Heart Of The Dragon. Gena Showalter
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One second dragged into two before a narrow-eyed Tagart lowered his sword.
Darius lowered his own weapon; his features remained stony. “Finish your meal, all of you, then retire to the practice arena. You will exercise until you have not the strength to stand. That’s an order.”
He strode from the chamber quite aware he had not given his men the reaction they craved.
DARIUS DESCENDED the cave steps four at a time. Ready to finish the deed and resume his meal in private, he removed his shirt and tossed the black fabric into a far corner. The medallion he wore, as well as the tattoos on his chest, glowed like tiny pinpricks of flame, waiting for him to fulfill his vow.
Expression blank, mind clear, he tightened his clasp on his sword, positioned himself to the left of the mist…and he waited.
Chapter Two
GRACE CARLYLE ALWAYS hoped she’d die from intense pleasure while having sex with her husband. Well, she wasn’t married, and she’d never had sex, but she was still going to die.
And not from intense pleasure.
From heat exhaustion? Maybe.
From hunger? Possibly.
From her own stupidity? Absolutely.
She was lost and alone in the freaking Amazon jungle.
As she strode past tangled green vines and towering trees, beads of sweat trickled down her chest and back. Small shards of light seeped from the leafy canopy above, providing hazy visibility. Barely adequate, but appreciated. The smells of rotting vegetation, old rain and flowers mingled together, forming a conflicting fragrance of sweet and sour. She wrinkled her nose.
“All I wanted was a little excitement,” she muttered. “Instead I end up broke, lost, and trapped in this bug-infested sauna.”
To complete her descent into hell, she expected the sky to open and pour out a deluge of rain at any moment.
The only good thing about her current circumstances was that all this hiking and sweating might actually help her lose a few pounds from her too-curvy figure. Not that losing weight did her any good here. Except, perhaps, in the newspapers.
New Yorker found dead in Amazon
A shame. She was hot!
Scowling, she swatted a mosquito trying to drink her arm dry—even though she’d applied several layers of ucuru oil to prevent such bites. Where the hell was Alex? She should have run into her brother by now. Or, at the very least, stumbled upon a tour group. Or even blundered upon an indigenous tribe.
If only she hadn’t taken an extended leave of absence from AirTravel, she’d be soaring through the air, relaxed and listening to the hypnotic hum of a jet engine.
“I’d be in an air-conditioned G-IV,” she said, slashing her hand like a machete through the thick, green foliage. “I’d be sipping vanilla Coke.” Another slash. “I’d be listening to my coworkers discuss stiletto heels, expensive dates and mind-shattering orgasms.”
And I’d still be miserable, she thought, wishing I were anywhere else.
She stopped abruptly and closed her eyes. I just want to be happy. Is that too much to ask?
Obviously.
So often lately she battled a sense of discontent, a desire to experience so much more. Her mother had tried to warn her what such discontent would bring her. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble,” she’d admonished. But had Grace listened? Noooo. Instead she’d followed her aunt Sophie’s lovely bit of wisdom. Aunt Sophie, for God’s sake! The woman who wore leopard print spandex and cavorted with mailmen and strippers. “I know you’ve done some exciting things, Gracie honey,” Sophie had said, “but that’s not really living. Something’s missing from your life and if you don’t find it, you’ll end up a shriveled old prune like your mom.”
Something was missing from Grace’s life. She knew that, and in an effort to find that mysterious “something,” she’d tried speed dating, Internet dating and singles bars. When those failed, she decided to give night school a try. Not to meet men, but to learn. Not that the cosmetology classes had done her any good. The best stylists in the world couldn’t tame her wild red curls. After that, she’d tried race-car driving and step class. She’d even gotten her belly button pierced. Nothing helped.
What would it take to make her feel whole, complete?
“Not this jungle, that’s for sure,” she grumbled, jolting back into motion. “Someone please tell me,” she said to the heavens, “why satisfaction always dances so quickly out of my reach. I’m dying to know.”
Traveling the world had always been her dream, and becoming a flight attendant for a private charter had seemed like the perfect job for her. She hadn’t realized she would become an airborne waitress, jaunting from hotel to hotel, never actually enjoying the state/country/hellhole she found herself in. Sure, she’d scaled mountains, surfed the ocean waves and jumped from a plane, but the joy of those adventures never remained and like everything else she’d tried, they always left her feeling more unsatisfied than before.
That’s why she had come here, to try something new. Something with a bit more danger. Her brother was an employee of Argonauts, a mythoarchaeological company that had recently discovered the crude glider constructed by Daedalus of Athens—a discovery that rocked the scientific and mythological communities. Alex spent his days and nights delving deep into the world’s myths, proving or disproving them.
With such a fulfilling job, he didn’t have to worry about becoming a shriveled old prune. Not like me, she lamented.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Grace increased her pace. About a week ago, Alex had shipped her a package containing his journal and a gorgeous necklace with two dangling, intertwined dragon heads. No note of explanation accompanied the gifts. Knowing he was in Brazil and looking for a portal that led into the lost city of Atlantis she’d decided to join him, leaving a message on his cell phone with details of her flight.
With a sigh, she fingered the dragon chain hanging at her neck. When Alex failed to pick her up at the airport, she should have returned home. “But nooo,” she said with deep self-loathing, suddenly more aware of her dry, cotton mouth. “I hired a local guide and tried to find him. ‘Sí, senhorina,’” she mimicked the guide. “‘Of course, senhorina. Anything at all, senhorina.’”
“Bastard,” she muttered.
Today, two miserable days into her trek, her kind, considerate, I-only-want-to-help-you guide had stolen her backpack and abandoned her here. Now she had no food, no water, no tent. She did, however, have a weapon. A weapon she had used to shoot that bastard in the ass as he ran away. The memory caused her lips to curl in a slow smile, and she lovingly patted the revolver resting in the waist of her dirty canvas pants.
Her smile didn’t last long, however, as the midday heat continued to pound against her. In all her wildest dreams, her need for fulfillment had never ended like this. She’d envisioned laughter and—
Something hard slammed into her head and jostled her forward. She yelped, her heart pounding in her chest as she rubbed her now throbbing temple and skimmed her gaze over the ground, searching for the source of her pain.
Oh, thank you, thank you, she mentally cried when she spied the rosy-colored fruit. Mouth watering, she studied the delicious-looking juice seeping from the smashed remains. Was it poisonous? And did she care if it was? She licked her lips. No, she didn’t care. Death by poison was preferable to walking away from this unexpected treasure.
Just as she reached down to scoop up what she could, another missile crashed into her back.
She gasped and jerked upright.
Spinning, she sent her narrowed gaze through the trees. About ten yards away