To Protect a Princess. Gail Barrett
a Romani word. Silver. Are you Roma?”
“Half,” he admitted, and his gaze met hers. So she was a Gypsy. It made sense—that long, black hair, the exotic eyes. But then what was she doing out here? He hadn’t been raised in the culture, but even he knew single women didn’t travel alone—especially beautiful women like her.
At least he assumed she was single. He turned away, headed to the pile of boulders above the trail. She hadn’t mentioned a husband, didn’t wear a ring. She could be a widow. The Roma married young—too damned young. And this woman had to be in her late twenties, at least.
He reached the boulders, glanced back, watched as she sauntered toward him. And she was a marvel to watch. Her full breasts swayed, her hips swiveled like an invitation to erotic bliss. Loose strands of hair tumbled around her face, making him ache to free that silky mass, feel it sweep his chest, his thighs.
Her skin had been soft, smooth when he touched her jaw, and the memory of it flashed through his nerves. He tightened his grip on the gun, fighting the urge to reach for her again, to test the weight of her breasts.
He sucked in his breath, hissed it out. She was something, all right. No wonder those renegades hadn’t given up yet.
But single or not, she was none of his business. She’d asked for his help, and he’d refused. End of story. Now he just had to drop her off at that village and be on his way.
And keep his hands off her until he did.
He leaned over the boulders, spotted the dust rising on the trail. “They’re still a few minutes back.” He lowered himself to the ground, leaned against the rocks to wait. Dara sat down beside him.
She drew her gun from her bag, settled back against the rock, mimicking him. He eyed the small pistol in her hands. “You know how to shoot that thing?”
“I do all right.”
“All right doesn’t cut it out here.”
She lifted her chin, and her sultry eyes met his. “Don’t worry. I can defend myself.”
Right. “Like you did in the bar?”
A flush climbed up her cheeks. “I was caught off guard. It won’t happen again.
“Damn right it won’t.” Because she’d be back to civilization before nightfall. He’d make sure of that.
“I’m serious about the dangers,” he told her, in case she had plans to continue alone. “These mountains are filled with outlaws—drug runners bringing down coca leaves, ex-revolutionaries, Shining Path and Túpac guerrillas with nowhere else to hide. And the law doesn’t mean squat out here. Strength rules, bribes pay for silence, no matter what you’ve done. Even murderers walk free.”
Especially if they’d only killed a Gypsy.
His belly clenched. And before he could block it, the frustration and rage surged back—rage at the corruption, the injustice, at a world where money ruled, where no one cared, where the innocent always died. But he dragged in air, forced the painful past from his mind. This wasn’t the time to dwell on his dead wife.
“Then there are wild animals, pumas,” he continued. “No doctors, no clinics, not even a Quechua shaman for miles. Even a minor injury or infection can do you in. And those tombs you want to see are at sixteen thousand feet. You’d be lucky to survive the thin air.”
Her eyes met his. “You survive out here.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in these hills. You haven’t.” He held her gaze, making sure she understood. “I’m not kidding, Dara. A woman like you doesn’t belong here.”
“How do you know?” Her chin lifted in challenge. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He knew enough. And he wouldn’t hang around to find out more.
His horse lifted his head then, and he rose. “Stay down,” he warned. “Don’t make a sound.” He leaned against the rocks, trained the AK-47 on the trail.
But Dara stood and squeezed in beside him, her shoulder touching his arm. He shot her a scowl. Hadn’t she heard him? She should be plastered against the rocks, praying those renegades didn’t spot her. But she aimed her gun, looking cool as hell.
He swore, hoped she had the sense to hold her fire, then jerked his attention back to the trail. The three outlaws rode into view, just a few yards below where they stood.
The men had their Dragunovs strapped over their ponchos, more weapons within easy reach. Ready to fight. His hope that they would give up and turn back started to fade.
Then the wind shifted. The lead mule pricked up his ears, lifted his head, and Logan tensed. The wind was blowing their scent toward the mules. But the mule settled down, the men rode past in a haze of dust, and he eased out his breath.
He touched Dara’s arm, signaled for her to keep still. She nodded that she understood. He kept his rifle aimed on the men.
The outlaws crested the hill, came to a stop. They looked around, scanned the open valley ahead.
Come on, he silently urged them. You’ve lost our trail. Turn back.
He waited, barely breathing, his blood pumping a loud, rough beat through his skull. Because if those outlaws didn’t give up, if they rode on to that next village…
He could never leave Dara there, not with those men around. He’d be condemning another woman to die. Not that they’d kill her outright—although it would be kinder if they did. By the time they finished with her, she wouldn’t want to survive.
And she wouldn’t be the only one at risk. Those men would slaughter anyone in the village who tried to stop them.
The outlaws scoured the trail, searched for tracks. A deep sense of dread tightened his throat, like a steel trap locking him in. He couldn’t go forward, couldn’t take her back.
So what could he do? Take her with him into the hills? Take responsibility for another woman’s life?
No way.
No damned way.
He swore under his breath, turned the dilemma over in his head, tried to come up with another plan. But there was no way out. Unless those outlaws turned around, he’d be stuck.
The men turned back, headed toward him, and his hopes picked up. But they were riding slowly, too slowly, still hunting for tracks. His gut tensed. Sweat trickled down his unshaven jaw.
The men reached the trail directly below them, and the rising wind gusted again. The lead mule stopped and bobbed his head.
The mule’s rider looked up, squinted at the rocks. “¡Allá! Up there!” he yelled and raised his gun.
Logan dove, yanking Dara down with him. Shots riddled the boulder above their heads. “Get into the trees,” he ordered, his pulse hammering fast now. He waited a beat, rose, fired off a volley of rounds to pin them down. “Damn it! Run!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move. He ducked, slapped another magazine in the AK-47, leaped up and shot again. While she fled, he blasted away at the outlaws, giving her time to reach the trees. Then he stopped and raced to his horse.
“Stay in the trees,” he shouted to her as he grabbed the reins. “I’ll get you.” He vaulted into the saddle, spun around, fired toward the boulders to keep down the thugs. Then he urged the horse toward the trees.
But Dara leaped into the open, and his heart kicked. “Get back!” he yelled as he charged toward her. She ignored him, pointed her pistol toward the rocks, and opened fire.
Fear seized his throat. The reckless fool! Did she have a death wish? Outraged, so angry his vision blurred, he spurred the horse to where she stood. She stopped shooting, grabbed his hand, and he yanked her up.
“Are you out of