Hold Me by Lucianne Rivers Page B

small, open-air terminal in Chetumal. Spicy, humid smells of Mexico assailed Jane as she emerged from the bus, exhausted. She grabbed her bag from stowage, rolled it past a rickety covered seating area, and approached the ticket office.
    At the ticket window, she gestured at the haggard clerk, purple-tinged bags beneath his eyes. “El Remate, Guatemala.”
    Jane got a rush of incomprehensible Spanish in response. Why hadn’t she picked the other destination where they had found a Zach T. Caldwell?
    She and her sisters had hired the same private investigator out of Albuquerque, who was former military himself. He had discovered two Zach T. Caldwells who might be their father. One lived in the Virgin Islands, the other in El Remate, Guatemala. Margo would leave tomorrow for the Virgin Islands. At the moment, Jane regretted her irrational choice to head to the unfamiliar territory of Guatemala. Jane and Margo had decided to give the ranch to Allison, no matter who found Zach first— if they found him—so Allison had stayed home to oversee business at the ranch.
    Impatient rumblings came from the queue behind her, but she had no intention of stepping aside. She needed to find her way out of here—soon. “Tell me, por favor , that there is a bus leaving for El Remate tonight?”
    “ Mañana .”
    Now that she understood. She shook her head, desperation creeping around the edges of her calm façade.
    “He said ‘tomorrow.’” A deep voice resonated from behind her.
    “Thank you,” she said dismissively, turning to the American who had spoken. “I know what mañana means.”
    She stared, slack-jawed, at one of the most handsome men she had seen in months. Maybe years. Maybe ever. She’d know for sure if she could see his eyes, which were hidden behind dark glasses. Shiny brown hair grazed his strong cheekbones and fell to his shoulders.
    Self-conscious about her coffee-stained suit, Jane eyed his pristine, casual white T-shirt and admired the tight muscles that pulled the fabric taut.
    The man was built.
    Jane tempered her thoughts and raised her eyes to his shaded ones. She could see them well enough to catch him giving her a once-over—eyeing her suitcase, her high heels, and lingering on her soiled suit.
    He raised one of his eyebrows. “Lost?”
    “I know exactly where I am,” she said. Grumblings from the line urged her to move to one side.
    The hot American leaned toward the ticket window and spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. He paid the clerk and got a ticket in return.
    “You should probably buy your fare today,” he said. “The seats fill up pretty quickly.”
    Wise advice. She hovered, glancing at the ticket window then back at him.
    “I can do it,” he offered.
    Jane could accept his help or fend off a line of impatient customers while she language-wrangled. She nodded.
    He spoke slowly to the clerk, allowing Jane to follow his Spanish, his voice deep and a little gravelly. She listened closely as he requested her ticket to El Remate, Guatemala, in case he was a murderer trying to lead her astray, like Danny DeVito in that Kathleen Turner movie set in Colombia.
    “The bus leaves at six tomorrow morning,” he translated, handing the clerk her wad of pesos.
    She took the ticket from his sun-browned fingers and gave him a demure smile. She had learned never to smile too widely, except on television, or men tended to get the wrong idea. Not that she would mind if he did. Her pulse did an impression of “The Little Drummer Boy.” Attraction stirred.
    He nodded, hiked his backpack higher on his shoulders, and politely moved past her.
    “Wait, please.” God, she sounded desperate.
    He stopped, but didn’t face her, so she moved beside him. “You’re American?”
    He stilled.
    “Can you recommend a hotel?” she asked.
    “Don’t know of any that would suit you. I’m afraid I’m slumming it tonight.”
    He walked away, and Jane glanced around. The clerk was serving the last customer, leaving the bus