The Mercenary. Allison Leigh
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into the cockpit where it landed next to the captain’s seat. His seat.
He might be in charge of this expedition down to Mezcaya, but he was well and truly stuck with Miss Universe over there standing in the shade.
He’d been told his linguistics expert was a native of Mezcaya who’d been in Embassy service for a while, but Tyler was damned if he could see how. From this distance, she looked too young to have done much of anything. Except maybe graduate from college. Maybe.
But then, Sonya hadn’t exactly been decrepit with age, either, and she’d managed to cause plenty of damage.
Disgusted with thoughts that were too old to be plaguing him now, Tyler spun on his heel and deliberately strode toward the building. He had a mission to accomplish, and no one, particularly a beautiful woman, was going to get in his way.
It was the heat, Marisa told herself, that made her feel unsteady on her feet. The heat. And maybe a touch of nervousness over the opportunity she’d been presented. It was just so important. If she could only succeed at this, so much could be changed.
The heat and nervousness. Yes, that was all.
She kept her hands folded loosely over the handle of her slender briefcase by sheer willpower. What she wanted to do was run a hand over her hair; make sure that the unruly waves were still neatly contained in the chignon at her nape. She wanted to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun that even the small overhang above her could not soften.
She watched the dirt cloud up in small puffs around the man’s heavy, laced boots as he approached, and told herself firmly that she did not want to turn tail and run. She’d endured things far worse than that steady, grim glare of his. Much worse.
The thought ought to have steadied her. It unsettled her that it didn’t. So she schooled her expression and stared right back. Right up until the moment when he stopped, a mere yard away. If it was possible, his hair was even darker than hers. No glints of red, no strands of chestnut, or even silver. It was jet-black. Not quite military short, but definitely an uncompromisingly no-fuss cut. And it suited the blade of his nose, the sharp cheekbones and hard jaw. There was nothing at all about his hard appearance, including the camouflage pants and khaki T-shirt that strained against his broad shoulders to suggest he was anything but what he was—a warrior.
Pressing her lips softly together, she inhaled deeply and kept her leather-shod feet firmly planted. She’d been warned that Tyler Murdoch might be somewhat difficult to work with—his expression certainly indicated just that—but she was on this mission whether he liked it or not.
She stuck out her hand in greeting. “Mr. Murdoch.”
His eyes, as darkly brown as the coffee her abuela had fixed every morning of her childhood, flickered disinterestedly over her outstretched hand. “They didn’t tell me that M. Rodriguez was a woman.”
As a beginning, it could have been worse. It also could have been better. “Marisa,” she supplied, aware of the difference between his softly drawling speech—pure U.S. of A—and her speech that still held a trace of her homeland no matter how many diction classes Gerald had foisted upon her.
She finally lowered her hand and took a slender envelope from the pocket of her briefcase. She held it out. “A letter from the former ambassador to Mezcaya.”
He took the envelope from her, sliding it in his back pocket without a second look. “Do you have any other ID?”
“Um, well, yes.” She unzipped another pocket and pulled out her wallet, flipping it open. She thought he’d just look at her license, but he took the wallet right out of her hands and began removing cards, not even studying them first.
“What are you doing?”
He handed her back the wallet, sans license, insurance cards and anything else that personally identified her. “My job,” he said flatly and moved past her through the door.
She shifted, hurriedly following him into the shadowed interior. “Don’t you want to verify my credentials? You didn’t even read the letter from Ambassador Torres.”
He slowly turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. And Marisa couldn’t prevent the tremors that skidded down her spine. “If you weren’t M. Rodriguez, you’d hardly be here at this miserable excuse for an airfield. What happened to the driver who brought you?”
“He headed back to the city.” A fact she felt sure the man already knew. Since the moment she’d accepted the invitation to participate in this “expedition,” her life had become a whirlwind.
Tyler had gone into the minute office in the rear of the building. “Didn’t it bother you to be left here, alone?” he asked. “This place is a long way from civilization.”
She couldn’t see what he was doing in the office. She raised her voice a little. “I wasn’t alone. You were here.” She simply would not admit to any unease even though it was greater now than it had been when the driver tore off in a flurry of dust. Tyler would undoubtedly take her unease as weakness, and she’d learned long ago to keep displays of weakness to a minimum, particularly when dealing with tall, formidable-looking men.
Another leftover from Gerald.
Tyler came back out of the office. He barely spared her a glance as he headed for the door. “What makes you think I’m safe?”
Her lips parted and she blinked. The driver had assured her that the man standing by the sleek plane was indeed the one she was to meet.
He was just trying to frighten her.
She headed after him. Her briefcase bumped her knees so she slid the long strap over her shoulder. “Mr. Murdoch—”
“We’re wheels up in five,” he interrupted flatly. “If you’re gonna back out, do it now. We’ve got several hours of flight time ahead of us. If this place seems rough, it’s only going to get worse.”
Her chin lifted. “You forget, Mr. Murdoch, I come from Mezcaya. I grew up in worse.” And she had dreamed for years of leaving it.
His lips twisted, making his hard features look even harder. “I don’t forget anything, honey.”
The words seemed like a challenge, and anger sparked inside her. But she couldn’t afford to lose her temper over this man’s arrogance. “Nor do I, Mr. Murdoch,” she assured.
Tyler looked down at her, noting the perfectly oval face and the delicate golden-toned skin strikingly offset by her drawn-back hair. Even in the dimness inside the building, it held the gleam of onyx and for a second she reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t quite place whom.
He’d freely admit she was an honest-to-God beauty, but it was the glint in those almond-shaped golden eyes that piqued a reluctant interest deep inside him. He reined it in. He was on duty. She was a woman and he was stuck with her. “Four minutes.” He walked through the doorway.
“My suitcase is by the corner of the building,” she said after him.
“Then I guess you’d better get it,” he suggested blandly, and headed toward his plane. He almost smiled as he heard the soft word she muttered behind his back. He’d been called far worse.
He’d flown to this bit of nothing in Guatemala and had been on the ground less than two hours. Still, Tyler did a quick walk around the plane. He climbed up and took a last look in the fuel tanks because every pilot worth his wings knew that fuel gauges were notoriously inaccurate, even in as sweet a honey as his Pilatus. When he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he looked beyond the wings of the plane and wondered how a runway could be so damn bad and still be called a runway.
He climbed inside the plane and watched Marisa haul her suitcase over the hard-packed ground toward the plane. She had to lean back against the weight of it, and he could only imagine what she’d packed. Hair stuff. Makeup. Every single useless thing imaginable, he figured, considering the place they were headed.
She