Forbidden. Ellen James

       CHAPTER ONE

      N ICHOLAS PETRIE WAS like the island shore itself: lean, craggy, windswept–more than a bit weatherworn. Dana had a few moments to observe him as he came striding toward her at the boat landing. She recognized him from photographs she’d seen in his books. Dr. Nicholas Petrie…archaeologist. The photographs, however, had shown a vibrant young man gazing at the camera with a cocky devil-may-care grin. The individual approaching her now didn’t look cocky. Instead, he seemed grim, and absorbed in his own thoughts. Although he could be no more than forty or so, his face showed grooves that seemed etched by some deep pain. No…this wasn’t at all the brash man Dana had seen in those photographs. What had happened to change him?

      Dr. Petrie wore dusty jeans and his faded shirt was stained with sweat in this humid heat. The tropical breeze had rumpled his dark hair, and as he drew nearer Dana saw that his eyes were a blue as startling and crystalline as the Caribbean Sea. Still unsmiling as he reached her, he ignored her offer to shake hands.

      “Ms. Morgan?” he asked. “I’m Nick Petrie.”

      “Yes…Dr. Petrie.” An unfamiliar mixture of excitement and apprehension swirled through Dana. She’d both dreaded and looked forward to this meeting. Dr. Petrie had once been a well-respected expert in Mayan archaeology. Yet, by all accounts, he had lost his respectability along with his youthful, debonair looks. Nowadays Dr. Petrie was rumored to be a grouch–at best.

      “Is this all?” he said dryly, motioning toward the pile of duffel bags that surrounded her.

      Dana eyed the bags, too. Perhaps she had packed more items than were strictly necessary, but her research indicated that Mexico’s Isla Calamar offered few amenities. With a six-month supply of toothpaste, every brand of insect repellent she could lay her hands on and tapes of her favorite music–along with the requisite clothes, reference books, photo equipment and her special field glasses, Dana reasoned that she’d be ready for any adventure.

      She hefted one of her duffel bags, ignoring just how heavy it was. “I believe in being prepared,” she said, her own tone dry.

      Nick Petrie didn’t offer so much as a ghost of a smile. Easily taking a duffel in either hand, he turned and strode back along the landing. Dana hurried after him, hauling the other two bags. They reached a battered old Rover, so mud streaked Dana could only guess at its original color. Dr. Petrie slung all the bags in the back, then climbed in and started the engine. Apparently he was a man of few words. Make that a man of no words at the moment. That was fine, though. Dana hadn’t come here to chat. She’d come to this small island so she could finally work at something that really mattered to her. No more being stuck in a lab, analyzing soil samples. For once she was actually going to get some real dirt under her fingernails.

      That heady excitement swept through Dana again. For too many of her twenty-nine years, she’d followed the safe, predictable route. She’d attended the local agricultural college because she knew it would afford her a secure future. She’d graduated with her master’s and then taken a job with Simonson Labs in Saint Louis because it, too, promised a good future. And then, for an interminable four years, she’d dated Alan, a man who at one time had seemed both dependable and ambitious….

      But after the recent debacle with Alan, she’d given up on dependability, security–all of it. By traveling to Mexico like this, Dana was finally doing something unpredictable, and it felt downright exhilarating. Exhilarating–but scary, too.

      Now Dana climbed into the Rover beside Dr. Petrie, and in short order they were rattling along a coastal road. The view was spectacular: to one side the shimmering Caribbean, with its waters of jade and reefs of coral; to the other side the lush beginnings of jungle–the coconut palms and the zapote trees with their supposedly sweet-tasting sap. Dana had read all about the plant life of this Mexican island, for she definitely believed in being prepared.

      Unfortunately, nothing could have prepared her for the queasiness that assaulted her stomach. The road was rutted and unpaved, and the old vehicle’s shock absorbers were clearly not up to the job. As Dana clung to her seat, every jounce made her feel like a tennis ball slapped by a racket. She wasn’t going to be sick, was she? Absolutely not! She could control this sensation if she breathed deeply and calmly. She had to stop being so keyed up. Too much unaccustomed travel, that was her problem. The day before she’d flown down from Saint Louis to the Mexican resort of Cancún, and this morning she’d experienced the choppy boat ride from Cancún to Isla Calamar. Add to that, bouncing around on this primitive road…

      Dana took another deep breath and glanced at Dr. Petrie. Somehow the sight of his stubborn, unyielding profile had a calming effect on her. Maybe he wasn’t prone to conversation, but she found that she needed to talk, after all–anything to keep the queasiness at bay.

      “Dr. Petrie, I’ve read both your books,” she said. “I found your explanation of Mayan script very…fascinating.” She had difficulty getting the last word out. Just then the Rover lurched to skirt a boulder in the road, and she pressed a hand to her stomach.

      Nick Petrie returned her glance. “It’s been quite a while since anyone bothered trying to flatter me.”

      His bluntness stirred Dana to speak