Without warning, Logan moved close and grasped her chin. Lightning flickered behind him. His dark eyes seared into hers.

And then he kissed her—a deep, rough kiss that wiped out every thought.

Just as abruptly, he stepped back, grabbed the gelding’s reins and turned into the turbulent night.

The wind whipped against her. Dara shivered, tightened her grip on the rope, determined to forget the kiss, forget the need sizzling in her veins, and concentrate on what mattered most—surviving the night.

They had a sniper close behind them, lightning threatening to strike, a treacherous mountain to cross.

She dragged in an unsteady breath and prepared herself to face the danger ahead.

But as she stepped into the seething night, the feel of Logan’s kiss still lashing her nerves, she feared that the real danger might be the temptation brewing inside herself.

Dear Reader,

There’s something about a long-lost city that really ignites my imagination. Add in towering, mist-clad mountains and ancient trails, and I’m hooked! So what better place to set this second book of THE CRUSADERS miniseries than Peru, a fascinating, profoundly spiritual land filled with pyramids, mummies, mysterious energy lines and sacred ruins.

Better yet, hiding out in the forbidding mountains I found my favorite type of hero—cynical, solitary Logan Burke. An honorable man with a wounded soul, Logan is convinced he isn’t a hero. Fortunately, he’s about to meet a determined princess who will prove him wrong.

I hope you enjoy their dangerous and exciting journey!

Gail Barrett

To Protect a Princess
Gail Barrett

www.millsandboon.co.uk

GAIL BARRETT

always dreamed of becoming a writer. After living everywhere from Spain to the Bahamas, raising two children and teaching high school Spanish for years, she finally fulfilled that lifelong goal. Her writing has won numerous awards, including Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Golden Heart. Gail currently lives in western Maryland with her two sons, a quirky Chinook dog and her own Montana rancher-turned-retired Coast Guard officer hero. Write to her at P.O. Box 65, Funkstown, Maryland 21734-0065, or visit her Web site, www.gailbarrett.com.

To my sister, Mary Jo Archer, for her wonderful support.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I’d like to give a huge thanks to author Adrianne Lee for her brainstorming help; farrier Kevin King for information about mules; Darlene Leivonen for answering my endless questions about horses; and especially Judith Sandbrook, for her super critique help. Thank you all!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

Yanahirca, Peru

Trouble was coming.

The warning shivered down Logan Burke’s neck like the graze of a cobweb, that whisper of danger, danger, he’d learned not to ignore. He knocked back his shot of whiskey, hissed as it scorched a raw, hot path through his gut, then slid his left hand to the Imbel .45 tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

The men lurking in the shadows of the cantina shifted, and the muscles along Logan’s broad shoulders tensed. He eased himself into shooting position, flicked his gaze to the open door.

The newcomer stood in the doorway, backlit by sunlight, but there was no mistaking her long, slender legs and female curves.

He sucked a long, slow breath through his teeth. Trouble was right. A woman in this hellhole meant gunfights, bloodshed.

But damned if the blood would be his.

She strolled into the cantina, and the outlaws tracked her, watching her with feral eyes. These men were renegades, ex-guerrillas and terrorists hiding beyond civilization in a remote Andean village laid waste by poverty and war. Men with nothing to lose. Men waiting to die.

Men he just might have to kill.

The woman seemed oblivious to the danger. She sauntered straight toward him across the packed dirt floor, her fine-boned chin raised, the hips in those snug jeans swinging to the kind of sweet, sensual beat that compelled a man to watch. She drew closer, and he made out high, exotic cheekbones, dark, tilted eyes. And round, ripe breasts that shifted beneath her T-shirt, daring a man to touch, to taste, to take.

The men stirred. Mutters broke the tight silence. The air reeked of testosterone.

“Logan Burke?” Her voice was throaty, low-pitched. And any hope he had of avoiding trouble died.

“I’m Dara Adams.” She pulled a small pack off her shoulder, held out a slender hand. The motion swept her thick, black braid past her hips.

He ignored the hand, slid his gaze across the dim room to assess the danger. Three men. Five empty bottles. Enough firepower to run a war.

But armed or not, he knew these men wouldn’t challenge him outright. They were cowards by nature, hyenas who skulked in the shadows, finding strength in packs. They’d watch, wait until they could shoot him in the back.

This woman would give them the courage to try.

She pulled her hand back. Her dark eyes flashed, and a flush climbed up her cheeks. “I need to talk to you. I heard you could help me.”

“You heard wrong.”

She blinked. Her sultry lips parted. “But…you don’t even know what I want.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He worked alone, lived alone, never got involved. That was the rule he lived by. The rule he’d die by.

The one rule he could never forget. His wife’s death had guaranteed that.

“Of course it matters.” She frowned, glanced back at the outlaws. “Can we go somewhere to talk? Alone? I have a proposition for you.” She lowered her voice. “I promise it’s worth your while.”

The edge of his mouth ticked up. And for a second he indulged himself, letting his gaze slide over those erotic lips and creamy throat, those perfect, tempting breasts.

Hunger kicked low in his gut.

“A business proposition,” she added, sounding breathless, and he tugged his gaze back up.

“Sorry. I’m not interested.”

“But I’ve spent three weeks trying to find you.” Her voice rose. “I’ve hiked all over Peru.”

“Then you wasted your time.”

“But—”

“Listen, darlin’. Let’s make this clear. Real clear.” He leaned close, locked his gaze on those harem eyes, tried not to inhale her female scent. “Whatever you want, the answer is no. No way in hell.”

He slapped a coin on the bar, touched the brim of his leather hat, then strode across the silent room. He angled his shoulders and ducked through the open doorway, hoping she had the sense to do the same.

Because damned if he’d go back and save her.

He paused, squinted in the blazing sunshine, then headed down the dirt road to where he’d tied his horse. It didn’t matter what she wanted. He knew better than to get involved with a woman like her, even for business. He’d have every renegade in Peru on his tail.

Determined to forget the woman in the bar, he strode past the crumbling huts, their thatched roofs and mud walls destroyed by warring senderistas and drug lords. His horse nickered, bobbed his head as he approached.

“Hey, Rupper.” He rubbed the gelding’s forehead and ears, grinned when the horse bumped him back. Rupe was a fifteen-hand Peruvian Paso, spirited and smart, five centuries of brio breeding evident in every step. And Logan hated to leave him behind on this trip. But he had a job to do—silver to haul—and he needed his sure-footed llamas for that.

He flipped a coin to the Quechua kid who’d begged to watch the horse. The boy’s white teeth flashed in a smile. “Yuspagarachu.” Thank you. He darted off barefoot down the rutted lane.

Logan tightened the horse’s cinch and checked his packs, made sure the dynamite and his AK-47 were undisturbed. He doubted anyone would have touched them. His reputation was deadly enough to keep most thieves away. But a man didn’t stay alive in these mountains by letting his guard down.

His thoughts swerved back to the woman in the bar. He frowned, glanced up the empty road, and an uneasy feeling gnawed at his gut. What was she doing in the cantina for so long? He’d expected her to be out by now, heading safely down that road toward some town.

He shoved the worry aside. She wasn’t his problem. He wouldn’t let her be. He couldn’t fail another woman like he had his wife.

And he couldn’t afford to waste more time here. He glanced at the mountains looming above him, scanned the ancient Inca terraces that ringed the distant peaks. The sunshine was deceptive. The seasonal rains would hit any time now, turning the trails to mud. He’d have to hustle to get that last load of silver over the mountains before the passes closed.

Scowling, he swung himself into the saddle, nudged the gelding’s flanks, and set off. The horse pranced sideways, tossed his head, oddly nervous in the quiet air, as if menace lurked in the abandoned huts.

And Logan felt just as restless. He scanned the deserted hovels, the faded graffiti on the crumbling rock walls. It was too quiet. Even the pigs and stray dogs were lying low. And that damned sense of danger, danger kept bludgeoning his nerves.

Then suddenly, a gunshot shattered the silence. Birds scattered and took to the sky. He jerked the rifle from his pack, wheeled his horse back toward the cantina and swore.

He’d been right. That woman was going to cause trouble.

Thank goodness she’d brought a gun.

Dara Adams stood with her back to the cantina door, her heart careening against her rib cage, the blast from her pistol still thundering in her ears. She steadied the gun in her trembling hand, took another step toward the open door.

“Stay back. Aléjense,” she warned the three thugs who’d tried to stop her. Her shot had missed them, just taken out some bottles behind the bar. But at least it had forced them back.

But not for long.

She lifted her chin to stare them down, but their mean eyes, fueled by pisco and whiskey, glittered back. There were three of them, one of her. And slung over their ponchos were the deadliest weapons she’d ever seen.

They crept closer, fanning out this time, and her heart wobbled into her throat. “I said get back,” she said again, sharper now, determined not to let them see her fear.

God, she didn’t need this. Her forehead pounded from the too-thin air. She was spooked about the man she’d spotted following her for the past three weeks. And she was exhausted after trekking through endless villages, searching for the elusive Logan Burke.

And now that she’d finally found him, she couldn’t let him get away.

She moved closer to the door, getting ready to run. But one of the outlaws lunged. She leaped back, her pulse rocketing, and raised her pistol to fire. But he caught her wrist, twisted hard, and a sharp bolt of pain shot up her arm. She gasped and dropped the gun.

He jerked her close, and she shoved back, fighting to loosen his hold. But he was strong. He pulled her tighter against him and groped her breast.

Outraged, her fear for her safety growing, she struggled to knee him, gagging on the stench of unwashed flesh. But he twisted her arm higher, trapping her against him. The men behind them laughed.

And that made her even madder. She despised bullies like this, cowards who preyed on the weak. As the Roma princess—royal representative of the Gypsies—she’d witnessed the hatred and discrimination her people endured. And she refused to let this bully win.

Furious, she struck out with her free hand, clawed at his face, slammed her hiking boot into his shin. He grunted, loosened his hold, and she managed to stumble back.

She caught her balance, her breath coming fast, but she couldn’t reach her gun. The man circled her, fury contorting his face.

“Agárrala, pendejo,” one of the other men taunted, then laughed. And she realized with a sudden chill the danger she was in. She’d humiliated him, enraged him. And now he wanted revenge.

He leaped forward, lunged for her arm. She jumped to the side and whipped back.

“Problem, boys?” a lazy, graveled voice drawled from the doorway. The thug hesitated, looked up, and Dara’s breath rushed from her lungs.

He’d come back.

She dragged in air, shook her aching wrist, took advantage of the distraction to dart over and pick up her gun. Then she turned and faced the man who’d saved her.

He filled the doorway with his muscled frame, looking every inch the desperado. His eyes were dark and grim beneath his battered hat, his mouth a lethal slash. He radiated danger, ruthlessness, from the black beard stubble darkening his rigid jaw to the assault rifle trained on the thugs. His powerful maleness made her nerves race.

Seconds passed. Tension vibrated in the stifling air.

Then suddenly, Logan’s gun barked. The blast sprayed up dirt, roared in her ears, and she flinched back in shock. She gaped from Logan to the men at the bar, and the man who’d attacked her inched up his hands.

She hadn’t even seen him move. But Logan had—and he’d made his point. All three men shuffled back.

“Go wait by my horse,” Logan told her. His eyes never veered from the men.

She opened her mouth to argue. “Now,” he added, his deep voice hard.

She stiffened. She didn’t take orders, didn’t let others fight her battles for her.

But then she caught the flat, mean stare of the man who’d touched her, and her dread rose. She’d made an enemy here, a dangerous one. Maybe she’d be smart to leave.

She hurried out the door into the dusty road, spotted a huge black gelding standing by some mules. His sleek coat gleamed in the sunshine. Muscles rippled in his powerful neck. He wore a worked silver browband across his strong forehead, two oiled leather packs draped over his flanks. Logan’s horse. He looked as dangerous as his owner did.

Logan strode from the cantina a second later. He glanced at her, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, then vaulted into the saddle and reached out his hand. “Come on.”

She blinked, hesitated. “We’re going to ride double?” She was a Gypsy—Roma—and proper Roma women didn’t get that close to men. But then, nothing about this trip was proper.

“Unless you want to stay here.”

She flicked her gaze back to the cantina, then shivered hard. “No, thanks.”

She stuck her pistol in her backpack and grabbed his hand. His palm was warm, callused, his strength impressive as he tugged her up. She swung her leg awkwardly over the horse, settling behind the saddle on the horse’s rump.

“Hold on,” he warned. He wheeled the horse around, and she clutched his shirt. The horse took off at a lope.

She gasped at the burst of speed, wrapped her arms around Logan’s waist to keep from falling off. She buried her face in his shirt, inhaled the comforting scent of wool and man, felt his solid muscles bunch under her hands. The gelding streaked down the road, flying over rocks and ruts in easy strides, making the huts pass by in a blur.

They fled the tiny village, scaled a rocky hillside, then raced down a dusty trail. The horse’s hooves drummed on the sunbaked earth. The warm wind lashed at her eyes. Minutes later, they reached a sparse stand of pine trees and slowed.

“Are you all right?” Logan asked.

“Sure.” But she realized she was plastered against him, probably squeezing the air from his lungs. She pried her hands from his waist and leaned back.

But even with the added space between them, it still seemed strangely intimate to be sitting so close to him, with only the edge of the saddle separating their thighs. Unsettling.

But then, everything about Logan Burke unnerved her. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. When her archeologist colleague had urged her to contact him—the only man rumored to know the ancient trails—she’d envisioned a grizzled old tracker, not this virile man in his prime.

She ran her gaze over the straight black hair edging his collar beneath his hat, the strong, sinewed lines of his neck. He cradled the assault rifle in one big hand, held the reins in the other with practiced ease. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms roped with tendons. Faded jeans gloved his muscled thighs.

Flutters rose in her belly, pranced through her nerves. She couldn’t deny that the man appealed to her in a very basic way.

But she’d come here to get to Quillacocha, not ogle Logan Burke. She squinted in the brilliant sunshine, gazed at the distant peaks edged with snow. The ancient city was up there in the wilderness somewhere. And only this man knew where it was.

Now she had to convince him to take her there.

They rounded the cluster of pines. Logan leaned back and hauled on the reins. The horse danced sideways and stopped.

He glanced at her over his wide shoulder. “How did you get to the village?”

“I hitched a ride partway, then hiked the rest.” Her stomach growled in protest. She’d hoped to find food in the village, but the place was little more than a shelled-out ghost town. And she hadn’t had a chance to eat in the bar.

He muttered something she didn’t catch. “Slide off,” he said. He grabbed her arm, and she dropped to the ground, then stepped away from the horse in case he kicked.

Logan leaped easily down beside her, and she realized again how big he was. At five-six, she wasn’t tiny, but she barely reached his chin. He looped the horse’s reins over a branch, then strode through the trees to a rocky outcrop, still carrying his gun. She followed more slowly, rubbing her bottom and stretching her arms.

The village squatted against the mountain beneath them, its drab mud hovels devoid of life, the rutted streets deserted except for the mules tied up by the bar. Dara scanned the surrounding hillside, studied the dirt road leading into the town, then slowly hitched out her breath. Maybe she’d imagined that man following her. Maybe she’d grown paranoid after that attack in her apartment. After all, no one, except her colleague, knew where she was.

But they’d found her before, she reminded herself. Even being in protective custody after her parents’ murders hadn’t kept her safe. And now that she knew where that sacred dagger was…

She rubbed her pounding forehead, dropped her hand to the pack that contained the diagrams she had to protect. She’d have to watch, stay alert in case someone really had followed her into these hills.

Logan’s gaze swiveled back to hers. “So, what the hell is this about?”

She chose her words carefully. It was too dangerous to tell him everything, at least for now. She only hoped he didn’t hear much news out here.

“I’m an archeologist,” she said, since that was true. “And I’m studying Quillacocha, the lost Inca city.” That was true, too.

She shifted the pack she’d slung over her shoulder, met his relentless gaze. “I’ve heard that you’re the only one who knows where it is. I’d like to hire you to take me there—so I can study it, take photos of the ancient tombs.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes etched with disbelief. “You came all the way up here alone to see some tombs?”

Her face warmed. He made her sound foolish, reckless. As if she were really the daredevil her people believed her to be.

But she couldn’t tell him the truth—about the fabled dagger, the murders, the secret society that was killing the Roma worldwide. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she did.

And if he did believe her, he would never take the risk to help her. Especially if he knew who she was.

“It’s important work,” she argued. “Quillacocha is the link we need to understand Incan sacrificial rites. And I only need to find out where the city is, take a few photos. It won’t take much of your time. I’ll come back later with a team to explore it more.”

His gaze pinned hers. “And it’s worth risking your life to see these tombs?”

No, but finding the dagger was.

“I didn’t have time to get the permits or assemble a team,” she continued. There had already been too many Gypsies killed. “My colleague is working on that part. I’m going to meet up with him after I locate the tombs.”

He shot her a look of incredulity, disgust, then scowled down at the village again. And she knew she hadn’t convinced him. But she would. She had to. More people would die if she failed.

She took in his tall, muscular build, the barely leashed power in his dominant stance. He was a tough man, a dangerous one. A man honed for battle and ready to fight.

Exactly the man she needed up here.

And the most appealing man she’d ever seen.

A restless feeling hummed through her nerves. And she had a sudden urge to feel those hard biceps under her palms, stroke her hands up those muscled arms.

What would it be like to kiss him?

The thought sliced out of nowhere, shocking her, and she caught her breath. Despite her sheltered upbringing as the Roma princess, she’d kissed a few men before—mostly gadžos, non-Roma she’d met at school. But none of them had looked like Logan Burke.

She studied the dark, hollowed planes of his face, the black beard shadow coating his jaw, the muscles of his throat. He looked disreputable, masculine. Exciting.

His gaze swerved to hers again, and he went still. And a sudden awareness vibrated between them, touching off the same edgy, dizzy feeling that had pulsed through her in the bar.

His gaze dropped, lingering over her lips, her breasts. Her lungs seized up. She stood cemented in place, unable to breathe. Her heart nearly beat from her chest.

And his eyes turned darker, hotter, more dangerous. As if he knew what she was thinking. As if he wanted to kiss her, too.

And then he drilled his gaze into hers. “Like I told you before, darlin’. No way in hell.” He turned on his heel, strode back to his horse.

She pulled in a tremulous breath. “I’ll pay you.”

“I don’t need your money.” He strapped his rifle to his horse, adjusted a pack.

“Then why won’t you help me?”

He checked the horse’s cinch. “I’ve got commitments. I need to make another freight run over the mountains before the rains hit. And it’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.” His eyes snagged hers again, and shivers ran over her skin. “There aren’t many women up here. You’d be a target for every renegade in Peru.”

“I’ve made it this far. And I’ve got a gun.”

He scoffed. “You’ve got no idea what you’re up against.”

“Sure I do.” She’d faced a few tough moments on her trip so far, but she’d survived. And she wasn’t weak or afraid. “I can handle myself.”

He stalked back toward her. And before she could guess his intention, he stepped close and grasped her chin. He leaned over her, so close his thighs brushed hers. Her breath backed up in her lungs.

“You think you can stop a man who wants you?” His voice was graveled now, raw, and his dark eyes burned into hers. “Hell, you think you could fight me off?”

She trembled, lost in those hot, hot eyes, the feel of his callused thumb on her throat. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I trust you.”

“Then you’re a fool. Because I stopped playing the hero a long time ago.” His eyes stayed on hers for a beat, long enough for her to see his anger, his desire, and then he dropped his hand and stepped back.

She swayed, shaken by the stark intensity in his hungry eyes, her nearly overpowering urge to pull him close.

“I’ll take you to the next village over,” he said, his voice stripped flat now. “I need to pick up my string of llamas and board my horse. Someone there can take you to a safer town.”

He strode back to his horse, launched himself into the saddle, then rode up to where she still stood. He hauled her up, and she settled behind him, wrapped her arms around his back.

But if he thought she’d given up trying to convince him, he was wrong. Because her people needed that dagger. And no matter what happened, she couldn’t let them down.

“Damn.”

His soft curse brought her attention back to the village. “What is it?” She scanned the streets, saw the three men mounting their mules. Her pulse sped up, and she gnawed her lip. “They won’t follow us, will they?”

“You can bet on it.”

She swallowed, and a nervous flutter invaded her chest. She didn’t need more danger dogging her trail—that mysterious man she’d glimpsed was enough. “So what are we going to do?”

“Ride like hell, darlin’.”

He wheeled the horse around, prodded him into a run. But as they thundered up the road and into the mountains, she remembered the hunger in Logan’s eyes, that thrilling heat.

And she wondered who was the greater threat—the outlaws or Logan Burke.

Chapter 2

If the road to Hell was paved with good intentions, Logan figured he’d just laid a long stretch of asphalt toward his final reward. He’d intended to intimidate Dara back there, make her understand that traveling in these mountains could get her killed. But he hadn’t banked on that need crashing through him when he touched her—that raw, savage need that obliterated his good sense like a flash flood ravaging a rocky gorge.

And even the punishing pace he’d set through the mountains hadn’t eased it. He’d driven the gelding hard—racing through empty creek beds, scrambling up the rocky terrain—but he still hadn’t shaken the desire that swamped him, that hunger that pounded his blood.

He angled his horse up another steep slope. Dara leaned closer against him, and he stifled a groan. He was far too conscious of her slender arms encircling his waist, the soft breasts caressing his back.

Touching her had been a mistake all right, stirring up cravings he could never indulge in—especially with a woman like her. But he’d just have to ignore them. Once they got to that village, he could leave Dara—and temptation—behind.

It wouldn’t be soon enough.

They reached an outcropping of rock above the trail, and Logan slowed. He reined the gelding to a much-needed stop, studied the thin gray slash switching across the mountain below. A mile back, some dust puffed up, then dispersed on the rising wind.

“Are they still following us?” Dara’s throaty voice rippled through his nerves.

Not trusting himself to look at her, he kept his gaze on the dust. “Yeah, they’re down there.” And closing in fast. Too fast.

Damn. He’d banked on their giving up. Renegades were a lazy bunch, more likely to drink themselves into a stupor than come haring after him. And this was a long, hot ride across parched terrain in the brutal, midday sun.

But Dara was a tempting prize, worth a thirsty trek through the hills.

Worth killing him for.

He hissed out his breath, turned the horse to go, but then a wisp of dust farther back caught his eye. He paused, squinted at the distant haze, and the muscles along his shoulders tensed. Had the men split up? Or was someone else out there?

He watched, narrowed his eyes. His pulse drummed a hard, slow beat. A hawk drifted past, towing a shadow over the hill. The tall grass dipped in the wind.

But nothing else moved, and he finally eased out his breath. It was probably just the wind whipping up dust, or some wild guanaco passing through. At least he hoped that was it. He had enough trouble on his hands with the thugs.

He glanced at the approaching men again, bit off a curse. Under normal conditions, their pack mules couldn’t match his gelding’s speed. But his horse was carrying a double load over steep terrain.

He kneed his horse into motion, then steered him into the brush. “What are we doing?” Dara asked.

“The trail opens up ahead. The men are less than a mile back, close enough to pick us off.” Especially with the scopes they’d tooled on their Dragunov SVDs.

“So what are we going to do?”

“Take cover, wait them out. Hope they give up and turn around.”

Her grip tightened on his waist. “And if they don’t?”

Then he had a hell of a problem.

Refusing to think about that possibility, he urged the horse through the rocks and grass toward a pile of boulders above the trail. The wind gusted again, a cool, moisture-laden breeze that flattened the tall clumps of straw-colored grass.

He studied the rain clouds stacking up behind the peaks. A storm would hit by nightfall, he decided, the first of the season. He was going to have a hard, muddy trek through the mountains in the freezing rain—assuming he made it to the pass in time.

His gut tightened. He’d better make it. A lot of miners needed the income from that run. The starvation rate in these hills was already too damned high.

They reached a small grove of eucalyptus trees behind the boulders, and he reined in the horse. “This is good.” He helped Dara dismount, then swung to the ground beside her. He pulled out his rifle, ratcheted a bullet into the chamber, nodded toward the rocks overlooking the trail. “We’ll wait over there.”

“Shouldn’t we stay in the trees?”

“I want to know if they spot us. We’ll leave Rupper here, though, so he doesn’t tip off the mules.”

“Rupper?” Her gaze met his. “Is that your horse’s name?”

“Yeah. Rupe. Rupper.” He took out an extra magazine, slid it into his pocket, checked the position of the 9mm Imbel tucked into his jeans.

“But…that’s a Romani word. Silver. Are you Roma?”

“Half,” he admitted, and his gaze met hers. So she was a Gypsy. It made sense—that long, black hair, the exotic eyes. But then what was she doing out here? He hadn’t been raised in the culture, but even he knew single women didn’t travel alone—especially beautiful women like her.

At least he assumed she was single. He turned away, headed to the pile of boulders above the trail. She hadn’t mentioned a husband, didn’t wear a ring. She could be a widow. The Roma married young—too damned young. And this woman had to be in her late twenties, at least.

He reached the boulders, glanced back, watched as she sauntered toward him. And she was a marvel to watch. Her full breasts swayed, her hips swiveled like an invitation to erotic bliss. Loose strands of hair tumbled around her face, making him ache to free that silky mass, feel it sweep his chest, his thighs.

Her skin had been soft, smooth when he touched her jaw, and the memory of it flashed through his nerves. He tightened his grip on the gun, fighting the urge to reach for her again, to test the weight of her breasts.

He sucked in his breath, hissed it out. She was something, all right. No wonder those renegades hadn’t given up yet.

But single or not, she was none of his business. She’d asked for his help, and he’d refused. End of story. Now he just had to drop her off at that village and be on his way.

And keep his hands off her until he did.

He leaned over the boulders, spotted the dust rising on the trail. “They’re still a few minutes back.” He lowered himself to the ground, leaned against the rocks to wait. Dara sat down beside him.

She drew her gun from her bag, settled back against the rock, mimicking him. He eyed the small pistol in her hands. “You know how to shoot that thing?”

“I do all right.”

“All right doesn’t cut it out here.”

She lifted her chin, and her sultry eyes met his. “Don’t worry. I can defend myself.”

Right. “Like you did in the bar?”

A flush climbed up her cheeks. “I was caught off guard. It won’t happen again.

“Damn right it won’t.” Because she’d be back to civilization before nightfall. He’d make sure of that.

“I’m serious about the dangers,” he told her, in case she had plans to continue alone. “These mountains are filled with outlaws—drug runners bringing down coca leaves, ex-revolutionaries, Shining Path and Túpac guerrillas with nowhere else to hide. And the law doesn’t mean squat out here. Strength rules, bribes pay for silence, no matter what you’ve done. Even murderers walk free.”

Especially if they’d only killed a Gypsy.

His belly clenched. And before he could block it, the frustration and rage surged back—rage at the corruption, the injustice, at a world where money ruled, where no one cared, where the innocent always died. But he dragged in air, forced the painful past from his mind. This wasn’t the time to dwell on his dead wife.

“Then there are wild animals, pumas,” he continued. “No doctors, no clinics, not even a Quechua shaman for miles. Even a minor injury or infection can do you in. And those tombs you want to see are at sixteen thousand feet. You’d be lucky to survive the thin air.”

Her eyes met his. “You survive out here.”

“I’ve spent most of my life in these hills. You haven’t.” He held her gaze, making sure she understood. “I’m not kidding, Dara. A woman like you doesn’t belong here.”

“How do you know?” Her chin lifted in challenge. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He knew enough. And he wouldn’t hang around to find out more.

His horse lifted his head then, and he rose. “Stay down,” he warned. “Don’t make a sound.” He leaned against the rocks, trained the AK-47 on the trail.

But Dara stood and squeezed in beside him, her shoulder touching his arm. He shot her a scowl. Hadn’t she heard him? She should be plastered against the rocks, praying those renegades didn’t spot her. But she aimed her gun, looking cool as hell.

He swore, hoped she had the sense to hold her fire, then jerked his attention back to the trail. The three outlaws rode into view, just a few yards below where they stood.

The men had their Dragunovs strapped over their ponchos, more weapons within easy reach. Ready to fight. His hope that they would give up and turn back started to fade.

Then the wind shifted. The lead mule pricked up his ears, lifted his head, and Logan tensed. The wind was blowing their scent toward the mules. But the mule settled down, the men rode past in a haze of dust, and he eased out his breath.

He touched Dara’s arm, signaled for her to keep still. She nodded that she understood. He kept his rifle aimed on the men.

The outlaws crested the hill, came to a stop. They looked around, scanned the open valley ahead.

Come on, he silently urged them. You’ve lost our trail. Turn back.

He waited, barely breathing, his blood pumping a loud, rough beat through his skull. Because if those outlaws didn’t give up, if they rode on to that next village…

He could never leave Dara there, not with those men around. He’d be condemning another woman to die. Not that they’d kill her outright—although it would be kinder if they did. By the time they finished with her, she wouldn’t want to survive.

And she wouldn’t be the only one at risk. Those men would slaughter anyone in the village who tried to stop them.

The outlaws scoured the trail, searched for tracks. A deep sense of dread tightened his throat, like a steel trap locking him in. He couldn’t go forward, couldn’t take her back.

So what could he do? Take her with him into the hills? Take responsibility for another woman’s life?

No way.

No damned way.

He swore under his breath, turned the dilemma over in his head, tried to come up with another plan. But there was no way out. Unless those outlaws turned around, he’d be stuck.

The men turned back, headed toward him, and his hopes picked up. But they were riding slowly, too slowly, still hunting for tracks. His gut tensed. Sweat trickled down his unshaven jaw.

The men reached the trail directly below them, and the rising wind gusted again. The lead mule stopped and bobbed his head.

The mule’s rider looked up, squinted at the rocks. “¡Allá! Up there!” he yelled and raised his gun.

Logan dove, yanking Dara down with him. Shots riddled the boulder above their heads. “Get into the trees,” he ordered, his pulse hammering fast now. He waited a beat, rose, fired off a volley of rounds to pin them down. “Damn it! Run!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move. He ducked, slapped another magazine in the AK-47, leaped up and shot again. While she fled, he blasted away at the outlaws, giving her time to reach the trees. Then he stopped and raced to his horse.

“Stay in the trees,” he shouted to her as he grabbed the reins. “I’ll get you.” He vaulted into the saddle, spun around, fired toward the boulders to keep down the thugs. Then he urged the horse toward the trees.

But Dara leaped into the open, and his heart kicked. “Get back!” he yelled as he charged toward her. She ignored him, pointed her pistol toward the rocks, and opened fire.

Fear seized his throat. The reckless fool! Did she have a death wish? Outraged, so angry his vision blurred, he spurred the horse to where she stood. She stopped shooting, grabbed his hand, and he yanked her up.

“Are you out of your mind?” he raged as she clutched his shirt. “Why didn’t you stay back?”

“They were climbing the rocks. They would have killed you.”

So she’d put herself in danger instead. Furious, he glanced toward the boulders, ripped off several more rounds, then swung the horse around and galloped off.

Still swearing, he kicked the horse into a flat-out run, racing through the woods toward the river gorge. He’d deal with Dara later, make damned sure she listened to him next time.

If there was a next time. Unless they got to the gorge and crossed that bridge before the renegades did, they’d both be dead.

He nudged the gelding, forcing him to keep to the breakneck speed. But a sense of finality, of relentless inevitability, seeped through the adrenaline like a noose tightening around his neck. Once he crossed that bridge, he couldn’t turn back. It would take him miles out of his way, put an end to his plans to make that silver run.

And he’d be out in these mountains with a woman alone, her safety in his hands.

Again.

The one thing he’d vowed to never do.

Fury mixed with dread, burned through his gut. Then a sharp crack sounded behind him, and he swerved. A gunshot—or maybe it was the sound of fate laughing at him, mocking his plight.

Another woman. Another trek through the wilderness. Another chance to fail.

His worst nightmare come to life.

Chapter 3

Dara clung to Logan’s waist as they zigzagged down the side of a mountain, then hurtled along the cliff above a rocky gorge. Her heart pounded, her blood roaring louder than the river slamming the boulders below.

She braved a quick glance back, squinted in the tearing wind, but couldn’t see the outlaws yet. Logan had raced full out down the steep slope to avoid their gunfire, but they couldn’t be too far behind.

“When we reach the bridge, get off,” Logan shouted over his shoulder. “You cross first. I’ll be behind you with the horse.”

“Can’t we ride across?” she shouted back, but the wind whipped the words from her mouth. Then the bridge came into view, and the shock of it made her breath stall.

It was a dilapidated rope suspension bridge—a sagging mass of woven grass cables stretching two hundred feet over the plunging gorge. The ropes had darkened, loosened with age, unraveling at the bottom and sides, creating gaps wide enough to fall through. The entire structure drooped, forming a dangerous, gap-riddled vee that swung precariously in the wind.

And a hundred feet beneath it, the rapids raged.

Oh, God.

Disbelief gripped her. Anxiety tightened her nerves. Would that bridge hold their weight? Not that they had much choice with the outlaws closing in fast. And Logan wouldn’t cross if it wasn’t safe.

Would he?

He hauled up on the reins, jerked the horse to a stop at the edge of the cliff, and she leaped down. “Run,” he urged her. “I’ll be behind you.”

“Right.” She raced to the bridge, paused at the edge—and took in the sheer, dizzying drop, the water crashing furiously below, the high wind making the long bridge sway. Her head grew light. Panic strangled her throat.

This probably wasn’t a good time to mention that she hated heights.

She swung her backpack over her shoulder, grabbed the thick grass cables that served as handrails on each side. The bridge was narrow, sagging so badly she could hardly squeeze herself through.

Her pulse jittered hard. She struggled to breathe, but it was like trying to pull a wad of cotton through a needle’s eye. She stepped onto the bridge, felt it tremble beneath her feet.

“Go on!” Logan shouted behind her, and she glanced back. He had dismounted, stood holding the reins, and she saw the urgency etched on his face. Could the horse really make it over these ropes? Could she?

There was only one way to find out.

She jerked her gaze back to the bridge, forced her feet to move, trying desperately to ignore the water roaring under the gaps. The ropes felt slick in her sweaty palms, and she tightened her grip on the sides.

She could do this. She had to do this.

Maybe if she just darted across…

She took several fast steps, determined to hurry, but the bridge rippled and swayed underfoot. And then it jolted hard, dipped dangerously, nearly knocking her off her feet. She gasped, glanced back, saw Logan on the bridge with the horse.

“Hurry up,” he shouted. He kept coming towards her, leading the balking horse, but the added weight made the bridge lurch.

Her legs quivering wildly now, feeling as disjointed as a marionette in amateur hands, she tried to balance on the bouncing ropes. She fixed her gaze on the opposite side, headed downhill into the sagging center of the bridge, afraid the river was sucking her in.

But she couldn’t panic, couldn’t succumb to the fear. They had to escape those men.

And she couldn’t let Logan think she was weak. She’d spent too many years not measuring up, never meeting people’s expectations, especially her father’s. It had killed her to see that pained disappointment in his eyes.

And now this man thought she couldn’t cope.

She would prove him wrong. She’d prove everyone wrong. Her people needed her; she was the only royal left. She had to help them survive. But to do that, she had to cross this bridge.

She reached the lowest point of the span, kept her eyes off the river churning through the gaps, and started up the opposite side. The climb was steep, and the wind gusted, making the treacherous bridge sway hard. She jerked her eyes from the rapids frothing beneath her, slid her shaking hands over the ropes. It wasn’t much farther. She was almost there.

She rushed the final distance, leaped onto solid ground. Relief sapped her strength, turning her head light. She nearly collapsed and kissed the earth.

But those outlaws were behind them. She whirled back, her pulse sprinting again, scanned the slope across the gorge. There was still no sign of the men, so for the moment, at least, they were safe.

Logan led the anxious horse off the bridge and stopped beside her. “Here, hold this.” He handed her the reins.

She grabbed the leather straps, eyed the trembling horse, while Logan rummaged through one of his packs. “I’m going to blow up the bridge,” he told her. He pulled out a stick of dynamite, a fuse, and then his eyes pinned hers. “Take Rupper behind that hill, and wait for me there. And hold on to him. I don’t want him to spook when this thing blows.”

“But what about you?” Her stomach balled in a rush of nerves. “Where will you be?”

“I’ll be there as soon as I set the charge.” He closed the flap on his pack, jogged back to the bridge. She opened her mouth, wanting to protest, but they did need to protect the horse. She dithered for a moment, reluctant to leave Logan, and finally led the gelding toward the rocky hill. She’d tie up the horse and come back.

But then a bullet whined past.

Her pulse jerked, slammed to a halt. She whipped around, saw their pursuers racing down the opposite hill.

And Logan was out on the bridge, exposed.

She had to protect him. She couldn’t let him die!

She hurried the horse around the rocks, scanned the steep slabs of granite rising toward the towering peaks, but there were no trees, no place to tie him up. “Stay,” she told him firmly, and hoped he obeyed. Logan wouldn’t thank her if she lost his horse.

But the horse wouldn’t matter if he died.

She jerked her pistol from her pack, raced back to the bridge. The gorge was two hundred feet across, too far for her to shoot with any accuracy.

And those men had rifles. The distance wouldn’t be a problem for them. Logan didn’t stand a chance—especially while he was setting that charge.

She had to get closer, provide cover. She had to creep out onto the bridge again, take advantage of the sagging center to shoot over Logan’s head.

She choked back the dread, refused to think about the precarious ropes. She kept the pistol in one hand, clutched the grass cable with the other, then forced herself onto the bridge. It bounced and swayed in the wind.

The outlaws had dismounted on the other side now. Logan was kneeling about five yards out, setting his charge beyond the massive stone pylons that anchored the bridge to the cliff.

One man raised his rifle, and her heart seized up. She whipped up her gun, fired a shot in their direction, praying it would worry them enough to drive them back.

Logan’s head jerked up. “Get out of here!” he yelled. He lit the fuse, started running toward her. The ropes beneath her bounced.

More gunshots barked, and her nerves went wild. The only way to shoot back and miss Logan was to lean out over the gorge. She eyed the spaces between the ropes, the water rocketing below, and her heart made a crazy dip.

But she had to do it. She couldn’t let those outlaws win. She sucked in her breath, leaned against the side rope, aimed toward the opposite cliff. She fired, fired again. She missed, but the thugs dispersed.

Then she struggled to pull herself upright, but Logan was running toward her, making the ropes jump under her feet. She slipped, shrieked, fell against the handrail. One leg slid through a gap.

Her heart spasmed. Time stalled.

But Logan grabbed her arm and yanked her up. “Go!” he shouted and pushed her forward. “Go, go, go!”

She raced off the bridge, headed for the rocks. Panic fueled her steps.

And then the dynamite blew.

The explosion boomed, jolted the ground, and she staggered, lost her balance, nearly fell. And then a bigger blast roared in her ears.

Logan shoved her against the rocks, flattened himself against her, covering her body with his. The ground vibrated, reverberated through her feet, rumbling into a fierce drum that rattled her chest.

Her face was mashed against Logan’s chest. Sharp stones dug into her back. The explosion crackled, zinged like bullets firing around them, and then dirt drizzled onto their heads.

He leaned harder against her, sheltering her head with his arms, protecting her from the falling debris. And she clutched his arms, digging her fingers into his biceps, trying to curl herself into his skin.

Long moments later, the noise finally faded, and the echo in her ears began to ease. “Is it over?” she asked, her heart still racing.

“Yeah.”

She dragged at the dusty air and coughed. God, that was close. He could have died out there with those outlaws firing at him—and it would have been her fault. But he was safe now, safe. She shivered hard, tried to calm her quivering heart.

But he still didn’t move. And she was suddenly aware of how close he was. His muscled thighs crowded hers, his strong arms bracketed her head. He smelled safe, strong—like dusty flannel and warm male skin. His ragged breath fanned her neck.

Her pulse sped up. Her shaky breath snagged in her lungs. She could feel the heat of him through the layers of clothes, the hard muscles pressed against hers.

Hard everything. The intimacy shocked her, excited her. And then he shifted, and a sudden heat shot through her blood.

She tightened her grip on his arms. He slowly lifted his head.

His dark eyes locked on to hers. He was close, so close. And she gazed back at him, trapped by the dark, raw heat in his eyes. She traced the hollows of his face, the black scruff coating his jaw, that sexy, masculine mouth. His hat had fallen off, and his thick, black hair was wild now, dusted with dirt. The sheer maleness of him made her nerves rush.

His gaze dropped to her lips and stalled. Her breath grew erratic, her blood skipped crazily through her veins. And then his gaze caught hers, and she was lost in those dark, dark eyes.

“Damn,” he muttered, and slanted his head. And then his lips claimed hers. She stiffened, electrified by the feel of his mouth on hers, the rasp of his whiskered cheek. Thrills rose from her belly, shot through her nerves.

He placed his hand on her jaw, changed the angle of his mouth, ran his tongue along her closed lips. Pleasure spiraled through her, and she gasped.

He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, aligned her closer against him. And her body exploded with sensation, fierce waves of it, like aftershocks from that dynamite blast.

Stunned, feeling as if she’d vaulted back into that explosion, she clung to his biceps, slid her hands up those massive arms. He made a low, rough sound, pulled her hips tighter against him. And pleasure burst through her at the intimate contact, shocking, drugging pleasure, making her want to get closer, then closer yet.

Her knees trembled. Her head whirled as he deepened the kiss, sweeping her mouth with his tongue. She’d never felt anything so wild, so glorious. So free.

She moaned, wanting more. Needing more. She was lost. She didn’t care. She didn’t want these feelings to end.

But he pulled back and lifted his head. His uneven breath mingled with hers. And she could only stare back at him, shocked, stunned, amazed.

He dropped his hands and stepped back, his gaze still burning on hers. And then he turned, picked up his hat, his movements slow, stiff. He banged the hat on his thigh to dislodge the dust, shoved it back onto his head.

His gaze cut to hers again, and she knew instantly that something had changed. His eyes were still hot, still narrowed, but not just with hunger now.

He was furious. The anger vibrated right out of him and charged through the air.

Her heart plunged. She knew what he was thinking. That kiss had been reckless, wildly inappropriate. She’d broken every Roma rule.

Daredevil, her people called her. Too impulsive to be a princess.

Maybe they were right.

A lifetime of condemnation swept through her, and her face flamed. She hugged her arms, searched for something to say. “Is…is the bridge gone?”

His mouth flattened more, carving deep brackets in those heavily stubbled cheeks. “Hell if I know.” His voice was bitter, rough. “But my sanity sure is.”

He turned, stalked around the rock in the direction of the bridge, anger pounding his strides.

She hitched out her breath and watched him go. But her mind was still spinning, her body pulsing from that delirious kiss.

Oh, God. She pressed her fingers to her lips, sagged back against the rocks. That kiss had been wrong, she knew that. Wrong for a princess. Wrong for a respectable Gypsy woman. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But heaven help her, she didn’t care. She only wanted to kiss him again.

Chapter 4

He’d lost his mind. He’d gone over the edge, spiraled out of control, broken his most critical rule.

“I’m sorry about your horse,” Dara said from beside him as they hiked up the trail from the bridge.

Logan grunted. The missing gelding was the least of his problems right now.

“You don’t think he’s lost, do you?”

“He won’t go far.” His words came out brusque, rougher than he’d intended, and he clamped his already rigid jaw. She didn’t deserve his bad temper. It wasn’t her fault he’d lost his self-control.

But damn, he was angry. Angry that he couldn’t complete that freight run. Angry that he was trapped in the mountains with another vulnerable woman. Angry that he’d given in to the insane desire to kiss her.

And hungered to do it again.

He hissed, struggled to get a hold on his ragged temper as he strode up the dusty path. What was wrong with him? Bad enough that he was stuck with her for the next few days, that he was responsible for keeping her safe. He couldn’t compound the problem by doing something he would regret.

His body wouldn’t regret it.

He slid his gaze to her sweet, full breasts, and his blood surged. This woman had riveted him since the moment he’d seen her. And she’d felt better than he’d imagined—soft, sultry. And the way she’d reacted to that kiss, shivering, rocking against him, making him burn for more.

Disgusted at himself, he picked up his pace on the rocky slope, battled the need that pounded his veins. So they had chemistry. Staggering chemistry. The kind of chemistry that tempted a man to break every rule and blind himself to the past.

It didn’t matter.

He had no business touching Dara. Not now. Not ever. She was off-limits to him. Prohibida.

And they had a treacherous trek ahead of them. It would take days of hard riding to get her across the mountain to another town. He couldn’t afford a distraction that could get them killed.

He lifted his head, determined to get his mind on track, but a flash of light across the river made him stop. He frowned, focused on the trees crowning the opposite ridge, felt the skin shiver in the back of his neck. Was someone there? Those renegades should have given up, headed down to a village by now. Or had he only imagined that flash?

The wind rose, keening through the stark stone canyon, spiking the air with the threat of rain. He narrowed his gaze on the woods, remembered the plume of dust he’d seen on the trail.

And a deep sense of foreboding rippled through him. He wasn’t a fanciful man. He’d bet his gelding there was someone else on that ridge. Which meant he had to keep his wits about him—and end this madness with Dara now.

He turned his attention to the woman beside him. The breeze whipped her silky hair loose, and she tucked the stray strands behind her ears.

“Look, Dara.” Her eyes swiveled to his, and he gentled his voice. “I’m sorry about that—” that moment of mind-blasting pleasure “—for what happened back there.”

A blush flared on her cheeks, turning her skin a dusty rose, and she folded her arms under her breasts. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Sure it was.” He could have—should have—stepped away. He rubbed the back of his neck, appalled by how badly he’d lost control. “It won’t happen again.”

“I understand.”

She sounded hurt, not relieved, and he frowned. “Do you?”

“Sure.” Her gaze skidded away. “You thought I was reckless.”

He bit off a laugh. “Darlin’, that was the entire problem. I wasn’t thinking at all. You made me burn.”

Her blush deepened, but her eyes locked on his. “I did, too,” she whispered. “I thought it was…amazing.”

Heat rushed to his loins. A hot surge of hunger clawed at his gut. And the desire to go to her, to stroke those soft, ripe curves, to ravage her lips, her mouth, slammed through him so hard that his hands shook.

He hauled in a breath to cool his blood, but he couldn’t disguise the need in his eyes, the ache that was pounding his veins. Everything male in him reacted to the promise in her voice, that kiss.

Against his better judgment, he stepped close, too close, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. He inhaled her scent, felt heat rising from her velvet skin, hungered to bury himself in her warmth. “You’re playing with fire, darlin’.” His voice scraped the quiet air.

He reached out, stroked his palm up that silky throat, traced the delicate line of her jaw. Her breath hitched, her pulse stumbled under his thumb, sending a rush of lust through his blood. And her dark, wild eyes stayed locked on his—mesmerizing, aroused.

Fire blazed inside him, a deep, carnal pull that incinerated his nerves. “But be damned careful what you offer,” he warned her, and his voice turned huskier still. “Because I’ll take it. Don’t think I’m better than any other man.”

Especially when they were out here alone.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, flicked back up. Desire burned in those witchy eyes, along with a hint of doubt. And that stopped him. He despised losing control, liked being manipulated even less.

He dropped his hand, stepped back, putting some badly needed air between them. He knew all about guilt. He dreamed it, breathed it, shouldered the crushing weight of it day after relentless day. And he’d be damned if he’d add more regrets to the list.

No matter how tempting this woman was.

His temper rising again, he turned on his heel, tried to pull his mind away from the need. She’d been warned. Now he had more important things to worry about, like how to keep her safe.

The trail wound along the bluff above the plunging gorge, through tall, parched clumps of grass. He picked up the pace, anxious to find his horse, feeling too exposed on the open cliff.

But then another flash of light caught his eye.

He stopped, scanned the opposite cliff. He hadn’t imagined that flash this time. That had been sunlight glinting off glass.

He watched, his lungs still now, his pulse drumming a slow, steady beat. The wind teased the hairs on the nape of his neck, ruffled the tufts of dried grass. There was no movement, no sign of life on the opposite ridge.

“What’s wrong?” Dara asked, stopping beside him. “Are those men still there?”

“I doubt it.” He didn’t move his gaze from the trees. “They’re probably heading to the nearest bar by now.” They’d lie in wait, drink up their courage, plan to ambush them when they came off the hills.

Someone was out there, though. He knew it, as surely as he knew how to breathe. He scanned the cliffs again, the sunbaked earth sloping to the blown-up bridge. Nothing moved. But he’d learned the hard way not to ignore his instincts. And his nerves screamed that someone was on their trail.

Someone more deadly than the local thugs.

“Is it…there isn’t someone else out there?”

He caught the anxiety in her voice, and his heart rolled. He shifted his gaze to her. “You have reason to think there’d be?”

“No.” Her dark eyes slid from his.

Was she lying? He studied the nervous pull of her lips, the worry creasing her delicate brow. And his suspicion rose. If she’d led him into a trap…

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” she asked, her voice pitched higher now. “I mean, nobody can get across since you blew up the bridge.”

“There’s another place,” he said, still not taking his eyes off her. “Another bridge about an hour ahead.”

She nibbled her lip, met his gaze, the worry clear in her eyes. “And someone could cross there?”

“Maybe. It’s on an old trail. Most people don’t know it exists.” And the bridge hadn’t been maintained in decades, not since a landslide blocked it off. It would take a desperate man to try to cross.

But he knew all about desperation, the lengths it could drive a man. And if someone was out there, he needed to know. Only a fool headed into these mountains unaware.

He wasn’t a fool. And he wouldn’t let any woman, no matter how appealing, turn him into one.

But he was a man without a horse, without supplies.

Without much time.

“Come on.” He turned abruptly, stalked up the slope, shot a frown at the darkening sky. Storm clouds were moving into position over the mountains now, their lead-lined bottoms edging out the vibrant sky. And rain could be deadly out here, bringing on flash floods and mudslides. But they needed to find out who they were up against before they headed to higher ground.

Dara caught up with his long strides a second later. They walked in silence up the slope, their boots thudding on the hard dirt. “So how do you know about the bridge?” she asked.

He reined in the suspicion building inside, slid her a glance. If she was lying, he’d find out soon enough. “I use the old trails when I’m hauling silver or gold.”

“You’re a miner?”

“No. I’m not that desperate.” Not anymore.

“What do you mean?”

He paused, whistled for the gelding, then caught up to her again. “You’ve never seen a mining town? They’re slums,” he told her when she shook her head. “Worse than slums. There’s no running water, no sanitation, no laws. Just violence and disease. Mercury poisons the water, the air. Human waste runs in open pits down the roads.”

His mind flashed to the squalor and suffering, the dull hopelessness in the children’s eyes. The same blank look he would have had in his eyes if he’d stayed.

He thinned his lips. “The mines are worse. They’re not fit for animals. The operations up here aren’t modern, and there aren’t safety regulations or laws—at least none they enforce. Tunnels collapse. Men die. The miners chew coca leaves all day so they’ll be numb enough to dig.”

“But…that’s awful,” she said, and stopped. And he saw the horror in her eyes, the shock. “Why would anyone live like that?”

“Desperation.” A feeling he knew well. “They either dig or die. There’s nothing else they can do.”

Her gaze stayed on his for a beat, and something moved in her eyes, a glimmer of understanding, empathy. She looked away.

They started walking again, and for a long moment neither spoke. Their footsteps crunched on the hard dirt path. A hawk glided past, then banked on a current of air. “Is that why you have the dynamite?” she finally asked. “For the miners?”

“Yeah. I haul the finished metal down to the nearest town and bring back supplies. I was supposed to meet a miner in that village, but he didn’t show.”

Her gaze slid to the pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans, and a small crease furrowed her brow. “Your job sounds dangerous.”

He shrugged. “Most men leave me alone.”

Instead, they’d attacked his wife.

The thought barreled out of nowhere, catching him off guard, and he scowled. He never dwelled on the past, never discussed his wife. He didn’t have to. He would carry the burden of her death until he died.

“Logan.” Dara touched his sleeve, and he stopped, looked into her sultry eyes. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to cause problems for the miners or keep you from your job.”

The concern in her eyes drew him in, pulling him deeper, sparking a flicker of warmth in his chest, the flame of a long-buried need. Tempting him to move closer, to surround himself with her gentleness, her sympathy, her ease.

He shook himself, jerked his gaze away.

But he had to admit she seemed to care, more than his wife ever had. María had hated the mountains, resented the time he’d spent away from her, blamed him for taking her from the city she loved.

In the end, she’d been right to despise him. He’d failed to protect her. He’d let her die. Hell, he’d even failed to find the men who’d killed her. Her murderers still walked free.

And now he had another woman’s life in his hands.

The earth vibrated under his feet then, and the drumming of hooves interrupted his thoughts. Tension whipped through him, and he grabbed her arm. “Back here.” Moving quickly, he jerked her behind a boulder beside the trail.

“Isn’t that your horse?” she whispered as he pushed her down.

“Maybe.” But he wouldn’t take any chances until he was sure. He blocked her from view, tugged the pistol from his jeans, took position behind the rock. But she pulled out her own gun, and he shot her a warning glance. She’d better not do anything rash. That had been damned reckless behavior back at the bridge.

Behavior he’d better nip fast.

The gelding trotted into view, and she started to rise. “Wait.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder and held her down.

The gelding scented them, came to a halt, but Logan didn’t move. He kept his eyes on the trail, listened hard. The cool wind brushed his face. Sparrows chirped from a nearby bush. When a chinchilla crept into the path, he finally let Dara go.

“It’s clear. Hey, Rupe.” He tucked his pistol away, strode to the horse.

“Is he all right?” Dara asked from behind him.

He circled the gelding and checked his hooves, eyed the lather dried on his coat. “Nothing a brush won’t fix.”

“I’m glad.” She reached out and stroked the gelding’s nose. “He’s a gorgeous horse.”

“He’s smart, loyal. That’s more important than looks.” In horses or people.

Another lesson he’d learned the hard way.

He checked the cinch, the packs, then glanced at Dara again. Her cheeks were flushed. Shadows smudged the skin around her eyes. Loose strands of hair had escaped her braid, and gleamed like black silk against her neck.

She looked weary, disheveled. His sympathy rose, but he quickly crushed it down. He couldn’t afford to indulge her. He couldn’t even fully trust her. They had a long, dangerous trek through the mountains before he could get her to a decent town.

Time to make that clear.

“You’re in for a rough ride,” he warned. “The trails are narrow and steep, the air thin enough to make your lungs burst. And the rains are coming. That’s going to make it miserable, muddy, and cold.”

Her full lips flattened. “Don’t worry. I can make it.”

“And there isn’t much food. I work alone, so I don’t carry extra supplies. So if you’ve got some Roma rule about sharing food, you’re out of luck.”

“I said I can make it. I’m stronger than you think.” She lifted her chin, and challenge glinted in her velvet eyes. “And I’ve never been one to follow the rules.”

Heat bolted through him, and he scowled. This wasn’t the time to remember their kiss. “You’ll follow my rules. We’re not playing around out here. A mistake in these mountains can get you killed.”

She straightened her back, opened her mouth as if to protest, but he drilled his gaze into hers. “I mean it, Dara. When I say run, you run. That was damned reckless what you did at the bridge. You either obey my orders or you’re on your own.”

He saw the mulish look in her eyes, but he held her gaze, making sure she understood. Survival wasn’t a game. He’d seen too many people die to play around. She finally flushed and looked away.

Satisfied, he held out his hand. “Give me your bag. I’ll tie it on the horse.”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Not willing to waste more time, he swung himself into the saddle, then reached down and hauled her up.

She settled behind him, and he wheeled the horse around, then urged him into a lope—and tried not to think about the soft curves pressed to his back, the ecstasy of that kiss. Because he wasn’t kidding about the urgency. If there really was someone out there, he needed to find out fast.

He pressed the horse into a gallop, depending on the hard ride to keep his mind on track. But despite the danger, despite the pace, his unruly mind kept veering to the swell of her breasts, to the soft, moist heat of her mouth, returning to that kiss again and again.

And he couldn’t help wondering how much experience she had—or which rules she’d be willing to break.

By the time they reached the bluff above the abandoned bridge an hour later, his frustration was reaching the flash point. He slowed the horse, then reined him in by a eucalyptus tree, glad for the short reprieve. “We’ll stop here for a minute.”

He helped her off, winced when she staggered away from the horse. But he bit back his words of sympathy. She might be stiff now, but the ride would get harder yet.

He leaped down after her, pulled his binoculars and rifle from the pack, while she hobbled toward a bush. He didn’t loosen the gelding’s cinch. If someone was out there, they had to be ready to ride.

His nerves ratcheted tight now, he crept as close to the edge of the cliff as he dared, and crouched behind a rock. The canyon was deep, hedged in by bluffs stripped bare by the constant wind. A hundred feet below him, the ancient rope bridge swayed over the plunging gorge like a stringy, tattered net.

Still using the boulder to shield him, he rose, scanned the opposite ridge for signs of life, careful not to let the afternoon sun catch the binoculars’ lens. The trail leading down to the bridge was steep, treacherous even before the landslide had blocked it off. Now it would be suicidal to even try.

He charted a path through the landslide debris, angled the binoculars down.

And stopped. Right there, picking his way through the rubble, was a man leading a mule.

Logan’s lungs went still. He zeroed in on the man, noted the ammo pouches on his assault vest, the Dragunov sniper rifle slung over his chest. Former military. Moved like a professional.

And he’d come armed to kill.

Logan didn’t believe in coincidence. That man was hunting them. But why? The dynamite in his packs wasn’t worth much, except to the miners who needed supplies. And he wasn’t hauling silver or gold.

Which left the woman.

His mouth thinned. The renegades wanted her for obvious reasons. There weren’t many females around. And a terrorist might try to hold her for ransom, to fund some personal war. But a sniper? Why would a sniper pursue an archeologist?

Unless the woman had lied.

Her footsteps crunched behind him, and he rose. His face burning, so angry he couldn’t speak, he seized her arm and yanked her back through the trees, his vision hazing with every stride.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, sounding breathless. She trotted beside him to keep up. “Is someone there?”

“You might say that.” He stalked to the horse and released her arm, his blood rushing hard through his skull.

She’d lied. The damned woman had lied. Just what the hell was she up to?

“So what are you going to do?” she asked, her voice anxious, high. “Blow up the bridge?”

“No.” The cliff was too unstable, too exposed. And that sniper would pick him off before he could set the charge.

Which left two choices. They either outran that man or they died.

He sprang into the saddle, jerked her up behind him. “We’re going to ride hard,” he warned. “You can use the time to think.”

“Think?” Her hands clutched his waist.

“About the truth.” He twisted in the saddle, and his gaze nailed hers. “Because when we stop, you’re going to tell me what you’re really doing out here.”

Chapter 5

Dara had never seen a more furious man. Tension vibrated off Logan’s shoulders and powerful back as he stood in the rocky ravine, watering his horse at the creek. His jaw was clamped in a rigid line, his profile as unyielding as the granite slabs on the towering peaks. Anger simmered in every move.

The cool wind gusted up the narrow canyon with a rumble of thunder, and she shivered and rubbed her arms. For the past two hours they’d climbed at a reckless pace, cutting across plunging hillsides, backtracking through shallow stream beds, edging around valleys so steep she’d grown dizzy when she’d braved a glimpse down.

And Logan hadn’t spoken the entire time. He’d been restless, alert, checking frequently for signs of pursuit, his AK-47 at hand.

The thunder rolled again, drumming through her aching forehead, and she glanced uneasily at the darkening sky. The land had stilled, the air hushed as the storm approached, turning as ominous as Logan’s temper.

And just as ready to explode.

He left the creek and prowled back to her then, leading his hulking horse. She eyed the barely leashed power in his forceful strides, the dark eyes burning beneath the brim of his weathered hat.

And a sudden flutter skimmed through her nerves, hummed in her blood. Angry or not, everything about this man appealed to her. Just the memory of that kiss made her body pulse with heat.

He stepped close, forcing her to look past his steel-hard chest to meet his eyes. And that virile maleness swamped over her again, that electric awareness that made her forget to breathe. She pressed her hand to her belly to quiet her nerves.

“All right, let’s have it.” His deep voice broke the charged silence. “What are you doing out here? And I want the truth this time.”

She turned to the gelding, stroked the elegant nose sloping beneath the silver brow band, buying time while she chose her words. Her colleague had warned her not to tell anyone about the dagger, not even Logan Burke. The danger of theft was far too great.

But Logan didn’t care about treasure. He helped the miners, made a living hauling silver and gold. She slid him a glance, eyed the taut grooves bracketing his masculine mouth, the implacable planes of his face. And she knew that she could trust him. This man was honest, honorable. She felt it down to her bones.

“I told you I need to find Quillacocha, the lost Inca city,” she said. “And that’s true. I do need to find it. But not to study the tomb. I’m looking for the dagger, the Roma dagger. The one from the legend—the Gypsy’s Revenge.”

He didn’t blink, didn’t move. He continued to watch her, alert, intent, like a dangerous predator studying his prey. Only a slight narrowing at the corners of his eyes indicated he’d heard.

“You probably know the story if you’re part Roma,” she said. It was a standard childhood tale. The Indian goddess Parvati, impressed with an eleventh-century king’s courage in battle, rewarded him with three sacred possessions—a necklace, a dagger, and crown. Combined, these treasures gave the Roma king the power to rule the world.

But then a hot-headed prince rose to the throne, lusted after a forbidden virgin, and misused those powers to take her. Heartbroken and disgraced, the woman cursed the Roma king and condemned the Gypsies to roam.

Soon afterward, the Roma were driven out of India, their priceless treasures lost. Generations of archeologists and fortune hunters had searched for the treasures ever since.

Logan shifted, made a low, rough sound of disgust. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Who hasn’t? That necklace was in the news for months.”

Dara nodded. The discovery of the necklace in a Spanish bank vault had rocked the world—and not just because it was Nazi war loot. It was proof that the treasures existed, that the legend had a kernel of truth. And when the Spanish government decided to return the necklace to its rightful owners—the Gypsies—experts from around the world had converged on the palace to get a closer look.

She’d been there that fateful night. She’d stood behind her parents as they waited to receive the necklace—and watched them die.

The memory surged, catching her unprepared, and she clutched the gelding’s neck. She closed her eyes, struggled to ward off the inevitable parade of images—their splattered flesh, their pooling blood, her mother’s vacant eyes.

She swallowed hard, battled the nausea rising in her throat, tried to push the horror aside. She’d had three months to come to grips with her parents’ murders. Three months of flashbacks, nightmares, grappling to find logic in two tragic, pointless deaths.

She opened her eyes, dragged her gaze to the unyielding man beside the horse. “I don’t know where the crown is,” she said quietly. “No one does. But the dagger is here in Peru. I’ve studied documents from the time of Pizarro, the conquistadores. And about two months ago, I figured out where it is.”

“In Quillacocha.” His voice was flat.

“Yes, in the royal tomb.” She tightened her grip on her pack—the backpack that contained her research, the diagrams of the tomb, proof in case anything happened to her. “I’m sure it’s the Roma dagger. The description fits it exactly—the patterned wootz steel they used in India at the time, the gold hilt inlaid with amber, the engravings of the sun and moon. And once we get to Quillacocha, I know exactly where to look.”

“The only place you’re going is the first town over the pass. You can get a bus to Cusco, and then a flight to Lima from there.”

“But—”

“Forget it.” His eyes turned fierce, and her heart beat fast. “There’s no way I’ll take you to Quillacocha. It’s going to be dangerous enough trying to cross that pass. I’ll be damned if I’ll risk your life—or mine—for a chunk of gold.”

“I’m not going to keep it.” Even the idea shocked her. The dagger was a symbol for the Roma people, an artifact steeped in legend, history. A treasure so ancient, so powerful, that a secret society was slaughtering her people to find it. Their people, since Logan was Roma, too.

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