Into the Wild. Beth Ciotta

Something to distract her from dark thoughts. As much as she resented Henry, she didn’t want him dead.

      Unnerved, she looked away from Spenser and focused on the scenery. Buildings had given way to mountains covered in lush green vegetation. “Where are you taking me?”

      “Someplace private.”

      “If you’re afraid I’m going to have a meltdown when you deliver the news, don’t worry, I won’t. I didn’t even cry when David abandoned me at the altar.” Oh, hell. Why had she told him that?

      “This is for me as much as you,” he said, skating over talk of her wrecked wedding. “I needed to get out of town for a while.”

      She glanced at him. “Why?”

      “Let’s just say I have a love/hate relationship with Baños.”

      He veered off the road, taking a bumpy route through a dense copse of trees.

      Where there are trees there are bugs.

      She wasn’t fond of any bug, especially fire ants—nasty, stinging, blister-inducing creepy crawlers—but she feared mosquitoes. Specifically anopheles mosquitoes. They transmitted malaria. They killed one to three million people annually. Because her mom and grandma had recounted her brush with malaria so many times, River had become obsessed with the disease. She’d researched the subject to death. Anopheles mosquitoes typically attacked in the evening and early morning.

      Evening was fast approaching.

      She’d taken precautions—an antimalarial drug, bug spray, protective clothing. She still felt at risk. As Spenser drove deeper into the trees, she buttoned her denim jacket and looped her extra long gauzy scarf twice more around her neck, covering as much skin as possible.

      “Cold?” he asked.

      “A little,” she lied. Across the way, River spied a waterfall. Frothy water gushed over the craggy mountain face between and an endless variety of trees. Momentarily distracted, she gaped at the breathtaking sight. “Beautiful,” she whispered, aching for the camera she’d left in her room.

      “I’ve always thought so.” After parking, he rounded the jeep and handed her out.

      Old-fashioned sensibilities.

      River found that quality both attractive and annoying. She really disliked the way his innocent touch incited a sensual tingling. “I asked several locals about my father. No one had ever heard of him,” she blurted as they walked a narrow trail. “How is it you learned something?”

      “I asked the right person. Someone who wasn’t afraid to talk about him.”

      “Why would anyone be afraid to talk about Henry?”

      “They think he’s cursed.”

      Maldición.

      River had a lot of quirks, but she wasn’t superstitious. Still, she had a bad feeling about this curse business. She waited for Spenser to explain. He didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t one for walking and talking. Willing patience, she kept stride and kept quiet. It wasn’t easy. Watching for flying blood suckers of death, she spritzed the air in front of her with insect repellent and walked through the life-saving mist.

      “Have a thing about bugs, River?”

      “Everyone should have a thing about bugs. Especially the kind that transmit deadly diseases.”

      “Won’t argue with that.”

      “But?”

      He shook his head. “Never mind.”

      They reached the end of the trail and he gestured toward a crude stone bench with a prime view of the waterfall. He waited until she was seated, then eased down next to her. It was all she could do not to lean into him. The man was a freaking sex magnet.

      “Are you waiting for the perfect moment?” she snapped. “Searching for the right words? Whatever you know about Henry, just tell me.” The suspense was killing her.

      Focused on the waterfall, Spenser pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I met your father three years ago by chance. Nice guy.”

      River didn’t comment. Nice guys didn’t turn their backs on loved ones. They didn’t choose career over family. They didn’t ignore obvious danger in order to quench their own selfish thirst.

      “He’s obsessed with rediscovering lost treasures,” Spenser said.

      “Tell me something I don’t know.”

      “Do you know about the Lost Treasure of Llanganatis?”

      “No.” But her waiter had mentioned it, and she’d seen Llanganatis scribbled in Henry’s journal. It had to be pertinent. “Let’s hear it.” She noted Spenser’s squared shoulders, the weariness around his eyes. Was he stressed? Angry? She hated that she cared.

      “I won’t bog you down with historical or mythological details. Trust me, I know a lot of details.”

      “The condensed version is fine.” She could always Google it.

      He nodded, then braced his forearms on his knees.

      River balled her hands in her lap, steeled her spine.

      “According to legend,” he said in a voice that probably mesmerized countless viewers of his show, “in the sixteenth century, the Incas buried a massive sum of gold deep within the Llanganatis mountain range, a remote and treacherous region of the Andes. People have been searching for that treasure for centuries. Many have met unfortunate ends, resulting in the belief in a vengeful curse.”

      He left River hanging as he stood and walked to a railed ledge overlooking the waterfall. She refrained from palming the hidden amulet, ignored the burning sensation against her skin. Trembling with frustration, she strove not to yell. “Teasing the listener with bits of information, then leaving them hanging over a commercial break might work for your viewers, but this is real life and I’m really annoyed. What’s the damned curse?”

      “If those mountains don’t kill you, they’ll make you go mad.”

      She blanched. “You think Henry’s gone mad?”

      He didn’t answer.

      “You think he’s dead?”

      “No one’s seen him for three months.”

      She felt a little ill. “That doesn’t mean anything. He could be deep in the mountains without means of communication. Alive and…”

      If you receive this package, it means I am sacrificing my life to protect a precious treasure.

      River massaged her pounding temples. Could the precious treasure and the Incan treasure be one and the same? Was the amulet part of that treasure or merely a talisman to protect her from a curse?

      Spenser turned. “What was in the package, River?”

      Her face burned. “What package?”

      “The package your dad sent you. The one that led you to Baños. And before you ask, your assistant told my sister, who told me.”

      River thought about the amulet hidden beneath her clothes, of the journal buried in the depths of the sling pack resting against her side.

      Share it with no one except Professor Bovedine and beware of the hunters.

      She took a step back and answered Spenser’s question with one of her own. “How much is that treasure worth?”

      “Today? Around eight billion.”

      “Dollars?”

      “Whoever discovers that treasure will be rich and famous beyond imagining. Aside from the money itself, there’s the historical significance.”

      This from a TV celebrity who hosted a treasure-hunting show.