Moistening her lips, she brought a trembling hand to her chest.

For a quick, hot second, he thought she might let the towel drop.

He pictured her untwisting the terrycloth and standing naked before him, offering herself.

In the next heartbeat, he’d have her legs around his waist and her back against the wall.

But she didn’t loosen her towel; she clutched it tight.

“I can’t.”

That made two of them.

“Why not?”

Her throat worked as she swallowed.

“It’s complicated.”

His raging hormones disagreed.

They said it was as easy as unbuttoning his trousers and urging her down on his lap.

“I like you—”

“I like you, too.”

Her eyes filled with anguish.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Then let me get to know you,” he said, frustrated.

“Why won’t you tell me what those men want?

What have you done that’s so bad?”

She let her shoulders rest on the wall behind her, staring up at the ceiling.

“They think I killed someone.”

“Did you?”

Her gaze reconnected with his.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

“Buy this book. I LOVED it.” –New York Times bestselling author Maya Banks

Dear Reader,

Thanks so much for picking up my latest book. I had a blast writing this one and hope you enjoy reading it.

Before we got married, my husband and I went on a three-week trip through central Mexico, visiting archeological sites, colonial towns and coastal cities. We had such a great time that we returned two years later to tour the Yucatan Peninsula. Being from San Diego, we’ve also crossed the border for many weekend excursions to Baja California. I love the warmth and vibrancy of Latin America. Viva Mexico!

With Tempted by His Target, I wanted to give readers a fun, exciting vacation in a foreign country. My heroine, Isabel Sanborn, is one hot target. She’s on the run and in need of protection when she teams up with the hero, Brandon North. This is a high-octane road romance, so get ready for car chases, close proximity, and sizzling sexual tension.

Enjoy!

Jill Sorenson

About the Author

JILL SORENSON writes sexy romantic suspense. Her books have appeared in Cosmopolitan magazine.

After earning a degree in literature and a bilingual teaching credential from California State University, she decided teaching wasn’t her cup of tea. She started writing one day while her firstborn was taking a nap and hasn’t stopped since. She lives in San Diego with her husband and two young daughters.

Also Available from Jill Sorenson:

Dangerous to Touch

Tempted by His Target

Risky Christmas – with Jennifer Morey

Tempted by His Target

Jill Sorenson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Chris, my favourite travelling companion.

Chapter 1

Brandon stood at the edge of the beach, where jungle met sand, and watched his quarry wade out of the ocean.

He hadn’t expected to find her this soon.

Izzy Sanborn, aka Isabel Sanchez, dropped her surfboard on the shore, sluicing water from her dark hair. Her bikini top was snug, clinging to her lithe upper body, but her boardshorts were too large, almost falling off her hips. She knelt down on the sand, her back to him, and inspected what appeared to be a broken fin.

His heart began to pound with anticipation. Puerto Escondido was famous for big waves, and he was almost as eager to paddle out as he was to get his woman. Oaxaca’s “Mexican Pipeline” rivaled the strength and size of Oahu’s North Shore. Surfers from all over the world came here to test their mettle.

Ms. Sanborn had quite a bit of mettle, apparently. The beach was deserted and the conditions were precarious. Surfing here with no protective equipment was dangerous. Doing it alone was damned near suicidal.

Brandon strode forward, aware that she couldn’t hear him approach over the crashing waves. He hadn’t planned to sneak up on her but he knew that she avoided strangers. She might bolt if she saw him coming.

Before he had a chance to announce his presence, she tilted her head, catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye. Quick as a cat, she leaped over her surfboard, drawing up the leg of her shorts. There was a dagger strapped to her upper thigh.

He was impressed by her quick reflexes, and more than a little concerned that she would try to gut him like a fish. Resisting the urge to drop into a protective stance, he waited for her to make a move. Instead of unsheathing her weapon and launching an unprovoked attack, she slipped her hand out from under the hem of her shorts and straightened. She also relaxed her face, as if nothing was amiss.

“I’m sorry,” he said, keeping a cautious distance between them. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She remained silent, her expression cool now, impossible to read. Without being too obvious about it, he studied her appearance. Her black knit bikini top molded to her breasts in a tempting way. She had a trim figure: flat belly, slim waist, curvy hips. Every inch of her was smooth and tanned and toned. Strong, but decidedly feminine.

He lifted his gaze to her face, noting that she was even prettier in person. Her features were well arranged, her mouth nicely shaped. With her thick, dark lashes and fine brown eyes, she was striking.

Brandon had seen her picture in magazines, and memorized every detail, so he shouldn’t have been caught off guard by her beauty. He shouldn’t have been dazzled by it, either. For some reason, she made him feel like an awkward teen again. The circumstances were unusual, of course. He’d never had a female target before.

To put her at ease, he repeated his apology in awkward Spanish, as if he wasn’t sure she’d understood him.

She crossed her arms over her chest, more annoyed now than wary. “I speak English.”

“Cool,” he said, flashing a friendly smile. “You’re a really good surfer. Those were some sick moves.”

“Thanks.”

“Too bad about the broken fin.”

She shrugged. “It happens.”

“This looks like a tricky break. And a sharp reef.”

“Yes. Not for amateurs.”

“You surf alone?”

“All the time.”

“Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “You have more cojones than I do.”

He’d meant that figuratively, but her gaze drifted down to the Velcro fly of his boardshorts, as if checking out his male anatomy. His stomach muscles tightened on reflex and she glanced away, flushing.

Brandon watched a bead of salt water travel down the side of her face, fascinated. Her complexion wasn’t so dusky that he couldn’t see a tinge of pink on her cheeks. He wondered if she was embarrassed by his offhand remark, or angry with him for invading her privacy. “Can you give me some pointers?”

“You’ve got no business here if you’re inexperienced.”

“I’m experienced enough,” he said mildly.

“What do you see out there?”

He did a quick assessment. “This is a high-tide break. At low, the reef will be exposed, and the wave probably closes out. Swells are far-spaced, height is overhead and there’s a slight onshore flow.”

“Very slight.”

Brandon nodded with real pleasure. The only thing better was no wind at all. “Does it get any glassier than this?”

“Not much,” she admitted.

He moistened his lips, hungry for a taste of those waves. Intrigued by his most challenging assignment to date. “Will you spot me?”

It was clear that she wanted to say no, but surfing etiquette required her to agree. Refusing a safety request was like dropping in on another man’s wave, or trying to steal his girl. It just wasn’t done. “Okay,” she said, sighing. “I’ll keep an eye on you for thirty minutes. Maybe you can catch a few.”

Grinning, he offered her his hand. “I’m Brandon North, by the way.”

She smiled back, seeming amused by his enthusiasm, and her beauty took his breath away. In the years since her last photo shoot, she’d lost softness in her cheeks and dropped the exaggerated pout. Maturity suited her. She was confident, mysterious … and twice as appealing. “Isabel,” she said, accepting his handshake.

“Isabel,” he repeated. “Can I buy you lunch after this?”

She jerked her hand out of his. “No.”

“Do you eat alone, too?”

Her smile disappeared and she sat down on the sand, ignoring his question. “The reef is brutal,” she warned, dusting off her knees. “You’re better off taking a dive than risking a wipeout.”

Avoiding risk wasn’t his style, but he didn’t say that.

“The wave moves fast once it hollows,” she continued. “If you get a chance to stay inside the curl, go for it. It’s a luscious barrel.”

He eyed the formation, experiencing a rush of adrenaline that wasn’t unlike arousal. Sometimes he’d rather surf than have sex. Lately he hadn’t done enough of either.

Aware that Isabel was watching him, he pulled his attention from the water. Despite her dark coloring, she didn’t look like a native. Her skin was honey-gold, sun-warmed rather than God-given. Beneath her bikini top, she would be pale and delicate. He imagined pushing the wet fabric aside, revealing her bare breasts and soft nipples.

What Brandon felt now wasn’t similar to arousal; it was arousal. His face went taut as he struggled to stay cool. She stared back at him, her gaze burning into his, and a spark ignited inside him. He had the feeling that she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Her eyes trailed down his stomach again, lingering at the waistband of his shorts, which were riding low on his hips. “Go on,” she said, refocusing on the waves. It was both a dismissal and a challenge.

Muttering his thanks, he strode toward the shore. The sand beneath his bare feet was a pearly gray, darkened by volcanic ash and littered with crushed shells. Not pristine, but still very beautiful. The water was so clear he could make out the sharp-toothed reef beneath the surface, and the waves broke hard against it, creating one of the sleekest curls he’d ever seen.

His pulse thundered in his ears. He’d been surfing for more than ten years—that was the reason he’d been chosen for this assignment—but he wasn’t used to waves like this. The height was intimidating. It also reminded him that he was here to gain Isabel’s trust as a dedicated athlete, not to picture her naked.

Brandon waded into the foam-specked surf, determined to impress her. The water was only a few degrees cooler than the balmy air. He felt immersed in pleasure as it enveloped him. In San Diego, the ocean was so cold he usually needed a wet suit, but like most surfers, he preferred to trunk it.

He tossed his board on the water and leaped on top of it, paddling with easy, practiced motions. Ducking under the first wave, he resurfaced on the other side and kept moving to a calmer area beyond the breakers.

When he was in the right position, he turned back toward the beach, straddling his board and sitting upright.

Isabel was watching, waiting.

A decent six came up fast. Lying down again, he headed for the rising swell and paddled hard, standing up just as it gained momentum. His footing was off by a fraction. He lost his balance and the board went flying, propelled by the force of the wave.

Managing to avoid the reef, even while the whitewash swirled like a vortex around him, he felt the tug of his leash and followed it back to the surface. After securing his board carefully, because he’d been hit in the face by a rogue surfboard too many times to count, he cast another glance at the beach. Isabel looked bored.

He redoubled his efforts. His next few tries were more successful, and he fell into a nice rhythm. Although he didn’t forget his audience, he started surfing for himself. Ten minutes after he paddled out, a set of high overheads rolled in behind him. They rose up from the sea like liquid monoliths, ten thousand gallons of pure power.

He positioned himself at the top of the swell and let it take him. The wave moved so fast he hardly had to paddle. Holding steady, he popped up, bracing his feet on the surface of the board and lifting his arms.

A split second later, he cut to the right, and the curl folded over him in a perfect hollow. The feeling was so exhilarating he let out a triumphant shout as he maneuvered through the tube, fighting to stay inside.

Now this—this was how it felt to be alive. Here, he was in his element, with a powerful wave all around him, a killer reef beneath the surface and a sexy woman waiting for him on a deserted beach.

The ride wasn’t his all-time best, but it was pretty damned good. In the top ten, for sure. He executed a serviceable cutback and sank into the whitewash as the hollow closed out, narrowly avoiding a run-in with the razor-edged reef.

When he broke through the surface, he steadied his board and wiped the water off his face, laughing out loud from the rush.

Isabel was gone.

His smile faded as he searched the edges of the mangrove for a glimpse of her retreating form. There was only a trail of small footprints heading into the jungle. She’d ditched him as soon as he got distracted. It was bad form, but not necessarily suspicious. He was a strange man; she had cause to be wary.

Instead of running after her, he waded out of the water and followed at a steady pace. This particular beach was only accessible by boat or via a twisty footpath. If Isabel’s Jeep hadn’t been parked by the side of the road, surf rack half-hidden by foliage, he’d never have found the entrance.

And if she hadn’t written an “anonymous” article about this little-known spot for a popular surfing magazine, he’d never have found her.

Brandon still didn’t know where she lived, but he knew what she drove, and Puerto Escondido wasn’t a big city. He could probably locate her residence in short order. He could also tie her up and throw her in his trunk, if he had to. But strong-arm tactics were a last resort, and he wasn’t supposed to make a scene.

He didn’t want to alert the Mexican authorities—under any circumstances.

So he hitched his surfboard under one arm and navigated his way through the tangle of vines beyond the beach. The jungle appeared impenetrable. There were a few machete marks on the thick palm fronds, forming a barely discernible path. He could smell decomposing vegetation and recent rain. Life and death, blended.

Birdcalls echoed through the pungent depths. A buzzing sound started, growing louder in his ear. He slapped the mosquito on his neck, killing the noise.

After a summer in breezy San Diego, the humidity took some getting used to. The instant the salt water on his skin evaporated, beads of sweat formed on his chest. The jungle seemed to suck up every breath of air and inch of space. It was dark, too. When his eyes adjusted, he could no longer see footsteps on the ground, only hacked-up edges of plants and fallen leaves.

His surfboard shifted, growing slippery against his armpit.

He reached the edge of the clearing in time to watch Isabel’s Jeep fly down the road, leaving him in the dust. Squinting at the sudden brightness, he stared after her, his blood pumping with adrenaline.

She was faster than he’d expected. Stronger, more resourceful. He was going to enjoy catching her.

Chapter 2

Isabel didn’t lift her foot off the gas until she was five miles away.

She flexed her fingers around the steering wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror once again, her heart racing.

There was nothing behind her but dust.

Brandon had parked his rental vehicle, a midsize SUV, behind her Jeep. If he wanted to, he could follow her.

But why would he want to?

She took a deep breath, trying to relax. She’d run through the jungle like a maniac, half-convinced he was chasing her. Maybe she was overreacting, but his unexpected arrival had shaken her to the core. Leaving her back to the beach had been careless. She usually looked over her shoulder everywhere she went.

How could she have let him sneak up on her?

Muttering curses, she traveled south on the main highway for another mile before she pulled over, parking her Jeep behind a copse of trees. There she waited, monitoring the light flow of traffic as the sun crept high in the sky.

Brandon’s silver SUV passed by less than fifteen minutes later, his shortboard sticking out of the back like a white flag.

She’d known at a glance that he didn’t belong here. It took an experienced surfer to handle that break, but he wasn’t a pro. He didn’t travel with an entourage of photographers. His board was a rental. Big shots brought their own gear.

He wasn’t a burnout, either. Puerto Escondido attracted its share of scraggly potheads who were more interested in getting blazed than honing their surfing skills. Brandon didn’t fit that mold at all. With his close-cropped hair, clean-shaven jaw and sharp blue eyes, he looked like a straight arrow.

He was also hot as hell. His features were rugged and masculine, his physique taut. Something about him suggested wealth or privilege. He was wearing light gray boardshorts and nothing else. He had muscles like an endurance athlete, not a heavy weight lifter. She could have stared at his chest all day.

Her first reaction to him had been panic. She’d registered his height and broad shoulders and assumed he was one of Carranza’s men, come to kill her. Realizing that he wasn’t Mexican didn’t ease her anxiety. It wouldn’t have surprised her if the drug lord had recruited an assassin from outside the cartel. But Brandon had wasted the perfect opportunity to take her out, and he didn’t look like a thug.

Maybe she should have had lunch with him.

Shaking her head, Isabel started the engine and pulled out of her hiding place, following his SUV back to town. It wasn’t smart to get distracted by a killer body and a handsome face. Over the past few days, she’d felt uneasy, as if someone was watching her. Perhaps Brandon was the culprit.

He stopped at The Pelican, a nice hotel within walking distance of the most popular beach in Puerto Escondido. Isabel made a left on the nearest cross street and circled around, catching a glimpse of him entering the hotel courtyard.

She continued driving, hoping he would stay in his room for a while. Her apartment was downtown, less than two miles away. She parked in the covered garage and hurried toward the wooden steps, glancing around for strangers. Everything looked normal. Street vendors were selling tacos to the lunchtime crowd. The smell of grilled fish, fresh-cut limes and chopped cilantro wafted up, making her mouth water.

After 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 mistaken his level of inebriation and made a serious error in judgment. Her knife glinted on the cobblestones, out of reach.

He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to rob me?”

“No,” she said, moistening her lips.

“I have ten dollars in my wallet. Do you want it?”

“No! I saw you come out of the cantina and I was trying to catch up with you.”

“Why?”

She swallowed hard. “I’d like to offer my services as a tour guide. I know all of the best surf spots.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, deliberating. “How much?”

“Fifty a day, U.S.”

“What does that include?”

She thought fast. “I’ll take you to a choice location, spot you for a few hours of surfing and bring lunch.”

“You’ll drive?”

“Sure. My Jeep has a surf rack.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding. It was a much better deal than he’d get from EcoTours. They made arrangements for her to pick him up at his hotel in the morning, and shook hands. Isabel felt the same zing of pleasure as she had the first time he’d touched her.

He released her hand slowly, a crease forming between his brows. “I don’t pay women for sex.”

She recoiled in horror. “Of course not.”

“I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t on the table,” he said, raising both palms. “Don’t attack me again.”

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Gut reaction.”

He studied her for a moment, as if wondering who or what had made her so cautious. Instead of asking, he minded his own business. “Can I walk you home?”

“No thanks. I have another stop to make.”

“See you tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow.”

She reached down to retrieve her knife, watching him walk away. When he was out of sight, she sheathed the blade, hurrying down the alley. As she rounded the corner, she almost collided with a stocky man in a fedora.

There was an odd moment, not unlike the one she’d just had with Brandon, in which Isabel experienced a jolt of awareness. She looked into this man’s cold, dark eyes and knew: it wasn’t Brandon who’d been following her.

Before she could react to that certainty, the stranger reached out to grab her upper arm. He also flipped back the tails of his shirt, revealing a handgun tucked in his waistband. He was in his fifties, about Carranza’s age, but hardly soft. “Come with me,” he said in a low voice, his lips curled into a tight grimace.

Isabel was already primed for action, and she’d trained for this occasion. She lashed out, striking his forearm in a brutal chop. His grip loosened, but he backhanded her across the face, trying to subdue her.

The tactic worked. Pain exploded in her left cheek, hot and bright. Knocked off balance, she spun around and almost fell to her knees. When he grabbed her by the hair, she cried out, certain he was going to execute her. Panicking, she drew her knife and stabbed backward, using the same motion as an elbow jab.

The blade found its target, sliding to the hilt in a sickening plunge. Blood spurted over her hand and the man let out a hoarse cry, releasing her hair. She lunged forward, taking the knife with her, and turned to evaluate the damage.

“Puta,” he spat, holding his side. As blood seeped between his fingers, shock blanched his weathered countenance.

Isabel’s heart dropped. The wound appeared life-threatening.

Using his other hand, the man reached for his gun. She could only stare, her mind blank with terror as he leveled the barrel at her.

Chapter 3

Brandon knew Isabel had been following him. He’d caught a glimpse of her at the café, and another after he left the bar.

As soon as they parted ways, he doubled back, returning the favor.

He doubted she really wanted to be his surf guide, although that was the outcome he’d been fishing for. His mission was to get her out of the country without using brute force. Tomorrow he planned to drop a few hints about continuing the tour in Guatemala and hope she took the bait. Very few surfers visited that section of the Pacific Coast. It was a tempting location for a fugitive, and a freelance sports writer.

If she’d meant to rob him, she was even crazier than he’d figured. It was more likely that she found him suspicious and decided to do some recon. Either way, he’d have to be careful. She was prickly and distrustful and quick to draw her dagger.

He paused at the corner, listening for her footsteps. His eyes widened as he heard the sounds of another scuffle. Damn! Did she accost every man in her path? A sharp slap, followed by a muted female cry, spurred him into action. He sprinted down the alley, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

Isabel was standing across from a stocky man, squared up like an afternoon showdown. Her face was marred by a handprint. His side was red with blood. When the man pulled a. 38 from his waistband, Brandon’s world came to a grinding halt.

He didn’t have time to think, or shout a warning, or second-guess his actions. He just reacted, launching himself at the guy full force and tackling him to the ground. The man’s gun discharged in an earsplitting blast, and the bullet ricocheted through the alleyway, sending shards of brick flying in the air.

Weakened by the stab wound, the man beneath him didn’t put up much of a fight. Brandon gripped his opponent’s wrist and applied a crushing pressure, bashing his knuckles against the cobblestones. Grimacing in pain, the man released the weapon. Blood spread from his side, soaking his white shirt.

Panting from exertion, Brandon looked up at Isabel. She held her trusty dagger at an angle, letting the blade drip dry. Her eyes were dark with horror, her cheek ruddy from the blow. “Get help,” he ordered.

She touched the mark on her face, glancing around warily. The police would arrive at any second, drawn by the sound of gunshot.

“Get help, now!”

She sheathed her knife, backing away.

Goddamn it. Brandon assumed that the injured man was a cartel member, and a cold-blooded killer, but he couldn’t let a stranger bleed out. “Ayudame!” he shouted down the alley. “Policia!”

She took off at a dead run.

The man underneath him lost consciousness, his head listing to the side. Brandon did his best to staunch the blood flow, cursing fluently as he put pressure on the wound. What he really wanted to do was follow Isabel.

A small crowd gathered at the end of the alleyway, and a police car arrived a few moments later, siren wailing. Two uniformed officers jumped out, shouting orders in Spanish. They crouched behind the open doors of the squad car, guns drawn.

“Manos arriba! Manos arriba!” Brandon took his red-stained hands away from the wound and held them up high, his stomach churning with dread. One of the officers rushed forward, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him facedown on the cobblestones. He winced, trying to stay still as his arms were wrenched behind his back and his wrists cuffed.

There were no Miranda rights given, no questions asked. The injured man lay motionless in a pool of blood. The officers yanked him to his feet, talking to each other in rapid-fire Spanish.

“Estaba ayudando,” Brandon said. I was helping him.

They led him to the patrol car, ignoring his protests. “Watch your head,” one of the officers said, pushing him inside.

Brandon had no choice but to cooperate. He couldn’t reveal his identity without putting himself in danger. Mexican officials were often friendly, and quick to accept a bribe, but they wouldn’t be so amenable if they learned his real purpose here. At this point, it was better to pretend to be a hapless surfer.

“I didn’t do anything—” he said, just before the door slammed in his face.

Isabel was afraid to go back to her apartment.

She didn’t know how long Carranza’s man had been watching her. He might be working with a partner. Even if he’d come to Puerto Escondido solo, reinforcements could arrive anytime. Carranza would be furious to hear that she’d escaped.

She had to assume they knew everything. Where she lived, what she drove. Her only recourse was to leave town, change her name and start over.

Again.

Although she wanted to sprint, she forced herself to walk at a brisk pace, sticking to the backstreets. There was blood on her shirt, her face. Anyone who looked close would see a wild-eyed murderer.

Choking down a sob, she paused to rinse her hands in a fountain. The water ran pink, like blush champagne. Feeling queasy, she hurried on, passing through her neighborhood with her eyes averted and head down. She stopped at a locked garage several blocks from her apartment, using her key to open the door.

Months ago, when she’d decided to settle down in Puerto Escondido, she’d bought an old motorcycle from the garage owner and paid him a pittance to park it here. She’d also stashed an overnight bag in a metal drawer.

Standing on tiptoes, she reached into the drawer, locating the messenger bag. Slinging it over her shoulder, she hopped on the bike.

To her intense relief, the engine turned over.

Within minutes, she was speeding down the highway, putting distance between her and Puerto Escondido. It was almost full dark now, and a little cooler. The wind rippled through her hair and clothes, drying her sweaty nape.

She was going to make it.

On the heels of that thought, her stomach rebelled, protesting the stress of the past hours. She pulled to the side of the road and fell to her knees, vomiting in the gravel. When her belly was empty, she dry-heaved weakly, tears seeping from her eyes.

She’d stabbed a man. Maybe killed him.

Not only that, she’d left Brandon in the lurch. Mexican officials might let him off the hook, but Carranza’s men wouldn’t.

“Oh, God,” she moaned, fisting a hand in her hair. What was she going to do?

As soon as the nausea passed, she rose to her feet and wiped her mouth, grabbing a bottle of water from her pack. After spitting out the first sip, she drank a small amount, afraid the liquid would come back up.

Brandon had saved her life. She’d ditched him at Playa Perdida, and pulled a knife on him in the alley, but he’d stepped in to rescue her anyway. Showing zero consideration for his own well-being, he’d tackled the gunman. And how did she repay him for that gallant act? By running away.

She felt terrible.

The past two years had been harrowing, lonely and intense. She felt like she’d been dodging bullets forever. She didn’t want to be a fugitive from justice anymore. And she couldn’t stand the thought of another man’s blood on her hands.

Head pounding, she swung her leg over the bike, gunning the engine. The problem with being on the run in Mexico was that she didn’t know who to trust. Crooked officers were common because of low government wages. She couldn’t go to the police, and she wasn’t sure the embassies were safe. Carranza had a wide sphere of influence.

As hiding places went, this country wasn’t the best choice. But she hadn’t figured out who she was running from until after she crossed the border. Now she was stuck. She couldn’t stay here, and she was afraid to go home.

The least she could do was try to find out what happened to Brandon. Maybe she could warn him. He might be in danger because of her, and he was obviously an innocent bystander. She felt responsible for his safety.

Decision made, she turned her bike around, driving toward the muted lights of Puerto Escondido. At early evening, the air smelled like hot asphalt and thick vegetation. Crickets chirped in unison, creating a shrill cacophony. Farther out, blue-black waves lapped at the pale shoreline, lulling the city to sleep.

Well, not the whole city. The palapa bars that raged until sunup were several blocks from Brandon’s hotel. Raucous shouts were only murmurs at this distance, the music pulsing like a faint heartbeat.

She slowed her bike to a stop in a quiet area near The Pelican, taking cover behind a block wall. The spot wasn’t comfortable, but it offered a decent vantage point. She could see the courtyard and the carport.

An hour later, two men in a rental car parked on the opposite side of the street. They headed to the carport first, pausing by Brandon’s SUV. It was dark, so Isabel wasn’t sure what they were doing. Searching his vehicle, perhaps. After a few moments, they moved on, settling down in a pair of lawn chairs in the dimly lit courtyard.

Isabel stayed hidden, her pulse racing. These were Carranza’s men, without a doubt. She assumed the Mexican police would deliver Brandon to them. How could she alert him to their presence?

“Damn,” she whispered, crouching lower. The longer she lingered here, the higher her chances of getting caught became. Her mind raced with options, all unpleasant. She could flee the scene or hang back and watch it unfold.

This wasn’t going to be pretty.

Brandon’s handcuffs were removed, along with his personal effects. Sans wallet and cell phone, he was tossed into a holding area.

He couldn’t imagine a more unappealing place. It was constructed of metal and concrete. No lights or windows, no bench to sit on. A drain in the corner was the single amenity. It smelled like puke and urine.

There were two other men with him, one white, one Mexican. Both drunk.

He leaned against the wall, ignoring his cell mates. He’d never been on this side of the bars before. It was distinctly unpleasant.

After what seemed like hours, the two officers who’d collared him came back. Although he wasn’t looking forward to a long interrogation, he was happy to leave the stinking confines of the jail cell.

He was led to a restroom, where he scrubbed his hands, cringing at the blood under his fingernails. They continued on to an interrogation area in the back of the building that consisted of three chairs and a scarred wooden table.

Brandon took a seat, stretching out his long legs. “Am I under arrest?”

The English-speaking cop sat across from him. “Not yet.”

“How’s the guy who got stabbed?”

“I can’t say.”

He shifted in his chair, uneasy. If the man was dead, Brandon could be looking at a murder charge. That would be a major roadblock.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” the cop said.

Nodding, Brandon raked a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to say too much, but it was always best to stick close to the truth. Someone might have seen Isabel fleeing the scene. “I was having a beer at Señor Frog’s. On my way back to the hotel, I took a wrong turn and ended up in the alley. I saw a man and a woman, struggling. I thought he was attacking her. When he pulled a gun, I rushed him.”

The cop frowned at the term. “Rushed?”

“I ran at him,” Brandon explained. “I grabbed his arm and the bullet went flying. We fell to the ground. He dropped the gun. The girl ran away.”

“Where did she go?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you stab him?”

“No,” Brandon said. “I assume she did. She had the knife.”

“Describe her.”

Brandon hesitated, although he remembered every exquisite detail. Honeyed skin, almost-black hair, whiskey-brown eyes. He could have described the dip of her belly button and the shape of her breasts. “Small,” he said, moistening his lips.

“Short?”

“No … slim. Dark hair.”

“Is that it?”

Brandon pretended to think for another minute. “She was wearing a hat.”

To his surprise, the officer didn’t ask him any more questions. “Okay, Mr. North. That’s all we need.”

Relief washed over him. “I can leave?”

“Yes. We’ll take you to your hotel. The Pelican, right?”

“Right.” They’d asked where he was staying earlier. “Thank you.” He couldn’t believe they were letting him go after such a brief interview, but he wasn’t going to ask for a longer visit. After his belongings were returned, the officers dropped him off at his hotel, wishing him a pleasant vacation.

Brandon thanked them again and got out of the squad car. As he approached the courtyard entrance, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with awareness. Something wasn’t right. They’d wasted his time, and then rushed him along, for a reason. What were the odds that the cops had communicated with Carranza?

He paused, weighing his options. There was no view of the courtyard or his hotel room door from this side of the street. He could circle around, through the carport, or back away and get the hell out of here.

Leaving on foot would look suspicious, and he didn’t want to be without his vehicle—or the gun he’d stashed in it. Instead of playing it safe, he switched directions, heading toward the covered carport. Although it was dark inside, he could tell he was alone. He unlocked the SUV and slid into the driver’s seat, putting the key in the ignition.

The engine wouldn’t turn over.

Brandon tried again, frowning. It was dead.

He caught a flash of motion in the carport and realized he should have taken off running. Before he could reach for his weapon, a dark figure appeared at the driver’s side, tapping on the window with the barrel of a 9mm.

Damn, damn, damn.

He held his hands up where the man could see them, his heart in his throat.

“Get out,” the thug said, gesturing with his gun. He was tall, with rounded shoulders and a thick neck. Brandon recognized him as Gaucho Rodriguez, an enforcer for the La Familia drug cartel.

Brandon exited the vehicle, playing along. “It’s all yours, bro! Take it.”

Gaucho had a partner. A smaller man stood at the rear of the vehicle, studying Brandon with narrowed eyes. This was Ernestino Garcia, more commonly known as Pelón, for his balding head. Both Pelón and Gaucho were top-level members and convicted felons; they weren’t here to mess around.

“We need to speak with you in your hotel room,” Pelón said.

Brandon gaped at him stupidly, buying time. There was no way he’d allow this pair of miscreants to take him to a more private location. So they could tie him up and torture him for information? No, thank you.

Then again, the gun pressed to his ribs was a powerful motivator.

“Okay,” he said, swallowing hard. “Whatever you say. I have the key around here somewhere …”

Pelón gestured to Gaucho, who shoved Brandon against the hood of the SUV and started patting him down. So far, so good. Before Gaucho emptied his pockets, Brandon said, “I think it’s on the passenger seat.”

As Pelón walked around the side of the vehicle to check, Brandon noticed a shadowy form at the edge of the carport.

Isabel.

Her presence complicated matters, but he couldn’t squander this opportunity. The instant Pelón’s attention was diverted, Brandon flew into motion, jamming his elbow into Gaucho’s nose. It connected with a sickening crunch.

Gaucho howled in pain and stumbled back a step. Whirling to face him, Brandon kicked the weapon from his hand. It went clattering across the concrete slab, coming to rest underneath the adjacent car. Before Brandon could follow up with another punch, Gaucho charged, slamming his meaty shoulder into Brandon’s midsection. Brandon landed on his back, the oxygen rushing from his lungs.

Jesus Christ. The guy weighed a ton.

He also had fists like hams. Gripping the front of Brandon’s shirt, Gaucho pummeled his face, splitting his eyebrow, busting his lip. His head rocked back against the concrete with every impact. Stars exploded behind his eyes and pain blossomed in his skull, creating a brutal symphony of sound and light.

Brandon managed to bring his fist up, striking a hard blow to his opponent’s ear. Stunned, and probably a little winded, Gaucho lost focus. Brandon kept swinging, connecting with his target twice more in rapid succession. Realizing he was in trouble, Gaucho slumped to the side, reaching underneath the car for his gun. Before he could close his fingers around it, Brandon scrambled upright, jumping on his back. He wrapped his arm around Gaucho’s thick neck and employed a classic choke hold.

In his peripheral vision, which was growing dark, Brandon could see Pelón coming. Isabel appeared behind him, wielding a brick. She knocked him over the head with it, showing no mercy. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Brandon appreciated her assistance, but he was too busy to acknowledge her. All of his energy was focused on choking the man underneath him into submission. Blood from his brow dripped into his left eye, blinding him. Finally, Gaucho’s body went slack. Brandon released his grip, exhausted.

Isabel wore the same expression he’d seen in the alleyway. Fear, horror, guilt.

Sweating profusely, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and glanced at the man she’d brained. There was no blood, and his chest was moving with shallow breaths.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked, nibbling a fingertip.

“I don’t know,” he said, rolling away from the man underneath him. “This one will wake up soon, I guarantee it.”

Her eyes darted toward the street. “Let’s get out of here before the police come back.”

Brandon’s brain felt like a scrambled egg. He was dizzy and fatigued, his mouth filled with the metallic taste of his own blood. There was no time to ask questions. Mute, he retrieved his backpack from the vehicle and they left the carport together.

She had a beat-up motorcycle parked nearby. It wasn’t built for two but Brandon figured it would hold their weight. He mounted the bike first, trying to make room for her. She ended up sitting on him.

“Do you know how to drive this thing?”

“Sort of,” she said, starting the engine.

The situation was surreal, like an out-of-body experience. Brandon might be able to process it in a few hours. For now, he was on autopilot, his head spinning. A minute ago, he’d been participating in a violent fistfight. Now he had a deadly female in his lap.

“I owe you one,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.

She glanced around to make sure the road was clear before pressing on the gas. “We’re even.”

Chapter 4

The highway from Puerto Escondido to Oaxaca City wasn’t for the faint of heart.

During the day, the hairpin turns, deep potholes and absent road signs kept even the most experienced drivers on their toes. At night, the journey was extremely dangerous, almost impassable.

The good news was that they were all alone.

Isabel went as fast as she dared, watching out for headlights and herd animals, feeling safer with every mile gained. Brandon voiced no complaints but she sensed his discomfort. Every time they went over a hard bump or around a sharp curve, his arm tightened around her waist and his shoulders tensed, as if he was steeling himself from the pain. He’d taken some hard knocks to the head.

She’d been surprised by the skill and ferocity of his counterattack. He’d shown no hesitation in taking on a much larger man. She still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to break free. One moment he was getting pummeled, the next he was choking his opponent into submission. Isabel had watched the brutish display with a mixture of awe and unease, mesmerized by the corded muscles in his neck.

Although she’d known he was fast, she’d underestimated his strength. His lean elegance was deceptive. He fought like a professional.

She shivered at the thought. Even now, after hours on the road, she was aware of the hard thighs beneath her bottom, the locked forearm around her waist and the solid wall of his chest against her back. Well-built surfers were the rule, rather than the exception, but they didn’t typically excel at ultra violence. Her mind raced with questions, and she had to force herself not to squirm on his lap.

Who the hell was he?

The noise of the engine and the speed of travel inhibited conversation. By the time the city lights of Oaxaca were visible, it was well past midnight, and Isabel was exhausted. “I’m going to find a hotel,” she said as soon as they exited the highway.

Brandon made a sound of agreement. His injuries needed attention, and he had to be as tired as she was. If he wanted to take his chances at the airport, or split up, he was welcome to hail a cab from the hotel.

Finding a place to stay wasn’t easy at this hour. She spotted a run-down three-story building, well off the main drag, with a private parking garage and a back exit. Luckily, there was an employee at the gate.

“Pretend you’re drunk,” she murmured to Brandon.

He slumped against her back, compliant.

After a brief exchange with the guard, who was happy to accept cash in exchange for a room key, she parked her motorcycle and helped Brandon up the stairs. He leaned on her, either playing drunk or because he was really hurting.

The room was cramped but clean. She flipped on the light, relieved when a ceiling fan whirred into motion. It was hot in here. At least there was a private bath, as promised. She urged Brandon toward the bed, sweat trickling between her breasts.

He sat down on the mattress, groaning as he touched his temple. Blood had matted his left eyebrow and dried in dark rivulets along his jaw. His mouth was swollen, his shirt torn. He looked like he’d lost a bar fight.

She wondered if he had a concussion, though he’d never lost consciousness. “Is anything broken?”

He rested his head against the pillows. “Just my skull.”

Going to the hospital wasn’t an option. “I’ll try to get you some ice,” she said, grabbing the bucket from the nightstand. Ice was a luxury amenity in a dive hotel like this, so she was pleased to find a functional ice maker on the bottom floor. There was also a vending machine. After returning to the room, she emptied a pillowcase and filled it with a few handfuls of ice. “Here,” she said, pressing the makeshift pack to his temple.

“Thanks,” he said, holding it in place.

She rummaged through her messenger bag, which had a first aid kit, complete with bandages and over-the-counter painkillers. Ripping open the square package, she offered him the two pills in her upturned palm. He washed them down with water and leaned back again, closing his eyes. His cuts needed to be cleaned, but that could wait until the pills kicked in. “Are you hungry? The vending machine has snacks.”

He didn’t say no, so she returned to the bottom floor to buy cold sodas, snack cakes and tortilla chips. She carried the items upstairs and set them on the nightstand. “If you want to shower, you should do it now, before I fix you up.”

“You go first,” he said, his lips barely moving.

She took her bag into the bathroom, eager to wash and change. The mirror was small and scratched but it reflected her unsightly appearance all too well. There was an ugly scrape on her cheek and dark circles under her eyes.

“Ugh,” she said, pulling off her soiled clothes. They stank of sweat and blood and vehicle exhaust. She stepped into the shower stall and stood under the weak, lukewarm spray, her heart pounding with anxiety.

She’d stabbed a man. Killed him, maybe. Reliving the sensation of his blood gushing over her hands, she scrubbed them with a little too much vigor. Using the harsh soap, she lathered every inch of her body, trying to remove the taint of death.

Murderer, the hissing showerhead whispered. Murderer, criminal, thief.

She rinsed off and left the stall, drying her tingling skin with a nubby towel. There was a tank top and a pair of drawstring pants in her messenger bag. She dressed quickly, not bothering with a bra, and hung up her wet towel on the way out.

Brandon looked a little more alert. He’d opened his soda and finished a bag of chips. His blue eyes traveled down her body, settling on her bare toes. Her mind flashed back to the days of four-star hotels with spa services and complimentary pedicures.

“It’s all yours,” she said, gesturing toward the bathroom.

He rose from the bed, wincing, and picked up his pack. She moved aside as he passed by, noting that the top of his head barely cleared the doorway. At well over six feet tall, he’d have to duck down to shower.

Stomach growling, she sat down to eat. The snack cakes didn’t taste very good, but the chips were okay. She devoured both, crunching noisily.

Her Beverly Hills manners were long gone, too.

When Brandon came out of the bathroom, wearing only trousers, she almost choked on the last mouthful of soda. She’d seen his bare chest at the beach. But now they were in a tiny room with a single bed, and his masculine presence seemed magnified. The smell of clean male skin permeated the space, assaulting her senses.

He blotted his eyebrow, which was still seeping, with a small towel.

Flushing, she set the empty can aside and rose to retrieve her first aid kit. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the edge of the mattress. He complied, taking the towel away from his brow as she stepped forward to treat him. She stood between his splayed thighs, her hands trembling as she cleaned the area around the cut with an alcohol square. It probably didn’t need stitches; head wounds just bled a lot. “This might scar.”

“Who were those guys?”

“Thugs,” she said vaguely, dabbing a bit of antibiotic ointment on the cut. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“‘Nam.”

She ignored the sarcastic answer, realizing that he was annoyed with her evasiveness. It took all of her concentration to prepare a butterfly bandage without fumbling. She hadn’t been this close to a man in a long time. Her breasts were inches from his face. His gaze rose to meet hers, conveying a reluctant sexual interest and faint distrust.

The feeling was mutual.

“Hold still,” she said, pressing the edges of the cut together and securing it with the bandage. He sucked in a sharp breath, baring his teeth in discomfort. Then she was done, and the wound was closed up tight, almost as if she’d stitched it.

“Those guys are with La Familia,” she said, sitting down next to him.

He didn’t ask what that meant. The most powerful drug cartel in Mexico was infamous. “Why are they after me?”

She hesitated to give him a straight answer. Being as honest as possible was the least she could do, after dragging him into this mess, but she had to look out for herself first. “They’re not after you.”

His brows lifted. “They want you?”

“They want something I have.”

“What?”

Isabel couldn’t tell him, so she reached for the antibiotic ointment again. Using a light touch, she applied the medicine to his bruised lower lip. After so many months of deprivation, the action seemed unbearably sensual. Her nipples tightened, poking against the soft fabric of her tank top in an all-too-obvious bid for attention.

Flustered, she jerked her hand away from his mouth. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

His lips curved into a wry smile, as if he’d thought of something amusing. Instead of sharing the joke, he made a fist, revealing swollen knuckles and a rash of small cuts. She put ointment on his knuckles and bandaged them lightly, trying to ignore the heat between them. “You don’t do manual labor,” she commented. His hands were strong, with ropy veins, but his palms weren’t heavily callused.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No, but my job is physically demanding. And I teach self-defense classes on the weekends.”

Self-defense classes. That explained his grappling prowess and swift reactions. “What’s your day job?”

“I work for a risk management company. We test sports equipment, safety gear, anything that’s designed to reduce injuries. By the way, you really should wear a helmet if you’re going to surf alone at a crusher reef.”

His belated advice made her feel numb. She’d probably never see that reef again. “I’m sorry for running away in the alley earlier,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap. “I feel bad about leaving you with … the body.”

“He wasn’t dead.”

She perked up. “Really?”

“They took him away in an ambulance, so he must have been alive. The police wouldn’t say how he was. In any case, I appreciate you coming back. I don’t think those guys had a friendly conversation in mind.”

“No,” she agreed, warmed by his gratitude. She began putting away her first aid supplies, self-conscious.

“Wait,” he said, reaching for the antibiotic ointment. He squeezed a small amount onto his thumb and brushed it over her cheek, soothing the scrape.

Isabel’s skin tingled with sensation. She was heartened by the reminder that Carranza’s man had struck her first, and glad she’d been able to help Brandon fend off his attackers. She was also terrified by her response to him. Over the past two years, she’d relied only on herself. Staying away from people had kept her safe.

He made her ache for all the things she’d been missing.

His hand lingered on her jaw, framing it the way a man did before he stole a kiss. She felt her eyelids grow heavy and pulse throb. The temptation to part her lips and tilt her head back was almost irresistible.

Somehow, she found the strength to pull away. When he dropped his hand, she shoved her first aid supplies into the case and rose to her feet.

“What are your plans?” he asked.

“Get some sleep.” No easy task, with him in the bed.

“Tomorrow, I mean.”

She shrugged, stashing the kit in her messenger bag. Her best recourse was probably to stay in Oaxaca, lying low.

“Come to Guatemala with me.”

Her gaze flew back to his, startled. “You’re going there?”

“I was considering it, yeah.”

“Since when?”

“Yesterday. I saw an ad for a surfing tour.”

Her mind raced with possibilities. It wasn’t a bad idea. Brandon was strong, he cared about her safety and he could handle himself in a fight. With his height and looks, he wouldn’t be inconspicuous, but traveling couples were much more common than single women. He also had money, or access to money. Wealthy Americans were welcome everywhere in Mexico. They might be able to cross the border together.

This was her chance to escape. Should she take it?

“Those men won’t give up,” she warned. “Staying with me will be dangerous.”

He didn’t seem worried. “I assess risk for a living.”

She pegged him as a controlled adrenaline junkie—and knew she could do worse. “You have a head injury.”

He fingered the bandage by his left eye, deliberating. “We don’t need to decide now. Let’s sleep on it.”

Making a tacit agreement to revisit the topic in the morning, Isabel killed the lights, settling in beside him. He didn’t try to touch her again, which only increased her frustration. She was lying next to a hot gentleman, her body humming with desire. Sex was out of the question, of course, no matter how badly she wanted it. He was nursing a possible concussion, and she had to stay focused on survival.

They couldn’t afford to get sidetracked.

Tomorrow night, if she decided to accompany him to Guatemala, she’d try to secure a room with two beds.

After a few minutes, his breaths came deep and even, signaling that he was asleep. Isabel relaxed slightly, her thoughts drifting. She felt safe with Brandon. Not comfortable, exactly. Their physical chemistry kept her nerves on edge, but she didn’t think he’d harm her.

She also wondered why he’d offer his assistance, beyond chivalry. A man like him could have his pick of women. Those two European girls had given him the go-signal. Why would he trouble himself with a knife-wielding fugitive instead? Some guys had a thing for surfer girls; others enjoyed the chase. Many extreme sports enthusiasts were addicted to risk. Maybe Brandon was a thrill-seeker and an “exotic” female was icing on his cake.

It didn’t matter, as long as he kept his distance.

She was still pondering his motives, and replaying the feel of his hand on her cheek, when exhaustion took over.

Brandon waited until Isabel fell asleep and rose from the bed, moving to the single window to stand guard.

Through the bars, he watched the dark, empty street. In a few hours, the sun would peek over the edge of the horizon, and most of the city’s residents would rise for another long workday. Now, the night was quiet and peaceful.

His head didn’t ache as much as it had earlier, and the nausea had passed. Judging by his blurred vision, motion sickness and general disorientation, he’d suffered a mild concussion. He should take care not to reinjure himself in the next few weeks—getting knocked out again could be disastrous. Although he didn’t really assess risk for a living, he’d played enough football to know that brain damage was no joke.

He glanced back at Isabel, acknowledging that this assignment was rife with risk. Even from across the room, she tempted him. Her figure was a shadowy outline on the bed, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, chest rising with soft, even breaths. His fingers itched to sink into her hair, to skim along her slender curves. Worse, a strange tenderness welled up inside him at the sight of her peaceful slumber.

He tore his gaze away, clenching his bandaged hand into a fist. Seducing her wasn’t one of his objectives. Inappropriate contact with a target was grounds for dismissal, in fact. All of his previous assignments had involved men, so that hadn’t been a problem before. It shouldn’t be a problem now. He’d never had trouble abstaining from sex on the job, or finding an appropriate partner during his downtime. Right now, he had no patience for abstinence and zero interest in other women. For whatever reason, he felt a very specific, intensely focused desire for Isabel. Maybe he wanted her because he couldn’t have her. Or maybe he just wanted her.

Either way, he needed to get a grip.

This was a complication he hadn’t anticipated. Sure, he’d admired her sexy photos—and he didn’t dare conjure a mental image of the more explicit ones now, when he was feeling vulnerable—but he wasn’t a horny teenager anymore. A beautiful woman with a bad personality didn’t appeal to him. As far as he knew, Izzy Sanborn was a hot mess. He avoided spoiled brats and drama queens like the plague.

Isabel “Sanchez” was a far cry from the hard-partying socialite he’d researched, however. She was smart, and resourceful, and … he liked her.

He’d been trained to feel nothing for his targets, positive or negative. Hate could be as great a liability as sympathy, and he wasn’t supposed to damage the merchandise. It didn’t matter if they were innocent or guilty, just that they were fugitives. He didn’t evaluate evidence. His instructions were to make contact, plan and execute a capture, and deliver the target unharmed.

What happened after that was none of his business.

Perhaps because Isabel was a woman, he worried about her fate. He considered the punishment she would face, and whether or not she deserved it. Questioning an assignment wasn’t like him. Usually, he felt good about what he did and proud of the services rendered. He’d caught sexual predators, ruthless drug dealers, hard-core criminals. None of these men had inspired tender feelings.

Isabel wasn’t a typical target, not by a long shot. Her behavior was flighty and irresponsible, but she didn’t seem cruel. There were two sides to every story, and he wanted to know hers. He could tell she hadn’t enjoyed stabbing a stranger, or braining a man with a brick. She wasn’t a sociopath.

For the first time, he felt conflicted about his job. He should be going after those bastards in La Familia, not Isabel.

Frowning, he tested the bars on the window, which were impenetrable. The security measure was a fire hazard, and it cut off this avenue of escape. The bathroom window, facing the alleyway, was small but would do in a pinch. He wouldn’t have chosen this hotel, or this particular room, if there had been others available. It was too confined.

Turning, he leaned his back against the wall, watching Isabel sleep. He studied her relaxed face, the soft sweep of her eyelashes, her slightly parted lips. Maybe he was romanticizing her situation, proscribing motives that didn’t exist.

What if his instincts were off?

He’d promised his boss that an assignment was an assignment. He had no qualms about taking down a dangerous female. The deadlier the better. And backing out at this stage of the game wasn’t an option.

Determined to steel himself against her allure, he vowed to collect as much information about her as possible. She was fiercely independent, a capable warrior. Although he got the impression that she didn’t let anyone touch her these days, she’d seemed tempted by him tonight. If the attraction between them wasn’t one-sided, he could use it to his advantage—as long as he stayed strong. He couldn’t sleep with her, under any circumstances, but if he feigned disinterest, he might lose her altogether.

Walking that tightrope would be tricky, possibly torturous.

He stared at her for a long time, praying he’d be able to maintain a professional distance, wondering if she’d been wrongly accused.

She didn’t look like a murderer.

Chapter 5

Izzy was lying next to a dead man.

The realization came in slow degrees as she regained consciousness. Groggy from the night before, she didn’t want to open her eyes. She certainly didn’t want to inspect the unnaturally stiff form beside her.

In her sleep, she’d snuggled closer, but his body offered no warmth. Instead, it sucked away her peaceful oblivion and made her stomach twist with unease. The stillness of his chest was matched by eerie silence. He wasn’t breathing.

Was this really happening?

She sat up in bed, moaning as her vision swam, and then cleared. Head pounding, she forced herself to focus on the man beside her. For a few dull seconds, she couldn’t place him. He was fully clothed, like her, his dark hand lying across his stomach. He looked young and well-built. There was something vaguely familiar about his slack features.

Even dead, he was handsome.

Jaime.

The events from the previous evening came tumbling back to her, a confusing blur of images and sensations. She remembered popping too many pills. Smoking too many cigarettes, ordering too many drinks.

She knew that she’d hooked up with Jaime at a seedy underground club. He was one of her favorite new friends, rich and pretty and loaded with dope. Best of all, he was always more interested in getting high than getting laid. They’d shared a cab to her Hollywood Hills apartment in the wee hours of the morning.

Everything after that was a blackout.

Fingers trembling, she reached out to touch his limp wrist. She couldn’t feel a pulse, but she wasn’t a nurse. When she released his hand, it stayed there, his arm sticking upright rather than falling back down by his side.

Rigor mortis.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth. On the nightstand above him, there was a prescription pill bottle. She snatched it up, reading her own name on the label. These were her “knockout drops,” not for casual partying.

And they were gone.

Panicking, she swept her purse off the ground and stashed the empty pill bottle inside. She had to get out of here. This was too much. Her sling-backed stilettos were lying on the shag carpet. She shoved her bare feet into them and stumbled across the bedroom, disoriented. What else should she take with her? Car keys. A light shawl. Her cell phone rested on the nightstand, message notification blinking. She couldn’t think of a single person she wanted to talk to. Everyone in her current circle was a flake.

Maybe she should call a lawyer.

Her gaze skittered past the phone, settling on a brown leather bag that she knew belonged to Jaime. Although it looked like a casual briefcase for school assignments or textbooks, it housed a hefty cache of pot and cocaine.

She stared at the bag, her heart thumping in her chest, aware that it held the evidence of last night’s debauchery. If she left it here, would she be charged with drug possession? Reckless endangerment? Manslaughter?

Leaving her cell phone untouched, she crouched down beside the bed to pick up Jaime’s leather bag. The instant her fingers closed around the strap, a cold hand shot out, trapping her wrist in a death grip.

“Puta,” the man she’d stabbed said, blood dripping from his lips.

Isabel awoke with a jolt.

She stretched her left hand across the mattress, searching for a friend or foe. Her right hand went to the knife at her waist. Both came up empty. The room’s only other occupant was standing by the window, and her weapon holster had been put away last night.

The disturbing dreamscape receded as she stared into Brandon’s calm blue eyes. His expression told her he hadn’t missed a thing.

Self-conscious, she brought her flailing arms closer to her body. Although the temperature had cooled, her skin was dotted with perspiration, her tank top clinging to her chest. She wondered how long he’d been watching her sleep. Sitting up, she pushed her hair off her forehead.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take it,” he said.

Her eyes met his, startled.

“Your coffee,” he clarified, lifting his own cup.

There was another cup on the nightstand, steam rising from the top. Beside it, a mildly sweet pastry known as pan dulce. She took an experimental sip. He hadn’t added enough sugar to suit her. “It’s fine.”

Satisfied, he glanced out the window, drinking his own coffee. He looked better this morning. The bruises on his face had darkened but the swelling was down. If he put on a pair of sunglasses, the flesh-colored bandage on his brow would be hard to notice. He also needed a hat to cover his ash-brown hair.

She realized that she’d made her decision. Any man who could stand watch, grab breakfast and keep his hands to himself was worth his weight in gold. She also had to admit that waking up with him was better than waking up alone, after a nightmare like that. “I’ll go with you,” she blurted.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Good.”

“You haven’t changed your mind?”

“No.” He took another drink from his cup, mulling something over.

She tore off a piece of pastry. “What is it?”

“Those guys from last night … do you owe them money?”

Chewing the bite she’d just taken, she stalled, not wanting to give away too much. “Yes, but I don’t think that’s what they’re after.”

“What are they after?”

“Blood.”

His jaw tightened at the answer. “There’s one thing I need to make clear before we move forward.”

She regarded him warily. “What?”

“I don’t like drugs. If you’re on something—”

“I’m not,” she said, her cheeks warming.

“Since when?”

“I haven’t even had a drink in years. Is that okay with you, Boy Scout?”

“Yes,” he said, curt.

She ate the rest of her pan dulce without really tasting it. “Why are you traveling by yourself?”

His brows rose. “Why not?”

“Are you a lone wolf?”

“This from a woman who surfs solo.”

“I have reasons for that.”

He lifted his cup to his lips, making a noncommittal sound.

“You’re not … involved with anyone?”

“No,” he said, glancing at her in surprise. “And I’ve never had a girlfriend who would be interested in this kind of vacation.”

She sipped her coffee, contemplative. He probably dated prissy Miss America types with perfect hair. There had been a lot of those in Hollywood, if she remembered correctly. “What about guy friends?”

He shrugged. “They all have lives, and I made the plans at the last minute. Besides, I don’t mind doing my own thing. Sometimes I prefer it.”

Isabel tried to imagine wanting to be alone, and couldn’t. “Do you have a family?”

“Yes.”

“Are you close?” she asked, embarrassed by the sudden pressure behind her eyes. Her estranged relationship with her mother was one of her greatest regrets. She couldn’t mend it from a distance, though she longed to.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.