felt better to have some kind of weapon she could easily hide.

Finn looked less than impressed with her choice, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he bent down and pressed the same kind of kiss to her forehead that he’d given Senora Guerrero. She felt surprisingly strengthened by it.

Then he stepped back. “Good luck, Magdalene.”

“Mags,” she insisted.

“Mags,” he agreed and repeated, “Good luck. And be careful.”

“You, too.” She turned and went to the back of the yard before crossing to the one next door, then slipped through that and a couple more fenceless adjoining yards. As she crept along the side of a little house several down from Senora Guerrero’s, she pulled out a richly pigmented lipstick and dabbed some on her mouth, rubbed her lips to give her what she hoped was a just-been-thoroughly-kissed look, then massaged the color that had transferred to her fingertips into the apples of her cheeks.

She waited until the man standing guard over their rental car turned his back, then stepped out onto the narrow concrete sidewalk bordering the packed-dirt road that ran through the village. She was only two buildings away from the cantina and as she began walking back toward the boardinghouse, she drew in a calming breath, then slowly eased it out.

She could do this. She’d spent practically every Saturday since she was nineteen years old performing on the streets. Of course it was more posing than true acting.

She swallowed a snort. Because she’d been acting, one way or another, since five months, two weeks and three days after her thirteenth birthday. This was simply more of the same, only with more physical risk at stake. So she shook out her hands.

And called out in friendly, faintly slurred Spanish, “See you tomorrow, Rosita!”