From Thailand with Love Page 5

  Between the bourbon, the wine, and the long day, I expect to fall asleep at once… but I don’t.

  This is stupid. I’m bone-tired, the mattress is comfortable, the temperature perfect… I should’ve dozed off right away. Also, over the years, I’ve trained myself to sleep in almost every condition. A necessity with the frequent traveling and less-than-ideal sleeping quarters we usually have on expeditions. In a car, a plane, on the ground with rocks poking my back… I’ve slept through it all. Once I even slept through the renovation works of the apartment above mine in Berkeley—every morning while I was still jet-lagged for a whole week.

  So, really, the moment my head touches the pillow I should be a goner.

  But not tonight.

  I toss and turn, unable to drift off.

  Why? What’s bothering me?

  Big blue eyes keep popping in my mind, along with the most incredible pair of legs.

  Oh, no.

  No. No. No.

  I refuse to get annoyed into insomnia.

  The photographer has nothing to do with my sleeplessness.

  Right.

  This trip could make or break my entire career. That’s why I’m nervous.

  Or the jet-lag. I landed in Thailand less than twenty-four hours ago; I’m still on Berkeley time, where it’s the middle of the day. That must be it.

  No other reason.

  Really.

  A while later I hear the rustling of steps outside, followed by the distinct sound of a door sliding open and shut again in quick succession.

  So she made it home in one piece.

  Yeah, Logan, no big risks of getting hacked off at a five-star resort.

  I let out an exasperated breath and, finally, my lids start to droop…

  Five

  Logan

  The next morning, I wake up to my alarm with a splitting headache, not nearly as rested as I should be.

  Just perfect.

  This trip is already proving much more challenging than I anticipated. Let’s hope everything will go smoothly today.

  In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face to help my brain catch up with the day’s schedule. Then I brush my teeth, shave—who knows when I’ll be able to properly do it next—and when I’m done, I drop the last toiletries in my backpack, shoulder it, and move outside.

  The sky is still midnight blue and the only illumination comes from the path lights lining the walkways. I turn my gaze to the neighboring bungalow.

  Everything’s dark.

  It’d better mean the photographer already left, and not that her alarm didn’t work. I’m tempted to go check, but I don’t, thinking it’ll only prove my point if she shows up late.

  Petty, I know, but this woman, for unfathomable reasons, is really getting on my nerves.

  When I join the others in the resort’s parking lot, Miss Sass is already there and, honestly, looking as jungle-ready as the rest of the group.

  She’s wearing military green cargo pants, black combat boots that rival the ex-Delta Force footwear, and a long-sleeved undyed linen shirt. A different camera from last night hangs from her neck, while her shoulders are weighed down by a gigantic rucksack—also military green. Her long hair is pulled back from her forehead in two twin braids that sneak around the side of her head all the way to her nape, where they join again in a thicker, single braid.

  “Ogling the photographer, are we?”

  Archie’s voice makes me jump.

  “I wasn’t—that’s not what…” I scoff. “I’m just glad she didn’t show up in a dress.”

  Archie slaps a hand on my shoulder. “And what do you think of the army look?”

  “What do you think?” I ask pointedly.

  Archie pulls at his short beard. “Those braids are giving me serious Mother of Dragons vibes, totally hot.”

  Unfortunately, he’s right. I worry Winter Knowles could wear a potato sack and still manage to look totally hot.

  “Should I remind you she’s off-limits?” I scold.

  “Why? Because of your bogus dibs claim?”

  “A dibs call is a dibs call.”

  Archie shakes his head. “Sorry, buddy, but your claim is valid only if you act on it. I’ll tell you what.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll give you a week’s head start, but if you don’t make a move by next Sunday, then the lady becomes fair game again.”

  I’m about to protest, but he’s already moved on.

  “Morning, Snowflake.” His deep voice booms across the parking lot. “Ready to rock?”

  “Well, hello, if it’s not our esteemed drone handler.” She beams up at him and raises her camera. “Pose for a departure shot?”

  Archie grabs the rear pole of the closest open Jeep and flexes his biceps, stamping a daredevil grin on his lips.

  She brings the viewfinder to her eye and takes a few pictures.

  When she lowers the camera again, Archie gestures toward her heavy backpack, saying, “May I?”

  She unhooks the straps from her shoulders and lets him load the rucksack on the back of the Jeep.

  I roll my eyes and join them before they exchange vows and get married already.

  So much for a head start.

  “Morning,” I greet them.

  Winter turns to me, the smile evaporating from her lips. “Good morning,” she says, formal and cold.

  Then, she eyes me challengingly, as if daring me to find something wrong with her outfit.

  But I know better than to take the bait. Every little thing I say to this woman can and will be used against me, so I keep my mouth firmly shut.

  “So.” She points down at herself. “Is my attire appropriate enough?”

  Apparently, she still isn’t ready to let it go.

  “Top notch,” I humor her, unwilling to be pulled into a useless argument.

  Her eyes shine with mischief. “Worried I’d show up in a skirt?”

  And, despite myself, I discover my lips curling in an amused grin. The lady sure is direct, I’ll give her that.

  “The thought crossed my mind,” I confess. “Glad to see I was wrong.”

  She gives me a curt nod that I hope means the matter is settled once and for all.

  “I told you, not my first rodeo,” she says, then turns, yelling, “Shotgun!”

  She climbs into the front seat of the Jeep, leaving me with a mental image of her riding a wild horse in cowboy boots—braids and all—permanently ingrained in my brain.

  Winter

  After a rocky start yesterday, things are shaping up to run much more smoothly today.

  Satan had to basically eat his words about his prejudices toward me, while Archie is really working hard to make me feel part of the team. Although, to be fair, most of his friendliness is probably an attempt to get a sexy thank you from me before the end of the trip. But if he tries something, I’m confident Archibald Hill is the kind of man who can take no for an answer and not be surly about it.

  So, all considered, I’m having a much better time today than I thought possible.

  Tucker is driving our Jeep, while Archie and Logan ride in the back. Satan isn’t much company at all. He pulled his hat—a wide-brimmed, sable fedora so Indiana Jonesy, I almost asked where he’d left his whip—over his face the moment we took off and has been sleeping with his arms crossed over his chest ever since. Thankfully, Archie and Tucker are better travel companions, and have been very chatty about anecdotes from their previous trips while also telling me more details about the research that preceded this expedition and what they hope to find in the jungle.

  I listen carefully as we drive further inland on the dirt road, taking the occasional shot of the thick vegetation surrounding us.

  “So,” I say, turning backward toward Archie and pointing at his seatmate. “Is he always so uptight?”

  A struggle between loyalty to his friend and the need to make a smart remark plays on the sweet Viking’s
face.

  Loyalty wins in the end. “This expedition is really important to him.”

  “Why?”

  Before he answers, I catch him and Tucker exchange a stare in the rearview mirror.

  “It’s potentially the greatest archeological discovery of the century,” Archie says. “Lots of eyes pointed his way. Anyone would be nervous.”

  “Okay, boys.” I shift my gaze back to the road ahead to avoid getting car sick; I can’t show any weakness when I’m with Satan, even if he’s sleeping. “Cut the bullshit and tell me what you’re leaving out?”

  Archie is quieter than a tomb. So I train my eyes on Tucker.

  He caves under pressure. “It might have something to do with Tara.”

  “Dude,” Archie says. “Not cool.”

  A woman? Someone who’s not cool to talk about… interesting. Could it be the mysterious she Archie referred to yesterday? Who is this woman? What happened? What’s the story? I need to know.

  “Who’s Tara?” I ask.

  “None of your business,” a gruff voice replies from the back of the Jeep.

  “Ah, so he lives,” I comment sarcastically, spying Logan in the rearview mirror.

  He’s removed the hat and is now glaring at me—via the car’s mirror—very much annoyed. So I let the subject drop. No point in pressuring Satan to share details of his life; it is known all masters of evil are very private about themselves. But at least now I have a name to investigate. I’ll have to sweet-talk Tucker into telling me what the big deal about this Tara woman is.

  ***

  After a few more hours of winding dirt road, we reach the village. It’s a bumpy, dusty trip that leaves my back sore.

  Tucker parks the Jeep next to a flat, rectangular building that Archie informs me is our rented warehouse. As soon as the car stops, I hop down and stretch my spine and arms like a cat that just woke up from a nap. The others join me in short order.

  “Remember,” Logan whispers to no one in particular, even if I’m sure he means to remind whatever to me. “Not a word to anyone about our real mission. Always stick to the cover story.”

  I ignore him and turn to Tucker. “What’s for lunch? Any local restaurants come with a recommendation?”

  Six

  Logan

  We eat a quick meal of brown rice and chicken Pad Thai at the only establishment that serves food in this tiny village of about five hundred souls. The town is built mostly of wooden huts, with dirt roads and only a few brick buildings, one of which is our warehouse. In this kind of landscape, our depot stands out more than I’d like. But it’s a small price we have to pay for the safety of having our equipment stored behind secure walls. Honestly, we don’t have any reason to suspect anyone of shady dealings, but, to stay on the safe side, Dr. Boonjan and I have agreed we have to always assume the worst could happen and stick to our group, talk to as few people as possible, and keep a low profile.

  At least, that was the plan.

  Unfortunately, by the time lunch’s over, news of our arrival has reached the locals. The moment we leave the restaurant, Winter somehow manages to have every kid in town following her around like ducklings. The photographer has a smile for everyone, and I swear she’s taking a portrait of every single street urchin. And I’m not suggesting she should be mean to the children, but at least she shouldn’t encourage them. Our escort is quickly turning into a mob. So much for not attracting attention.

  Archie bumps shoulders with me. “Try not to look so pissed, it’s only kids.” He winks at me. “They’re not going to take out machine guns and rob us blind.”

  I scoff. “Yeah, because that never happened.”

  “That was South America, man,” Archie says. “Compared to Narco-state, this is Switzerland.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” I say grimly. Before I snap, I busy myself with more practical issues.

  I walk toward Somchai, who’s standing next to a small herd of mules and horses, and hand him a bowl to-go of Pad Thai. While we ate, he’s been arranging our convoy for the last part of the trip to base camp.

  For lack of better spots, we sit on the dirt road while he eats.

  I let him gulp down a few forkfuls before I ask, “How’s everything coming?”

  “All set, Dr. Spencer,” he says. “The mules are loaded, and the horses saddled. Nice animals.”

  “Okay, so we’re good to go?”

  Somchai quickly finishes his meal. “Ready whenever the crew is ready.” His gaze drifts to the wide plaza in front of the warehouse where Winter is still entertaining the small kids, and he gives me a cheeky thumbs up.

  I shake my head. So, now, all I have to do is rein in the photographer.

  Lucky me.

  I consider sending Tucker or Archie, but knowing them, and starting to get to know her, she’d probably rope them into posing for even more pictures with the locals. But if we want to reach our destination and build our camp before dark, we don’t have a minute to spare.

  On my way to her, I stop next to Archie, saying, “Call Dr. Boonjan and the military guys. We’re ready to go.” Then I sigh and walk into the middle of the plaza, prepared to receive grief. “You should wrap this up,” I tell Winter. “The horses are sorted and we need to hit the road.”

  She gives me a polite look, and I almost expect her to comply with my request at once. But then her eyes shift to the caravan, and quickly back to me, the friendliness gone. “No one’s mounted yet.”

  Always so confrontational. “Yeah, well, we’re all mounting now, so”—I make a wide gesture toward the waiting beasts—“whenever you please.”

  “Okay,” she says curtly. “I’m taking another few shots and I’ll be right there.”

  Sure, because the thousands you just took clearly aren’t enough.

  I bite my tongue and say nothing. I only nod and walk away, careful not to shake my head or give any other sign she’s rattled me. Miss Pain-in-my-ass Knowles is making a point of not doing as she’s told just for the sake of it. But if I’ve understood her game, and I have by now, I’m fairly certain she won’t be late. She’ll wait just enough to annoy me, but not so long as to be the last one on horseback.

  Women; what a dreadful species!

  True to expectations, our darling photographer asks Somchai to assign her a mount not ten minutes later. Our local fixer chooses a beautiful silver mare for her, whose white mane is only slightly lighter than Winter’s braided platinum-blond hair. I can’t help but stare as the woman gracefully hops on the mare and settles in the saddle as if she’s done nothing else but horse riding her entire life.

  Archie comes up behind me, and I don’t need to turn to confirm he’s watching the scene with as much awe as myself.

  He slaps one arm over my shoulder, and, like the devil he is, he whispers in my ear, “And now the Khaleesi fantasy is complete.”

  Winter

  The horse ride through the jungle is far more pleasant than being jostled around inside a car. Atop my beautiful mare—Duang Jan, which means “moon” in English—I don’t feel the fatigue, and the hours pass quickly. I’ve missed riding, and even when my calf muscles get stiff from lack of practice, I have the best time.

  In LA, I always find excuses to not go riding. I’d forgotten how both calming and exhilarating it is to sit on top of a horse. The slow, repetitive rhythm that lets our postures mold one to the other and lets our spirits soar together. When I get back home, I’ll find a good riding school and enroll in regular trail rides. I owe it to myself not to forget again how powerfully beautiful it is to mount these creatures.

  My granddad from my mother’s side taught Summer and me how to ride. Pops owned a farm, and when we were kids we’d spend most of our summers in Indiana, sometimes inviting Lana along. But since Pops passed, we haven’t visited. No reason to. My grandmother was too old to run the ranch on her own, so she moved to Pasadena to be closer to my mom. That was years ago, and today’s the
first time I’m back on a horse since then. Definitely too long.

  I’m enjoying myself so much that, when we reach the targeted camp area, it feels too soon. My heels are still prickling to give Duang Jan a little push and get wild on a gallop together. Pity the trail never became wide or straight enough to allow us to race the wind. If it did, I wouldn’t have been able to behave. I smirk, imagining Logan’s face if I had suddenly taken off at a gallop. Satan would’ve probably thought I’d lost control of my horse and freaked out, maybe burst a coronary. It would’ve been worth the resulting lecture just to see his expression.

  Anyway, the road kept getting narrower, steeper, and more treacherous the farther we advanced, so no chance of a gallop anywhere. Likewise, the jungle became denser with every yard forward, so much so that when we stop, the area doesn’t seem all that hospitable or suitable to build a camp. Yeah, there’s the tiniest clearing where we could set up the bigger tents—supplies tent and gathering area—but otherwise, it looks like each individual tent will have to be scattered around where the gaps between the trees allow for enough space.

  I jump off my beautiful companion and caress her muzzle.

  “You’ve been a good girl,” I tell her. “A very good girl.” I tether her reins to a nearby tree trunk.

  Behind me, everyone dismounts as well.

  Logan and Tucker begin confabulating at once, their voices loud enough to carry over.

  “We should get the gathering tent up first,” Logan suggests.

  “Yeah,” Tucker agrees. “And as soon as it’s up, I want to brief the group on safety.”

  “Good idea,” Logan says. “Let’s be quick about it, then.”

  And quick they are. I barely have the time to gather and check all my photographic equipment before the tent is up. Tent… the structure is more of a sheltered, open area: four poles holding up a blue tarp ceiling that’s also secured to the trees above, creating a sloping roof. Underneath, they’ve assembled a foldable table and chairs. It’s the perfect spot to have a meal or hold a meeting.

  “Everyone,” Logan calls for attention. “Please gather around, Tucker has a few important announcements.”