His Mysterious Ways. Amanda Stevens

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      FROM HER HIDING PLACE across the street, Melanie watched the man come out of the clinic and pause on the steps as his gaze went up and down the street. She shrank back into the alley, certain that el guerrero del demonio would have the ability to zero in on her even in the shadows, or in the middle of a crowd, or a hundred miles away.

      They say he has…special powers.

      Melanie shivered as she glanced around the corner of the building. He was minus the rifle and the camouflage gear she’d seen last night. Today he wore jeans and a snug black T-shirt that seemed at once nondescript and sexy. He might have been a good-looking tourist out for a bit of sightseeing—except for the rigid way he carried himself and that cold gleam she knew would be in his eyes.

      Even from across the street, she could see the bulge of his biceps beneath his short sleeves, the depth of his chest through the cotton shirt. He was lean and muscular, a fighting man in the prime of his life. A mercenary who killed people for money, and Melanie had the impression he was very good at what he did.

      Her stomach tightened as she watched him. He was looking for her, she knew that. He must have followed the trail of blood, so to speak. The clinic was the logical place to start his search.

      How long before he gave up?

      Or would he give up?

      With one last glance down the street, he climbed into the jeep and made a U-turn in the street, heading north, toward the mountains. But Melanie knew he’d be back.

      Her heart pounding uncomfortably, she waited until his vehicle was out of sight before she left her hiding place and headed in the opposite direction, toward downtown.

      The population of Santa Elena was less than five thousand permanent residents whose meager livelihood depended on the tourists who came there to visit the cloud forest and the nearby Mayan ruins. The main thoroughfare ran through the heart of downtown, where a bustling open-air market catered to the foreigners and dilapidated buses dodged potholes, chickens and children playing soccer in the street.

      Melanie’s hotel was in the center of the village, a three-story terra-cotta building with wrought-iron balconies and potted hibiscus. A lush courtyard, hidden behind stone walls heavily draped with bougainvillea, provided a cool, shadowy oasis for guests needing a respite from the hot midday sun.

      As she entered the Hotel del Paraíso, Melanie was struck again by the Old World charm of the lobby. A huge fountain, surrounded by tree ferns, bubbled in the middle of the stone floor while palm-leaf fans twirled lazily overhead.

      She nodded to the clerk behind the desk as she made her way to the elevator and shoved home the wrought-iron gate. The elevator clanged its way to the third floor, where her room was located at the end of a long, dim corridor.

      The room was large and airy, with a private bath and a view of the street that Melanie had requested. She was quite comfortable with the accommodations, but she knew if she planned to stay in Santa Elena for much longer, she’d have to find a cheaper place.

      When her mother had died a few months ago, she’d left Melanie the bulk of her estate, but taxes had depleted a substantial portion of the inheritance. And Melanie’s most recent job as a cocktail waitress hadn’t allowed her to contribute much to the nest egg. Still, it would last her for a while if she was careful. Luckily, she was not a person given to consumer excesses. The basics were really all she needed—food to eat, a roof over her head, clothes on her back.

      Stripping, she took a quick shower—a difficult task with one hand that had to be kept dry—then dressed in fresh jeans and a white cotton blouse she’d picked up at a thrift store in Houston before she’d caught a plane to Cartéga. Grabbing her bag, she left the hotel again, intent on finding a quiet place to have a drink and watch the sunset.

      This time of day, the hotel terrace would be full of tourists, mostly Americans and Asians, who would have just gotten back from their trek to the cloud forest or the ruins. Their excited chatter could be entertaining at times, but today Melanie’s nerves were on edge. She needed peace and quiet, a chance to think.

      Heading down the street to a tiny café she’d discovered her first day in Santa Elena, she found a table on the patio, ordered a pineapple juice and then, settling in, let her mind wander.

      “You must be new here.”

      The Australian accent startled Melanie so thoroughly she realized she must have drifted off to sleep. Alarmed by the lapse, her gaze shot to the man who stood over her table.

      He was older, mid-fifties at least, with a haggard face and thin, white hair that brushed the shoulders of his lightweight suit.

      Melanie knew she had never seen him before, yet there was something oddly familiar about him. “I beg your pardon?”

      “I asked if you were new here. I come in often, and I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.” He put out a hand. “Bond. Angus Bond.”

      She couldn’t help but smile at the way he introduced himself. She shook his hand. “Melanie Stark.”

      He held up a frosted glass garnished with a wedge of lime. “May I buy you a drink, Melanie?”

      She nodded to her juice. “I already have one, thanks.” She’d meant it as a polite brushoff, but something about him, that familiarity, made her say impulsively, “But you’re welcome to join me if you like.” What the heck? He looked harmless, save for a nasty scratch down the left side of his face, and there was something irresistible about a man with an Australian accent, no matter his age.

      “I’d like that very much.” He drew out a chair and sat down, then took a long, thirsty pull from his gin and tonic.

      “Nectar of the gods,” he said with a sigh.

      “I thought that was wine.”

      “Not in my paradise.” He grinned and took another swallow. “So what brings you to Santa Elena, Melanie? The cloud forest or the ruins?”

      “I intend to see both. How about you?”

      He shrugged. “I’ve lived off and on in Cartéga for quite some time now. Santa Elena has always been a favorite haunt of mine. I like the quaintness.”

      Melanie lifted a brow in surprise. “You live here? Judging by your accent, I would have guessed you’d just left Melbourne a few days ago.”

      “Queensland, actually. I’m a banana bender, as they say.” He grinned and saluted her with his drink. “As for the accent, old habits die hard.”

      “I know what you mean,” Melanie murmured. She realized then why he looked so familiar to her. The evidence was there in his face. The excesses and the abuses. But it was his eyes that were the true giveaway. They were flat, emotionless, empty. She’d seen those same dead eyes years ago, in rehab. And in the mirror.

      “So what do you do here?” she asked him.

      He toyed with his glass. “Right now I’m working for an American oil company that has a drilling site about thirty miles north of town. Kruger Petroleum. Ever heard of it?”

      Melanie almost choked on her drink. “I don’t think so.”

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