Tempted by His Target. Jill Sorenson
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footpath. If Isabel’s Jeep hadn’t been parked by the side of the road, surf rack half-hidden by foliage, he’d never have found the entrance.
And if she hadn’t written an “anonymous” article about this little-known spot for a popular surfing magazine, he’d never have found her.
Brandon still didn’t know where she lived, but he knew what she drove, and Puerto Escondido wasn’t a big city. He could probably locate her residence in short order. He could also tie her up and throw her in his trunk, if he had to. But strong-arm tactics were a last resort, and he wasn’t supposed to make a scene.
He didn’t want to alert the Mexican authorities—under any circumstances.
So he hitched his surfboard under one arm and navigated his way through the tangle of vines beyond the beach. The jungle appeared impenetrable. There were a few machete marks on the thick palm fronds, forming a barely discernible path. He could smell decomposing vegetation and recent rain. Life and death, blended.
Birdcalls echoed through the pungent depths. A buzzing sound started, growing louder in his ear. He slapped the mosquito on his neck, killing the noise.
After a summer in breezy San Diego, the humidity took some getting used to. The instant the salt water on his skin evaporated, beads of sweat formed on his chest. The jungle seemed to suck up every breath of air and inch of space. It was dark, too. When his eyes adjusted, he could no longer see footsteps on the ground, only hacked-up edges of plants and fallen leaves.
His surfboard shifted, growing slippery against his armpit.
He reached the edge of the clearing in time to watch Isabel’s Jeep fly down the road, leaving him in the dust. Squinting at the sudden brightness, he stared after her, his blood pumping with adrenaline.
She was faster than he’d expected. Stronger, more resourceful. He was going to enjoy catching her.
Chapter 2
Isabel didn’t lift her foot off the gas until she was five miles away.
She flexed her fingers around the steering wheel and glanced in the rearview mirror once again, her heart racing.
There was nothing behind her but dust.
Brandon had parked his rental vehicle, a midsize SUV, behind her Jeep. If he wanted to, he could follow her.
But why would he want to?
She took a deep breath, trying to relax. She’d run through the jungle like a maniac, half-convinced he was chasing her. Maybe she was overreacting, but his unexpected arrival had shaken her to the core. Leaving her back to the beach had been careless. She usually looked over her shoulder everywhere she went.
How could she have let him sneak up on her?
Muttering curses, she traveled south on the main highway for another mile before she pulled over, parking her Jeep behind a copse of trees. There she waited, monitoring the light flow of traffic as the sun crept high in the sky.
Brandon’s silver SUV passed by less than fifteen minutes later, his shortboard sticking out of the back like a white flag.
She’d known at a glance that he didn’t belong here. It took an experienced surfer to handle that break, but he wasn’t a pro. He didn’t travel with an entourage of photographers. His board was a rental. Big shots brought their own gear.
He wasn’t a burnout, either. Puerto Escondido attracted its share of scraggly potheads who were more interested in getting blazed than honing their surfing skills. Brandon didn’t fit that mold at all. With his close-cropped hair, clean-shaven jaw and sharp blue eyes, he looked like a straight arrow.
He was also hot as hell. His features were rugged and masculine, his physique taut. Something about him suggested wealth or privilege. He was wearing light gray boardshorts and nothing else. He had muscles like an endurance athlete, not a heavy weight lifter. She could have stared at his chest all day.
Her first reaction to him had been panic. She’d registered his height and broad shoulders and assumed he was one of Carranza’s men, come to kill her. Realizing that he wasn’t Mexican didn’t ease her anxiety. It wouldn’t have surprised her if the drug lord had recruited an assassin from outside the cartel. But Brandon had wasted the perfect opportunity to take her out, and he didn’t look like a thug.
Maybe she should have had lunch with him.
Shaking her head, Isabel started the engine and pulled out of her hiding place, following his SUV back to town. It wasn’t smart to get distracted by a killer body and a handsome face. Over the past few days, she’d felt uneasy, as if someone was watching her. Perhaps Brandon was the culprit.
He stopped at The Pelican, a nice hotel within walking distance of the most popular beach in Puerto Escondido. Isabel made a left on the nearest cross street and circled around, catching a glimpse of him entering the hotel courtyard.
She continued driving, hoping he would stay in his room for a while. Her apartment was downtown, less than two miles away. She parked in the covered garage and hurried toward the wooden steps, glancing around for strangers. Everything looked normal. Street vendors were selling tacos to the lunchtime crowd. The smell of grilled fish, fresh-cut limes and chopped cilantro wafted up, making her mouth water.
After a quick shower, she changed into one of her casual outfits, loose-fitting cargo pants and a plain white shirt. She put her knife holster around her waist. Covering her eyes with sunglasses and her dark hair with a baseball cap, she left the apartment.
Isabel spoke Spanish fluently, thanks to her Venezuelan mother, but she didn’t sound local, and she couldn’t disguise her femininity. Instead of trying to pass for a man, or a native, she stayed quiet and wore nondescript clothing. This tactic, along with moving around a lot, had kept her alive the past two years.
But she’d grown weary of running. Puerto Escondido had a low-key atmosphere and fantastic surf conditions. She didn’t want to leave.
Isabel bypassed the taco stand outside her apartment, her stomach growling. She usually had her groceries delivered and ate in. On rare occasions, she grabbed a quick bite on the other side of town. This stand was too close for comfort.
Climbing into her Jeep, she returned to the neighborhood by The Pelican, parking nearby. She’d never done surveillance before, but she’d read up on the subject. Approaching it from the watcher’s perspective was a novel experience.
She chose an outdoor café with a good view of the hotel, sitting down with an iced coffee and a shrimp sandwich. After polishing off her meal, she helped herself to a newspaper, pretending to read. Brandon reappeared a short time later. He left his hotel and strolled east, toward the cluster of restaurants. She watched him from behind the newspaper, praying he wouldn’t choose the café.
Again, she was struck by how attractive he was. He appeared relaxed and slightly rumpled in lightweight trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. Although he was obviously a tourist, he had a low-key vibe. His clothes fit well, accentuating a rock-hard physique. Scuffed hiking boots suggested he was an all-around outdoorsman, not just a beach bum. His short hair glinted like bronze in the sunlight. Her fingers itched to test its thickness.
She twisted her hands in the newspaper as he passed by.
Isabel wasn’t the only woman in the vicinity who was aware of his presence. Two European girls in tank tops and gypsy skirts came out of a souvenir shop to gawk. They were pretty, if you liked braless bohemian babes. Brandon apparently did. He smiled at them, saying something that made one of the girls laugh and clutch her beaded hemp necklace.
A stab of envy pricked Isabel’s heart. She hadn’t flirted with a man, or dressed to impress, since she’d left California. In her former life, she’d worn flashy miniskirts and spike-heeled Louboutins. She didn’t miss the expensive clothes, her swanky Hollywood Hills apartment, or even the rebellious rich boys she used to date, but she missed people. She missed friends, and familiar faces, and companionship.
Brandon