To Protect a Princess. Gail Barrett

then she caught the flat, mean stare of the man who’d touched her, and her dread rose. She’d made an enemy here, a dangerous one. Maybe she’d be smart to leave.

      She hurried out the door into the dusty road, spotted a huge black gelding standing by some mules. His sleek coat gleamed in the sunshine. Muscles rippled in his powerful neck. He wore a worked silver browband across his strong forehead, two oiled leather packs draped over his flanks. Logan’s horse. He looked as dangerous as his owner did.

      Logan strode from the cantina a second later. He glanced at her, his dark eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat, then vaulted into the saddle and reached out his hand. “Come on.”

      She blinked, hesitated. “We’re going to ride double?” She was a Gypsy—Roma—and proper Roma women didn’t get that close to men. But then, nothing about this trip was proper.

      “Unless you want to stay here.”

      She flicked her gaze back to the cantina, then shivered hard. “No, thanks.”

      She stuck her pistol in her backpack and grabbed his hand. His palm was warm, callused, his strength impressive as he tugged her up. She swung her leg awkwardly over the horse, settling behind the saddle on the horse’s rump.

      “Hold on,” he warned. He wheeled the horse around, and she clutched his shirt. The horse took off at a lope.

      She gasped at the burst of speed, wrapped her arms around Logan’s waist to keep from falling off. She buried her face in his shirt, inhaled the comforting scent of wool and man, felt his solid muscles bunch under her hands. The gelding streaked down the road, flying over rocks and ruts in easy strides, making the huts pass by in a blur.

      They fled the tiny village, scaled a rocky hillside, then raced down a dusty trail. The horse’s hooves drummed on the sunbaked earth. The warm wind lashed at her eyes. Minutes later, they reached a sparse stand of pine trees and slowed.

      “Are you all right?” Logan asked.

      “Sure.” But she realized she was plastered against him, probably squeezing the air from his lungs. She pried her hands from his waist and leaned back.

      But even with the added space between them, it still seemed strangely intimate to be sitting so close to him, with only the edge of the saddle separating their thighs. Unsettling.

      But then, everything about Logan Burke unnerved her. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. When her archeologist colleague had urged her to contact him—the only man rumored to know the ancient trails—she’d envisioned a grizzled old tracker, not this virile man in his prime.

      She ran her gaze over the straight black hair edging his collar beneath his hat, the strong, sinewed lines of his neck. He cradled the assault rifle in one big hand, held the reins in the other with practiced ease. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows, exposing tanned forearms roped with tendons. Faded jeans gloved his muscled thighs.

      Flutters rose in her belly, pranced through her nerves. She couldn’t deny that the man appealed to her in a very basic way.

      But she’d come here to get to Quillacocha, not ogle Logan Burke. She squinted in the brilliant sunshine, gazed at the distant peaks edged with snow. The ancient city was up there in the wilderness somewhere. And only this man knew where it was.

      Now she had to convince him to take her there.

      They rounded the cluster of pines. Logan leaned back and hauled on the reins. The horse danced sideways and stopped.

      He glanced at her over his wide shoulder. “How did you get to the village?”

      “I hitched a ride partway, then hiked the rest.” Her stomach growled in protest. She’d hoped to find food in the village, but the place was little more than a shelled-out ghost town. And she hadn’t had a chance to eat in the bar.

      He muttered something she didn’t catch. “Slide off,” he said. He grabbed her arm, and she dropped to the ground, then stepped away from the horse in case he kicked.

      Logan leaped easily down beside her, and she realized again how big he was. At five-six, she wasn’t tiny, but she barely reached his chin. He looped the horse’s reins over a branch, then strode through the trees to a rocky outcrop, still carrying his gun. She followed more slowly, rubbing her bottom and stretching her arms.

      The village squatted against the mountain beneath them, its drab mud hovels devoid of life, the rutted streets deserted except for the mules tied up by the bar. Dara scanned the surrounding hillside, studied the dirt road leading into the town, then slowly hitched out her breath. Maybe she’d imagined that man following her. Maybe she’d grown paranoid after that attack in her apartment. After all, no one, except her colleague, knew where she was.

      But they’d found her before, she reminded herself. Even being in protective custody after her parents’ murders hadn’t kept her safe. And now that she knew where that sacred dagger was…

      She rubbed her pounding forehead, dropped her hand to the pack that contained the diagrams she had to protect. She’d have to watch, stay alert in case someone really had followed her into these hills.

      Logan’s gaze swiveled back to hers. “So, what the hell is this about?”

      She chose her words carefully. It was too dangerous to tell him everything, at least for now. She only hoped he didn’t hear much news out here.

      “I’m an archeologist,” she said, since that was true. “And I’m studying Quillacocha, the lost Inca city.” That was true, too.

      She shifted the pack she’d slung over her shoulder, met his relentless gaze. “I’ve heard that you’re the only one who knows where it is. I’d like to hire you to take me there—so I can study it, take photos of the ancient tombs.”

      He stared at her, his dark eyes etched with disbelief. “You came all the way up here alone to see some tombs?”

      Her face warmed. He made her sound foolish, reckless. As if she were really the daredevil her people believed her to be.

      But she couldn’t tell him the truth—about the fabled dagger, the murders, the secret society that was killing the Roma worldwide. He probably wouldn’t believe her if she did.

      And if he did believe her, he would never take the risk to help her. Especially if he knew who she was.

      “It’s important work,” she argued. “Quillacocha is the link we need to understand Incan sacrificial rites. And I only need to find out where the city is, take a few photos. It won’t take much of your time. I’ll come back later with a team to explore it more.”

      His gaze pinned hers. “And it’s worth risking your life to see these tombs?”

      No, but finding the dagger was.

      “I didn’t have time to get the permits or assemble a team,” she continued. There had already been too many Gypsies killed. “My colleague is working on that part. I’m going to meet up with him after I locate the tombs.”

      He shot her a look of incredulity, disgust, then scowled down at the village again. And she knew she hadn’t convinced him. But she would. She had to. More people would die if she failed.

      She took in his tall, muscular build, the barely leashed power in his dominant stance. He was a tough man, a dangerous one. A man honed for battle and ready to fight.

      Exactly the man she needed up here.

      And the most appealing man she’d ever seen.

      A restless feeling hummed through her nerves. And she had a sudden urge to feel those hard biceps under her palms, stroke her hands up those muscled arms.

      What would it be like to kiss him?

      The thought sliced out of nowhere, shocking her, and she caught her breath. Despite her sheltered upbringing as the Roma princess, she’d kissed a few men before—mostly gadžos, non-Roma she’d met at school.