Her legs buckled, and she sank to the floor. Dammit, he knew where she was. She should have expected the call, but she’d thought if she could get out of here fast enough…
She swallowed hard. “I…I don’t have it. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Don’t lie to me, Maren.”
“Evan, I’m not lying. I wouldn’t lie to you. I—”
“If I can’t have the statue, I’ll have you. As I’ve had you. As I plan to go on having you until I get bored and decide to move on to a younger, more agreeable version of you.” Maren covered her mouth with her hand as another burst of fear whipped through her. “However, I might be willing to make you a deal.”
Her blood beat like cannon fire in her ears, but the offer she heard lingering in his voice kept her from exploding. “What kind of deal?”
“The kind where I walk away and leave you and that beautiful daughter of yours alone. All alone. The only thing you have to do is bring me La Malinche.”
This was what he’d been waiting for, Maren realized. All these years, he’d been counting on her father to go after that damn relic again. And he’d targeted her as a way to get it.
The sickness churned and swirled inside her belly. But with it…a thread of hope. “What guarantee do I have that you’ll live up to your end of the bargain?”
“None. Except my word. You know my word is sound, Maren. I follow through with all my promises.”
Her gut twisted again. And the memory of his hands on her body, of the things he’d made her do, rushed through her mind. She closed her eyes tight to block the memories. Yes, she knew better than anyone how he followed through.
“Maren?”
Could she do it? Betray her father, Lisa…Thad? Though they’d never been able to prove it, they all knew the treasure hunters who’d killed Colin in that cenote had been hired by Evan Declan. Nine years ago, he’d been as obsessed with finding La Malinche as was her father, but for different reasons. And he’d been willing to kill for it.
For a split second, Maren thought about telling Thad the truth, but then pushed the thought aside. He’d hate her if she told him the truth, and it wouldn’t keep her daughter any safer. No one was safe from Evan when he set his sights on them. She couldn’t walk away now. Every person she cared about would disown her if she went through with this, but Evan was finally offering her a way out.
Hands shaking against the phone, she drew in one deep breath for courage, then closed her eyes. “Okay.”
“Okay?” The surprise in Evan’s voice told her even he hadn’t expected her to capitulate quite so quickly.
“Yes. Okay. I’ll do it. In exchange for you never seeing, speaking to, or contacting me or Isabel again, I’ll bring you what you want.”
“La Malinche.”
A sharp, angry ache filled Maren’s chest, like a hammer chipping away at the embers of her heart. “Yes. When we find it.”
“Say it.”
The hammer came down hard, and the pain from the blow made it difficult to breathe, let alone speak. “I’ll bring you La Malinche.”
“Good girl, Maren.” Evan’s gloating smile twined through his words. “I always knew I could count on you to do the right thing. You’ll see. When this is over, we’ll both have exactly what we want most.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A restless night’s sleep did little to settle Maren’s nerves.
After lying awake most of the night, staring at the thatched roof of her hut, second-guessing her decision, she finally gave up and threw back her sleeping bag. She slipped on shorts and a tank, laced her running shoes and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Then she eased out of the hut just as the sun was coming up.
She drew in a deep breath of salty air. If she had to be in hell, there was really no better place. At least in the meantime she could enjoy the peaceful setting, the gentle breeze, the push and pull of water along the shore. Maybe the rhythmic sounds could lull her into a fantasy that her life wasn’t really as bad as she thought.
Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that, girlie.
The first two miles were killer. The sand was already warm, radiating heat. The sunglasses she’d slipped on helped cut the glare, but they kept sliding down her nose. Humidity caused her to sweat more than she liked, but she continued to run, to feel the fatigue in her muscles and know that at least this one small thing was good for her.
She slowed as she approached the small village of Tampalan. Worn stucco buildings, an open-air market, a bustle of merchants and fishermen already milling along the cobblestone streets paralleling the beach met her eyes. Her senses heightened at the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drifting on the air as she passed a small resort, and stopped to catch her breath.
A man saw her, smiled, and turned her direction. He was tall, lean, and dressed in running gear, just like Maren, and for a moment she tensed, afraid it might be one of Evan’s spies. Then she realized it was Thad’s sidekick from the airstrip.
Perspiration ran down his cheek, making his skin look ruddy. “Fancy meeting you out here this early. I figured you’d be sound asleep after your long flight yesterday.”
“Too quiet in paradise to sleep.” She ran the back of her hand over her brow to mop up the sweat. “Do you run every morning?”
“I try.” His T-shirt was damp around the collar and down his back. When he lifted his arm to wipe his brow, she caught the long, hard lines of a well-toned body. “Leighton snores, so it’s a good excuse to get out of our hut.”
Maren chuckled. Yeah, she remembered that about him. But only when he was really tired. And she didn’t want to think about how she used to make him that tired. “How far down the beach did you go?”
He glanced in the direction he’d just come. “Another mile or two. There’s a bay not far in that direction, some jagged rocks, low cliffs. Makes it tough to keep going. I figure eight miles round trip’s enough.”
“More than enough for me. The most I can seem to muster up is five. Get bored when I run more than that.” She squinted against the sun behind him, making it hard to see his face.
“You hungry?”
“I thought you were running.”
“I was. I’m not now. Let’s get breakfast. Since we’re already here.”
His smile was genuine, and there was just something…easy about Nate Drummer. Maren didn’t know what it was, but she liked him. Maybe it was because since she’d arrived, this was the first time she didn’t feel like she was lying. “No breakfast for me. But you could talk me into a cup of coffee, as long as you’re buying.”
“Done.” He grinned, showing off straight white teeth and a lopsided smile.
She followed him across the sand toward a small poolside café at one of the various resorts along the strip. Though a resort this far south was a loose term compared to those farther north in Cancun and Playacar.
“So your dad told a pretty mean tale last night after dinner,” Nate said as he sat.
Maren frowned. “Patrick has a knack for spinning a long tale.”
He regarded her a moment, and she braced for the familiar question of why she referred to her father by his first name instead of the traditional term of endearment. When it didn’t come, she figured he must know Patrick better than she thought.
“Truth or fantasy?” he asked.
“The curse of La Malinche?” Maren shrugged, feeling even more at ease. She waited while the server brought coffee for each of them. “It’s up to the listener.”
“And in your case?”
The server walked away. Maren looked toward Nate. “As a child, I believed in the magic. La Malinche, the desperate curse of a heartsick princess. You have to admit, the whole thing—death and destruction splashing in her wake, heartache and sorrow, love and loss—it’s pretty powerful stuff. Even the biggest skeptic could find herself sucked into the folklore. And the story—especially because it’s about the real-life, historical figures Doña Marina and Hernando Cortés—has all the making
s of a blockbuster movie. But as an educated, rational adult, it sounds more like myth and legend than reality to me.”
“Myths and legends are rooted in reality. Cultures develop myths to explain the unexplainable.”
She frowned. “You’re an anthropologist, aren’t you?”
“No,” he said softly. “Just a child of history.”
When he didn’t elaborate, she shook her head and went on. “Everything can be explained if you chip away at the layers, if you dig deep enough to find what’s underneath. If we believe the curse, Zantum Leonard should have fallen victim to its power. But he didn’t. He reached Spain and went on to live a long life.”
“He also didn’t try to covet her, to promote his own personal gain. If he helped his father, then he rescued her. There’s power in protection.”
“Not all women need to be protected.” She poured cream into her coffee, stirred it with a spoon.
“Are we talking about Doña Marina now, or Maren Hudson?”
She shrugged again. “Both, probably. However, according to history, Doña Marina was a strong and independent woman. She didn’t need Cortés, but she wanted him. When he shunned her, she hurt. She cast that hurt. Whether the curse is real or not, the statue remains. The statue is of interest because it portrays an important woman in Mexican history. The curse surrounding it increases that interest. But the deaths that occurred in connection with that statue can most likely be explained if one looks at all the evidence on a case-by-case basis. People were murdered, died in battle, drowned, all throughout history whether they came in contact with one small gold statue or not. Zantum Leonard didn’t escape the curse; he just found a life where he didn’t fall upon unhappy circumstances.”
A smile split Nate’s lean face. “No romantic notions in that head of yours, huh?” When she only raised her brows and sipped her coffee, his cheesy grin disappeared. “And how would you explain what happened to your group nine years ago?”
The smile creeping at the edge of Maren’s mouth faded. “Bad luck.”
“And not related to the curse whatsoever?”
“No.” It was related to one son of a bitch who deserved to spend the rest of his life in a Mexican clink for what he’d done. But of course, that would never happen.
The waitress came and took their orders. Maren gave in to her grumbling stomach and settled on a fruit plate. When the young girl was gone, Nate leaned back in his chair and propped an ankle on his knee. “So, Maren, where have you been hiding yourself?”
Happy to be off the topic of the Yucatan, she let out a relieved sigh and lifted her mug for a deep drink. “The San Juan Islands.”
“I didn’t know there was a dig going on up there.”
“There’s not.”
His brow lifted in question, and she waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “I wasn’t on a dig. My mother runs a hotel there. She had a heart attack last year, and I flew home from Greece where I was working to help out.”
“You’ve been working in a hotel for the past year?”
“No, running it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a woman of many talents. I can dig with the best of them, or manage a hotel full of drunk wedding guests. Either way, I’m a force to be reckoned with. People tell me I have a fierce temper and a finite patience.”
Nate laughed. “I bet you do. Remind me to stay on your good side.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m very good at handling irrational men.”
“Are you?”
“Yes. I grew up with Patrick Hudson for a father. I had to learn somewhere.”
“What exactly is your relationship with Patrick?”
Maren pursed her lips and tried to decide how best to answer that question. “Professional. We rarely see each other. He wasn’t around much when I was a kid. He was usually off on a dig somewhere. His career has always come before family.”
“Your parents are divorced?”
“No.” She lifted her mug and sipped again. “Still married, although why, I’ll never understand. I think it’s because neither is able to admit defeat. They’re both stubborn jackasses.”
He chuckled. The waitress brought their plates and left. “Doesn’t sound like you get along with your mother all that well either.”
“Better than I do with Patrick. She’s a hard woman on the outside, but she has a few redeeming qualities.”
“And Patrick?”
A frown tugged at her mouth. “I’m still waiting for those qualities.”
He took a bite of his food, chewed, and said, “Patrick tells me you’re leaving today.”
Maren’s stomach twisted. “That remains to be seen at the moment.”
Fork in hand, he lifted his brow in surprise. “So you’re staying?”
Staying, betraying, lying…
Yeah, all of those things. She swallowed back the bile and forced a smile. “It looks that way.”
“Patrick will be thrilled.”
Maren doubted that. At least in the long run. She sipped her coffee again. “Don’t worry. I won’t be getting any preferential treatment.”
“But you’re staying nonetheless. Because you believe in the same thing I do.”
“And what’s that?” she asked with amusement, reaching for her fork.
“Instinct. Whether you believe in the curse or not, instinct is telling you to stay.” He took a bite of his food and waved his utensil. “Intuition is almost as strong as magic.”
Her eyes swept over his boy-next-door features. She didn’t believe one iota in magic or curses or fate and destiny. Life was one big crapshoot, and you ended up with whatever cards you were dealt. Hers happened to be pretty rotten, but she was making the best of what she had. And it wasn’t instinct that was forcing her to stay. It was fear over what Evan would do if she left that kept her rooted in place.
“And magic is only a term used to define the undefinable,” she tossed back. “The world is full of undefinable situations, Nate. Sometimes all you can do is go with the flow.”
He looked up. And something in his lopsided grin said he’d prove her wrong. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”
Maren and Nate headed back across the sand toward camp after breakfast and fell into an easy rhythm discussing archaeology. She’d never heard his name before—not in academic settings or professional circles—and she couldn’t help but wonder who he was and why all this interested him.
“So tell me, Nate Drummer. You know why I’m here. Why are you here?”
He chuckled. “Wondered when we’d get to that. I met Patrick on a dig in Kenya several years ago. The Koobi Fora dig—”
“Made famous by Richard Leakey in the 1970s for his discovery of ancient hominids.” She nodded. “I remember when Patrick was there, but I don’t remember him mentioning your name.”
“Probably because I wasn’t important enough to mention. I’m a freelance photographer. I travel all over the world taking pictures for various magazines. I’d been asked to document the field school there. Patrick had come in to teach a few classes as a favor to a colleague. One night we’re all sitting around the fire, kicking back beers and passing a bottle of Jack someone had flown in, and Patrick starts telling us this story about La Malinche. Most of the students thought he’d just had some bad whiskey since he was ranting and raving about the curse. But there was something about the story that fascinated me. I did a little research, found out he wasn’t completely full of shit, and told him if he ever tried to go after it again, to give me a call.”
“And you didn’t think that was unethical at all?
He shot her lopsided grin. “Maren, there’s something you need to know about me. I don’t give a shit about the academic stuff. I don’t care if my name gets published or my work winds up in Archaeology Today. I’m not a treasure hunter, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not here to filch historical goods. I’m here because I love what I do. I love traveling, seeing new places,
meeting interesting people, and helping those in your position document history.”
Maren stopped and stared after him. “You’re a trust fund baby, aren’t you?”
He turned and looked at her, a completely innocent smile on his face. “Now what makes you think that?”
“I’ve known a few in my day.”
His grin widened, and he gestured for her to keep walking. “My dad’s an investment banker in Connecticut. My mother’s the queen of the social lunch. I got out of there with my camera as soon as I graduated from high school because I couldn’t handle the rigid formality of it all, but I won’t complain about the opportunities their money has given me. Things like having my photos on the covers of National Geographic, Time, and Newsweek. I’d have to be stupid to regret having the funds to travel, that gave me the opportunity to accomplish those goals.”
Maren couldn’t help but be a little impressed. She never paid attention to a photo’s byline, but she had to admit, that was pretty cool. As was Nate’s forthcoming attitude. Refreshing, actually. “So I take it Patrick called you when he decided to go after La Malinche again.”
“Not right away. He’d obviously been following it for some time, but you know Patrick, he keeps a lot to himself. We hooked up on a project in Ecuador a few years ago, fell into an easy rhythm again, and he shared some of the things he’d found since our last meeting. Then a few months ago, he called and asked if I wanted to be involved by documenting the project.”
“There are other people who want La Malinche.”
“The same people who caused trouble for you in Mexico nine years ago? Yeah, I get that.”
“And you still want to be involved?” She stopped and looked up.
He turned to face her. “Let’s cut through the crap here, Maren. Are we talking about Evan Declan?”
She clenched her jaw at the mere mention of the treasure hunter’s name and started walking again.
Nate grasped her arm and stepped in her path. “Time for honesty. I know Declan funded the dig, that he thought your father was going to double-cross him, and that he was in that cenote when Leighton’s brother was killed.”