Pain was her only constant

For days, she couldn’t move without wanting to scream. When the aches started to ease, the fever began. She lost track of time, the edge between darkness and day blurring until she no longer knew or cared if the sun or the moon shone.

The hut where she lay was thatched and a mosquito net covered the space above her. There was nothing in the room but her bed and a small table beside it. In contrast, a window opening to the right framed a scene that looked more like a Gauguin painting than any place she’d ever been.

A woman came in several times a day and checked on her. Sometimes in the middle of the night—or maybe the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure which—a man came, too. He was lean and gaunt with sunken eyes that frightened her. He never spoke. He did nothing but look at her.

She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t know who she was.

Dear Reader,

Machu Picchu is a magical place. Set high in the mountains of Peru, near the city of Cuzco, these ancient ruins provide a glimpse into the world of the Incas. The city sprawls over five square miles and was built sometime in the 1400s, providing a home to over a thousand people. Cuzco was seized in 1534 by the conquering Spanish armies but Machu Picchu itself was not discovered until 1911 by Yale’s Hiram Bingham.

I had the opportunity to visit Machu Picchu a few years ago. The buildings are incredible with intricate stonework and classic design, but even more impressive is the serenity the site seems to exude. The minute I began to climb the first set of terraced stairs (there are over three thousand steps at Machu Picchu!) I felt an eerie kind of calm. I was excited about being there but underneath that eagerness to explore, I experienced an emotion that has stayed with me ever since. I wished then (and even more so now) that I could have bottled that reaction.

A believer in reincarnation might attribute my response to the idea that I had lived there in another life. I don’t know how to explain it but I do know that I experienced something unique during that trip. The vision of those mountains rising from the early-morning mist is one I cherish. While I took some liberties with geography (Rojo and Qunico exist only in my imagination), the magic of Machu Picchu is definitely real.

Lauren Stanley goes to Peru to uncover her past. The tragic death of her mother has haunted her for years and Lauren returns to gain the understanding that has eluded her since childhood. Once there, Lauren meets not truth, but danger. Her life is saved only through the intervention of Armando Torres. Armando’s a man of irony—he’s a dedicated physician but when called to duty, his healing skills take a turn in the opposite direction. Together they must solve the mystery of Lauren’s past.

One day I’d like to return to the ruins of Machu Picchu. They deserve more time than I had when I visited. Until then, I’ll continue to read about this glorious place and study the culture of the Indians who once had the privilege of living there. I hope I’ve piqued your interest in it as well.

Kay David

Not Without the Truth
Kay David

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Karen.

Thanks for all your help and expertise. It’s a joy to work with

someone who understands the need for special places where

ideas can turn into stories and naps are always encouraged.

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

Christmas Eve, 1989

U.S. Embassy

Lima, Peru

LAUREN WAS SUPPOSED to be asleep by 9:00 p.m., but Lauren seldom followed the rules, especially dumb ones. It was Christmas eve, she’d complained to everyone who would listen. Who went to bed at nine on Christmas eve?

Ten-year-old girls do, her mother had said, at least those who wanted to find presents under the tree in the morning.

Margaret Stanley had tried to appear stern and serious, but Lauren had heard the softness behind her words. They both knew that despite Lauren’s behavior, her Christmas was going to be a good one. Six months ago, her mom had been appointed consul for Peru and she felt guilty for making Lauren and her dad leave their home in Dallas to come halfway around the world. Lauren had seen the stack of presents her mom had already wrapped.

Lauren played along, though. After her mom kissed her good-night and turned out the lamp, she closed her eyes and waited ten minutes, then she climbed from bed. Sneaking into the hallway, she peered up and down both ways before running to the iron railing that lined the upper gallery.

A crowd of glittering guests filled the huge reception area below, but as if he’d planned it, Daniel Cunningham, her mother’s attaché, stood directly beneath where Lauren kneeled. His tuxedo was pressed, his shoes shone and he’d spiked his blond hair for the party. The style made him look even taller than he was and, gripping the black balusters, Lauren stared through the bars and sighed.

Okay, so he was old—at least twenty, maybe even twenty-five—and he worked for her mom, but he was so cool! Lauren had had a major crush on Daniel from the minute they’d arrived.

Normally her mom would have had a cow over Lauren’s thing for Daniel but she’d overheard her parents talking, and her mom had admitted she was giving Lauren a pass because Daniel had managed to distract her. Lauren had bawled for days when she’d found out she was going to have to leave all her friends. Knowing there was no chance, she’d even begged to stay with her grandparents instead of moving. “We’re a family,” her mother had said. “And that means we stick together.” Lauren had been really, really bummed. Until she’d spotted Daniel.

Daniel liked her, too. He treated her like she was a real person, not just some stupid kid who’d didn’t have a choice about where she lived. He’d even taken the time to explain to her why it was important she and her dad be there. Her mother was an important person, Daniel had said solemnly, one of only three consuls who worked directly for the ambassador. The people of Peru saw the entire family as representatives of the United States. Daniel made her think she counted, something her mother never had the time to do.

Her mother came into view. She’d let Lauren pick out her dress for tonight, and it’d been no surprise which one she’d selected. The red beaded gown was Lauren’s favorite and it fit her mom perfectly, the crystals shimmering and shining as she walked among her guests. She looked like a movie star. They didn’t always get along, but her mom was really pretty neat and she was definitely awesome-looking.

In contrast, her father bobbed behind her like the little boat Lauren had played with in the bathtub when she was younger. He had on a tux like the other men, but the similarities stopped there. He wasn’t elegant or even handsome and he sure didn’t seem to be having a good time. Maybe his glasses made him look that way. More likely, it was his frown. Her father was a child psychiatrist and, back home, he’d taught other doctors at a fancy medical center how to treat crazy kids. He hadn’t ever been a fun kind of dad, but since they’d come to South America, he’d stopped smiling completely. She’d even heard him yell at her mom once, something he’d never done in Dallas. Tonight he looked more uptight than usual.

He pretended he didn’t see Lauren. He was angry at her, too, because she’d been such a toot about moving.

Her eyes searched the mob again. Daniel had moved closer to the dining room and another man, dressed in black, was standing beside him. She looked at Daniel but her gaze kept returning to the man with him. He was shorter than Daniel and Latin, his jacket filled out with muscles that Daniel could only dream of having. His black hair was long and slicked back and as she watched, he smoothed it, a gleam of gold on his wrist catching her attention. He looked kinda rough—like those drug lords on TV—and out of place next to the blond attaché.

Lauren edged closer to the wrought iron so she could see better and when she did so, Daniel looked up, the white flash of her nightgown obviously drawing his notice. He smiled at her and lifted his glass as if in a salute. She wagged her fingers back at him, her heart doing a funny skipping thing inside her chest.

The man at Daniel’s side raised his eyes, too. Lauren glanced in his direction, then something weird seemed to happen and she couldn’t look away.

He was younger than she’d first thought, but his eyes didn’t match the rest of him. Instead, they were like the old man’s on the corner, the one who sold newspapers. He was about a hundred and he never seemed happy, not even when Lauren’s dad gave him twice as big a tip as he should. Lauren’s delight in being acknowledged by Daniel changed into confusion. The man scared her. Speaking to Daniel but keeping his eyes on hers, the stranger gestured. She had no idea who he was since she’d never seen him before, but she knew one thing: she didn’t think she’d ever forget him.

Suddenly it seemed like a good time for Lauren to go.

She jumped up, her gown billowing around her legs as she ran, laughter and music from downstairs chasing her back to the private living quarters of the embassy. Her pulse racing as fast as her feet, she found herself in her mother’s closet, the familiar scent of her perfume reassuring. Lauren sat down on the floor behind the louvered doors and prayed for the jittery feeling to leave.

She kept telling herself she wasn’t afraid, until she fell into a fitful sleep, her dreams full of men with golden eyes. When she woke up to loud voices, it took her a moment to remember where she was. The conversation came to her in snatches.

“Dammit, Margaret, you don’t understand…. Big mistake if you think… Lots of money to be made….”

Lauren started to call out but the argument held her back. Peeking through the slats in the door, she could see a pair of men’s shoes and the hem of her mother’s red gown. The man kinda sounded like Daniel but not really. Daniel never used bad words like dammit and his voice was higher than this man’s.

“…not in the foreign service for money. I love my country….”

Lauren teased her mom sometimes and called her General Mother. No matter what, she stayed the same, strong, brave, no-nonsense. She was acting that way now. Taking a step toward the closet door, her mother spoke without hesitation.

“You aren’t going to get away with this. I found out and others will, too.”

“They won’t if you aren’t talking.”

The man had come nearer, too, but Lauren still couldn’t tell if it was Daniel or not. He sounded really scary and she thought about the stranger she’d seen beside Daniel. The man with the bracelet. Lauren heard him pull something from his pocket.

Her mother’s gasp turned Lauren’s stomach inside out. She gripped a handful of carpet, her mouth going dry.

Her mother spoke slowly and calmly, just like she did when she was trying to explain something to Lauren. “Don’t be stupid. That’s not going to help things.”

“I can see how you’d feel that way,” the man said. “But I disagree.”

A muffled pop followed.

Lauren scrambled backward so fast she almost hit the wall. Squeezing her eyes shut, she curled into a tiny ball and wedged herself as far as she could into the darkness where she tried not to think about what that noise meant. Part of her understood but a desperate sense of survival kept her silent. Over the ringing in her ears, she thought she heard the bedroom door open and close but she couldn’t tell for sure, especially when she heard the sound again a few minutes later. Rocking back and forth, she moaned softly.

Five minutes passed. Maybe five hours.

Her mother always preached that procrastination only made things worse but something told Lauren “worse” was already on the other side of the closet door. She waited for as long as she dared, then she forced herself to move. She had to find out what had happened. Crawling on all fours like the baby she wished she still was, she reached the front of the closet and pushed the doors open.

Her mother lay on the floor, a red stain the color of her dress soaking the rug by her head.

A man bent over her, two fingers pressed to her throat. He wore black from head to toe, including a mask that completely covered his face.

Through the eye holes, the man’s startled gaze met Lauren’s. He jerked his hand away from her mother’s neck, a gold glint at his wrist catching Lauren’s attention.

For one long second, she was frozen. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t talk, she couldn’t even breathe. The man went still, too.

Lauren didn’t understand what happened next but she knew the moment would never leave her. She could hear his heartbeat, she realized with shock, and the quick intake of breath that he took filled her lungs. He sensed the connection as well and his gaze came alive.

They stared at each other another two seconds, then he pivoted and dashed to the nearest window. Lauren closed her eyes and began to scream.

CHAPTER ONE

Summer 2005

Near Machu Picchu

THE ROPE BRIDGE SWUNG LAZILY in the bright Peruvian sun. Every so often, a loose strand of hemp would free itself and float on the warm breeze before drifting away. Most of the strings fell to the river thirty feet below where the water rolled over the rocks in an easy rhythm. No hurry, the gentle rippling sound seemed to say, no rush.

On either side of the precarious walkway, scarlet macaws preened in the warmth, their iridescent feathers flashing against the thick green foliage like priceless jewels. The birds’ exotic calls filled the air, along with the perfume from the nearby balsam trees.

Pausing on the edge of the gorge, Lauren Stanley studied the tranquil scene spread out before her. For as far as she could see, serenity and beauty lay. Breathing deeply, she tried to trap the essence of the moment and transfer its peace to a spot inside herself.

She failed.

All Lauren could feel was the fright that had her nailed to one spot. Big spiders and heights, tight spots and snakes. Lauren’s list of fears was a long one and there were some things on it she couldn’t even name. Despite their numbers, she’d managed to face most of them because she was too stubborn to give up on something just because it was difficult. The perfect example of that was right ahead of her. Seeing the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu would have been a straight-forward journey, but she’d had to come to the lesser ruins first, even though it had meant hacking a path through the jungle and crossing remote bridges like the one she was staring at now.

A second passed and then another one. Finally, she managed to break her paralysis. Opening her eyes, she lifted her hands and stared at them. They trembled violently, as did her body.

Behind her, Joaquin, the guide she’d hired, said something encouraging. At least, that’s how she interpreted it. He spoke almost no Spanish and they’d had to make do between his Quechuan and sign language. She looked over her shoulder and the young man made a go-ahead motion with his hand. She faced forward once more and eased her right foot out.

The bridge was made of three ropes, two that acted as handrails and one Lauren would have to balance on as she walked across. They were lashed together with extra fibers at gaping intervals. The woven strand beneath her boot was probably two inches in diameter, maybe three at the most. She had forty feet to go and there was no other way to get to the other side.

She knew she shouldn’t, but Lauren glanced down. The space beneath her seemed to widen and the green cliffs on either side shifted accordingly. A sickening dizziness swamped her.

I can’t do this. She shut her eyes again. I can’t do this. What was I thinking? Why did I come here? Am I crazy or what?

The questions were rhetorical because she knew the answer to each. She’d come back to Peru because she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life living in fear. She refused to. She’d spent enough time there and she was ready to move on. She had a great career ahead of her and nothing but opportunity. All she had to do was conquer the final frontier—her past. And she probably was nuts, but that had never stopped her.

Enough thinking, it was time to go. Lifting her left foot, Lauren carefully placed it in front of her right. She was near enough to the metal rings that held the ropes steady that the bridge stayed immobile under her shifting weight and her confidence took a step forward as well.

She continued, blanking her mind to anything but reaching the other side. Measure by measure. Heartbeat by heartbeat. Breath by breath.

She was halfway across when the rope’s tension seemed to change. Gripping the side ropes tightly, she told herself she was imagining things. Then the birds became quiet.

Turning her head slowly—it seemed to take a year—she glanced behind her. Joaquin was gone, the platform where the guide had been waiting now empty.

She puzzled over his disappearance. Maybe he’d slipped behind the foliage for a moment’s privacy…. Maybe he’d sat down on the forest floor to wait for his turn to cross…. Maybe he’d gone back to his village and left her to her own devices…. She couldn’t reverse her steps so she looked the way she’d been heading and tried to calm her concerns.

Then the rope bucked.

It steadied almost instantly and she sucked in a gasp of relief but before she could exhale, the cables went completely slack.

She screamed in terror as air replaced the support at her feet. The rope swung wildly and, burdened with her weight, headed for the rocks in front of her. If she held on, she’d slam into the side of the cliff.

The rough hemp burned through her palms, peeling the flesh from her fingers and setting them on fire with pain. The overhang zoomed closer. A tree branch, reaching out from the precipice as if to help, scraped her cheek instead.

A thousand different scenarios careered through her head but she knew she only had one choice. She held on until the last possible moment, but she finally opened her hands and let go.

She shrieked all the way down and hit the water with a splash. There was silence after that. When the last echo died, the birds resumed their calls.

“HOW YOU DOING? Seen any ruins lately?”

Meredith Santera spoke in a casual way but Armando Torres wasn’t fooled by her tone. Meredith wasn’t a woman who telephoned just to chitchat. Her intensity never abated and she remained focused at all times. On occasion, she pretended otherwise, but in reality, she never let up.

“Why do you wake me in the middle of the night to ask how I feel?” A native of Argentina, Armando’s accent became more obvious. “I think you have something other than my welfare on your mind.”

A pause came over the line before she answered. “How come you say so little but understand so much?”

He made a sound of dismissal. “If you listened more and spoke less, you would hear what I hear. I have no special skills.”

“I disagree, which is exactly why I’ve called you.”

He waited in silence.

“I had an interesting conversation yesterday,” she began.

Armando heard the sound of shuffling papers and he imagined Meredith sitting at her desk in Miami. She’d moved there after she’d left the CIA and started the Operatives. At the beginning, there had been four of them—Meredith, Armando and two others, Stratton O’Neil and Jonathan Cruz—but in the past few years, some changes had come about.

Stratton had been the first to leave. Following a job that had gone tragically wrong, he’d moved to L.A. to escape his past and disengage from life. His plan had been foiled when he’d taken one last job then had fallen in love. Cruz had been next. He was teaching at Langley now and he, too, had a new wife. She happened to be Meredith’s best friend. Cruz had married her after he’d rescued her and her son from the drug kingpin who was the child’s father.

Armando had also wondered from time to time about leaving the team. He had more work at the clinic than he could handle and it was good work, productive work. But what he did with the Operatives was important, and he wasn’t sure he could ever give it up.

Meredith’s voice brought him back. “I got a call from a doctor in Dallas by the name of J. Freeman Stanley. He’s a very well-known child psychiatrist. His expertise is in repressed memories. Does his name sound familiar?”

Armando held his breath, his past rising up from the grave where he kept it buried. “Not really,” he lied.

“You’ll remember when you hear the rest. You must be getting old.”

I am, he thought, and growing even more so as you speak. He’d never told Meredith much about his early years. Her father had helped her form the company and he’d been the one she’d trusted to choose the men. He’d known everyone’s secrets but he was gone now. All Meredith knew was that Armando had been involved with the Peruvian job. She had no idea he’d seen the girl. No one knew that, except for him and her.

“Dr. Stanley has a daughter named Lauren,” she said. “Her mother was Margaret Stanley.” Meredith paused. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember her. She was—”

“One of the consuls in Lima.” He dropped his pretense. “Christmas eve, 1989. I was sent there that night, but she was already dead before I could get to her. They said she interrupted a burglar and he killed her. I remember.”

“Finally! I was getting worried about you for a minute.”

He interrupted her, an act of discourtesy he’d normally never indulge in. “What’s wrong?”

If she noticed his shortness, she ignored it. “Lauren Stanley is twenty-six now. She’s a writer for a travel magazine called Luxury and she’s been on assignment in Peru doing an article about the ruins.”

“Luxury, eh?” Armando forced the tightness in his chest to loosen. “That sounds like a nice job. To visit rich people’s resorts and write about them.”

“It sounds good, yes, but something must have happened. About two weeks ago, she stopped checking in and her father is getting frantic.”

“How did he connect with you?”

“He didn’t. My father was still in Washington when Stanley’s wife died and Dad debriefed the doctor after he and his daughter left Peru. According to Stanley, Dad told him if there was ever anything he could do for him to call. So he did. The office forwarded the message to me. Stanley had no idea that my father was dead.”

Her voice seemed to thicken but Armando knew he was imagining the sound. Meredith’s emotions were so tightly controlled he didn’t think she even knew how to feel them anymore.

“And what does this have to do with me?”

“She’s missing. You’re there. I thought you could at least ask around—”

“She is a grown woman,” Armando said sharply. “She probably found a lover and ran off with him.”

“I hope so, but the situation’s a little more complicated than it appears. Freeman Stanley said the mother’s death left Lauren Stanley unstable and prone to depression. Considering her past, I think he has a right to be concerned. I would be if she were my daughter. So would you.”

Outside his open bedroom window, somewhere in the undergrowth beyond, Armando heard the foliage rustle and the low grunt of an animal. He didn’t try to guess what it was. The rugged mountainous terrain provided a home for many living things, as well as for some things that weren’t. The Quechuan were a superstitious lot, but not without good reason.

Meredith’s voice held her first hint of impatience. “Have you seen anything—”

“I’m not that close to Machu.”

“No, but you’re not that far and a lot of people visit those smaller ruins close to where you live, too. She could have done that.”

“It’s possible,” he said reluctantly, “but I’ve heard nothing.”

“When was the last time you went into the village?”

The clinic was located near a dot on the map called Rojo. It was located between Cuzco and the ruins of Machu Picchu. “I haven’t been to Rojo in a month,” he said. “Maybe two. I forget.”

Meredith made a tsk-tsking sound. “You’re turning into el ermitaño, Armandito….”

“A hermit is better than what they call me now.”

“The locals still think you can make yourself invisible?”

“They must,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing but el médico del fantasma could do so, I presume.”

“You need to get out more,” she remarked. “Go to Rojo for me. Be my ears and eyes. I want to call this man and help him out.”

“And if we cannot do that?”

“Then I’ll tell him that, too,” she said. “But you have to ask around first. I don’t want to lie to him either way.”

Armando sighed. He didn’t want to get involved, but guilt was a powerful motivator—and a heavy weight. Of all the cases in his past, why had this one come back? He’d lost more sleep over the little girl with the haunting eyes than he had over any of his other assignments.

“How would I know her?” he asked reluctantly.

“I’ll fax you a photo. She won’t be hard to miss. Believe me, if she’s anywhere around there, you’ll know. She’s gorgeous. Blond, blue eyes, thin. She looks like a supermodel.” Meredith hesitated, then corrected herself. “No, wait. Actually, that’s not quite true. She looks like her mother. Exactly like her. Do you remember her?”

“Yes.”

Oblivious to what his one-syllable answer signified, Meredith continued. “Maybe you’ll fall in love with her,” she teased. “And move back to the States like Cruz and Stratton. You could have three children and buy a big ranch in Texas. You’d make lots of money, you know.”

“I need no more money,” he said, staring out into the night. “And I don’t want a wife and three children. Or a ranch in Texas.”

Finally sensing his mood, she spoke with a serious tone. “Then what do you want, Armando? Cruz has found his place in the world and Stratton has gotten himself straightened out. They seem happy. When are you going to give up being the broody Latin and do the same?”

“I’m thrilled for them,” he said. “But I’m not sure that condition will ever find me.”

“It doesn’t just fall into your lap,” she said sharply. “You have to search for it.”

“You’re correct as usual,” he said. “But I carry too many images of death. They visit me without invitation and linger in the corners. I don’t need to look for anything more, much less happiness. “

“We’ve done a lot of good, Armando.”

“I know that. I’m still a believer, don’t worry.”

“Then concentrate on that. Otherwise, you’ll drive yourself insane.”

“Your advice is wise, Meredith, but it comes too late.” His voice went quiet and low with regret. “I’ve done things I shouldn’t have and left too many other things undone.”

They hung up without saying goodbye. A moment later, the fax on his desk rang shrilly. Armando walked to the machine and watched the picture of Lauren Stanley emerge, line by line. When the photo was complete, he continued to stare. Meredith had been correct. The little girl he’d seen had turned into a stunning woman. If she was anywhere near Rojo or even Aquas Caliente, the larger village upriver, he would have heard by now.

Picking up the fax, he crumpled it out of habit then put a match to the wad of paper. White ash fell like snow into the metal wastebasket at his feet.

He went back to bed but sleep didn’t join him.

SHE DIDN’T KNOW where she was.

Pain was her only constant. For days, she hadn’t been able to move without wanting to scream. When the aches had started to ease, the fever had begun. She’d lost track of time, the edge between darkness and day blurring until she no longer knew—or cared—if the sun or the moon shone.

The hut where she lay was thatched and a mosquito net covered the space above her. There was nothing in the room but her bed and a small table beside it. In contrast, a window opening to the right framed a scene that looked more like a Gauguin painting than any actual place she’d ever been.

A woman came in several times a day and checked on her. Sometimes in the middle of the night—or maybe the middle of the day, she wasn’t sure which—a man came, too. He was lean and gaunt with sunken eyes that frightened her. He never spoke. He did nothing but look at her.

She didn’t know where she was.

She didn’t know who she was.

THE DAY AFTER MEREDITH CALLED, Armando went into Rojo, but no one in the village had seen a gringa. He returned home and put the woman out of his mind. When Meredith called a week later, he told her he knew nothing.

“Dammit, I hate having to call Freeman Stanley and tell him that. Are you sure no one’s seen her?”

He let his silence answer the question.

“What should I do?” she asked in a worried voice.

He shook his head at her ploy. “Don’t try to pull one of your tricks on me, Meredith. You asked me to see if Lauren Stanley had been here and that is what I did. If this was a real assignment, I would stop and do anything you asked, you know that, but otherwise my days here are very full already. I have the clinic and the villages and the children. I did not join the Operatives to find missing daughters for worried daddies.”

“Stanley has called me too many times to count. He offered us a lot of money.”

“And I told you last time we spoke that I have no need of that.”

“Maybe you don’t,” she said, “but what about your clinic? When I saw you at Cruz’s wedding, you said the place continuously required new equipment and stronger drugs and more staff and better beds—”

He interrupted her as she had him. “The funds this man could give us wouldn’t make a dent in what we lack. And the time it would take to do the job, to find this woman, I do not have it, Meredith.”

“Your time I can’t replace,” she said. “But you’re wrong about the money.” She named a figure that shocked him. “You could buy a lot of aspirin with that, Armando. A donation that size could keep the clinic running for years. You could even hire another doctor.” She paused then added in a mocking voice, “A real doctor.”

Armando was a psychiatrist and Meredith liked to tease him about it. He ignored her taunt this time, however, and thought of the infant he’d seen yesterday. One listen through his stethoscope and he’d known that the child had a serious heart defect, probably congenital. Other symptoms had confirmed his suspicions—the pale skin, the wheezing breath, the lethargy. Any medium-size hospital in the States could have corrected the problem, but here the baby had no chance.

“I’ll call you in two days.” He made the promise abruptly then hung up.

Later that morning, his housekeeper, who also served as a nurse at the clinic, came to his study. Zue was Quechuan and eighty. She worked hard but her grandson, Beli, who also helped around the compound, did just the opposite. Knowing Armando would pay him regardless, he put out as little effort as possible.

“There are people here,” she sniffed. “From Qunico. I told them the clinic was closed but they won’t go away. They’re farmers.”

Armando had learned a long time ago not to point out what he thought were the discrepancies in Zue’s complicated class hierarchy. “Send them in,” he said.

Under Zue’s watchful eyes, the two men shuffled inside. Wrapped in woven blankets, they were exhausted and filthy. Qunico was fifty miles east of Rojo and even if they had had a vehicle, there was nothing but a rough path between the two. They’d either walked or ridden mules. Armando studied them but they both seemed healthy.

The taller of two spoke haltingly. “Señor Doctor, we have a woman in our village. She is hurt and very sick. She needs your help. You are the only one who can save her.”

Armando stilled. Something inside told him he knew the answer to his question, but he asked it anyway. “The woman is a gringa, no? With blond hair and ojos azules?”

The men exchanged a startled look and Armando realized he’d just added to the rumors that swirled about him. They came to him for help, but most of the villagers were frightened of him—they thought he could read their minds, disappear at will and heal with a touch. He didn’t like the mystery they’d built up around him, but sometimes it proved useful, he had to admit.

“What’s wrong with her?” Armando asked.

Their explanation came out in a jumble of Spanish and Quechuan but even if one language had prevailed, it wouldn’t have mattered. They were too overwhelmed to get the tale told in any kind of order. Armando held his hand up after a few moments and halted the flow.

“Por favor, amigos, one thing at a time. Start at the beginning.”

The taller man, clearly the leader, paused and tried to organize his thoughts. Finally he shook his head in a gesture of defeat. “We don’t know the beginning, señor.”

Armando frowned. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t know where she came from or how she escaped, but Xuachoto had her in his arms for a very long time. We think maybe he wanted to claim her for a new bride, but Mariaita wouldn’t let him. He had to give her up.”

The locals followed a convoluted mixture of Catholicism and Inca myths that had evolved through the centuries, their leader, Manco, serving as both priest and mayor. Armando hadn’t bothered to study the intricacies of the system but some of his ignorance was not his own fault. When the clinic had opened and the locals had seen what Armando’s medicines could do, they’d begun to bypass the old man’s rites and gone directly to Armando’s clinic for healing. In return, Manco deliberately made things more difficult because he resented what he perceived to be Armando’s healing powers and was jealous of his abilities.

Armando knew enough to recognize the name of their water god, Xuachoto, though, and his jealous wife, Mariaita. A chill came over him despite the heat and he dreaded hearing the answer to his next question.

“Are you telling me the gringa was in the river when you found her?”

They nodded in unison, then the shorter man spoke reverently. “Xuachoto had her. Manco fought hard, but he couldn’t bring her back from the other side. We know you can do better.”

“She’s dead?” Armando asked in alarm.

“No, señor, she is not dead.” He sent an uneasy look to his companion then faced Armando again. “But she is not alive, either.”

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN SHE FIRST HEARD the voices, she thought she was dreaming, then she became more aware of her surroundings and realized her mistake.

“I can take care of her,” a man said. “Your assistance is not needed here. They should never have bothered you with this.”

She struggled to open her eyes, her lids weighed down by sleep and pain. The man who spoke was the one she’d seen come into her tent before. His voice reverberated with a frightening kind of fervor.

“I am confident that you are able to handle the situation, Manco.” The second man answered in the same language of the first—Spanish—but his voice was much kinder, its tones softened by a sophisticated accent and polished manner. “I mean no disrespect. I merely want to help.”

She fought against her stupor and forced her eyes to stay open so she could study the visitor. His eyes were two black stones, polished and bright, his skin a burnished brown, his hair straight and black. He had the right coloring but she didn’t think he was local. For one thing, he wore American jeans and a T-shirt. Her guess was based on his attitude rather than what he had on, however. He had an air of authority about him, a self-confidence that told her he wasn’t about to give in to the man who stood before him. Her eyes shut again.

“I brought her back from the dead.” The tall man’s voice penetrated her fog but just barely. “If not for me, she would be in the ground at this very moment. Her family would be crying and lighting candles.”

“That may be true,” the stranger replied politely. “But you can’t talk to her and I can.”

“I speak the language of healing. English isn’t necessary.”

A paused filled the hut. As it grew, she beat her lethargy and turned to look at them again. The two men stared at each other, their faces filled with tension, and as she watched, the American, which she guessed him to be, stepped even closer to the older man, their chests now almost touching. His voice was so low she could hardly make out what he said. The steady conviction behind it, however, was unmistakable.

“You’re a very busy man, Manco. You have the farm to run, the animals to oversee, your people to guide. I’m sure you could handle this problem, but you don’t need another person to look after.” He paused, his silky voice at once respectful but threatening. “The burden of the woman’s care would require too much of your valuable attention. Your village could suffer. Your men were thinking of you when they came and asked for my assistance.”

He was offering a way to save face, which was nice because the outcome of this argument was not in question. The American was going to get what he wanted, in any event. For some reason, she suspected that was not unusual.

She didn’t know what Manco saw as he studied the man’s face but he must have read something in his expression that gave him pause. After a moment so long Lauren wasn’t sure it would end, he stepped back and held out his hand. “You are right, Doctor, as usual. Your wisdom far outweighs my own. I had not thought of the problem in those terms.”

The man in the T-shirt shook his head. “No one’s wisdom is greater than yours, Manco. The problem is your heart. It is too big. You try to help everyone.”

“You flatter me, but I will accept your praise.” The man smiled as he spoke but it wasn’t genuine. He wasn’t happy, yet there was nothing more that he could do. He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to leave. “I’ll send someone to help carry her out.”

Before Manco had even left the hut, the doctor, if that’s what he was, was at the edge of her bed and lifting the mosquito netting. He appeared pleased by her open eyes.

“You’re awake. That is good. Very good. You didn’t seem to know I was here when I first arrived and examined you.”

He stuck out his hand and confirmed his title. “I’m Armando Torres. I’m going to take you to my clinic so I can see to your injuries. It’s not far from here. Do you think you can make it?”

She attempted to speak but all that came out was a croak.

“Save your energy.” He brushed a curl of her hair off her forehead in a soothing gesture, misinterpreting her effort. “We don’t need to be polite. The niceties can wait.”

She had to try again. “Do you…”

He put his fingers over hers, his kind manner and authoritative air instantly winning her trust. “Do I what?” he asked, his eyes puzzled.

Her gaze fastened on his as if she could pull the answer from him. “Do you know who I am?”

ARMANDO STARED DOWN at Lauren Stanley in shock. When the men who’d retrieved him had said she wasn’t alive, he hadn’t understood. Defensive and angry, Manco had explained the situation with more arrogance than usual and left out the details as well. The Quechuan believed in more than a single state of being, he’d said haughtily, and Lauren’s ailment reflected one that was highly mystical. Armando had accepted the lecture, but he’d had no idea Manco had been referring to amnesia.

“You don’t know your name?” he asked in surprise.

She shook her head then winced at the movement. She was so pale beneath her tan, Armando thought he could see through her skin.

“I can remember a few things,” she said haltingly. “But I don’t know why I’m here or what I do.”

She waited for him to fill her in but Armando didn’t answer right away. Beneath the pallor and grime, she certainly looked like the photo Meredith had sent him, but Armando didn’t like to make assumptions and he wasn’t about to start now. “Did you have things with you?” he asked instead.

“I don’t know.” A look of frustration crossed her delicate features. “I tried to ask, but my sign language skills aren’t too good.”

Armando walked to the doorway. Tiachita, Manco’s housekeeper, lounged on the porch, her need for activity apparently less developed than Zue’s. She looked up as he spoke.

“Did the blonde have anything with her? A bag? Papers? Anything?”

Tiachita stood with a languid grace and walked to the kitchen of the hut, which was housed in a separate building off to one side. She returned a second later and handed him a small ripped windbreaker.

“This is it?”

She gave him the exact reply he’d expected. A slow nod of her head. He cursed beneath his breath and retraced his steps, flipping open the coat as he walked. If Lauren Stanley had fallen in the river with an entire suite of Vuitton luggage, the answer would have been the same. Unattended items didn’t last long in this part of the world. He was surprised even to have this.

He paused on the front porch and looked at the inside tag. Someone had written Lauren Stanley, Dallas, Texas, in small block letters at the top in indelible ink. Luxury had been printed underneath her name.

“There’s nothing left,” he declared when he came back to her side, “except this.”

She raised her head. “A ratty jacket? That’s it?”

He nodded as she fought to focus, her small source of energy obviously depleted.

“There’s a name on the tag,” he said.

In the dim light, her blue eyes seemed to glow. “What is it?”

“Lauren Stanley,” he said. “‘Dallas, Texas’ is written just below it.”

She repeated what he’d said then her eyes filled. “I’ve never heard that name before,” she whispered. “If that’s who I am, it’s news to me.”

LAUREN STANLEY DROPPED BACK into a fitful sleep and Armando began to organize the trip back to the clinic. It would have taken less than an hour in an ambulance, but patient transportation here had as much in common with its international counterparts as he did with Manco.

Lining the wooden floor of a cart with pillows and blankets, the men made a bed for Lauren, then attached the rig to the back of Armando’s battered motorcycle. When they finished, he stared at it and shook his head. She was going to feel every bump and rut in the path between Qunico and the clinic but he couldn’t give her anything to knock her out. Until he had a better handle on her injuries, he couldn’t risk the complications that might arise.

He went back inside and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her head in her hands. Tiachita stood beside her. “Very dizzy,” the housekeeper said. “Very bad. No can walk.”

Tiachita seemed to support her boss’s bid to keep Lauren. Ignoring her try, Armando took a bottle of water from his backpack and handed it to Lauren. “You’re probably dehydrated,” he said. “It comes up on you fast out here.”

She accepted the water without comment, her dazed state and slowed movements disturbing to him. Had she hit her head while she’d been in the water? He hadn’t been able to see any signs of contusions but reactions to injuries like that could be delayed. A whole host of other possibilities raced through his mind, some of them with outcomes that could be very serious.

He capped the water bottle and dropped it into his pack. “You ready?”

Instead of answering, she tried to stand, but she swayed instead, her legs going out from beneath her. Grabbing her arms, Armando caught her just before she went down completely.

“Oh, God,” she murmured. “I think the woman is right. No can walk.”

Armando chuckled. “You don’t have to walk. I’m going to carry you. Just put your arms around my neck.”

She did as he instructed and he lifted her easily. Too easily. She’d probably carried ten pounds more before her accident. She’d lost none of her beauty, though. The luminous skin, the clear blue eyes, the heart-shaped face, they were all there now, the promise he’d seen in her features as a child now fulfilled.

When he laid her in the cart she groaned and curled on her side. Rearranging the pillows to better cushion her, Armando said a quick prayer then straddled the cycle and aimed it down the path.

THEIR RETURN WASN’T as bad as Armando had thought it would be. Maybe the Quechuan gods were impressed with Lauren Stanley’s altered state. Whatever it was, Armando didn’t care. He was grateful they got back to the clinic before nightfall. He’d been stranded before in the night in the surrounding jungle and it hadn’t been fun. The experience wouldn’t have been any better with an injured woman to care for.

The muffled hum of his motorcycle shattered the quiet as he pulled into the clinic’s compound. Zue hurried out to meet him, her tongue clicking before he could say anything. With a flick of her wrist, she had three men out to help. They gently lifted the blonde and carried her inside while Zue berated them the entire distance, cautioning them not to bump the patient while at the same time hurrying them toward the clinic’s four-bed hospital. Armando shook the dust from his clothing and went to clean himself up. Zue would bathe Lauren, then he’d examine her. They never had too many patients at one time but there was generally a steady stream. He and his nurse had their routine down.

He was stepping out of the shower when his cell phone rang. Seeing the caller ID number, he picked up the phone and, without thinking, fell into the coded speech he and Meredith used when discussing a job.

He greeted her, then said, “I have the package you were looking for—it was found late yesterday afternoon. Apparently it’d been around for a while but I hadn’t heard.”

She followed his lead, her voice relieved. “Armando, that’s great! It wasn’t…damaged, was it?”

“There’s some dents and scratches on the outside but I believe everything is okay on the inside. I haven’t had a chance to open it yet and see.”

“Where was it all this time?”

“It’s a long story,” he said. “I’ll call you later when the rates go down and explain.” This meant he’d e-mail her, but as he expected, Meredith didn’t have the patience for that.

“Tell me now,” she insisted. “The manufacturer wants to know.”

“It got wet,” he said with a sigh, “and had to be fished out of a nearby river. I’m not sure how it ended up there, but that’s basically what happened.”

“But it’s okay?” she asked again.

He hesitated and tried to think of a way to avoid the topic of Lauren’s amnesia. He needed to examine her before he could address that subject adequately, but his reluctance went beyond that. Something about the situation had begun to bother him during the trip home, but he couldn’t yet define what it was.

“Basically, it is okay. Yes.” He paused and Meredith sensed that he was holding something back.

“But?”

He licked his lips and stared out the window beside the desk where he stood. Night came swiftly in Peru and it was totally black outside now. He’d never seen a place with such an absence of light and he’d been in plenty of dark places in his life.

“I think it might be best if you could wait a bit before calling the manufacturer.”

“Why is that?” Her voice took on a puzzled but cautious note. “He’s quite anxious to hear any news we can give him.”

“I can see why,” Armando replied, “but something doesn’t feel right. You know what I mean?”

“I probably do,” she said with a weary sigh. “I’ll hold off if you think that’s best.”

“I do,” he said. “But I can’t give you a reason why right now. Maybe later I’ll understand better.” His eyes searched the void through the screen. “And then again,” he added, “maybe I won’t.”

SHE REMEMBERED LITTLE about the journey yet, when she woke up the following morning, she felt as if she’d moved across the world instead of across the valley.

She sat up in the bed and took in her surroundings. The clinic was spotless, the walls a white so stark they hurt her eyes, the floors so clean, she was sure they would squeak if walked on. There were three other beds in the room along with her own but they were empty.

The simple task of looking around took most of her energy and she fell back against the pillows. Her eyes didn’t open again until that evening when a tiny native woman came in with a dinner tray, the china and cutlery arranged with military precision. She insisted on feeding Lauren, then returned the next morning to do the same with breakfast. The doctor came twice, but each time she registered little more than the fact that he was examining her, his hands gliding over her bruised body with care, his voice comforting as he murmured to her.

On her third morning, she woke up with a much clearer mind. Recalling the name the doctor had told her was hers, she probed her memory for more details.

She had little success.

All she could force out was a murky mix of faces and facts that made no sense, each changing rapidly, and feeling more like bad dreams than memories.

That night, after she’d bathed Lauren and cleaned up the ward with the endless energy she seemed to have, the nurse began to braid Lauren’s hair. She was almost finished when the doctor came in.

Clearly upset by the intrusion, she finished her task and stomped from the room.

The doctor watched her leave before turning to Lauren with a bemused expression on his face. “I’m sorry to interrupt your salon time with Zue.”

Lauren found herself smiling in return. “She’s more upset than I am, believe me. My hair is the last thing on my mind right now, Dr. Torres.”

“Please call me Armando.” He pulled up a chair and sat down. “We do not stand on formality here.”

She wasn’t sure but yesterday, or maybe it’d been the day before, she’d realized he had a hint of an accent. She’d asked about it, and he’d explained he’d grown up in Argentina.

He looked at her intently. “So how are you feeling?”

Lauren had begun to realize Armando Torres had a habit of focusing on her so intently that she found it difficult to look away from him when he was anywhere near. Which wasn’t a bad thing. Armando was a man anyone could have stared at for a long time and Lauren was surprised to find herself attracted to him. She’d explained the reaction by connecting it to her weakened state, but she knew better. There was something about him that felt familiar…yet strange, and the combination was a powerful one.

“I actually feel better,” she said. Some of her aches weren’t as sharp and some of her bruises had started to fade. “I was doubtful there for a while but it looks like I might survive.”

“There was never any danger of that. The roughest part is behind you.”

“That was right after they pulled me from the water?” He’d told her the circumstances of her discovery.

“Yes. You were very lucky, you know. That’s not a river you would have chosen to go into, if you’d known how bad it is.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?”

“Besides the usual piranha-crocodile-snake thing?”

She arched one eyebrow. “Uh-oh.”

“A lot of bacteria thrive there that live nowhere else. I won’t go into the details, but they can enter your body in various ways and then they set up housekeeping. Getting rid of them can be tricky. You have to catch them early or they can do a lot of damage to your internal organs, especially to your heart.”

“I didn’t know that,” she said. “At least I don’t think I did.” Failing to keep the defeat from her voice, she spoke again. “I can’t believe this! Amnesia is something you see in movies or read about in books—it’s not supposed to happen to real people.”

“The condition has been glamorized,” he agreed, “but it obviously does affect ‘real’ people. It’s affected you.”

His reassurance made her feel much better but she immediately wondered why. She’d known the man for only a few days. How could he have such sway over her so quickly? “Will my memory ever come back?”

“I think that it will,” he said. “But amnesia is one of those problems we still don’t understand. If the source is organic—that is, you hit your head when you fell into the water and a physical part of your brain has been affected—your recovery time will be related to the damage that was done when you had the accident. If it’s psychogenic, that’s a different thing.”

“‘Psychogenic’? Meaning I’m making it happen to myself?”

“No. Psychogenic meaning the problem is psychologically based.” He paused and appeared to think of how to phrase his explanation. “Psychogenic amnesia occurs after some sort of stress takes place. People who suffer this form of amnesia sometimes have a history of depression.” His stare captured hers once again, the tension in the room notching up. “Psychogenic amnesia can be linked to suicide, as well.”

IF HE HADN’T BEEN TRAINED to notice such things, Armando would have missed the reaction that crossed her expression, but his medical degree gave him an advantage.

As did his past.

Knowing what he did, he would have been surprised if she hadn’t had some psychological problems. Her issues had roots that had been growing for years.

“Are you saying you think I was trying to kill myself by jumping in the river?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “If you are, I have to disagree. I would have picked a simpler way.”

“That’s not at all what I’m suggesting. I’m merely trying to explain that amnesia is a complex disease. You may not suffer from it for very long, though. Sometimes all it takes is a single detail and everything returns.”

“But it’s still frustrating.”

“I imagine that it is, however, I may be able to help you there. Your government has been contacted by a man who claims to be your father. He wanted help in finding you, and the person who handled the call knew of my clinic. She decided to cut through the red tape and phone me first to see if I’d heard anything.”

Lauren’s face filled with shock and she struggled to sit up. “Are you kidding me?”

He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, my God!” Her eyes huge, she leaned forward as if she could get the information faster by being that much closer. “Who is my father? What was I doing here? Where is—”

Armando held up his hand. “I’ll answer your questions the best I can, but I may not know everything—”

“I don’t care! Just tell me!”

“Your name is Lauren Stanley and you are from Dallas. You’re a writer, for a magazine called Luxury, and you were here on assignment to do an article about Machu Picchu and some of the other ruins. Your father is a doctor and he started to worry when you didn’t call in as expected. Apparently you and he have some kind of system where you check in with him on a regular basis. He was afraid something had happened.”

Her expression became remote. “What’s his name?”

“J. Freeman Stanley.”

“Does he know I’m all right?”

“He’s been told. My friend said he was very relieved and he wants to talk to you as soon as possible. When we finish here, you can call him if you like.”

He fell silent. She’d asked all the right questions, yet there was something missing. After a second, he realized what is was; none of the information he’d given her was resonating. Her expression held no reaction whatsoever. Normally he wouldn’t have been surprised by that, but because of her eagerness, he expected disappointment from her, if nothing else.

“Does any of this sound familiar?” he asked, just to be sure.

She shook her head slowly. “You could be talking about a stranger for all I know.”

Armando stood. “Don’t worry about it for now,” he ordered. “Once you speak with your father that could change.”

Lauren opened her mouth to reply, but her expression went blank. Her eyes glazed over and became unfocused, then a second later, she jerked so hard the bed moved. Fearing a seizure or even something worse, Armando grabbed her shoulders and spoke her name loudly.

The episode was over almost before it began. She blinked then looked straight into his eyes and gasped.

“I was in a jungle and there were birds,” she said. “Th-then I was flying.”

He loosened his hold on her arms but he didn’t release her. “You’re not flying, Lauren,” he said forcefully. “You’re in bed. I have you. You’re safe.”

“It felt like I was looking at you behind a veil. I thought I was dreaming but it was more real.”

“Describe what you saw.”

“Thick foliage,” she said haltingly. “The sound of birds, a rope sliding through my hands.” She stopped abruptly and went silent, the intensity of the sensation obviously still frightening to her. “I was up high but I felt a rope,” she said. “There was a rope in my hands!”

He took her hands and turned them over, shaking his head as he stared at the scabs that covered her palms. “I thought these were rope burns but then I convinced myself they were scratches from a tree limb you’d tried to grab. I should have known better.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Someone must have tried to help you after you fell into the water. Was there anyone with you?”

She screwed up her face as if she could force the memory out of her brain, but in the end, all she could do was shake her head. “I don’t know! I guess anything’s possible, but I don’t know.”

He released her hands and patted her arm, his reassurance swift and soothing. “It will come to you,” he said in a comforting voice. “It will come.”

“Is that a promise?”

“This is Peru,” he answered cryptically. “Promises are all that we have.”

CHAPTER THREE

ARMANDO TORRES GAVE HER his cell phone then stepped outside as she dialed the number written on the small slip of paper he’d handed her. The first ring had barely finished when the phone was answered at the other end.

“Children’s Clinic. How may I direct your call?”

“I need to speak with Dr. Stanley,” Lauren said. “This is his daughter calling.”

She felt strange describing herself as someone’s daughter but as Lauren waited to talk to the man who claimed to be her father, she knew that Armando had told her the truth. She trusted him but she wasn’t quite sure why.

“Lauren?”

She gripped the phone tighter as her name was spoken. “Y-yes,” she managed to say. “This is Lauren.”

“Oh, sweetheart! You don’t know how worried I’ve been. Thank God you’re all right! How do you feel? When are you coming home? They told me you lost all your things! Do you want me to come down and get you?”

The man at the other end stopped to take a breath and when he did so, he seemed to realize how rattled he sounded. He laughed apologetically. “I’m sorry—I know I’m running off at the mouth, but I’m just so relieved to know you’re okay. Tell me how you feel.”

“I’m still a little sore,” she said, “but Dr. Torres has reassured me nothing’s broken.”

His voice was strained. “Is he taking good care of you?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Except that I have this…memory problem—”

Her father broke in, his tone switching to a more professional level. “I understand but I don’t want you to worry about that, Lauren, okay? It’s a temporary setback and you’re going to be fine. Once you’re back home, we’ll get you in to see Dr. Gladney right away. The two of you can work everything out, just like you did before. You’ll be fine in no time.”

To Lauren’s ears, his manner seemed forced, but maybe he was simply overwhelmed with worry. “Dr. Gladney?”

“She’s your therapist, honey. You don’t remember her?”

“I don’t remember me,” Lauren replied, half joking, “how could I remember her?”

He took her question seriously and Lauren got the impression that he probably took most things that way. “Dr. Gladney is a specialist in psychotherapy as it relates to traumatic reassessments and integration, Lauren. She’s worked with you for years, ever since—”

He broke off and Lauren asked, “Ever since what?”

For a moment, a static silence whispered down the line, then he spoke again. “Ever since your mother died. You don’t remember that, either?”

A vague reaction tugged at the back of her mind—something forbidden and scary and chaotic. She tried hard to pull more out of the fleeting sensation but failed. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to…”

“It’s okay.” She could tell he was trying to hide his shock. “There’ll be plenty of time to talk about that later.”

Lauren pressed him. “Tell me now,” she insisted. “Dr. Torres said all I might need is a single memory and everything else might come back. I want to know.”

“It’s complicated—”

“Then simplify it.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “The truth is your mother took her own life when you were ten. It was a very sad time for all of us and it was especially traumatic for you. You found the body.”

“I—I can’t believe I wouldn’t remember something like that,” she said in sudden shock. “It must have been horrible…”

He hurried to reassure her. “Your reaction is extremely typical, Lauren. I’d be surprised if you did remember it. Don’t worry about it, all right? We’ll handle everything when you get back. Dr. Gladney and I will help you, I promise. You’ll be fine as soon as we get you home.”

He sounded as if he thought she were about to crash and burn. Losing your mother was a terrible thing but it’d clearly happened years before. He was acting as if he were afraid she might fall apart completely. What kind of fragile flower had she been?

“When do you think you can make it back to Cuzco?” Her father’s question cut into her thoughts. “That’s the largest town nearby. I’ve already checked the flights for you and there are some going out at the end of the week. I’ve wired some funds to you, as well. The doctor will collect them and get them to you. I know you lost your things. There should be more than enough cash for you to buy some clothes and anything else you might need until you come back but if you need more, let me know. I’ve contacted the embassy and your replacement passport is in the works. I’m not sure which flight would be the best but the earliest one is next—”

Lauren interrupted his flow of orders. “I’m not ready to come back. I have things to do here.”

His voice revealed his surprise. “Lauren, don’t be silly! You have to come home now. Forget about the article. The magazine doesn’t expect you to finish that! I’ve already spoken to Neal—”

“Who’s Neal?”

“Your boss,” he answered. “He said the topic was all your idea anyway and he’s not even sure when it would make the magazine. Your health is more important than writing—”

Lauren gripped the edge of the bed, the realization coming to her that she’d apparently allowed her father to tell her how to run her life. “I appreciate your help,” she interrupted him one more time, “but I’m not coming back until I’m ready. I’ll let you know when that is.”

In the quiet that followed, she could sense his disbelief. His voice changed subtly. “I really think you need to return, Lauren. You can’t possibly get the care you need down there.” He paused. “I’m a doctor myself, sweetheart, and I know what’s best, especially for you. I’m sure Dr. Torres is…all right, but I know your case. After all, I’m your father. He’s a stranger.”

She looked out the screen door where Armando stood. Her father might be correct in what he said, but just the opposite felt true. She sensed no connection whatsoever with him but strangely enough, Armando Torres had seemed like someone she knew—and knew intimately—from the minute she had seen him. The idea was disturbing.

“I appreciate your concern,” she repeated. “But I have things to do here. When they’re done, I’ll leave.”

They hung up and Armando came in shortly after that for his phone. While Lauren got ready for bed, the dynamics of the conversation that had taken place between herself and the man who’d said he was her father replayed in her mind. She was a grown woman and had her wits about her—why did he feel the need to tell her what to do? Even more importantly, why did she feel the need to stay where she was? When he’d told her to come home, she’d declined instinctively. Why? She worried over the situation for a while longer, then sleep overcame her.

She woke abruptly at 2:30 a.m., her scream still echoing in the empty ward. Her hands gripped the edge of the bed so hard, the scrapes on her palms had opened and begun to bleed again.

A blond man had been leading her across a rope bridge. She was almost to the other side when he magically appeared on the bank ahead of her, but before she could reach him, the rope went slack. For two seconds, Lauren was suspended in space and then she was falling.

She blinked and the images faded but, without any warning, she recalled the moments before she’d gone into the water. She’d been going over the river on a rope bridge. And she’d fallen.

She sat up in excitement and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The sheets and her hands were a mess but she barely noticed she was so stunned by her memory. If she could remember this, she told herself, she could remember the rest.

She stood on shaky legs and crossed the empty room for the desk that served as Zue’s nursing station. A glass-fronted cabinet behind the chair held bandages and tape.

Her mind on her discovery, her nerves ringing, Lauren didn’t see the shadow standing at the door of the clinic until it was too late. The door squeaked open and she jerked her head toward the sound, almost losing her balance in the process. Armando stood on the threshold.

“You’re bleeding!” He came to her side in three long strides and took her hands in his. “What happened?”

They were inches apart and Lauren could feel the energy that seemed to be part of the air whenever Armando was near. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled her closer to the desk and opened the cabinet she’d been approaching.

“I—I had a dream,” she stuttered. “When I woke up, I had scraped my hands on the railing—”

“I can see that.” He began to clean her palms with a strong antiseptic, his movements swift and efficient, but kind at the same time. “Is that why you screamed?”

Still holding her hands, he turned from her to pick up the clean dressings, and Lauren realized she had a decision to make. She had to reconcile the disparate ways she felt about Armando and she had to do so quickly.

She made her decision impulsively.

“I’ve begun to get some of my memory back,” she said. “I think I know how I ended up in the river.”

ARMANDO WENT QUIET, Lauren’s statement freezing him. “Tell me,” he said.

She licked her lips and briefly told him her dream. As she explained about the bridge, an uneasiness built inside him he didn’t like. He knew the crossing she described and he’d heard nothing about that particular bridge being down. In fact, once a year, Manco made sure it was replaced so accidents like that wouldn’t happen.

“Are you quite sure the rope went slack and then you fell?”

“Absolutely, yes. I’m positive.”

He returned to tending her palms, his attitude as neutral as he could make it. He’d had a lot of questions about Lauren’s presence from the very beginning, but what had really happened to her was near the top of the list.

He tied off the bandage, his voice noncommittal. “If the rope gave way, I’d say it was frayed then, wouldn’t you?”

“Not necessarily. Someone could have worked on it before I got there and weakened the twine. My weight in the center would have been enough to get the job done.”

Armando hid his surprise at her astuteness. “But why would anyone do such a thing? Do you think someone’s out to hurt you?”

“No, I don’t think that, but who knows? I ended up in that river and I want to know why.”

He put a final piece of tape in place, then released her, replacing the tools and antiseptic in the cabinet behind them. “You need to get back into bed.”

She didn’t move. “I want to go see it.”

He knew what she meant but he asked the question anyway, giving himself some time to think. “See what?”

“The bridge,” she answered impatiently. “I want to go back there. I might remember more once I see it.”

“It’s a half-day hike from here. You don’t have the strength.”

Her jaw tightened, a look of determination adding to the frown she already wore. “I might not have it today,” she said, “but I will soon. And when I do, I’m going back.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“I don’t know if it’s wise or not,” she snapped. “But I don’t have a choice in the matter. If I want to figure out what happened to me, I have to go back to that bridge.”

LAUREN PROCEEDED TO DO exactly as she’d promised Armando. She choked down every drop of soup Zue brought her and swallowed every pill without comment. Three times a day, she walked an ever-widening circle around the clinic’s compound. In a week, she felt much better, in two she was ready to hike.

The clinic was especially busy that Friday, a steady stream of patients coming in from all directions. She waited impatiently until the last one left, then she went into Armando’s office with determination.

“I want to go see the bridge tomorrow,” she announced. “I’m ready.”

He put down the pen he’d been using to make notes on a chart and looked up at her, pushing his chair back from the desk at the same time. His eyes were speculative but they often were. She’d come to see that Armando accepted very little in the way of information without further examination.

“What makes you think you can make it?” he asked.

She was prepared. “I can walk four miles without tiring, nothing hurts and I’ve gained five pounds. My recovery time is over.”

“Are you getting anxious to go home? I would expect you to care more about that rather than going back to the scene of the crime, as it were.”

She tried to figure out how to answer as she sat down in the chair in front of his desk, one of Zue’s wide, colorful skirts—all she had to wear—pooling around her feet. She’d had several conversations with her father since the initial one and his message had not changed. He wanted her to return to Dallas as soon as possible. But she didn’t want that.

“My father has asked me that same question, numerous times as a matter of fact.”

“And?”

“And I don’t know. I guess I should want to go home but…”

He seemed to read her mind. “But you feel no urgent need.”

She met his steady stare. “That’s awful of me, isn’t it?” she asked. “He’s clearly worried and upset. I need to reassure him, but I feel like there are more answers for me here than there are back in Dallas.”

Armando came from behind his desk to perch on the edge. “Why do you think that is the case?”

“You’re the shrink,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I should never have let you see my diploma,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“Maybe,” she agreed. “You know my father is one, too.”

“I know,” he said.

“Don’t you find that weird?” she asked. “That you’re both psychiatrists?”

“Not really,” he said with an engaging smile. “There are quite a few of us, you know. We’re not a rare breed.”

“It just seems strange to me,” she said. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“How do you know?” he asked softly.

She blinked in surprise, then said, “I just do.”

“You’re remembering more and more,” he noted. “That is good.”

“I guess it is,” she agreed, “but it’s like putting a giant jigsaw puzzle together. I remember I like purple, but what shade? I know I lived in Peru as a child, but I can’t recall our home. The pieces are all there but they don’t quite fit.”

“They will eventually.”

“I don’t intend to wait for ‘eventually.’” She stood and they were eye to eye. A shiver she wasn’t expecting went down her back at their nearness. She pushed its appearance aside and concentrated on the moment at hand. “Visiting the bridge will speed things up.”

“I do not believe you are ready. Your strength is much better but traveling to where the bridge is located…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” she said stubbornly. “I’ve been exercising and I want to go. If you won’t take me, then I’ll find a way to get there on my own.”

Their gazes met and this time the impact was even more noticeable. Armando wasn’t a man who could be ignored but Lauren couldn’t allow physical attraction to dictate her actions.

“You are a very stubborn woman,” he said.

She looked at him unblinkingly. “Will you take me?”

He gave a Latin sigh, then spoke with resigned acquiescence. “All right. You win. We will go in the morning. Wear pants and bring a sweater.”

ARMANDO CALLED MEREDITH that night on his encrypted cell phone and told her about the upcoming trek. She quizzed him about Lauren, asking why she simply didn’t come home now that she knew her true identity.

He repeated Lauren’s comment.

“What does that mean?” Meredith demanded. “Why would she feel there are ‘more answers’ for her in Peru? Answers to what?”

Armando spoke with uncharacteristic hesitation. “I’m not sure. She said something else that concerned me even more.”

“And that was?”

“She said she didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“So?”

“I think she came here for a reason, Meredith. I have a feeling her magazine article was just a cover for something else.”

“And I think you must be getting paranoid on me.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, “but I agree with her. I don’t believe in coincidences, either. She did not come to Peru just to wander about the ruins and write some pretty essay.” He’d given the facts a lot of thought and he’d decided there was only one real reason for her appearance. He told Meredith that reason now. “We’d be foolish to think her mother’s death has nothing to do with her trip here.”

Meredith’s pause echoed down the line, her voice puzzled when she spoke. “You don’t think she suspects you had anything to do with that, do you? Wasn’t she shot by an intruder?”

“That was what the embassy’s press release said but I always wondered. My gut feeling told me something else went on there that night.”

“But how could Lauren have been involved? She was…what? Ten years old?”

Armando closed his eyes but the image in his brain didn’t go away. “She was ten. Officials in the States believed there was a mole inside the Peruvian embassy and they thought Margaret Stanley might be it. I was sent there to eliminate her.” He paused until his pulse steadied. “But I arrived too late. She was already dead, supposedly killed by a burglar. No one was ever arrested and eventually the matter was dropped. The press moved on to its next tragedy.”

“That’s convenient. Was Margaret Stanley the mole?”

“The problems at the embassy stopped after her death, so it was assumed so,” he answered. “The father took Lauren and departed the country right after Margaret’s death. I had developed a contact on the inside, but he had no idea who I really was, of course. I couldn’t call him up afterward and ask.”

“Who was he?”

“His name was Daniel Cunningham. He was Margaret’s attaché. I arranged to play squash beside his court one day and we struck up a conversation. He invited me to the embassy’s Christmas party and that’s how I gained access.”

“Who do you think killed her? And why cover it up?”

“Why is any crime covered up? To hide another one, I would presume. As to who actually pulled the trigger, I don’t know, although I always wondered about the father.”

“He is a nervous fellow, kinda strange.” Meredith’s voice lightened. “Then again, he is a psychiatrist. You guys are all pretty weird.”

“Cunningham had said the man was little more than a fixture but Stanley definitely had the motivation if he’d wanted to kill her. He was very unhappy. He didn’t want to be in Peru and I could understand why. He’d had a large practice back in the States and he’d sacrificed it to come with his wife.”

“Could he have been the mole?”

Everything had pointed to J. Freeman Stanley as the guilty party, but to Armando that fact alone was enough to make him suspicious of any conclusion. “I wondered about that, too,” Armando replied, “but no one wanted my opinion on the matter. I was only the hired help.”

Promising Meredith another report when he had more to tell her, Armando hung up a few minutes later.

Lauren was waiting early the next morning, a backpack at her feet, when he stepped outside his bungalow. Gazing out over the valley beyond the clinic, she seemed unaware of his presence until he crossed the grass that separated them. As she turned at his approach, Armando hoped, just as he had sixteen years previously, that her father hadn’t been involved with her mother’s murder. To a child, a loss like that was overwhelming. A betrayal on top of it would be impossible to accept, even after all these years.

He put aside his concerns, his attention diverted by her clothing.

She’d dressed as he’d instructed but something didn’t seem right about her pants.

Seeing his puzzled expression, she tugged on one baggy leg. “Recognize them?”

He frowned and looked closer, then raised his eyes to hers. “Are those mine?”

She grinned. “Zue stole them for me. I didn’t have anything else.”

“They fit you a lot differently than they fit me.”

“Thank goodness they do,” she said. “If they didn’t, I’d be worried.”

He started to argue. If she hadn’t looked so great, he wouldn’t have been quite as distracted as he now found himself. Forcing his eyes away from her curves, he tried to concentrate on the upcoming task. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” She set her tea cup and saucer on the nearby patio table. “I’ve been up since daylight. I guess I’m nervous.”

“You might be in for an unpleasant time,” he warned. “Do you understand?”

“I do,” she said, “but it doesn’t matter. I need to see.”

He hadn’t expected to convince her otherwise, but he’d had to try. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

She grabbed her bag and they set off toward the barn. He’d told Zue last night to see that the BMW was ready and the tank topped off, and as always, she’d followed his instructions to the letter. Leaning just inside the opened doors, the bike was ready, the bags packed with water bottles and food.

Behind him, Lauren stopped. “Hey! I thought you said we had to hike—”

“I said it was a half-day hike. I didn’t say we had to go that way.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t fair here. We could break down, we could have an accident, we could be ambushed…a million things could happen to us, all of them bad. If you didn’t have the strength to walk out on your own, then you weren’t prepared. I don’t operate that way.”

He expected her to argue, but her gaze narrowed and she stared at him instead. “You’re right,” she conceded. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

He nodded once, then threw one leg over the seat. She joined him, and a moment later, they headed for the jungle.

LAUREN WOULD HAVE CUT OUT her tongue before she complained but she was definitely relieved when Armando slowed the powerful cycle. For more than an hour, they’d been riding over what was basically a path, and she was ready to take a break. Every rut and bump had made itself known and she was aching in ways she’d never before experienced. Even worse than the roughness of the ride, however, was the impact of Armando’s nearness. She wasn’t accustomed to the sensations he was creating within her and she didn’t know how to deal with them.

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