Authors: Sherryl Woods
“I am Scottie's daughter,” she reminded herself staunchly. “I am a competent, successful engineer. I can do anything I set my mind to.”
It became a litany of sorts as she made her way into the fringe of the jungle. The dirt road Carlos had sent her on was little more than a muddy footpath. She bent to step under a low-hanging vine and was slapped in the face by a large flat leaf, then another and another. A huge, hungry mosquito landed on her neck. She smacked at that and snagged her loose-fitting jacket on a twisted branch. When she'd unsnared herself, she dove into her bag for her insect repellent and coated herself liberally.
“I can do anything I set my mind to,” she repeated firmly, then with another slap at a persistent mosquito she murmured, “but I don't have to like it.”
Just then the darkened sky opened up and rain came down in torrents. With no place to run, she resigned herself to getting drenched. Getting out her compass and checking it frequently, she plodded on as the ground turned into a slick, rust-colored sea of mud.
The fierce but thankfully brief storm stopped as suddenly as it had started. Instead of cooling the air as she'd hoped, the rain merely turned it to steam. Her clothes clung to her in their sodden state, making walking even more uncomfortable.
Two hours later, the pencil-sketched map and compass in hand and the river before her, Cara was convinced she was never going to find Rod Craig. Growing more furious by the minute, she was picking her way cautiously through the undergrowth along the river when a low, rough-as-sandpaper voice halted her in her tracks. She jumped as though an arm had snaked out to twine around her neck.
“Who the hell are you?” The voice came from the direction of the riverbank.
Her head snapped around, scattering dewdrops of perspiration from her brow. She stared directly into the barrel of a gun. Her angry retort died in her throat as she forced her terrified gaze from that lethal-looking weapon and looked up into bold hazel eyes set in a rugged, tanned face. Then her gaze drifted down over bare, nicely muscled shoulders that glistened in the sunlight filtering once again through the trees. Moisture clung to the whorls of dark hair matted across a broad chest. Hastily donned jeans had been zipped but not snapped. She drew in a ragged breath.
So this was Rod Craig. She knew it instinctively and for the first time she had a slight inkling of what her father'd been talking about. Here in the depths of a Mexican rain forest, when her mind should have been focused on business, she felt the sharp stirring of a primitive, very feminine emotion. She suddenly wanted to duck into a shower, wash the dust out of her bedraggled hair, then change into something far sexier than damp, wrinkled khaki. It was not a reaction she cared to share with the man whose angry, distrustful gaze was sweeping over her.
“Are you deaf? I asked you a question.”
“I heard you.”
“Well? Who are you and what are you doing here?” The gun never wavered. Cara decided to ignore it.
Her blue eyes coolly surveyed the makeshift campsite in back of her, the muddy water behind him and the chickens clucking in the clearing beside the tent. She nodded appreciatively.
“I can understand your fear of strangers. I'm surprised you don't have an alarm system. Maybe even guard dogs. Then again, the gun is probably sufficient.”
For a fleeting instant she thought she saw an expression of doubt flicker in his watchful eyes. Finally, he tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants. She decided that was about the friendliest gesture he planned.
“Aren't you going to invite me in?” she suggested cheerfully. “I can promise I won't steal the family silver.”
He folded his arms across his chest and stood his ground. It was an impressive stance. On a poster, it would have sold millions.
“I don't think so,” he said. “Why don't you just turn around and wander back to your tour group? The boat will probably be setting off soon.”
Weariness and exasperation suddenly swept over her, claiming the last of her patience. The man had been waving a gun at her not five minutes ago and she was standing here exchanging chitchat with him. It was time to bring this absurd conversation to the point. She drew herself up to her most businesslike posture.
“Look, Mr. Craig. You are Rod Craig, aren't you?”
His startled expression was answer enough.
“If there are tours in this part of Mexico, I'm unfamiliar with them. I'm Cara Scott, vice president of WHS Engineering.”
His gaze narrowed. “Scottie's daughter? I don't believe it. He'd never send you down here.”
Cara was irritated by his expression of disbelief. She absolutely refused to dig out her passport to prove her identity. She kept right on, as though he'd never spoken.
“I have come a very long way to see you. I am tired. I am wet. And frankly I would like nothing more than to get back to civilization, but it appears I'm your guest until tomorrow when I told the pilot to pick me up. Hopefully, we can conclude our business before then.”
“You told the pilot to pick you up?” he repeated incredulously. “I suppose you paid him in advance.”
Thoroughly exasperated now, she glared at him. “I'm not stupid, Mr. Craig. I gave him a deposit. He promised to fly over at noon tomorrow.”
“Which is exactly what he will do. He'll fly over. If it's not raining. If he doesn't decide to get drunk. If the plane doesn't fall apart. Are you out of your mind, woman? That airstrip out there isn't Kennedy Airport. It could be weeks before anyone shows up for you.”
She swallowed hard. “We made a deal.”
Rod gave an exaggerated sigh. “Unless you got it signed in blood and kept his first-born child, I wouldn't count on him sticking to his end of it.”
“He'll be back,” she insisted with a defiant lift of her chin. She decided not to mention Carlos's desire to see her wed to his exceptionally strong brother.
“I hope for your sake you're right. I'm having enough trouble on this job without worrying about you.” He shook his head again. “What the hell was Scottie thinking of letting his little princess come down here?”
She flinched at his sneering use of Scottie's childhood endearment for her. “You won't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself, Mr. Craig. I found you, didn't I? The sooner you fill me in on why your study for the Usumacinta dam project is behind schedule, the sooner I'll be out of your way.”
Her regarded her curiously. “Why did Scottie send you? Why not someone else?”
“Oh, for heaven's sake, if you must know, he didn't send me. I decided to come. We've been getting calls from Mexico City asking about the delay. We needed to know what was going on. None of the other engineers was available. If your report had been in on time, I can promise you I wouldn't be here now.”
He didn't seem overly concerned about the reprimand. He ran his fingers through thick, wavy hair. “I've had more important things to worry about than paperwork.”
“Couldn't you have called?”
He gave a pointed glance around. “Do you see any phones? Ma Bell hasn't reached out to touch anyone here.”
“Surely you didn't come without a radio.”
“Sabotaged.”
“Then you should have gone back to Palenque.”
“Why? The work was here. If it hadn't been for a few accidents, it would have been done by now.”
Cara frowned. “What sort of accidents?”
“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over. It'll all be in my report to Scottie.”
Something in her snapped at his patronizing attitude. “Scottie's in the hospital. I'm here. Tell me.”
Immediate concern registered in those previously cool, distant hazel eyes and warmed them to a degree she wouldn't have thought possible. “What's Scottie doing in the hospital?”
“A heart attack.”
“Will he be okay? Shouldn't you be there?”
Cara responded to the concern and suddenly felt the need to reassure him. “It was serious, but he's recovering. The nurses may not.”
He laughed, his relief obvious. “I'll bet.”
She lightened her tone and appealed to his affection for Scottie. “Look, Mr. Craig, I have to report something to my father. If you're having trouble with the study, perhaps I'll be able to help. Let's go inside and talk about it.”
Despite her attempt to call a truce, Rod still regarded her with insulting skepticism. Her temper flared, but she knew better than to indulge it. Decisively, she marched past him and into the tent. She looked around for a place to sit, saw only a drawing table, cot and the hammock that hung between two poles. She chose the cot. It was only after she was seated that she realized that Rod hadn't followed her inside.
“Well, damn the man,” she said and stalked outside. She was just in time to see him walking toward the river as nonchalantly as if he were out for his evening stroll. Hands jammed in her pockets so she couldn't use them to wring his neck, she went after him.
“Mr. Craig!” she called out.
She'd taken no more than half a dozen indignant steps on the rain-slickened ground when her feet shot out from under her. Unable to stop herself, she slid in the red mud all the way to the water's edge, where she landed unceremoniously at Rod's feet. It was absolutely, positively the last straw. She felt like pounding her fist into the mud. Absurdly, she felt even more like crying.
To add insult to injury, she heard the beginning of a chuckle. She refused, she absolutely refused, to look up. Then suddenly, Rod Craig hooted. He threw back his head and laughed in that uninhibited, purely masculine way that rough, brawling men probably did in the bars of the Old West when confronted with something they considered to be typically feminine foolishness. That laugh unnerved her.
It also infuriated her.
She sat right where she was, covered in mud from head to toe, and stared straight up at him.
Her eyes blazed with fury. His were filled with amusement.
One delicate blond brow arched in indignation as the prelude to an explosion. His laughter died to a grinâa very beguiling grin.
He did not, however, quake in his boots.
Scottie was right, she decided in that instant. The man was definitely trouble.
D
espite his unrestrained mirth, Rod witnessed Cara's inelegant landing and carefully controlled reaction with something surprisingly akin to respect. Apparently she wasn't quite the fragile, helpless creature she'd seemed when she'd first made her bedraggled appearance. For years, Rod had believed her to be nothing more than the pampered daughter of an indulgent father. This had led to his quick judgment. Now he was forced to reassess.
He realized that he'd mistaken weariness for weakness. It was a mistake made easily enough. Cara was, after all, little more than five feet tall, just the size to inspire a fierce protectiveness in a certain sort of man. The discovery that he might be that type of man had irritated him almost as much as her unannounced arrival.
But whether he considered it brave or foolhardy, the fact was she had displayed the impressive ingenuity and stamina necessary to find him. With what he knew required rugged determination, she had made her way over rough, unfamiliar ground to reach the camp. She had reacted with uncommon composure to the gun he'd brandished at her. She had stood up well to his glaring countenance. She had barely flinched at his rudeness.
In fact, he thought with a low chuckle, she'd given every bit as good as she got. If Cara Scott needed protecting, it was only from her own impetuousness.
Reluctantly, he began to admit her resemblance to Scottie. Not that at first glance she looked much like him physically. Scottie was tall and big-boned, a robust man with curling red hair threaded with silver. His daughter looked as though a strong wind would carry her away. But on closer inspection the comparisons were there for anyone who took the time to look.
There was Cara's chin, for instance. With its stubborn thrust, that was Scottie through and through. She hadn't said a single word when she fell, nor had she shed a tear. She was, however, glaring up at him now with a look meant to kill, and that proud chin was held high. Those blue eyes, a shade deeper than her father's, glinted with the same fire. He'd seen it on countless occasions, when Scottie was up against a particularly dim-witted or difficult opponent.
The memories made him smile. Recalling her earlier attempt at a truce, he offered one of his own. He held out a hand. With predictable defiance, she ignored it. She picked herself up with incredible dignity under the circumstances, then stalked off, fully clothed, straight into the river as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do.
Rod watched her graceful submersion in the water with an amazed expression on his face. In that instant he liked Cara Scott more than he'd liked any woman in a very long time. With a divorced bachelor's instinct for self-preservation, he quickly dismissed the feeling.
But he couldn't take his eyes away. When the water was up to her neck, she ducked her head underwater. When she surfaced, her hair was no longer curling damply around her face. It was slicked back in a shimmering blond cap that accented the delicacy of her features. His gaze lingered on the full curve of her lower lip, the arch of golden brows over eyes the color of a brilliant autumn sky, the slender column of her neck.
Then she began stripping off clothes. Rod leaned against a tree and watched with undisguised interest as her jacket was hurled to shore. Her skimpy pink tank top clung revealingly to her breasts. He caught just a glimpse of a jutting nipple before she sank back into water up to her chin. She closed her eyes, a look of sheer sensual pleasure lighting her face. That expression, absolutely innocent of any feminine guile, set off an aching need deep in his gut.
When she opened her eyes and found him staring, the faint smile that had curved her lips instantly became a frown. “Are you just going to stand there gawking?” she snapped.