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He redoubled his efforts. His next few tries were more successful, and he fell into a nice rhythm. Although he didn’t forget his audience, he started surfing for himself. Ten minutes after he paddled out, a set of high overheads rolled in behind him. They rose up from the sea like liquid monoliths, ten thousand gallons of pure power.
He positioned himself at the top of the swell and let it take him. The wave moved so fast he hardly had to paddle. Holding steady, he popped up, bracing his feet on the surface of the board and lifting his arms.
A split second later, he cut to the right, and the curl folded over him in a perfect hollow. The feeling was so exhilarating he let out a triumphant shout as he maneuvered through the tube, fighting to stay inside.
Now this—this was how it felt to be alive. Here, he was in his element, with a powerful wave all around him, a killer reef beneath the surface and a sexy woman waiting for him on a deserted beach.
The ride wasn’t his all-time best, but it was pretty damned good. In the top ten, for sure. He executed a serviceable cutback and sank into the whitewash as the hollow closed out, narrowly avoiding a run-in with the razor-edged reef.
When he broke through the surface, he steadied his board and wiped the water off his face, laughing out loud from the rush.
Isabel was gone.
His smile faded as he searched the edges of the mangrove for a glimpse of her retreating form. There was only a trail of small footprints heading into the jungle. She’d ditched him as soon as he got distracted. It was bad form, but not necessarily suspicious. He was a strange man; she had cause to be wary.
Instead of running after her, he waded out of the water and followed at a steady pace. This particular beach was only accessible by boat or via a twisty 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 didn’t linger with the girls, to Isabel’s surprise. They watched him go, giggling together before wandering back toward the beach.
Isabel frowned behind the newspaper. He’d invited her to lunch, but ignored two sexy young ladies on the prowl? That didn’t add up right. Maybe she’d misinterpreted the situation. She folded her paper and put it back in the rack, tossing some coins on the table before she left the café.
He made another unexpected choice in selecting a place to eat. There were several palapa-style restaurants in the area, but they were all more expensive than the simple taco stands downtown. Instead of wandering into a touristy bar and grill, he walked east a few blocks, locating a busy street vendor.
Isabel stayed out of sight, pretending to shop for jewelry and handcrafts while Brandon put away more tacos than she could count. When he was finished, he thanked the vendor and headed back to the main drag. There were a couple of sports shops near the beach, including Smokey’s, which rented surfboards.
Brandon stopped at EcoTours, the store next to Smokey’s. It was closed, so he perused the sign in the front window. The business offered outrageously expensive tours to remote locations of Oaxaca, including the “secret” beach they’d just visited. Some surfers would pay anything for a chance to ride a virgin wave.
Brandon took his cell phone out of his pocket, dialing the number on the sign.
Isabel let out a frustrated sigh. She could show him the least-crowded spots around here for a fraction of the price. He’d found Playa Perdida on his own, probably by noticing her vehicle parked at the side of the road.
If he wasn’t American, and a possible threat, she might have approached him as a guide. She could use the money. But she couldn’t take a chance on him recognizing her as Izzy Sanborn. The way he’d looked at her, as though he was picturing her naked, had made her squirm with a pleasant sort of discomfort. He was in his late twenties, at the most, and her photo spreads had been very popular with young men.
He moved on, ducking into the least authentic place in all of Puerto Escondido: Señor Frog’s Cantina. The bar catered to loudmouthed college students and hosted wet T-shirt contests. It was a puke party every night.
“Ugh,” she said, disappointed by his bad taste. She couldn’t follow him in, so she took a small notebook and a pen out of her satchel. Propping her back against a brick wall on the opposite side of the street, she got some work done, scribbling notes about this morning’s session at Playa Perdida. In the past few months, she’d sold several articles to Wave magazine, written anonymously as the Lost Surfer.
The paycheck was small, but she’d been delighted to receive it. She had a fake ID as Isabel Sanchez and a PO Box set up here in Puerto Escondido. When the check came, her heart had swelled with pride.
It was the first time she’d earned money with her brain.
An hour later, Brandon came out of Señor Frog’s, and she’d outlined a new article. He must have knocked back a few drinks, because he had the loose-hipped gait of a man who was feeling his spirits. Isabel put her notebook away, relieved. He was just another party animal surf jock. A paid assassin would be more circumspect.
She followed him back to the hotel anyway, not worrying overmuch about being seen. He took a wrong turn, wandering down a cobblestone alley. This late in the afternoon, the area was quiet, dim and deserted.
Isabel removed her sunglasses and put them in her pocket, annoyed by his recklessness. Not only was he drunk and alone in a foreign country, he was begging to get mugged. He might as well leave his wallet on the beach while he went for a swim.
He disappeared around the corner and she hurried after him, sticking close to the back of the building. She paused at the edge, listening for footsteps. Her hand wavered by her knife, fingertips tingling. She heard nothing.
Afraid of losing him, she stepped out of the alleyway. A flash of movement startled her into action. She leaped backward, drawing her knife. Brandon caught her wrist in a crushing grip and spun her around, shoving her against the wall.
Gasping in pain, she dropped her weapon. When he eased his hold on her wrist, she wrenched her arm from his grasp and slammed her left elbow into his midsection. Whirling to face him, she aimed a hard right at his throat.
He blocked it easily. Too easily.
Isabel realized a couple of things at once. First, he wasn’t drunk. Second, he knew how to fight. Third, he was surprised to see her.
“You,” he breathed, backing up a step and holding a palm to his midsection. “I thought somebody was trying to rob me.”
She flattened her back against the wall, her heart thumping in her chest. She’d mistaken his level of inebriation and made a serious error in judgment. Her knife glinted on the cobblestones, out of reach.
He followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to rob me?”
“No,” she said, moistening her lips.
“I have ten dollars in my wallet. Do you want it?”
“No! I saw you come out of the cantina and I was trying to catch up with you.”
“Why?”
She swallowed hard. “I’d like to offer my services as a tour guide. I know all of the best surf spots.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, deliberating. “How much?”
“Fifty a day, U.S.”
“What does that include?”
She thought fast. “I’ll take you to a choice location, spot you for a few hours of surfing and bring lunch.”
“You’ll drive?”
“Sure. My Jeep has a surf rack.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding. It was a much better deal than he’d get from EcoTours. They made arrangements for her to pick him up at his hotel in the morning, and shook hands. Isabel felt the same zing of pleasure as she had the first time he’d touched her.
He released her hand slowly, a crease forming between his brows. “I don’t pay women for sex.”
She recoiled in horror. “Of course not.”
“I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t on the table,” he said, raising both palms. “Don’t attack me again.”
Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Gut reaction.”
He studied her for a moment, as if wondering who or what had made her so cautious. Instead of asking, he minded his own business. “Can I walk you home?”
“No thanks. I have another stop to make.”
“See you tomorrow then.”
“Tomorrow.”
She reached down to retrieve her knife, watching him walk away. When he was out of sight, she sheathed the blade, hurrying down the alley. As she rounded the corner, she almost collided with a stocky man in a fedora.
There was an odd moment, not unlike the one she’d just had with Brandon, in which Isabel experienced a jolt of awareness. She looked into this man’s cold, dark eyes and knew: it wasn’t Brandon who’d been following her.
Before she could react to that certainty, the stranger reached out to grab her upper arm. He also flipped back the tails of his shirt, revealing a handgun tucked in his waistband. He was in his fifties, about Carranza’s age, but hardly soft. “Come with me,” he said in a low voice, his lips curled into a tight grimace.
Isabel was already primed for action, and she’d trained for this occasion. She lashed out, striking his forearm in a brutal chop. His grip loosened, but he backhanded her across the face, trying to subdue her.
The tactic worked. Pain exploded in her left cheek, hot and bright. Knocked off balance, she spun around and almost fell to her knees. When he grabbed her by the hair, she cried out, certain he was going to execute her. Panicking, she drew her knife and stabbed backward, using the same motion as an elbow jab.
The blade found its target, sliding to the hilt in a sickening plunge. Blood spurted over her hand and the man let out a hoarse cry, releasing her hair. She lunged forward, taking the knife with her, and turned to evaluate the damage.
“Puta,” he spat, holding his side. As blood seeped between his fingers, shock blanched his weathered countenance.
Isabel’s heart dropped. The wound appeared life-threatening.
Using his other hand, the man reached for his gun. She could only stare, her mind blank with terror as he leveled the barrel at her.
Chapter 3
Brandon knew Isabel had been following him. He’d caught a glimpse of her at the café, and another after he left the bar.
