Entangled (Serendipity Adventure Romance Book 2) (10 page)

“Heya, Cara,” he shouted from the water.

She snapped her chin up and flipped the book shut. “Yeah?” It came out weak and warbly.

“You okay?”

He was treading water, looking at her from thirty yards away. Checking if she was okay. He’d stopped everything he was doing and come halfway across the country to check if she was okay.

Tobin had never, ever let her down. And he never, ever would.

Was she okay?

Kinda. Sorta.

If she was okay, it was only because he was here, promising her everything, asking for nothing.

She sniffed and looked at him and managed a weak smile. Then she pointed the camera of her mind’s eye at the waterfall and captured the scene.
Click!
Caption:
The man that I loved.

The minute the thought slipped out, she wanted to correct it.
The man I still love.

Chapter Fifteen

Where the rest of the day went, Tobin wasn’t sure, but it passed in a blur. A wordless picnic lunch at the base of the falls, an hour of wondering why Cara was so quiet. Then the guides-slash-guards had reappeared and led the way back along the rough jungle trail.

An hour of walking stretched into two, and his mind kept skipping between what he’d already started to think of as The Waterfall Kiss and The Great Escape. One second, he’d be calculating angles and heights and likeliness of instant death, and the next, he’d go hot all over and relive the moment when Cara slid into his lap and wrapped her legs around him. He ached to have her that close again. For her to put her lips on his and mumble,
Yes, yes, yes.

Slowly, gradually, another image edged in. A long-forgotten one that tickled the back of his mind, drifting in and out of focus as he ducked under low-hanging leaves and vines. The more he concentrated on it, the more the jungle faded away. And there it was: his Grand Plan.

It was going to be a wedding surprise for Cara: him buying into a local ski hill and settling down. The plan had pretty much self-imploded six years ago, as he had. And yet there it was again, dancing in the shadows of the rain forest. His business plan.

Yeah — him, Tobin Cooper, with a business plan.

He’d had it all figured out. The place he’d learned to ski as a kid had been abandoned for years. It wasn’t much — just a single bunny hill with a rusty T-bar. But it didn’t have to be much. The place was close enough to the outer Boston suburbs to guarantee business, even in tough economic times. A lift pass at a place like that cost about as much as a Happy Meal, so it would be cheap, close, and convenient. Customers guaranteed, and a lot of joy for a lot of people. Just the kind of business venture Cara had always encouraged him to explore.

He’d planned it, A to Z. Even got a bank to okay a loan. On the way from the wedding to the honeymoon, they would stop by Beech Tree Hill so he could show Cara the place, reveal his plan, and watch her swell with pride. They’d look out over the hill and laugh and hug and picture their own kids learning to ski there someday.

His thoughts skidded to a halt there. So, okay, that would never happen. But the rest… It would be a good business. Small enough for him to keep a handle on, big enough to make a living off. The clients would be happy. And him, he’d be happy enough.

Squeaks and squawks came from the jungle canopy, reminding him where he was. Why.

Cara. Everything he’d ever wanted, and still did.

Her hand was there, just asking to be held, so he did. Held it the rest of the way back into the village, in fact, and reveled in every second that ticked by with her fingers laced through his. His mind jumped time and place, hopping between a wintery New England and this Central America jungle, and he wondered. Wondered a bit too much for his own good.

Then a mosquito buzzed in his ear and he mug-slapped himself back to figuring how far they might run and how fast. Because tomorrow was the day. Friday.

Tomorrow he had to get her out of here. All they needed was an early start and a little luck.

Until then, they had what was left of the afternoon and a very long night. How the hell was he going to be able to crawl into bed next to Cara and not do all the things his body craved? Like kissing her senseless, then making his way down her perfect body and kissing some more. Relearning every inch of Cara until she was moaning, begging for him to let her come. Then he’d slide inside and the two of them would soar like a couple of birds—

“Butterflies,
señor?”

He blinked. They were nearly back at the village. Rodrigo stood before him, asking about…what?

“Did you see any butterflies?” Rodrigo asked, scrutinizing him for any hint of a lie. Yeah, he knew Tobin was up to more than just vacationing with his almost-wife.

So he told the truth. Or a half-truth, anyway. “Honestly, I kind of lost track. Spent more time watching my beautiful wife.”

My wife.
It had a ring of rightness to it.

Forget the bugs, the humidity, the rain shower just starting to trickle through the thick canopy above. He had his woman. His wife.

Okay, his almost-wife.

Their walk became a run as little sprinkles of rain turned into heavy drops and then solid sheets, putting the rain back in the rain forest and urgency back into their step. They sprinted into the village and ducked under the open-sided building that served as communal space. He skidded to a halt, laughing, and caught Cara in a hug. Let the water drops slide between their bodies. Let the rain pound down. He had her and—

Cara pulled back with a sharp breath.

“Ca—” he started to protest. Why did she have to fight something that felt so right?

But her eyes weren’t on him. They were wide and frightened, focused on a distant corner of the open space.

The hair on the back of Tobin’s neck stood up and he whirled, instinctively stepping in front of Cara.

“Buenos días,”
said a gritty, greedy voice.

Nobody answered. Not any of the village elders, huddled pensively to one side. Not the hunters, who eyed the newcomer like a venomous snake. Not even Rodrigo, who’d stepped into the shelter behind them and came to a sudden halt.

Except for the rain, there was no noise at all. Not the friendly chatter of women at work, nor the lilting voices of children at play. Not even curious faces peeking out of doorways. The entire village was hushed.

“Buenos días,”
the newcomer repeated. Not a greeting. A command.

“Buenos días,”
a few voices murmured on cue.

Tobin glared. Who was this jerk?

Che Guevara on a very bad day didn’t begin to describe the man. Scrappy beard, unruly locks of hair. Dark, darting eyes. His jungle camos weren’t just soaked; they were filthy. A cigarette drooped from his lips, the rancid odor so out of place in this lush, green space. He sat on a log in the shelter, a rifle slung at his side. He shifted a leg and the barrel swung right at the elders. A carefully calculated move, or sheer carelessness?

“Alfonso,” Rodrigo muttered between clenched teeth.

Tobin curled an arm backward, keeping Cara behind him. Wrong move, because the movement caught that man’s gaze and focused it right on Cara.

“Buenos dias.
” The man’s voice rose, buttery and soft. His eyes, though, were that of a cobra, studying its prey.

Cara stiffened behind Tobin’s back, and her fingers clenched his so tight, it hurt. Not that he was planning on letting go anytime soon. Not with that asshole hanging around.

Tobin narrowed his eyes and channeled
jungle warrior
at the intruder. It was obvious the intruder wasn’t welcome in the village. The men all stood stiff; the women chewed their lips and shot uneasy looks at one another.

A drug runner? What else could this grub of a man be? He wasn’t one of the bridge guards, that was for sure. Latino, not
indigeno
, like the villagers were. An outsider.

A dangerous one.

“Alfonso!” All heads snapped right, to where Lefebvre wandered in and gave the intruder an encouraging slap on the back. His eyes were glassy, his gait not quite right.

Tobin looked from one to the other. The anthropologist was buddies with a drug runner?

Alfonso, the newcomer, handed Lefebvre a tightly wrapped bundle. Pot? Cocaine? Whichever it was, it explained their unlikely friendship. A dangerous friendship, Tobin decided. Even the poker-faced villagers scowled, observing the two.

An older women shuffled forward with a liquid-filled gourd, but Alfonso pushed it away, snarling.
“Chicha! Chicha fuerte!”

The old woman kept her eyes down and beat a hasty retreat as a spirited protest ensued. Rodrigo, the elders, and the trio of village huntsmen all started talking at once. Tobin didn’t have to speak their language to get the message. No chicha. No way.

He’d tried a swig of the stuff once, back in Catalina, and he could still taste the burn in his throat. The last thing this unwanted visitor needed was a shot of alcohol in his system. Tobin could smell the dope on him, see it in his bloodshot eyes.

The eyes that had stopped roving and settled squarely on Cara. Appraising. Hungry. Crude.

Tobin shifted right and socked the man with the evil eye.
Just mess with me, asshole. Just try.

The man stared right back and slid a hand to his gun.

Chapter Sixteen

Alarms sounded throughout Cara’s body, ringing, blinking, and whooping. It seemed as if every man in the village glared at Alfonso from the shadows. The women were on guard, and every young girl was conspicuously hidden away. Even if this stranger hadn’t been in her field of vision — or had been, until Tobin moved to block him out — she would have felt him there. The way you felt a stranger walk behind you on a dimly lit street, or a mean mutt eye your ankles, calculating how far his chain might let him reach. That’s what the man was doing now. Calculating.

One gun against a dozen visitors — plus Tobin, who stood before her like a brick wall. He seemed to have doubled in size, a silverback gorilla ready to defend his turf.

The terrifying thing?
She
was the turf, and a fight could mean death.

Part of her wanted to huff, flip the intruder off, and put these posturing men back in their places. Who did this Alfonso guy think he was, looking at her like that? And who did Tobin think he was, playing knight?

Another part of her, though, shrank away. The scene playing out in front of her wasn’t just posturing; it was the prelude to a fight.

Something tugged at her hand. The old woman, motioning her away. Urgently. Insistently.

Come with me.
Now. Get out of this bad man’s sight.

Nothing she’d like better, but she wasn’t going anywhere without Tobin. She pulled his hand, and he turned.

Her breath stuck in her throat, because it was a Tobin she’d never, ever seen before. Gone was the generous charm, replaced by a fierce, intent warrior, ready to lay it all on the line. For her. Nostrils flaring like an angry bull.

She tightened her grip. If fingers could talk, hers would be begging.
Tobin, come with me.

His eyes flashed.
You go. I stay, as long as this shit stays.

No way.
Not without you.
No way was she leaving him in a stare-off with an armed man.

His eyes flickered, softened, and then closed briefly. When they opened again, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. The lapis blue eyes gazing into hers were full of promises and hopes, and something inside her melted as her heart begged for permission to love him again.

A second ticked by, and in it, an eternity. The intruder and the village and the rain forest all blurred out of focus until it was just the two of them.

Then something moved at the periphery of her vision, and she snapped back. Rodrigo and his uncle — bless them — had stepped in front of Alfonso, continuing their protests.

“No chicha! No!”

That gave her the break she needed. Cara pulled on Tobin’s hand, and this time, he followed her back out into the rain.

It was a cleansing rain that scrubbed the doubt and desperation away until she’d never been as sure of anything in her life as she was sure of him. Of them. A rain that chased them right across the clearing, splattering mud as they ran for the bungalow that felt surprisingly like home. She ducked into the doorway. Tobin was right on her heels, so close that his chest covered her back like a sheet of armor.

He pushed the door closed and they stood looking at each other. Chests heaving, water dripping, with a thousand unspoken words hanging in the thick air.

Tobin dragged his eyes off hers and stooped to look out the tiny window cut into the woven-mat wall.

She gulped away what she was about to say and peered outside.

“What do you think?”

The sinews of Tobin’s throat flexed and strained. “A drug runner, for sure.” He turned back to her. “Jesus, Cara, what was your company thinking, sending you up here alone?”

When he put it that way, it did sound pretty careless. She bit her lip. “I had a guide. I was expecting it to be in and out. Just one afternoon.”

Tobin shook his head and stared out the window. The rain hammered on the roof as she sorted through it all. How a single afternoon had somehow become a week. How a business trip into the jungle had somehow turned into a voyage through memories, emotions, and regrets. All the things she’d kept locked up, suddenly thrust into daylight, begging to be resolved. Here, of all places — this tangled, primal place.

Without thinking, she dropped her head to Tobin’s shoulder and laid a hand flat on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart, and closed the world away. Listening.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

His breath was a whisper on her cheek, his body solid steel. She, meanwhile, was a melting, soggy mess.

His arm curled around her waist, warm and tight. Right. The pounding of rain eased to a slap, then splattering drops. Tobin’s chest rose and fell with every breath.