Midnight Shadows Page 4

  "I'm going out to get something to eat.” Her statement was followed by a long pause he did nothing to ease. Then with a snap of irritation, she added, “Would you care to join me, Mr. Cobb?"

  "Delighted."

  If she could make an effort, so could he. And he had to eat, after all, even though the dinner conversation promised to be agonizing at best. He turned, the last of his irritation dissolving away at the sight of her. She looked so haggard, it would have been like kicking a puppy to treat her with other than graciousness.

  He'd changed from his professional intimidation wear into practical clothes. She noted the slouchy cargo pants and plain black tee shirt with obvious approval, even managing a faint smile at the sight of his battered hiking boots. Adapt to the environment. Another credo he'd found useful in the past. He slipped on his suede-fronted varsity jacket and discreetly tucked his pistol in the band of his trousers at the small of his back. Pays to be ready should she happen to issue that invitation for his help.

  Or even if she didn't.

  He planned to stick close and be alert. Maybe her dream was just that, a bad dream because she was tired, and he was being oversensitive because of his last assignment and what he knew to be at stake here in Peru.

  Better safe...

  He wasn't sure exactly who knew they were coming. But he was sure someone wasn't going to like it.

  * * * *

  The Restaurant Cordano was another pleasant surprise. Situated across from the Desamparados Station which boasted the world's highest track until rail service was discontinued, they were seated in an old-fashioned dining room and presented with a list of traditional Peruvian foods.

  "What do you recommend?"

  At his question, Sheba took a moment to regard her companion. True, he'd gone out of his way not to mention her breakdown earlier, but he hadn't exactly proven to be a nurturing soul of support. Frank Cobb was as tightly buttoned up as that white shirt she'd first seen him wearing. His manner, his aloof air of anticipation, all suggested Federal government—one of the more elite and not talked about agencies. One of the scary ones. He had that look about him, the calm cool, the casual demeanor stretched like lamb's skin over the wolf inside. When he'd burst into her room, the taut sense of competence and unhesitating violence he exuded had made her feel safe for the first time in decades. But she couldn't afford to forget that he was not here to protect her. He was there to see to Harper Research's investment in Paulo. She was just along for the ride—a ride she feared would be one way. Cobb wasn't here to deal with her demons.

  But he'd looked damned fine half-dressed in her doorway.

  Not a tall or overly imposing man, he was solid power compressed tightly into the guise of an average build. That bulk of upper body was neatly hidden beneath the suit coat but not so successfully by the tee shirt. Thin black knit hugged to carefully honed contours of sculpted chest, broad shoulders and arms defined by muscle strength. Not a sleek Doberman but a stocky pit bull. He was a man who could do some serious damage even without the deadly sidearm he carried.

  Another deception came with his pleasantly average, All-American features. Hard jaw, nice facial angles. Brown hair cut close and conservatively. Brows that arched in a cocky, Jack Nicholson way over hazel eyes to express more than he would in that wry, slightly smoky voice that held the faint bite of a Jersey Shore accent. A tempting mouth when it relaxed its intense line into a slightly cynical smile. Pleasant. Average. Except for a gaze that penetrated like x-rays and a wicked scar lending a lethal imperfection.

  Too bad he wasn't on her side. How wonderful it would have been to rely upon him. But that wasn't the case. She had no one but herself. And Paulo was the only one she had in her corner. That's why she'd returned.

  Cobb was staring at her with a patient expectation. Waiting.

  Startled from her thoughts, she remembered his question and looked at the menu. Food was a nice, neutral topic, so she let herself relax.

  "The cuisine in Peru focuses on three main ingredients—potatoes, corn and hot peppers. There are over two hundred different varieties of potatoes, or papas, grown here. Corn is, of course, a sacred pre-Hispanic crop that was used both as food and for barter. They use a purple variety to make a palatable drink called chicha morada, rather like beer, actually.” She paused because he'd begun to smile. Heat rose in her cheeks. “I'm sorry. I'm rattling on rather like a history professor. An unfortunate habit, I'm afraid, to force knowledge upon the unwilling."

  "There are worse habits.” His smile grew slightly wolfish. “And I'm not all that unwilling."

  Sheba reared back.

  Was he flirting with her?

  Having little experience there and next to no practice with intimate banter, Sheba quickly dropped her gaze back to the menu before she lost herself in the sudden warmth of his intense stare. She hurried on with the safe discussion of their meal.

  "Picante from the highlands is an art form in itself in terms of degrees of spiciness. How hot do you like it, Mr. Cobb?"

  When he didn't answer right away, she glanced up in question and found herself devoured by his sultry, green-gold gaze.

  "The hotter the better, Dr. Reynard."

  For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Confusion fluttered through her like a band of Morpho butterflies on frantic wings, heightening her alarm and scaring up a rather dizzying loss of control. For another long moment, she considered experimenting with the odd sense of sexual attraction teased up between them. What would his kisses feel like? Hard and dominating or wooingly sweet?

  The image of him in her doorway returned to tantalize. Could the stroke of his strong hands upon her body brush away the film of anxiousness left by her unsettling dream?

  Would the nights be so dreaded if not spent alone?

  But then shyness and caution tempered her reactions. She was not here to play pat-a-cake with a quixotic stranger, and she'd better do something fast lest things get out of hand.

  "Let me order for you then,” she offered with a disarmingly innocent smile. Without looking away from Cobb's smug demeanor, she gestured for their server. She requested papa rellena for herself and for her daring companion, lomo saltado with rocoto peppers. Before the waiter could contest her choice, she merely said, “Don't worry. He's a tough guy. He likes it hot."

  When their glasses of cold whitish beer arrived, Cobb took an appreciative sip and leaned back in his chair.

  "You're right. I was expecting a man. It threw me for a minute."

  Lulled by his honesty, she was prepared to give a little. “Perhaps it would have helped to have my full name, Dr. Sheba Reynard."

  One brow arched. “Sheba? As in Queen of the Jungle? Someone had a sense of humor."

  "That's Sheena. It's Sheba, as in Come Back Little."

  "And have you?"

  "What?"

  "Come back?"

  Her mouth tightened, and her words bit like rock salt. “Only under pressure, Mr. Cobb, not by choice."

  Taking his cue from her hard tone, he became all business. “How much have you been told about what's going on?"

  The temperature in the elegant restaurant seemed to plunge as chills of gooseflesh broke out on Sheba's arms. “About as much as you, I suspect,” was her evasive answer. “More than I care to know."

  She wasn't ready for this, for what lay ahead in the jungle, nor did she want to spend this oddly enjoyable dinner rushing the inevitable.

  That would come soon enough.

  Cobb was studying her carefully. What did he see? What dare she show him of her real reluctance and fear? Nothing, rumbled her inner pride. Show him nothing. She took a deep drought of beer and forced her mood to calm.

  "But here I am."

  "I was told you were some kind of expert in the area of native culture. A real asset.” His sudden smile was lightning quick in response to some joke that went over her head. Was he laughing at her? Annoyance braced her.

  "I'm an ethnologist. I study the effects of legend a
nd myth upon indigenous societies."

  He made a sound that might have meant he was impressed. But probably not. “In other words, you're a one woman National Geographic Society."

  "And what are you, Mr. Cobb?” she countered with a pointed verbal thrust.

  Unflappable, he remained smiling. “A baby sitter, Dr. Reynard."

  She was about to protest the need for his protection when their meals arrived, hers a fried oblong of mashed potatoes stuffed with meat, onions, olives, boiled eggs and raisins; his, French fries combined with strips of steak, onions and tomatoes ... and screamingly torrid rocoto peppers.

  "Smells good,” he pronounced before diving in with obvious relish.

  She took a few small bites of her own meal while watching him make quick work of his. Waiting, perversely, for the dappling of sweat to pop along his brow, for his eyes to well up in misery. When neither happened, she felt both cheated and ashamed.

  "I'm here to make sure Dr. Lemos finishes his work,” Cobb went on to explain with cut-and-dry clarity. “What that might entail, I'm not really sure at this point."

  Sheba could have told him, but Frank Cobb, with his city clothes and cosmopolitan belief system, wouldn't have understood. He was here to do battle against superstition, against an enemy that was imagined, not flesh and blood. An enemy far more dangerous than one that was real.

  "And how about you, Doctor?"

  Alerted by the sudden skewering of his gaze, Sheba held on to her control. “What about me?"

  "Aren't you the least bit worried?"

  Her heart started pounding faster. What did he know? “Worried about what, Mr. Cobb?"

  "About stepping into the middle of a potentially dangerous situation?"

  Now the sweat was on her brow. “I grew up in these jungles, Mr. Cobb. You're the outsider here. You're the one who has no idea what you're getting into."

  A certain flintiness gave his gaze a cold, metallic gleam. “That's not quite true, Doctor. I understand more than you know.” With that, he reached for his wallet to pay for the meal, ending the conversation and the awkward companionability of their evening.

  And inexplicably, Sheba was sad to see it end.

  She'd started to push back in her chair when an odd look crossed Cobb's face. He began to blink rapidly, his gaze losing focus.

  "Oh, my God,” he wheezed, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Then she understood, quickly intercepting his reach for the bottled water she'd requested.

  "No, don't drink. That'll spread the heat and make it worse.” She pushed the bread toward him. “This will help absorb it."

  He chewed and sucked for air as the hot peppers seared him from the inside out. He looked so wretched, she felt childish and a bit nervous as to how he'd react to her treachery.

  "I'm sorry. I should have warned you.” Then a mischievous grin got the better of her. “But you did say—"

  He glanced up at her, his eyes still swimming. “I'm an idiot. Don't listen to what I say when I'm being an idiot."

  Her mood abruptly softened toward him. In a quiet voice, she said, “And I'd ask that you do the same."

  He paused in his desperate stuffing to demand a further explanation with his look.

  "Earlier tonight, I spoke harshly.” The words came uncomfortably, as hard to swallow as Cobb's peppers. “I didn't mean to offend you. I appreciated your concern."

  He continued to stare at her, suddenly less at ease with her honesty than with her trickery. “It's my job,” he stated bluntly. Then, when her features began to freeze up, he added, “And my pleasure."

  Upon leaving the restaurant, Cobb, who was breathing easier by then, glanced at a battered taxi loitering by the door, noting the way its front wheels seemed to be sitting at odd angles.

  "I've had enough E-ticket fun for one night. Do you mind if we walk?"

  "Fine,” Sheba was quick to agree, not eager to return to their room where her nightmare awaited. “It'll give me a chance to do some shopping."

  They wandered the crowded walks of the market which, even after an attempt at government control, was still run with the vitality and larceny of an ancient bazaar. Sheba was an expert haggler, enjoying the challenge. With a practiced air alternating between contempt and indifference, she picked through the merchandise, her comments knowledgeable and often complimentary, making the vendors beg for her purchase with a banter of price until it was often below their cost. She bought shawls woven from crude wool still embedded with flecks of thistle from a nearly blind woman and a jacket featuring a serpent design brilliantly depicted in fine yarns dyed from seeds, herbs and vegetables. The excellent quality would have fetched a small fortune in an urban boutique in the States. She sorted through stacks of alpaca sweaters, llama rugs, blankets and cotton cloth, speaking rapidly to the women in layered skirts who had drop spindles dangling from their fingers. Cobb didn't recognize the language as Spanish. That made him give her another, closer look.

  True, her skin was a soft shade of gold, not Brazil nut brown. Her hair was rinsed with streaks of blonde but was it, in reality, a glossy black? Though her features were somewhat delicate, her face was broad through the cheek bones and round. Did she share some of the same heritage as these Peruvian people?

  As she led him from booth to booth, she explained with a tour guide's rhetoric that it was illegal to buy or take pre-Columbian or colonial antiques out of the country or to purchase anything made from vicuna fibers, feathers, skins or shells of rain forest creatures. She sounded defensive. Because she was protecting her own?

  "Is this real gold?” he asked, fingering the delicately spun filigree shaped to resemble doves on a pair of earrings.

  "The stuff of Conquistador dreams."

  He wasn't much of a browser. After the gold earrings, his selection was quick and generic. Six silver crosses on fine chains. Funny, he didn't strike her as a particularly ardent Catholic sort.

  As he paid for the jewelry without questioning the price, Sheba found herself wondering who they were for. A gift for his mother or sister, perhaps? Or a wife or girlfriend? No wedding band, but that wasn't proof positive that he was a free agent. Though it was none of her business, she couldn't help considering what kind of female influence he allowed into his life. Certainly, there must be someone. Most people didn't live alone by choice, the way she did.

  Feeling a bit melancholy at the thought of some woman waiting a half world away to receive Cobb's gifts, Sheba paused to listen to a trio of traditional street musicians weaving a pentatonic harmony into a mournful tapestry that suited her mood. One teen played the zamponas panpipes, another the Andean harp, both to the percussion accompaniment of a deep-voiced frame drum upon which the player thumped out the rhythm soulfully by hand. As she bent to drop a scattering of coins into their donation basket, her necklace slipped free of her tee shirt, swinging once, twice before being snatched up by a dexterous hand. A rough jerk broke the cord about her neck, surprising her into a sharp cry of alarmed dismay. Her hand instinctively reached for where her treasured necklace no longer hung.

  No!

  But as the bold and clever market thief spun to make good his escape into the teaming crowds, he found the barrel of a pistol wedged beneath his chin, effectively stopping his flight the way it could easily stop his life.

  "I believe you have something there that doesn't belong to you."

  Cobb's voice was a soft ripple that didn't quite cover the deadly jagged rocks below. The thief wisely released the medallion into Cobb's outstretched hand. The instant the pressure of the muzzle lessened, the thief dodged and darted away.

  Cobb examined the ancient oval of tarnished precious metal. A strange image was beaten into an age-softened relief. A face of some god, most likely. Half man, half beast. Old. Old enough to be one of those illegal antiquities she'd spoken of.

  "This is yours,” he announced, passing the piece into her anxious possession. “If you want to wear it tomorrow, I suggest you hang onto it more care
fully."

  She didn't even smile at the return of her own cautioning from the airport. Her fingers closed about the medallion with knuckle-whitening strength as she brought her fist up to rest over her heart. Her features were pale, her manner shaken by the near loss of something that must have had special meaning to her. For a moment, her eyes glimmered in the uneven light.

  "Thank you,” was all she said before turning to continue along the market street.

  Leaving Cobb to trail behind, wondering over the intriguing facets to the thorny ethnologist who pretended to be all business yet gave rare insights to a raw and vulnerable soul.

  Damn. Just what he needed. Another wounded bird in his palm.

  * * * *

  Lying back on her bed, Sheba studied the medallion she'd carried with her for twenty years. Its value went beyond the rarity of the piece, which itself was worth a fortune to certain pre-Columbian collectors. In all her years of travel and exploring, she'd never come across this same design, yet somehow it was as familiar to her as her driver's license photo. Its origin was just as much a mystery as how it had come into her possession.

  And Cobb had saved it for her.

  Dropping the warmed circle back atop her skin, she let her thoughts drift to Frank Cobb. He was a mystery to her, too. Sometimes teasing—right up to the edge of intimate innuendo—then retreating behind a cold, professional veneer. But even though logic couldn't support it, even though experience denied it, she felt she could count on him.

  Frank Cobb would keep her safe.

  She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long while, she slept without dreams.

  But in the room across from hers, Cobb didn't rest so easily. He lay in a pose of relaxation, but his senses were active and alert for any sound from the other bedroom. He hadn't expected his job to start so soon, but he'd learned never to disregard his innate alarm systems. Dr. Reynard was a troubled woman. But was she also a woman in trouble?