Furious, she struck out with her free hand, clawed at his face, slammed her hiking boot into his shin. He grunted, loosened his hold, and she managed to stumble back.
She caught her balance, her breath coming fast, but she couldnt reach her gun. The man circled her, fury contorting his face.
Agárrala, pendejo, one of the other men taunted, then laughed. And she realized with a sudden chill the danger she was in. Shed humiliated him, enraged him. And now he wanted revenge.
He leaped forward, lunged for her arm. She jumped to the side and whipped back.
Problem, boys? a lazy, graveled voice drawled from the doorway. The thug hesitated, looked up, and Daras breath rushed from her lungs.
Hed come back.
She dragged in air, shook her aching wrist, took advantage of the distraction to dart over and pick up her gun. Then she turned and faced the man whod saved her.
He filled the doorway with his muscled frame, looking every inch the desperado. His eyes were dark and grim beneath his battered hat, his mouth a lethal slash. He radiated danger, ruthlessness, from the black beard stubble darkening his rigid jaw to the assault rifle trained on the thugs. His powerful maleness made her nerves race.
Seconds passed. Tension vibrated in the stifling air.
Then suddenly, Logans gun barked. The blast sprayed up dirt, roared in her ears, and she flinched back in shock. She gaped from Logan to the men at the bar, and the man whod attacked her inched up his hands.
She hadnt even seen him move. But Logan hadand hed made his point. All three men shuffled back.
Go wait by my horse, Logan told her. His eyes never veered from the men.
She opened her mouth to argue.
Now, he added, his deep voice hard.
She stiffened. She didnt take orders, didnt let others fight her battles for her.
But then she caught the flat, mean stare of the man whod touched her, and her dread rose. Shed made an enemy here, a dangerous one. Maybe shed 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. Logans 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. Were going to ride double? She was a GypsyRomaand proper Roma women didnt 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 horses 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 Logans 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 horses 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 wasnt at all what shed expected. When her archeologist colleague had urged her to contact himthe only man rumored to know the ancient trailsshed 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. Hed 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 couldnt deny that the man appealed to her in a very basic way.
But shed 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.