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The San Salustiano man took another long sip of his soda, then crushed the empty can in his hand. “I had heard talk of a mercenary American hired to fight with the opposition forces—a man well trusted and respected by the rebels. You honestly believe William Bartlett could be this man?”

“We don’t know what to believe or who to trust,” Kayla told him.

“If William Bartlett
is
still alive,” Vásquez said as if thinking aloud, “and if he is this man so beloved by the opposition forces, then he could well provide the basis for the negotiations and peace talks this country needs so very badly.” He drew in a deep breath and looked from Cal to Kayla, his gaze steady and filled with quiet determination. “We must begin to heal this country’s wounds by trusting one another.”

         
8
         

Cal knew the moment he stepped into his room that someone had been in there while he was out.

The shirts he had used to cover the video camera had been moved. They were neatly folded now and lying on top of the dresser, leaving the camera lens unobstructed. His cowboy hat had been delivered from the front desk—it lay on top of the neatly tidied bed along with several thick white towels.

“Oh, good, the maid’s been here,” Kayla said, coming into the room behind him, meeting his eyes just long enough to let him know that she, too, was aware they were being watched.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up his hat. “I’m exhausted. I know you wanted to go out for dinner, but I’m ready to turn in early. My stomach’s still upset from lunch, and…”

Cal knew what she was doing. She was giving them an excuse to spend tonight in their separate rooms without arousing suspicion on the part of the people watching and listening in. That was good. That was
very
good. He wasn’t sure he could handle pretending to be intimate with Kayla right now.

He sat down next to her on the bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her for the sake of the cameras. Not this time. “If that’s what you want…” He gazed into her eyes, knowing she was thinking about their recent conversation with Tomás Vásquez, and about the question Cal had asked her on the beach after the man had left.
Do you trust him?

“Why don’t you order room service?” There had been such hope in her eyes as Vásquez had walked to his car and driven away from the beach. There was hope there still.
I don’t know. Do you?

I don’t know
. He hadn’t answered truthfully. No, he didn’t trust Vásquez. He didn’t trust
any-
one. But he couldn’t bear to see the hope in her eyes replaced by disappointment.

He nodded now. “Okay. Can I get something for you?”

“No. Thanks. If I want something to eat, I’ll call myself.” She stood up, moving toward the balcony doors. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll be right here if you need me.”

Kayla stopped and looked back at him, meeting his eyes and smiling very slightly. “I know.”

She stepped through the billowing curtain and disappeared into the deepening twilight.

Cal lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He’d be here if she needed him.

But what about if he needed her? And he did. God, he needed her. Desperately.

It wasn’t just about sex. It was about the way Kayla could make him smile. It was about the way his entire being felt lighter when she was around. It was about the way he felt something was suddenly missing when she wasn’t there.

Something like his heart.

Cal sat up quickly, pushing his thoughts away. He couldn’t go in that direction. He
refused
to go in that direction.

He pulled off his boots and shirt. He didn’t bother to cover the camera lens before he stepped out of his jeans and shorts and headed, naked, toward the shower. Let ’em look. He didn’t give a damn about himself.

He turned on the water and stepped under the warm spray, letting it pound down on his head and pour over his face. He rolled his shoulders, trying to force himself to relax. But the tension wouldn’t go away.

Sweet Jesus, today had been hard. And tomorrow was looking to be even harder.

“Which way?” Cal glanced over his shoulder at Kayla as he slowed the motorcycle to a stop at a fork in the narrow mountain road.

She loosened her hold around his waist and took the tourist map out of her fanny pack, comparing it one more time with the crudely hand-drawn map the San Salustiano woman had given her back in Boston.

The island was nearly one hundred and fifty miles long and about half as wide. The roads that wound up into the mountains were crumbling in disrepair. They’d been riding steadily upward all morning, stopping only for a quick lunch of bread and cheese that Kayla had thought to tuck into the bag behind the seat,

“Left. Definitely left.” To her surprise, Cal hadn’t argued when she’d told him she’d navigate. She’d been prepared to cite examples of her innate ability to tell direction. But he’d simply handed her the map.

He’d looked exhausted when they met out in front of the hotel lobby that morning, and she’d had to wonder if he’d slept as badly as she had.

She’d tossed and turned all night long, and when she
had
slept, her dreams had been filled with disturbing images—Cal’s hard, powerful body pinning her to the bed as he gazed down into her eyes. Long, slow, soft, steamy kisses that made her melt, kisses that built in intensity and urgency until they were neither slow nor soft.

And then she struggled beneath him, asking him to stop. He didn’t answer, and when she looked at him, his face had changed. He wasn’t Cal any longer, and the fear nearly smothered her.

She’d awakened with a start, sitting up in bed, drenched with sweat. She’d spent the remainder of the night with the light on, slipping in and out of a dreamless, restless sleep.

Cal waited as she zipped the maps back into her fanny pack, and when she once again put her arms around his waist, he put the bike in gear, lifting his feet off the ground and repositioning them on the footrests.

He was wearing jeans and his worn-out cowboy boots again today, despite the fact that the tropical sun had already sent the temperature soaring into the nineties. A light-colored T-shirt hugged his upper body, and Kayla had the feeling that he wore it only out of deference to her. If he’d been alone in this heat, his shirt would have been off.

Her own T-shirt was folded and in her fanny pack. She wore only a bandeau bathing suit top with her shorts and sandals, and even then she was much too warm.

The road grew narrower, the jungle thickening almost discernibly on either side, as if seeking to swallow them whole. It was barely wide enough for a single car to pass through. Even on the motorcycle, Kayla felt vines and tendrils occasionally brush against her arms and legs.

The motorcycle’s small engine whined as they climbed steadily uphill. Despite the fact that the road was shaded, Kayla felt a trickle of perspiration travel down between her breasts. She was glad Cal was wearing a T-shirt. If he hadn’t been, their skin would have stuck together. As it was, his body heat and hard muscles brought back memories of the previous night’s disturbing dreams.

“Right before we get to the top of this hill there should be another road off to the right,” she told him, leaning closer to his ear to be heard over the engine.

He nodded once. “There’s some kind of turnoff ahead.”

It looked to be hardly more than a path, but as they got closer, it was clear that it had, at one time, been a road.

“Go past it,” Kayla shouted. “If there’s nothing else before the rise, we can come back.”

They got to the top of the hill with no other turnoffs evident on either side of the road. Cal turned the bike around and coasted back down the hill.

“Let’s take it.”

Cal stopped the motorcycle at the beginning of the road, and turned slightly in his seat to look at her. “Put your shirt back on. I don’t know who we’re going to run into out here, and I don’t want to give ’em any…ideas.”

“Such as the idea that since I’ve got my bathing suit on, I might want to go for a swim?”

He met her gaze evenly. “You know damn well that’s not what I meant.”

“Then say what you mean—don’t talk in code.”

“Cover yourself,” he said bluntly. “You’re underdressed.”

“In your opinion. According to certain Pygmy tribes in Africa, I would be considered way
over-
dressed.”

Cal cut the engine of the motorcycle and sudden silence surrounded them. “Maybe you’re the one who should stop talking in code,” he said quietly. “Why are you stalling, Kayla?”

Kayla looked at the narrow road and then into Cal’s eyes. They seemed bluer in the deep shadows of the jungle. Bluer, and almost unbearably gentle. “I
am
stalling. I guess because I’m scared.”

He didn’t hesitate. “We can go back to the hotel.”

She shook her head. “I’m not scared for
us
. I’m scared for
Liam
. For what we’re going to find—or for what we’re
not
going to find.” She looked at the overgrown road. “No one’s been down this way in weeks, maybe months. What kind of prison camp doesn’t need supply trucks coming in and out?” The only answer she could come up with was not a good one: The prison camp—and Liam—were gone.

“Maybe there’s another road in, one that’s used more often.” He reached to unfasten her helmet. “Come on. Put on your shirt and let’s go see.”

Kayla took off her helmet, and he held it for her as she pulled on her T-shirt. Her hair was damp from sweat, and she made a face as she slipped the helmet back on.

Cal smiled. “Brilliant idea, wearing helmets, huh? Especially since we’re going to take this road at a whopping ten miles an hour.”

“At least I know spiders won’t drop off these branches and into my hair.”

“Yeah, I think that’s exactly what the helmet manufacturer had in mind.” He jumped on the pedal that started the engine, then turned to give her one more look. “Ready?”

Kayla wrapped her arms around his waist. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Although Cal stayed in the very middle of the overgrown road, leaves and branches brushed past them like so many reaching, grasping fingers. Kayla held tightly to him, trying not to think about insects and snakes, trying not to think about rebels and government forces, trying not to think about Liam, locked in a foreign prison for two years, trying not to think at all.

But then suddenly they were in the middle of a clearing, the sun beating mercilessly down on their backs.

“What the
hell
…?” Cal killed the motorcycle’s engine as they stared around them.

The charred ruins of buildings and huts dotted the cleared area. It wasn’t a prison camp—at least it wasn’t the one that had been described to Kayla, with a huge stone building behind barbed-wire fencing. This looked instead as if it might have been some kind of town or village.

But it had been burned. Everything, including the jungle surrounding it, was blackened. It was as if the entire side of the mountain had been torched. But even so, already the jungle was reclaiming the earth. Tendrils of green had softened the edge of the burned area, and shoots were even coming up among the ruined buildings.

“What was it that old man in the pawnshop told us?” Kayla whispered. “That the Americano escaped from the prison camp and hid in a village, and the entire village was wiped out in retaliation?”

“He said that was just a story—made up to keep people in line.”

“Maybe it wasn’t just a story. Maybe it was true. It’s obvious what we’re looking at wasn’t the result of someone’s dinnertime grease fire,” Kayla pointed out.

Cal gazed around, the muscle in the side of his jaw jumping. There were several rows of fairly fresh graves next to the ruins of what had to have been a church. The wooden crosses had been painted white, and they contrasted starkly with the charred ground. There were nearly three dozen of them, many of the crosses smaller, as if they marked the graves of children.