In Too Deep (17 page)

Her eyes widened. “Thieves?”

“Exactly. Greed, not ideals, is behind all the attacks.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“That, princess, is the $64,000 question. My guess is we'd better get back to Mexico City and see someone at the Museum of Anthropology.”

“Couldn't we tell Rafael and Maria?”

“You heard them last night. Do you think we dare trust them?”

“No. I guess you're right. I just keep thinking how thrilled they would be.”

“You're assuming this place would be a surprise to them,” he said with an edge of bitterness. Only twenty-four hours ago, he, too, would have wanted to share this with his old friend Maria. Now, all he had were doubts.

Cara sighed and took his hand in a gesture of comfort. “I hate this.”

“Me, too, princess.” He pulled her into his arms and held her. “Me, too.”

* * *

They decided to set up camp overnight at the peak of one of the pyramids, which had been almost completely excavated. The stars seemed to be at their fingertips, diamonds scattered across black velvet. A carpet of vibrant green, lit by moonlight, lay spread out below. Despite her vow to maintain a professional distance between them, Cara gave a resigned shrug and settled down for the night in Rod's embrace. He didn't have the power to resist. He just drew her close and fought the desire to take much more than what she was offering.

When he awoke, the first pale light of morning was breaking through the trees. He rolled over and reached for Cara. She was gone.

She's probably off exploring again, he told himself as he stretched and tested his ankle. It seemed much better. He still couldn't put his full weight on it, but with the assistance of the cane, he could probably make it. The need to get back was made even more urgent by this latest discovery.

He checked out their limited food supply and prepared a breakfast of peanut butter and stale crackers. Disgusting, but reasonably nourishing. They'd used the last of their coffee the night before, but there were two cartons of juice left.

“Cara!” His shout echoed back to him, but there was no answering call. A prickling sensation ran along the back of his neck. “Cara!”

He limped awkwardly down the steep steps to the base of the pyramid, then, hobbling as fast as he could, he circled the site. With each step, his panic increased.

She was nowhere to be found. Had she left him and started back on her own? Spurred on by desperation, he made the agonizing climb to the top of the pyramid to check. Everything was right where it had been the night before—the compass, her backpack, her water. His heart sank.

A dozen scenarios, each more horrifying than the one before, played through his mind. This time the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, the painful constriction in his chest, told him there was no mistake. This time Cara truly had vanished.

C
ara came to slowly, her body aching, her lungs fighting for more of the stale, damp air. A strip of cloth that smelled sharply of oil and sweat had been used to gag her. Her stomach rolled over at the repugnant stench. Another rag had been tied around her head as a blindfold. Her arms had been bound behind her, her legs secured at the ankles. From the itchy, coarse feel of it against her bare arms, she was lying on a pile of burlap.

She felt like a trussed-up chicken. A stupid trussed-up chicken, at that. She kicked both feet in an awkward, useless gesture of protest.

She still couldn't figure out how those men had taken her by surprise. She'd slipped out of Rod's arms before dawn for a necessary trip into the brush. The hot, humid air had been still. No raucous birdcalls had split the silence. With the pyramids still awash with silvery shafts of moonlight, it had seemed incredibly peaceful, with just an edge of tantalizing mystery in the atmosphere. She had felt exuberant and content as she had contemplated watching the spectacle of a glorious sunrise from the pyramid.

Despite the overall feeling of serenity, she thought she'd been alert to every sound. She hadn't heard a single leaf rustle. One minute she had been straightening her clothes and the next she'd felt an arm around her neck cutting off the air. There had been no time to fight back, no time even to scream for help. She had heard a rapid, angry exchange of Spanish before the world faded into darkness.

Uncertain whether she was even alone now, she forced herself to remain perfectly still. She listened, but heard nothing. She had to think. She had to wait and rely on her senses to give her some clue that would explain where she was and who was holding her. She hadn't a doubt in the world, though, that her kidnapping was tied directly to the archaeological discovery she and Rod had made the day before and to all the other threatening incidents.

But in each of the previous situations, Rod had been there to lean on. Now, with his injured ankle, she couldn't count on him to charge through the jungle and rescue her. She was going to need all her wits about her to accomplish her escape. The prospect was daunting, but not impossible. She'd been independent far too long to panic over having to rely on her own ingenuity now. She drew on every ounce of inner strength she'd inherited from Scottie. Combined with some healthy outrage, a few well-learned self-defense lessons and a survivor's passion for life, it would get her out of this jam and back into Rod's arms.

That optimistic note cheered her considerably. Unfortunately, the mood didn't last. It was dashed by the eruption of another argument. The tone and voices sounded vaguely familiar. She was sure they belonged to the men who'd taken her captive. Though the sound was muffled, possibly by no more than the canvas of a tent, she could hear most of the words distinctly. They were again speaking in Spanish, though, and it took several minutes for her still-groggy mind to begin adapting. When the translation finally began to sink in, she wasn't one bit happy about the gist of the heated conversation.

“No, no, Tomas,” one of the men pleaded urgently. “You heard what he said. We are not to touch her. He does not wish to infuriate the gringo, only to frighten him. She is to be returned to him unharmed, when he has met our demands.” His voice was a scared whine.

“Don't be such an old woman,” the other one retorted. “For what I have in mind, there would be no scars. She is very beautiful. Skin so pale and soft would look good against this dark flesh of mine, is that not true?” Now his voice took on a belligerent note. “We work hard. We take all the risks. Why should we not have our fun? Why should he always tell us what to do?”

“He is the
jefe
!”

Jefe? What the devil was jefe? she wondered. Leader? Boss? Godfather in some sort of South of the Border Mafia?

“It does not make him God,” the one called Tomas said recklessly. She wondered if the bravado would have held up in the jefe's presence. “Without us, he is nothing. Yet he gets all the money. The señorita would make up for some of the difference.”

The words he used next were beyond Cara's vocabulary, but the coarse laughter, which even the other man joined in, was not beyond her understanding. Disgust and the first real chill of fear washed through her. Just what she needed, a couple of lusty, amoral hombres who wanted to get even with their boss. The very thought made her skin crawl.

A soft whoosh of air told her that someone had entered the tent. With any luck it would be Tomas's spineless companion. He seemed like the type who might be cajoled into helping her.

“So, señorita,” a throaty voice purred in English. Her heart sank as she recognized it. Tomas. A rough finger caressed her cheek, Cara concentrated very hard on an image of Rod to keep from gagging. “You are awake?”

He removed her blindfold. Determinedly, she kept her eyes closed, feigning unconsciousness. Apparently she didn't do such a good job of it, because without warning, he grabbed a handful of hair and brutally jerked her head up. He yanked the gag from her mouth. She could feel his eyes burning into her.

“Answer me,” he demanded with another painful yank of hair.

There was no point in any further pretense of sleep. She opened her eyes and glowered at him. She refused to acknowledge the pain shooting across her scalp. A bully like this one probably thrived on whimpers of agony.

“Yes?” she said politely, making a conscious decision to speak in English.

His gap-toothed grin reminded her of Carlos, but though her pilot had been slightly lecherous, there had been none of this man's malevolence about him.

“Better,” he said approvingly. “You and me, we understand each other,
si
?”

“Who are you?”

“I wish to be your friend, señorita.” The disgusting purr was back in his voice.

Cara saw no advantage in pursuing that particular discussion. “Where have you brought me?”

He waved aside the question. “You do not know the place.”

If she could only see her watch, though, she bet she could figure out how far they were from where she'd been captured. Surely this camp wouldn't be far from the ruin, if these men were among the thieves.

“Could you untie my hands, please?” She injected an entirely unfamiliar note of humble supplication into her voice.

He shook his head adamantly.

“Please. The rope is cutting into my wrists. Perhaps you could just loosen it.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You think I am loco, señorita?”

“No, of course not. I am sure you wish to take very good care of me.” She tried to give her words a suitable, if revolting, double meaning, but apparently the subtlety was beyond him.

“I bring you food,” he said and left the tent.

Once he was gone, Cara looked around. She'd been right about the burlap. To her surprise, though, it was marked with the familiar insignia of an American grain company. Was that pure chance or was the grain exporter somehow involved in the smuggling operation?

Before she could think through the possibilities, Tomas returned with a tin plate of corn tortillas and beans. Once again she appealed to him to untie her hands, this time so she could eat.

“I feed you,” he said with a certain amount of eagerness. Keeping her helpless obviously appealed to his baser macho instincts.

He sat down next to her then, deliberately placing his body close to hers. He scooped some beans into the middle of one of the tortillas, rolled it and held it out to her. Despite imagining all sorts of dire intestinal consequences, Cara took a tentative bite. It was actually quite tasty, she decided, then blanched when she saw Tomas take the next bite of the same tortilla. Even though she knew she would regret it later, she declined any more of the food. She lay down.

“Is not good enough for you?” he inquired with a sneer. “You eat the steak and drink only the best wine, señorita? Here such food is for men, not skinny gringas. You will eat our simple food when you get hungry enough.”

Cara didn't doubt he was right. She just hoped she wouldn't have to go on sharing it with him. He ate what she had left with enthusiasm, drinking a beer to wash it down. Watching him tip the bottle up until the foaming liquid was dribbling down his chin, Cara got her first idea. She had to encourage him to get drunk. And then? Well, she would think of that when the time came.

“Do you suppose I could have a beer?” she asked.

“Why not?” he said expansively. “After a beer or two, who knows?” He leered at her. It made her blood run cold. Still, she kept smiling.

Tomas left the tent, returning about five minutes later with two beers in hand.

“We have a little party, señorita. Okay?”

She beamed at him. “Okay.”

She even kept from recoiling in disgust when he rubbed his hand deliberately across her breasts. Inside, though, she felt dirty, abused. If she ever got away from here, she would spend the rest of her life washing away his filthy touch. He was just reaching for her again when his name was bellowed outside, followed by a spate of furious Spanish too rapid for her to follow. His hand suddenly shook and he turned pale, but the glint of fury in his eyes was frightening.

So, she thought. That must be the hated
jefe.

Tomas reluctantly got to his feet and left her. It was only after he had gone that the trembling set in. Frantically she tried to recall the pleasure of Rod's caress, the way he had made her blood sizzle through her veins, the sweet throbbing he had set off inside her. She needed those memories to banish the horror of Tomas's rough, grasping hands on her body.

The day went on, hour after empty hour. It was the whining Mexican who brought her dinner. She had thought he would be easier prey for her wiles, but he was so scared of his own shadow, he barely even looked at her. He said nothing, and she wondered if he even spoke English. She didn't dare speak to him in Spanish. As long as they thought she didn't understand the language, they might be more likely to reveal information she needed to escape. The guard left as soon as she had eaten.

So, she decided reluctantly, as much as he frightened her, Tomas was her hope. Eventually, his massive ego and lechery could be turned to her advantage. During the next twenty-four hours, a plan began to form in her mind. It was a risky, daring plan. If it failed, she wasn't at all sure she could live with the consequences.

She had no alternative.

* * *

Rod thought he was losing his mind. Cara had been gone for nearly two days. Limping painfully, he had searched the immediate area, returning frequently to the archaeological site. He was convinced that this latest act of terrorism was tied to the smuggling they'd discovered. Sooner or later, whoever was responsible for Cara's disappearance would turn up at the site to resume the looting.

Late on the second day, he returned to the site and found a crudely scrawled note.

“You want gringa alive, you leave Mexico. No return. Ever. No dam. We let woman go free, when you gone.”