Heart of Fire, Page 4

  Finding a weapon in any large city wasn’t a difficult task, and Jillian wasn’t timid about it. She would have brought one from the States if she had been confident of getting it through customs, but smuggling a weapon was rather different from smuggling birth control pills, especially if she’d been caught.

  She walked slowly past the line of taxis in front of another hotel, studying the drivers without making it obvious. She was looking for one who didn’t look quite as prosperous as the others, though none of them looked well off. Maybe “seedy” was the word. Finally she selected one; he was unshaven, a little more slovenly than the others, his eyes bloodshot. She walked up to the vehicle with a smile, and in her imperfect Portuguese asked to be taken to the docks.

  The driver wasn’t inclined to talk. Jillian waited a few moments as he negotiated the traffic in the crowded streets before calmly saying, “I want to purchase a weapon. Do you know where I can find one?”

  He glanced quickly in the rearview mirror. “A weapon, senhora?”

  “A pistol. I prefer an automatic, but it doesn’t matter if it’s a . . . a—” She couldn’t think of the word for “revolver” in Portuguese. She made a circle with her finger and said “revolver” in English.

  His dark eyes were both wary and cynical. “I will take you to a place,” he said. “I will not stay. I do not want to see you again, senhora.”

  “I understand.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Will I be able to find another taxi back to the hotel?”

  He shrugged. “There are many tourists. Taxis are everywhere.”

  By that she assumed she might or might not be able to catch another taxi. If necessary, she would walk to a public telephone and call for one, though she didn’t relish the idea of walking in this heat. She had dressed sensibly in a thin cotton skirt, and her legs were bare, but a steam bath was a steam bath no matter what you were wearing.

  He drove her to a rather seedy section of town, run-down but not yet a slum. She gave him a generous tip and didn’t look back as she walked into the shop he had indicated.

  Within half an hour she was the owner of a .38 automatic, easy to clean and maintain, and an impressive supply of ammunition weighted down her shoulder bag. The man who had sold it to her hadn’t even looked curious. Perhaps American women bought weapons from him every day; it didn’t take much of a stretch of imagination to visualize it. He even called a taxi for her and allowed her to wait just inside his door until the vehicle appeared.

  When she got to the hotel she found that Rick and Kates still hadn’t returned, but she hadn’t expected them. Rick was still so put out that he might well leave her on her own all night, a prospect she knew he hoped would alarm her, but it didn’t. She wasn’t there to sightsee, and the room service menu was more than adequate; it wouldn’t bother her at all to remain at the hotel for the rest of the day. She would even welcome the chance to rest.

  But Rick and Kates returned to the hotel late that afternoon and came to her room, both of them smiling and in a good mood. Jillian smelled liquor on their breath, but they weren’t drunk.

  “We found a guide,” Rick announced jovially, having finally come out of his sulks. “We’re supposed to meet him at seven to do the planning.”

  “Here at the hotel?” It seemed convenient to her.

  “Naw, at this bar where he hangs out. You’ll have to come. You know more about this planning stuff than we do.”

  Jillian sighed inwardly. She could think of better places to discuss this than in a crowded bar where any number of people might overhear them. “Who is the guide? I don’t believe I heard you mention his name.”

  “Lewis,” Kates said. “Ben Lewis. Everyone we asked said that he’s the best. I guess he’ll do. If he leaves the bottle alone, he should be all right.”

  That sounded truly encouraging. She sighed again. “Is he an American?”

  Rick shrugged. “I guess. He did have kind of a southern accent.”

  To Jillian’s way of thinking, that pretty well nailed down the man’s country of origin. She managed to keep the comment to herself.

  “He was born in the States,” Kates said, “but who knows if he still considers himself an American? I believe the term is ’expatriate.’ No one seemed to know how long he’s been down here.”

  Long enough to have gone completely tropical, Jillian would have bet. Slower, less concerned with detail. But most places in the world lacked the obsession with speed and efficiency that characterized the States, and she herself had learned to slow down when in other countries. She had been on digs in Africa among people who had no word for “time” in their language; the concept of putting themselves on a schedule would have been utterly alien to them. It had been a matter of adapt or go insane; it would be interesting to see which option Mr. Lewis had chosen.

  “He’s the type who wants to run the show,” Rick said. “If half of what we heard about him is true, I guess he does what he damn well pleases.”

  She could tell that Rick had been impressed by this Lewis person. Her brother’s taste had been frozen in mid-adolescence, however, so she decided to reserve judgment. Rick was impressed by any swaggering bully, believing machismo to be the essence of manhood. She began to lower her expectations of the guide they had hired.

  At Rick’s request, she was ready at six-thirty. She knew him well enough to realize he wished she were some sort of blond bombshell who was willing to use her body to dazzle and influence this man, who had somehow impressed him, but even if she were willing to bleach her hair she just didn’t have the basic material to be a bombshell. One of the requirements was voluptuousness, and Jillian fell far short of that. She’d always been glad, too, because it looked like a lot of effort to haul around the large breasts that seemed to turn men into slavering idiots.

  She was what she was: neat, trim, pleasant to look at but not a raving beauty. If anyone had asked her what her best feature was, she’d have said it was her brain.

  As a concession to the heat, however, she wore a halter-top dress; it was, in fact, the only dress she had packed. Except for the skirt and blouse she had worn on the flight down, she’d brought only sturdy trousers, shirts, and boots.

  During the taxi ride through Manaus with Rick and Kates she took the time to look around and admire what she saw. It was a beautiful city and she wished she had time to explore it, but then, she always felt that way. She never had enough time in the cities of today’s world; her work was with those of past worlds—dead cities, burial grounds—trying to piece together the past so as to learn how those long-ago people had lived as well as how the human race had come to be in its present position. Archaeology tried to find the roadway humans had traveled to the present, and to learn how they had changed over the millennia. It was a puzzle she never tired of trying to solve.

  The bar she and Rick and Kates stepped into wasn’t the ritziest joint she had ever been in, but neither was it the worst. She took it in stride, even the way the men at the bar all turned to survey her with hooded eyes. Had she been alone she wouldn’t have entered the place except in an emergency. Still, it was dim and blessedly cool and filled with the low hum of voices. The scents of alcohol, tobacco, and sweat swirled around with the lazy movements of the two ceiling fans.

  She was flanked by Rick and Kates as they moved toward a table set against the wall, where a lone man lazed as if half asleep, an open bottle of whiskey in front of him. His appearance was deceptive, however. Even from beneath those half-lowered lids she could see intensity gleaming in his eyes. As they approached, he shoved out a chair with his foot and gave Jillian a look that had about as much in common with the looks from the men at the bar as a shark had in common with a trout. The men at the bar might have speculated, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. This man, in his mind, already had her stripped, spread-eagled, and penetrated, and didn’t care if she knew it.

  “Well,” he drawled. “Hello there, sweetcakes. If you aren’t taken, why don’t you sit down o
ver here by me?” He nodded at the chair he had just kicked out.

  Now that they were closer, Jillian could see that his eyes were either blue or green; it was difficult to tell which in the dim light. He was darkly tanned, but his jaw had the freshly scraped look of a man who had just shaved. His hair was dark and too long, hanging over his collar at the back of his neck and almost touching his shoulders. His clothes, though clean, were badly wrinkled and well worn; he had the unselfconscious air of a man who didn’t give a damn how his clothes looked.

  Without even a flicker of an eyelash to indicate that his blatant once-over had discomfited her, she pulled out her own chair and sat down, ignoring the one he had kicked out.

  “I’m Jillian Sherwood,” she said in a cool tone, instinctively refusing to let him know that he had ruffled her. She wasn’t even certain why he had bothered, since God and everyone else with eyes could see that she wasn’t anything special. Some men, however, felt compelled to make a play for every woman who entered their vicinity.

  “Ah, hell. You’re married.”

  “She’s my sister,” Rick said. “This is Lewis, our guide.”

  Ben lifted his eyebrows as he looked at her. “Sister? So why are you along?”

  Jillian’s eyebrows mirrored his. Surely Rick and Kates had told him something about the expedition. Absently she noticed that Rick had been right about the southern accent. Aloud she said, “I’m the archaeologist.”

  He gave her a pleasant smile that still managed to be dismissive. “You can’t go,” he said.

  Jillian remained cool. “Why not?”

  Mild surprise reflected in his eyes, as if he hadn’t expected a protest. He slowly sipped at his whiskey as he studied her. “Too damn dangerous,” he finally said.

  Rick and Kates had both taken seats by then. Rick cleared his throat, and Ben looked at him. “It’s not that simple,” Rick said.

  “I don’t see what’s complicated about it. I don’t take women inland. End of discussion.”

  “Then it’s evidently the end of your employment, too,” Jillian murmured, her composure intact. She had met chauvinistic jerks like him before, and she wasn’t about to get ruffled by this one.

  “Oh?” He didn’t seem perturbed. “How’s that?”

  “She has to go,” Rick interjected, and scowled at his sister. This was a sore point with him. “She’s the only one who knows where we’re going.”

  3

  Ben looked unimpressed. “So she can tell us and then we’ll all know, and she can toddle on back to the hotel like a good little girl and leave the rough stuff to us.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own weight,” Jillian said calmly. “And the decision isn’t yours whether I go or not. I’m going. All you have to decide is if you want the job or if someone else gets the money.”

  Kates had said the same thing, but Ben realized Jillian Sherwood meant it. She didn’t care if he backed out.

  He leaned forward and propped an elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his palm as he looked at her. “Sweetcakes, if you think this is going to be a romantic adventure, you’re dead wrong. There’s no way I’m taking a woman on a two- or three-month trek into that part of the jungle.”

  She looked amused. “Protecting the little woman?”

  “You got it, honey. In my opinion, there isn’t enough prime pussy in the world as it is, and a man needs to protect the supply.”

  He was being deliberately crude, hoping she’d get huffy and tell him she wouldn’t walk across the street with a jerk like him, but again she didn’t even blink. Her face was as calm and blank as a statue’s; even the expression in her eyes was shielded. “If I don’t go,” she said, “the expedition’s off. At least as far as you’re concerned. As I said, if you want to throw away the fee, that’s fine with me. There are other guides.”

  There were, but none he’d trust with a lone woman for that long a time. He doubted her brother could be counted on to keep her safe. He decided to try another tack, one that was bluntly truthful. “Honey, you don’t want to spend two months inland—”

  “On the contrary, that’s exactly what I want to do. I’m not a stranger to archaeological expeditions, Mr. Lewis. I’m used to bugs and snakes and being dirty, to bad food and bruises. I can walk all day and carry a hundred pounds doing it. I can shoot my own food if necessary, stitch up a cut, and use a machete.”

  He placed his free hand over his heart. “My God, the perfect woman.”

  She gave him a cool look but didn’t snap at his bait. He leaned back in his chair and studied her with narrowed eyes. He’d really only given her a cursory inspection before, enough to know that she wasn’t his type despite his automatic raunchy remarks, but she was becoming more interesting by the moment. Her cool composure made him want to do something that would really rattle her, like pull her onto his lap and kiss her until some of the stiffness left that backbone.

  At second look she still wasn’t anything outstanding, except for the intelligence in her eyes. God save him from intelligent women; they thought too much, instead of just following their instincts. She was pretty enough but not flashy, just a rather lean, smallish woman with sleek dark brown hair and regular features. She was wearing a neat but unremarkable dress that managed not to be sexy even though it was a halter-top. Even worse, she revealed absolutely no awareness of him as a man. He was accustomed to all women being aware of him, even if they weren’t receptive, but Ms. Sherwood appeared not to have an active hormone in her body. Dead from the neck down, as the saying went. Pity.

  On the other hand, if she could walk all day while carrying a heavy pack, then that trim body was probably all taut, finely tuned muscle. He had a sudden image of strong, slim thighs wrapped around his hips and, to his surprise, felt an answering tension in his groin. He’d left Thèresa asleep in her tumbled bed, exhausted from an afternoon of rather vigorous sex, and he’d returned to the bar feeling completely satisfied. His penis, however, seemed to have a different opinion. Well, the damn thing had never had any sense anyway. No matter how firm and tight she was, he didn’t want Ms. Archaeologist Sherwood along on his trek.

  “Let me get this straight,” he drawled. “You want to be the only woman alone with a group of men for a couple of months?”

  “Sex doesn’t enter into it, Mr. Lewis.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Men get into fights over women every day, all over the world.”

  “How silly of them.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always thought so, but face the facts: if you’re the only woman, then you pretty well have the monopoly, and men get a little crazy when it’s around and they don’t have any.”

  She gave him an ironic look. “I won’t be prancing around in negligees, Mr. Lewis, and I’m prepared to defend myself. I would also expect you to hire people who aren’t rapists.”

  Rick and Kates had been sitting silently while she and Lewis battled, Rick looking uneasy and Kates merely looking bored. But Kates sat forward now. “This is pointless,” he said. “She has to go. Do you want the job, Lewis, or not?”

  Ben thought about it. He didn’t need the money or the hassle. He could tell them to find someone else; then he could spend the next few weeks resting and banging Thèresa, just as he’d planned. On the other hand, his instincts were telling him that something was going on, that though she was on the level, these other two were working their own deal, and he wanted to know what it was. He smelled money, a lot of it. He had a few scruples, but they seldom got in the way of making money, certainly not when it came to perhaps conning a couple of con men.

  “All right,” he said abruptly. “I’ll do it. Let’s get this figured out.” He slugged back a hefty swallow of whiskey and gave his full attention to the business at hand. Laying in supplies for a long trek into the interior was serious stuff and had to be carefully calculated. How many people were involved? How far were they going? How long did they expect to stay once they got there? He always took extra supplies in case
something went wrong, which always happened—he had to plan for all possibilities.

  He pulled out a map and spread it on the table, a larger and much more detailed map than the one the men had produced earlier. “Okay, show me where we’re going.”

  Jillian leaned over and drew a large circle with her forefinger. “This general area.”

  He looked at her as if she were crazy. The area she had indicated covered thousands of square miles. “Shit, if you don’t have a better idea than that where we’re going, we’re likely to wander around for months without finding what you’re looking for, and that’s not an area where we can stroll at our leisure. It’s uncharted territory, sweetcakes. Nobody knows what the hell is in there. If any white men have gone in, they haven’t come out.”

  She remained unruffled. “We’ll have to work out the exact course en route, Mr. Lewis.”

  “Well, I can’t lay in supplies en route,” he drawled with almost visible sarcasm. “I have to know beforehand where I’m going.”

  She leaned forward and tapped a spot on the map beyond the area she had indicated before. “Then get sufficient supplies to last us to this point, and that will be more than enough.”

  He showed his teeth, but not in a smile. “We have to carry the goddamn supplies. The more we have to carry, the longer the trip will take. The longer it takes, the more stuff we’ll need. Is any of this making sense, sweetcakes?”