His Mysterious Ways. Amanda Stevens
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man who stood over her table.
He was older, mid-fifties at least, with a haggard face and thin, white hair that brushed the shoulders of his lightweight suit.
Melanie knew she had never seen him before, yet there was something oddly familiar about him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if you were new here. I come in often, and I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.” He put out a hand. “Bond. Angus Bond.”
She couldn’t help but smile at the way he introduced himself. She shook his hand. “Melanie Stark.”
He held up a frosted glass garnished with a wedge of lime. “May I buy you a drink, Melanie?”
She nodded to her juice. “I already have one, thanks.” She’d meant it as a polite brushoff, but something about him, that familiarity, made her say impulsively, “But you’re welcome to join me if you like.” What the heck? He looked harmless, save for a nasty scratch down the left side of his face, and there was something irresistible about a man with an Australian accent, no matter his age.
“I’d like that very much.” He drew out a chair and sat down, then took a long, thirsty pull from his gin and tonic.
“Nectar of the gods,” he said with a sigh.
“I thought that was wine.”
“Not in my paradise.” He grinned and took another swallow. “So what brings you to Santa Elena, Melanie? The cloud forest or the ruins?”
“I intend to see both. How about you?”
He shrugged. “I’ve lived off and on in Cartéga for quite some time now. Santa Elena has always been a favorite haunt of mine. I like the quaintness.”
Melanie lifted a brow in surprise. “You live here? Judging by your accent, I would have guessed you’d just left Melbourne a few days ago.”
“Queensland, actually. I’m a banana bender, as they say.” He grinned and saluted her with his drink. “As for the accent, old habits die hard.”
“I know what you mean,” Melanie murmured. She realized then why he looked so familiar to her. The evidence was there in his face. The excesses and the abuses. But it was his eyes that were the true giveaway. They were flat, emotionless, empty. She’d seen those same dead eyes years ago, in rehab. And in the mirror.
“So what do you do here?” she asked him.
He toyed with his glass. “Right now I’m working for an American oil company that has a drilling site about thirty miles north of town. Kruger Petroleum. Ever heard of it?”
Melanie almost choked on her drink. “I don’t think so.”
“They’re a small, independent outfit, but they appear to be flush with cash. The owner, Hoyt Kruger, is a hands-on kind of guy. He supervises every aspect of the operation.”
“What kind of work do you do for him?” Melanie tried to ask casually.
“I run the infirmary. I’m a doctor.”
It was all she could do not to spew juice from her nose. He ran the infirmary? Then he had to know about the break-in last night. Was that why he’d sought her out? Because he knew she was responsible? What was this? Some kind of fishing expedition? A trap?
“Santa Elena is a small place to have two doctors,” she said carefully.
He glanced down at the bandage on her wrist. “I take it you’ve made the acquaintance of our illustrious Dr. Wilder. Nothing serious, I trust?”
“No. Just a careless accident.”
“I sympathize.” His smile was rueful as he ran a finger down the scratch on the side of his face. “What happened? If I’m not being too forward by asking.”
Melanie hesitated. “I…broke a mirror in my hotel room. Luckily, I’m not the superstitious type.”
“Then you obviously haven’t been in Cartéga long enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a very superstitious country. The Cartégans love their legends. Haven’t you heard about la Encantadora who lives in the cloud forest and uses the mist to lure men to their death? Or the ghosts of the Mayan priests who wander the ruins—” He broke off as his gaze went past Melanie’s shoulder to the street. “Speak of the devil…”
Melanie turned to see what had drawn his attention. Her breath caught when she saw the man from the clinic climbing out of his jeep.
She whipped back around, trying not to show her distress. “Do you know that man?”
Bond’s mouth tightened. “He works for Kruger. Euphemistically speaking, he’s in charge of security, but…” His voice trailed off and he glanced away.
Melanie, sensing something in his tone, leaned toward him slightly. “But? What were you about to say?”
Bond looked suddenly uneasy. “Let me put it this way. He may be in charge of security for Kruger, but if I had a daughter, Jon Lassiter would be the last man on earth I’d want her to be alone with.”
Melanie nervously glanced over her shoulder. Lassiter was making his way down the street toward the café. She didn’t know whether he’d spotted them or not, but she wasn’t about to wait around and find out.
She rose from the table. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”
Bond gazed up at her in surprise. “So soon?”
“Yes. I…just remembered an appointment. It was a pleasure meeting you, though.”
“Oh, believe me, the pleasure was all mine, Melanie.”
When she reached into her bag for money, he held up his hand. “No, please. Allow me. I insist.”
Melanie hesitated. “In that case, thank you very much. Maybe I’ll see you here again. The drinks will be on me next time.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
She could feel his gaze on her as she walked away, but it wasn’t the leer of an older man admiring a younger woman. It was more innocent than that. For all his obvious vices and hard living, there was something guileless about Angus Bond. Something a bit sad.
But Melanie didn’t have time to dwell long on the Australian, because as she left the patio and headed down the street, she turned and saw that Jon Lassiter had entered the café. He glanced up suddenly, and when he saw her, he said something to Angus, then started toward her.
Melanie spun around and headed in the opposite direction. Halfway down the street, she spied him again. He was even closer now, gaining on her steadily, although they were both trying not to draw attention.
Up ahead, a group of tourists had disembarked from a decrepit bus. Melanie hurried to infiltrate them, hoping to disappear among the chattering, excited vacationers.
Turning a corner with the crowd, she grabbed a peasant blouse from an outdoor rack in the market and hurried inside the dim shop.
“¿Me puedo probar esto, por favor?”
The ancient shopkeeper lazily waved a palmetto leaf fan in front of her face as she pointed to a dressing area in the back—a ragged blanket strung across one corner.
“Gracias.” Melanie dashed to the back and scurried behind the blanket. She fervently hoped that Lassiter would follow the tourists down the street, at least for a block or two. By the time he discovered she was no longer with them, he’d have no idea where she’d gone—
“Perdón.”
Melanie’s legs trembled at the sound of his voice. She shrank back in the corner, hoping the shopkeeper wouldn’t give her away.
“I’m looking for an American,” he said