Diana Palmer Collected 1-6: Soldier of Fortune / Tender Stranger / Enamored / Mystery Man / Rawhide and Lace / Unlikely Lover. Diana Palmer
days, if things go well,” he replied. “We need a little time to scout the area and make a plan.”
“The hospitality of my finca is at your disposal,” Laremos said. “Perhaps we might even make time to show Gabby some of the Maya ruins.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Don’t mention archaeological ruins around her, please,” J.D. muttered. “She goes crazy.”
“Well, I like old things,” she retorted. “Why else would I work for you?”
J.D. looked shocked. “Me? Old?”
She studied his face. It wasn’t heavily lined, but there was a lot of silver at his temples mingling with his black hair. She frowned. She’d always assumed he was pushing forty, but now she wondered.
“How old are you, J.D.?” she asked.
“Thirty-six.”
She gasped.
“Not what you expected?” he asked softly.
“You…seem older.”
He nodded. “I imagine so. I’ve got thirteen years on you.”
“You needn’t sound so smug,” she told him. “When I’m fifty, you’ll hate those extra thirteen years.”
“Think so?” he murmured, smiling.
She glanced away from that predatory look. “Tell me about Guatemala, Señor Laremos.”
“Diego, please,” he said, correcting her. “What would you like to know?”
“Anything.”
He shrugged. “Things have been better since the peace agreement in ’96 and the increase in foreign trade, but the people are still poor and the crime high. Guatemala has become a major transport route for drugs and human smuggling, which has not earned us a good reputation on the international stage.”
She looked shocked. “Will things get better?”
“We hope so. But in the meantime, those who wish to secure their land and loved ones must have security. Mine is excellent. But many do not have the financial wherewithal to hire guards. I have a neighbor who gets government troops to go with him every afternoon to check his cattle and his holdings. He is afraid to go alone.”
“I’ll never grumble about paying income taxes again,” Gabby said. “I guess we tend to take it for granted that we don’t have to defend our property and families with guns.”
“Perhaps someday we will be able to say the same thing.”
Gabby was quiet for the rest of the trip, while J.D. and Laremos discussed things she couldn’t begin to understand. Military terms. Logistics. She studied her taciturn employer with new eyes. There was more than he was telling her. It had something to do with the past he never discussed, and he was obviously reluctant to share any of it with her. Trust, again. At least he trusted her enough to let her handle the communications for this insane rescue attempt. If only he’d let those men go into the jungle and stay behind himself. Maybe she could talk him into it. It was a job for a professional soldier, not a lawyer. She closed her eyes and began to think up things to say, knowing in her heart that J.D. wasn’t going to be swayed by any of them.
Despite Gabby’s unvoiced fears, they went through customs with no hitches, and minutes later were met by a man J.D. obviously knew.
The man was short and sandy-blond, with a face like a railroad track and a slight figure. He was much older than the other two men, probably nearing fifty. He was wearing jungle fatigues with laced up boots. At his side was a holstered pistol; over his shoulder, a mean-looking rifle.
“Archer!” The short man chuckled, and they embraced roughly. “Damn, but I’m glad to see you, even under the circumstances. No sweat, amigo—we’ll get Martina out of there. Apollo came like a shot when I told him what was on.”
“How are you, First Shirt?” J.D. replied. “You’ve lost weight, I see.”
“Well, I’m not exactly in the right profession for getting lazy, am I, boss?” he asked Laremos, who agreed readily enough.
“Laremos said Apollo and Drago were here, but how about Chen?” J.D. asked.
The short man sighed. “He bought it in the Middle East, amigo.” He shrugged. “That’s the way of it.” His eyes were sad and had a faraway look. “It was how he’d have wanted it.”
“Tough,” J.D. said, agreeing. “Maps and radios, Shirt—we’ll need those.”
“All taken care of. Plus about twenty vaqueros for backup—the boss’s men, and I trained ’em,” he added with quiet pride.
“That’s good enough for me.”
“Shall we get under way?” Laremos asked, helping Gabby into a large car. He stood back to let J.D. slide in after her. They were joined by First Shirt, who drove, and another man with a rifle.
The topography was interesting. It reminded Gabby of photos of Caribbean islands, very lush and tropical and studded with palm trees. But after they drove for a while, it began to be mountainous. They passed a burned-out shell of what must have been a house, and Gabby shuddered.
“Diego,” she said quietly, nodding toward the ruin, “the owners—did they escape?”
“No, señorita,” he said.
She wrapped her arms around herself. J.D., noticing the gesture, pulled her closer. She let her head fall onto his shoulder quite naturally and closed her eyes while the men talked.
Laremos’s finca was situated in a valley. The house seemed to be adobe or stucco, with large arches and an airy porch. It was only one story, and it spread out into a garden lush with tropical vegetation. She fell in love with it at first sight.
“You approve?” Laremos smiled, watching her with his dark, lazy eyes. “My father built it many years ago. The servants in the house are the children and grandchildren of those who came here with him, like most of my employees. The big landowners who hold the fincas provide employment for many people, and it is not so temporary as jobs in your country. Here the laborers serve the same household for generations.”
She hadn’t noticed anything unusual about the drive except that the small, dark man beside First Shirt had his rifle in his lap and kept watching the countryside. Now he stood beside the car, rifle ready, while the others went into the house.
It was dark for a moment until her eyes adjusted; then she began to see its interior. There were tiny statuettes, obviously Mayan, along with bowls of cacti, heavy wood furniture, and Indian blankets all around the big living room.
“Coffee?” Laremos asked. He clapped his hands and a small woman about First Shirt’s age came running with a smile on her face. “Café, por favor, Carisa,” he told the woman in rapid-fire Spanish.
She nodded and rushed away.
“Brandy, Archer?” he asked J.D.
“I don’t drink these days,” J.D. replied, dropping onto the comfortable sofa beside Gabby. “First Shirt, have you been able to get any intelligence out of the other camp?”
“Enough.” The short, sandy-haired man nodded, also refusing the offer of brandy. “She isn’t being mistreated, not yet, at least,” he said, watching the younger man relax just a little. “They’re holding her in the remains of a bunkhouse on a finca about six clicks away. They aren’t well armed—just some rifles and grenades, no RPGs or other heavy stuff.”
“What is a click? And what’s