Into the Wild. Beth Ciotta

      “Your sister’s on my ass. About you. About River.”

      “River’s fine.” She, too, was holed up in her room. Thinking or sleeping or watching TV, and no doubt cursing Spenser. He’d booked the room across from hers. The two times she’d stepped out, he’d stepped out, too. Both times she’d glared, done a one-eighty and slammed her door in his face. The scent of laundry-fresh bug repellent had lingered in the air, taunting him as keenly as Chanel 5.

      “I spoke to Gordo,” Jack said. “He told me who River’s dad is and where you think he might be.”

      Shit.

      “Are you going after Professor Kane, Spense?”

      “I’m going to drive River to the nearest airport and put her on a plane bound for the States.” The sooner, the better. “Then I’m going to get back to business and search for El Dorado. I’ve got a show to film.” He hoped.

      “What about Kane?”

      “The authorities are aware he’s missing. If they learn anything of consequence, they’ll contact his daughter.”

      After a tense pause, Jack said, “You’re an expert on that region, that legend. If Kane used Valverde’s guide or even that other guy’s map—”

      “Brunner.”

      “You could probably find him. Dead or alive. At least River wouldn’t be left wondering. Also…maybe you could find closure yourself, Spense.”

      “Face my demons?”

      “Whatever it takes to move on.”

      Spenser swung out of bed and nabbed a bottle of pain relievers from his backpack. “Kylie see eye to eye with you on this?”

      “She wants you to let go and move on.”

      “But she doesn’t want me to trek into the Llanganatis.”

      “Hell, no.”

      Spenser washed down the tablets with a swig of Inca Kola. He opened the window and breathed deep. Bittersweet memories swirled along with the cool air and salsa music.

      He thought about River, acknowledged another kind of ache.

      He wanted to move on.

      “If I go,” he said to Jack, “there better be a wedding to attend when I come back.”

      “Nothing would keep me from marrying your sister. Again.”

      Spenser grinned. “I’ll be in touch.”

      He disconnected just as another call came in.

      Cyrus Lassiter.

      The crusty treasure hunter had promised to call if he remembered anything more about Kane and his expedition.

      “More news on the professor, Cy?”

      “Not exactly,” the treasure hunter shouted over lively background noise. “This is about his daughter.”

      Spenser tensed.

      “I’m at El Dosel,” Cy said. “And so is she.”

      CHAPTER NINE

      RIVER COULDN’T DECIDE what had been riskier, climbing over her hotel balcony to the next balcony, then to the next two over, knocking on a stranger’s sliding glass door and exiting into the hall through said stranger’s room or…entering a bar on her own, a bar in a foreign country, a seedy bar patronized, as far as she could see, exclusively by men.

      Her body vibrated with nervous adrenaline—a weird sort of high—as she assessed the boisterous, crowded room.

      El Dosel was a smoky, dimly lit, testosterone-charged hole-in-the-wall. Taking in the decor, which could only politely be described as rustic, she reminded herself she wasn’t here for the ambiance. Or even the drinks. She was here to find a guide. According to Antonio, the waiter she’d met earlier today, El Dosel was the local watering hole for tour operators and treasure seekers. Telling one from the other was impossible. But she was determined to find someone who would help her locate Henry.

      That someone would not be Spenser McGraw. She’d never met a more infuriating, chauvinistic control freak. Booking a hotel room across from hers? Following her every move? The man was practically stalking her.

      Yet she was sexually attracted to him. Fiercely attracted.

      Talk about twisted.

      A purely shallow attraction, she assured herself. One that could be managed. Every time Spenser popped into her head, she kicked him aside with thoughts of David. Accommodating, sensible David—before his meltdown.

      Dredging up the confidence and calm she used when speaking with potential clients or anal-retentive wedding planners, River skirted a few tables and moved to an open spot at the end of the bar.

      The bartender, a swarthy, rail-thin man with a pencil mustache greeted her. Sort of. “American?”

      River sighed. “Oh, good. You speak English.”

      “Are you lost?”

      “No.” The mere thought struck fear into her heart. She hugged her sling pack containing her GPS and map.

      “I don’t want any trouble. You,” he said in an accented voice, “are trouble.”

      River practiced her superior people skills. She smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

      “Augusto.”

      “Augusto, I’m looking for a private guide. I was told I could find one here. Could you please point me toward a reliable, English-speaking, trustworthy, inexpensive guide?”

      He smirked. “You ask much.”

      “I’ll settle for someone who knows the Andes like the back of his hand, speaks broken English and won’t cost me a fortune.”

      He pointed out a half dozen men.

      After thanking him, River moved toward the least grungy and intimidating of the six. He was enthusiastic…until she mentioned Llanganatis.

      “Wait,” he said, his dark eyes narrowing. “Are you the woman who’s been asking around about Professor Kane?”

      At last! Someone who acknowledged her father’s existence. She’d hoped not to bring his name into this. That supposed curse was a hindrance. Plus, Henry had warned her off treasure hunters and this place was full of them. But this was too promising to ignore. She urged the man to lower his voice and adopted a pacifying smile. “All I need—”

      “I cannot help you.” He jerked away as though she were diseased.

      Undaunted, River moved on. She got the same response from her second and third prospects. The fourth turned her down before she finished her opening line. They all knew who she was and they all put stock in the curse. These locals were downright spooked. She got the strong sense Spenser hadn’t been completely honest with her. There had to be something more to the story, worse news regarding Henry’s expedition. Something that legitimized the curse.

      River took a calming breath. She refused to leave without a hired guide. Maybe if she blended in, she’d put them more at ease.

      She scanned the smoky bar, snorted. Blend. Right. Who was she kidding? She looked like a Barbie doll in a room full of G.I. Joes. Her only other option was to flirt. Could she play that game? Trump fears of a curse with her own seductive charm?