Into the Wild

CHAPTER TWO

Cajamarca, Peru, South America

Altitude 8,900 feet

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN they canceled the shoot?”

“An executive decision.” Spenser McGraw thumbed his cell to vibrate and placed it beside his empty beer bottle as Gordo Fish, his friend and professional sidekick, dropped into an opposing chair. The popular café buzzed with good cheer, offsetting the men’s grim expressions.

They’d flown from the Scottish Highlands to South America to film an episode for the popular cable show, Into the Wild. Spenser was the talent. Gordo was the one-man camera/audio crew. Now instead of exploring “The Legend of El Dorado,” instead of searching for a lost city of freaking gold, they’d been ordered to cool their heels in Cajamarca until the show’s new producer and a board of equally young turks hammered out the details of a new adrenaline-charged adventure. Spenser met his friend’s baffled stare. “They want to introduce an element of danger into the show.”

Gordo frowned. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Something tells me Necktie Nate is behind this.”

The nickname they’d given to Nathan Crup, their new Armani-suited producer. “Probably.”

“Has that asshole watched even one episode from the past five seasons?” Gordo complained. “We’ve battled extreme elements and hostile people. Survived mud-slides, cave-ins, avalanches and assorted injuries.”

“None of them life threatening.”

“Like hell. What about the time I got food poisoning in Cairo?”

Spenser found it amusing that a man who’d endured extreme temperatures, snakebites and altitude sickness would label the time he’d hugged the porcelain goddess in a ritzy hotel room as a near-death experience. “You weren’t even close to dying.”

“I ended up in the hospital.”

“Because you called an ambulance.”

“What I didn’t puke up shot out the other end. For three frickin’ hours. I’m telling you…” Gordo trailed off when he noticed the young woman standing next to them. “Sorry.” He squinted at her name tag. “Yara.”

Earlier, the sultry waitress had lingered at Spenser’s table, flirting outrageously, as most women did, until he’d received the phone call from Los Angeles. Now she was back, and though she spared Gordo a glance, her focus was on Spenser. He winked, encouraging the infatuation. Yara’s pretty face and voluptuous curves were a welcome distraction from Necktie’s disappointing mandate.

Gordo cleared his throat. “Why, yes, I would like to order something. Thank you for asking, Yara.”

Spenser smiled at the woman, then spoke in Spanish. “He’ll have what I’m having.”

“What are you having?” Gordo asked in English.

“Beer and tamales.”

“Forget the tamales.”

“They’re locally famous,” Spenser teased, knowing Gordo was still fixed on the Cairo incident and the “locally famous” molokhiyya.

“Just a beer, please,” he said in Spanish. “Make that two. No, three. Two for me, one for him.”

Beaming at Spenser, Yara nodded and left.

Gordo rolled his eyes. “You’re hooking up with her later, aren’t you?”

Never one to screw and tell, Spenser just grinned.

“Why aren’t you more upset about the canceled shoot? You’ve been hot on exploring the possibility that El Dorado is located in Peru and not Colombia for months.”

Spenser shrugged. Granted, at first he’d been royally ticked. Not just because Nate had pulled the plug on El Dorado, but because that pissant had called his Indiana Jones shtick old hat, insinuating in the next breath that Spenser was over-the-hill.

A) He didn’t do shtick.

B) Since when was he thirty-seven years old?

Shaking off the insults, he now saw the hole in the producer’s new angle. “When the board reviews Necktie’s brilliant idea, they’ll squelch it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because it’s been done.”

Gordo narrowed his eyes. “What does Necktie want us to do exactly?”

“To canoe down the Amazon, hack through the jungle and somehow connect with a fierce tribe—preferably cannibalistic.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Just about the cannibal part.”

“Great. So we risk malaria, piranha, jaguars and make nice with hostile indigenous peoples. And then?”

“Live with them for six months. Learn and record their ways. Survive whatever shit they sling at us.”

“It’s been done,” Gordo said with a derisive snort. “The Thrill Me, Chill Me Channel. Spock and Parnell Live With the Kaniwa.”

“Yup.”

Gordo scratched his trimmed red beard then massaged the back of his neck, his routine when mentally reviewing a situation. “Okay,” he said, waving away the chips and salsa Spenser nudged across the scarred table. “So the board nixes the living with a fierce tribe thing, but what if they still want to ratchet up the danger? We’re history-buff treasure hunters, not adrenaline junkie survivalists.”

Spenser didn’t contradict the man, even though he was only partially right. Maybe Gordo didn’t get off on adrenaline rushes, but Spenser did and he experienced one every time he suspected he was closing in on a lost treasure or legendary icon. “A hundred bucks says I get a call tomorrow green-lighting the El Dorado shoot.”

“If you don’t?”

“We’ll proceed regardless.” He wouldn’t spend a minute more than necessary in Cajamarca, the city where the Inca Empire had met its end. The capture and execution of the Incan emperor Atahualpa in 1532 launched a legend that had personally haunted Spenser for fifteen years. “Trust me, Gordo. The execs at the Explorer Channel will come around whether it’s tomorrow or a week from now.”

“Again. How can you be sure?”

“Why mess with success?”

“What?”

Spenser brushed crumbs from his fingers and voiced optimistic thoughts instead of the dark ones dwelling in the back of his brain, thanks to the suited pissant and this haunted city. “Our ratings have slipped, but overall they’re still pretty high. We’ve got fan clubs, websites and discussion boards. I’m in negotiations to write a book. We’re still at the top of our game, my friend, and the public’s curiosity regarding lost treasures and mythical icons will never die. All we have to do is Twitter about the possible changes to Into the Wild and I guarantee the execs will be deluged with complaints.”

“We do have some pretty rabid fans,” Gordo said, perking up as Yara served him dos cervezas. “Including influential anthropologists, archaeologists and professors of antiquities. Since you’ve got plans,” he said, gesturing to the enamored waitress, “I’ll tweet and initiate an uprising. The sooner we get the thumbs-up on El Dorado, the better. Don’t forget, you’re supposed to be in Indiana in less than a month. If you miss your sister’s wedding, she’ll never forgive you.”

Not only that, Jack Reynolds, his best friend and said groom, would kick his ass. Or at least try, Spenser thought with a wry smile. Even though he already considered his sister and friend married, he wouldn’t miss the official shindig for the world. “Only one thing could keep me from my little sister’s wedding.”

Gordo winced. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. If Necktie gets his way you’ll be swimming with flesh-eating fish.”

“Relax, oh voice of doom. I’m not going to die.”

“You’re tough and lucky,” Gordo said as he turned to leave, “but you’re not invincible, Spense.”

Spenser watched his friend move serpentinely through the crowded café. He chugged beer to wash down a surge of old guilt. “Not invincible, Gordo, but definitely cursed.”

Just then his phone vibrated. He smiled apologetically at Yara, who reluctantly moved on to her next customer. “That was a quick turnaround,” Spenser said, assuming the incoming call was from Necktie. Instead it was his sister, Kylie, who only called out of the country when there was a crisis at home. A rarity since she was a problem-solver extraordinaire. He braced for bad news. “What’s wrong, kitten?”

“I know you’re working, but I need a favor, Spenser. A huge favor.”

CHAPTER THREE

Quito, Ecuador, South America

Altitude 9,214 feet

RIVER’S HEAD POUNDED as she moved out of the Boeing 757 and into the Mariscal Sucre International Airport. Her legs and back should have ached, too. She’d been cooped up on three different planes for nearly fourteen hours. Instead, her body felt oddly numb as she walked—no, floated—into the terminal.

She dragged a rolling camera bag behind her, chalking up the zombie-like feeling to sleep deprivation. As exhausted as she was, she hadn’t been able to sleep on the long journey from Indiana to Ecuador. Between the all-nighter she’d pulled preparing for her trip and the extensive travel day, she’d been awake for thirty-eight hours. Presently, she was operating on adrenaline and gallons of Pepsi.

River’s first two thoughts as she navigated the bustling terminal: I wish I spoke Spanish, and God, I have to pee.

She ducked into the first bathroom she saw to take care of the second. As for the first, according to her speedy but thorough research, although the predominant language of Ecuador was Spanish, English was spoken in most major visitor centers. Quito, the capital, certainly qualified as a tourist destination, as did Baños. Situated at the base of a large volcano, the small town, some four hours south, was famous for its basilica, hot springs and its accessibility to the jungle. Although Henry had mailed his journal from Baños—also known as the gateway to the Amazon—ten to one he was in the jungle. Ten to one she’d be hiring a guide. She’d just make sure the guide doubled as a translator.

She had it all planned. Well, maybe not all, but everything within her power. She found comfort in knowing where she was and where she was going and what she was going to do. As long as she had a plan and a map, she was safe.

River exited the stall and moved to the sink. Unfortunately, she also glanced at the mirror. She looked as horrible as she felt. Pale, clammy skin, dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, limp curls escaping her stubby ponytail.

She needed a shower and sleep—maybe not in that order. She needed to get to the hotel she’d booked for the night before she dropped dead. Her head hurt and now her chest was tight. Plus, there was the whole jelly-limb, zombie-like thing going on. Not to mention she was feeling anxious about venturing into the jungle and melancholy about Professor Bovedine.

Dead.

Just like with her mom, who’d perished on one of Henry’s remote expeditions, River was having a hard time accepting Bovedine’s demise. Death was bad enough, but when it was senseless or could have been avoided…

If only Bovedine hadn’t returned home ahead of schedule. Had Mrs. Robbins called him at the university to tell him about the arrival of Henry’s package? Had he been in a hurry to view the contents? What if the package wasn’t buried in the ransacked mess? What if the burglars had taken it? Although why would they, unless the contents were valuable?

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to know what Henry had sent Bovedine. Unfortunately, Mrs. Robbins, who’d considered her employer of twenty years a friend, was an emotional basket case, and Professor Bovedine’s funeral was scheduled for tomorrow. Bad enough River wasn’t attending, she wasn’t about to add to the housekeeper’s grief by nagging her about the missing package. She knew River was keen to know the contents. The woman would call as soon as she found it. If she found it. And if she didn’t…

River nixed the idea that whatever Henry had entrusted to Professor Bovedine was forever lost. Obsessing wouldn’t do.

Shoving aside dark thoughts, she washed her hands once, twice and then splashed cool water on her face. Slightly refreshed, she used her elbow to manipulate the towel dispenser—a quirk she’d picked up from Grandma Franklin. “Public restrooms are infested with germs,” the woman was fond of saying. “Never touch surfaces and never, ever sit on the toilet seat.” She’d drilled the notions into River until she not only believed but practiced the rituals. If she did touch something, she attacked the germs before they attacked her. “Better safe than sorry” was almost as common a cliché in her family as, “It’s for your own good.”

Swear to God, the next person who said anything close to that was going to get the toe of her all-weather trekking boot up their…

Well, at the very least she’d tell them to mind their own beeswax. Playing it safe had cost her a would-be husband and saddled her with a business she wasn’t even all that crazy about.

Irritated now, River powdered her face and applied tinted balm to her lips. Ridiculous, since she planned on heading straight to her hotel and dropping into bed, but what if she miraculously ran into David? Stranger things had happened. Like her father and her ex being in the same foreign region at the same time. Not that she wanted to impress David. The plan was to give him a piece of her mind. To say all the things she should have said when he’d humiliated her in front of the preacher and thirty-eight wedding guests. She had a lot of questions, too. She wanted answers. Needed closure. She didn’t want to reconcile with David, although the more she thought about it, maybe she did.

She’d used that very excuse for zipping off to South America when she’d spoken to Ella. And then again with her friend Kylie. “I’m going to get back my life. I’m going to fight for the man I love.”

Romantic saps, they’d believed her. Although Kylie had insisted on hooking River up with her brother Spenser McGraw, who, as fate would have it, was also in Peru. “He knows the area,” she’d said. “You don’t. It’s unsafe for a woman to travel in that region alone.”

Maybe so. But no way, no how did she want to “hook up” with Spenser McGraw. The man hosted a treasure hunter show for the Explorer Channel.

Beware of the hunters.

She’d thanked Kylie for her thoughtfulness, but adamantly declined. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” (True) “I know what I’m doing.” (Lie)

Unfortunately, Kylie was bullheaded, insisting she had River’s best interest at heart, which only irritated River more. Did everyone view her as fragile? The phone call had ended badly, with Kylie questioning River’s state of mind and River doubting Spenser’s integrity. The moment she’d realized she’d hurt Kylie’s feelings, she’d apologized and hung up.

Before she made things worse.

River felt bad, but her blurted insult had come from an honest place. She’d never met Spenser, but she knew his type. If he visited his family twice a year, that was a lot. His preoccupation with legendary treasures and his career kept him in the field. McGraw was cut from the same cloth as Henry, therefore Kylie had cut him off at the knees. The man was a home-grown local celebrity, yet she was probably the only person in the county, heck, the state, who’d never seen his show. She had no interest whatsoever in a self-absorbed adventurer like Spenser McGraw. How Kylie worshipped her brother, even when she cursed him, was beyond River. Obviously they shared some sort of bond that River had never experienced with Henry. Ever.

Melancholy and angry, River freed her hair of the elastic band, fluffed her curls and reevaluated her appearance.

Lack of sleep. Jet lag. Frayed nerves.

“This is as good as it gets.”

She slipped her makeup bag into the pocket of her sling travel pack, pulled out her hand sanitizer and squirted. Airport regulation had allowed her three ounces. She was almost out. Luckily, she had a few larger bottles packed in her big duffel, along with other crucial necessities, including sunscreen, bug spray and antimalarial drugs. Ella would call her paranoid. River preferred cautious. People died from tropical diseases. She’d almost been one of those people. She didn’t remember anything about her battle with malaria—she’d only been two—but her family had drilled the fiasco into her head. Along with the time she’d gotten sun poisoning in Egypt, attacked by fire ants in Thailand and lost in Mexico.

Suddenly fearful about being separated from her suitcase, River hustled out of the bathroom and toward baggage claim. Thank God for the diagrams on the signs. As long as she had direction. As long as she knew where to go.

Her head throbbed, her chest ached. It couldn’t be a relapse, she calmly told herself. The symptoms were wrong. This was exhaustion. Lack of sleep and food. Stress. She wondered about Henry. Was he happy? Frightened? Dead?

His journal was tucked safely in her travel pack, along with her passport, wallet, handheld GPS system and other essentials. She’d reviewed his notes on the plane, but her eyes had kept blurring and her brain kept glitching. There was a lot to absorb, not all of it pertaining to his current predicament, and, though she knew she should’ve focused on clues about a South American treasure, she’d been mesmerized by the photographs tucked between the pages. Her mom had kept scrapbooks, but these had been in Henry’s possession. The family shots intrigued her most. Why had her father kept pictures of her when he was sorry she was ever born?

I love you. Since when?

Squashing conflicting emotions and ignoring her tight chest, River searched for the correct baggage carousel. So much luggage. So many people. Most of them speaking languages she didn’t understand. She felt a little overwhelmed. No, a lot overwhelmed. Maybe that’s why it was difficult to breathe. Maybe she was gearing up for a panic attack. She’d had them before. Whenever she felt lost. Only she wasn’t lost. She was at the Mariscal Sucre International Airport. And she certainly wasn’t alone. If she needed help, all she had to do was ask. Preferably someone who looked like they spoke English.

Like the man coming straight toward her.

European or American. Late thirties or early forties. Hard to tell from this distance. But his stride and posture telegraphed the confidence of a mature man. A sexy, secure man.

Wow.

Cropped sandy-brown hair and vivid green eyes contrasted greatly with his sun-bronzed skin. His mouth was…to die for. And the crinkles around his eyes suggested he smiled often, sort of like now.

Good Lord. Was he smiling at her?

He was still a few feet away and she was fuzzy around the edges. Even so…he looked familiar. If he wasn’t a male model, an actor or a rock star, he should be. Tall, fit and rugged. Even his cargo pants and baggy layered T-shirts couldn’t disguise his muscled physique. Maybe he was a sports celebrity.

She’d seen him before. Where, dammit? A magazine? A commercial?

If she could move, she’d nab her 35mm from her rolling bag. Her fingers itched to photograph male perfection.

River blushed head to toe. Or maybe she was feverish. She was definitely woozy. The visceral attraction nearly brought her to her knees.

He was the most handsome, most virile, most charismatic man she’d ever seen in the flesh.