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  Derek fell silent. He didn’t have to speak for her to read his thoughts. Bree shivered as she recalled his words. Even if he pays, they might not let us go.

  “You think they might kill us even if they get the money, just to keep us quiet.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you were the original target. You’re here now, and that changes the dynamics. What happens next depends on who’s behind this and what they really want. Once we know that, we can decide what to do.”

  Her glance went from Derek to the window and back. “You aren’t thinking we should try to escape? Look outside. The jungle would kill us for sure.”

  “Not necessarily. But it isn’t time to worry about that yet.”

  Not necessarily. She studied his wide-shouldered build and muscular forearms, the strong sinews in the column of his neck. “So what were you before? A soldier of some kind? A SEAL or something?”

  “I was navy, but I wasn’t a SEAL. I was a fighter jet pilot. Flew off carriers for a while. Mostly I was stationed in Pensacola, Florida. But a pilot has a lot of survival training in case he gets shot down. I had engine trouble once over Colombia and had to punch out. It was an isolated area, and I’d lost my comms. Took me six days to reach a village where I could get help. I was damned glad I knew what to do.”

  Bree wasn’t sure if Derek’s training was a plus or minus. No way was she braving the perils of a jungle. She’d rather stay here and fight.

  “Like I said, it’s too soon to do more than wait,” he repeated, “but it never hurts to be prepared.” With that he returned to his examination of the room, which was large but mostly empty. He examined the lock on the door, went back into the bathroom and returned.

  “No window in there, just a row of rusty showers, sinks and johns. Might be able to use the porcelain lid off one of the commodes as a weapon. I could break the mirror. Piece of shattered glass makes a good knife.”

  Her heart rate picked up. She wasn’t liking the sound of this.

  “I still don’t think the room is bugged, which supports your theory they weren’t expecting you. I can take a bed apart, make a defensive weapon out of one of the wooden slats.”

  “You’re making me nervous, Derek.”

  “Take it easy, okay? There’s a chance this will all go down smoothly. They ask for money. Your dad pays and they release you—us,” he amended when she opened her mouth to correct him. “And they let the hostages go. But it’s always smart to have a contingency plan.”

  He was right. She had no idea what was going on out there, or what the hijackers planned to do. They needed to be prepared.

  “What do you think is happening to the people on the plane?”

  His features tightened. “I don’t know, but to tell you the truth, I’d rather be here. At least we have some options.”

  Did they? Because so far she didn’t see any. They had no guns and no way to escape, and even if they could get out of the compound, there was no place to go but miles of deadly jungle.

  Her nerves returned. She watched Derek slide back under the bed and heard a wrenching sound as he tore off one of the wooden slats holding up the thin mattress. Easing back out, he began to fashion some kind of weapon. Bree ignored the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and sat down on the bunk to wait.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RAFAEL CASTILLO, EL DEFENSOR, sat at the end of a heavy plank table across from his top aide, Julio Montez.

  “God is smiling on us, Raffie,” Julio said, using the nickname he had given Rafael when they were boys. “The daughter of Jonathan Wingate, one of the richest men in the world, has fallen smack-dab into our hands.” Julio was half American and handsome, with blond hair and blue eyes.

  He’d been born in Honduras, attended school with Rafael, then traveled to the States with his mother using the name Jules Martel, his mother’s maiden name. He had been educated at Harvard, studying for his master’s when he became a suspect in the murder of several young women. Wisely, he had returned to his homeland, where he was once more Julio Montez.

  Rafael leaned against the high back of his carved wooden chair. “Yes, it seems quite a stroke of good fortune—a twist of fate that eliminates many of our problems.”

  “You’re talking about the 160 passengers aboard the plane. Things will definitely be easier without them.”

  Rafael nodded. Unlike his top man, General Batista, with his darkly elegant good looks, Rafael was average in height and build, with thinning brown hair and dull brown eyes. Except for a small scar bisecting his left eyebrow, Rafael was completely unremarkable.

  And utterly ruthless, a quality he prided himself upon.

  “If all goes well,” he said, “we will no longer be burdened with 160 people needing to be fed and cared for and constantly guarded, people who could even now be plotting a rebellion to regain control of the plane.”

  “Have you made contact with Wingate?” Julio asked.

  “Si, this morning. I spoke to Jonathan Wingate himself and explained our cause. I told him circumstances have forced us to act to protect the lands and people of our country. Señor Wingate was very sympathetic, though he did not agree with our methods.”

  “What about the money? Did he agree to pay for the return of his daughter and her fiancé?”

  “Wingate seemed to hesitate when I mentioned Derek Stiles, the name on his passport, but in the end Wingate agreed to our terms.”

  Julio grinned. “Maybe Wingate didn’t know his daughter was planning to marry. Or he wants her to marry someone he thinks is better suited.”

  Rafael ignored the faint gleam in Julio’s eyes that appeared whenever he focused on a woman. “It is possible Wingate doesn’t approve. Either way, Stiles is part of the deal.”

  Julio sat forward in his chair. “How much, Raffie? How much did Wingate agree to pay?”

  “The same amount I would have demanded from the airline. Five hundred million dollars.” An amount most likely to have come from the U.S. government, though they would surely deny any payment of a terrorist demand.

  “And Wingate agreed?”

  Rafael shrugged. “That is only half of one of his many billions.” Rafael smiled. “I think he may have considered it a bargain.”

  The gleam returned to Julio’s blue eyes. “She must be something special to be worth that much money.”

  “Perhaps she is.” Rafael rose from his chair. “Why don’t we see?”

  * * *

  DEREK HEARD FOOTSTEPS approaching out in the corridor. He shoved his wooden bat and makeshift knife beneath the mattress and sat down on the bed next to Bree.

  The door opened, and two men walked into the room. One was of average height and build, with thin brown hair and a scar cutting his eyebrow. The other was taller, blond and blue-eyed, good-looking in a slick sort of way.

  Derek and Bree both rose from the bed. When the brown-haired man spoke, authority rang in his voice. It was clear he was the man in charge.

  “I am Rafael Hernandez Castillo. My men call me El Defensor. This is my aide, Julio Montez.”

  Montez’s blue stare went to Bree, ran over her breasts beneath her silky pink floral blouse, slid like grease over the stretch jeans that showed off her curves. The glimmer of heat in his eyes sent a shot of adrenaline into Derek’s blood.

  Castillo’s attention swung to Bree. “Ms. Wingate, you will be relieved to know that I have spoken to your father. Señor Wingate has agreed to pay the ransom for your safe return. As the amount is large, he has asked us to give him three days in which to assemble the necessary funds. Once he has paid the ransom, you and your fiancé will be freed.”

  “What about the people on the plane?” Bree asked.

  “We will allow the plane to continue on to its original destination. The passengers and crew will come to no harm.”

  “And Ms. Wingate?” Derek asked.
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br />   “As I said, once the transaction is completed, you will both be released.” Castillo’s cold eyes met his. They reminded Derek of a reptile’s. “In the meantime, I must ensure my men’s safety. The two of you will be transferred from here to a different location.”

  “A different location,” Derek repeated in an effort to keep Castillo talking. The more they knew, the better.

  “It is only a precaution, you understand.” Castillo’s lips curved faintly. “Unfortunately, the accommodations won’t be quite as luxurious as these.” He turned and started for the door, and Montez fell in behind him.

  As Castillo stepped into the corridor, Montez turned and fixed his stare on Bree. “Maybe...after you’re settled, I can make things easier for you.” His hot gaze ran over her, leaving no doubt as to what he was thinking. “That is, after we get to know each other better.” Montez walked out and closed the door, and Derek unclenched his fists.

  “They’re moving us,” Bree said softly.

  Derek released a slow, calming breath. “They’re changing the game plan. It’s a lot easier to control the two of us than a plane full of men, women and children. And in this case, the outcome will be the same.”

  “My father pays the ransom instead of the airline paying, or the government, or someone else.”

  “That’s right.”

  She walked over to the boarded-up window, and Derek joined her. Fine rays of sunlight filtered through the cracks between the boards, gleaming on her shiny blond hair. It curled softly in the humidity, framing her face. Derek reached out and wound a silky strand around his finger.

  Bree turned to look at him. “Where do you think they’ll take us?”

  He glanced at the sea of green barely visible through the window. He had a bad feeling he knew where they were going—a place where no one would follow.

  “My guess? They’ve got a camp set up somewhere in the jungle. Why don’t you use the head, maybe even take a shower? It might be the last chance you get.”

  She nodded. Though he could read her uncertainty, she was stronger than he had first believed. Grabbing the big leather purse she had carried off the plane, she disappeared into the ratty bathroom. He heard the thump and gurgle of the toilet being flushed, then the rattle of metal as the shower went on.

  An image appeared of Bree standing naked beneath the spray, rivulets of water running over her bare breasts, cascading down the shapely legs defined by the stretch jeans she’d been wearing.

  His groin tightened. The last thing he needed was an attraction to a woman at a time when both of them were in danger. Even if they were safely back home, she was way out of his league. If Bree had any idea of his background—or if her father did—she wouldn’t give him the time of day.

  Now that he knew whom she was, he needed to back off, ignore his little head and keep his big head in the game. Especially now, when staying focused might mean the difference between life and death.

  Unfortunately, as the shower continued to run, his body didn’t agree.

  Derek cursed silently.

  Bree emerged a few minutes later, her face clean and shiny, her damp blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked fresher, clear-eyed, ready to deal with what lay ahead. He found this Bree even more attractive than the one he had met before.

  She had put a trace of gloss on those plump pink lips, and he imagined what it might be like to kiss her. Lust hit him, and a fresh shot of arousal burned through him. Damn, this wasn’t good.

  Derek went to use the bathroom and freshen up, but he didn’t have a razor, so he couldn’t shave, and he didn’t take time to shower. He didn’t want to leave Bree alone that long. Not when Julio Montez clearly had designs on her. And whatever the prick had in mind, Derek didn’t think the man would wait for Bree’s permission.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IT WAS LATE in the morning by the time the general’s men ordered them into the jungle. The authorities knew where the plane had landed. Bree had expected to see soldiers or Honduran police, some sort of law enforcement, when she walked out of the metal hut. She’d assumed they would have followed the plane’s GPS to the abandoned airstrip, but no one was there.

  Derek believed the hijackers had threatened to kill the passengers, either with a bomb or some other method of mass murder to keep the military and police away.

  As the hours slipped past, Bree followed Derek and half a dozen armed men along a narrow, overgrown jungle trail. Five more men and the female hijacker marched behind them, all heavily armed. The man they had met when they first arrived, General Batista, led the group. There was no sign of Castillo or Montez.

  The airliner had taken off several hours earlier. Bree remembered the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach as the sound of the jet engines grew fainter and finally disappeared. She prayed Carmen and baby Sophie and all the passengers would arrive in San Salvador safely.

  A half-buried root appeared out of nowhere, and she stumbled and nearly fell.

  Derek turned to check on her. “You okay?”

  The man seemed to have a sixth sense where she was concerned, his instincts fine-tuned to pick up any shift in her demeanor as she followed the narrow, overgrown path in his wake.

  “I’m okay. Just a root I didn’t see.”

  “You need to be careful. No medical facilities. We can’t afford any broken bones out here.” He turned and continued walking.

  Bree concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. A broken ankle could be fatal as they marched toward God only knew where. As they moved deeper into the jungle, the terrain seemed more and more forbidding. The temperature was rising, the humidity making her pink-flowered blouse stick to her skin.

  She had forced herself to put on the long-sleeved cardigan she’d carried on the plane. She certainly didn’t need it for warmth out here, but bugs were a definite hazard.

  She picked up her pace to keep up with Derek’s long strides, though he continued looking back to make sure she was okay. Only a few rays of sun fought their way through the canopy of trees, and the wide green leaves that obscured the trail glistened with drops of morning rain.

  Even in the shade, the heat was oppressive, but as they trekked upward, climbing from the flatlands into more mountainous jungle terrain, the temperature was dropping, becoming more bearable.

  She lifted the strap of her big leather purse and settled it more comfortably on her shoulder. The heavy bag was her lifeline. Traveling into a third world country, she carried everything from makeup to snacks, bandages to bug spray. She and Derek were both grateful for the latter.

  The bag also carried the makeshift knife Derek had fashioned earlier from one of the wooden slats by scraping the ends back and forth across the rough cement floor.

  Even if Batista or one of his soldiers found the weapon, odds were they wouldn’t hurt her. She was far too valuable.

  Bree fixed her gaze on Derek’s broad shoulders. He had cautioned her to stay close as he moved up the trail ahead of her, watching for any sign of danger.

  “They’ve got some big cats out here,” he’d said. “Puma and jaguar, ocelots, half a dozen smaller species, but they’re usually nocturnal and more afraid of you than you are of them. The biggest danger is snakes. There are dozens of poisonous varieties—coral snakes, bushmasters, vipers and big constrictors like pythons.”

  Bree hated snakes. The thought of being bitten by one was terrifying.

  “Stay close and be wary,” he said. “And be careful not to injure yourself. Infection is the real killer in the jungle.”

  Though the orphanage wasn’t far outside the city, she’d educated herself on the perils of the jungle. She knew the dangers of infection and was glad she was wearing sneakers instead of the low-heeled pumps she usually wore. She prayed Derek’s expensive dress shoes wouldn’t rub blisters on his feet.

  Her gaze returned to him as t
he guards marched them down the trail. His white dress shirt stuck to his back, outlining the solid muscles beneath his skin. His hips were narrow, his damp slacks clinging to a pair of muscular thighs.

  Bree tore her gaze away and focused on where she was walking. The daily rains made the track slippery, and mud coated her sneakers. It took concentrated effort not to stumble over the roots and fallen logs on the narrow trail.

  During a brief stop, Derek had put himself between her and Batista’s men while she stepped off the trail to relieve herself. She thanked God again and again that he was there.

  The day wore on, and though the guards set a moderate pace, by midafternoon Bree was exhausted. She worked out at a gym and did yoga to stay in shape, but she wasn’t prepared for a trek like this.

  She was beginning to feel light-headed when Batista called a halt. After checking for snakes, bugs and the vicious red ants Derek had warned her about, she sank down wearily on a fallen log.

  Derek sat down beside her. “You doing okay?”

  “I’ve had better days.”

  His mouth edged up. “Yeah, that’s for sure.”

  Cisco, the heavyset guy with the red bandanna, walked up and handed each of them a plastic bottle of water. He seemed to be in charge of them. Bree cracked the lid on the water bottle and took a long drink.

  Cisco handed them each something to eat. “Baleada,” he said, naming the food before he walked away.

  Bree examined the makeshift meal, a tortilla stuffed with refried red beans and some kind of crumbled cheese. “Looks like the Honduran version of a burrito.” She took another big drink of water.

  “You need to conserve that as much as you can,” Derek said. “No idea when they’ll give us any more.”

  She put the lid back on the bottle and bit into the tortilla, which tasted surprisingly good. Or maybe it was just that she hadn’t eaten any real food for more than twenty-four hours. Mindful of Derek’s advice, she ate half the baleada and wrapped the other half in a Kleenex she took out of the little packet in her purse.