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“I thought I’d fit in by putting my hair in a set of braids.” She held out her one hand. “My skin is gold-colored, not white. They’ll probably think I’m a local, not a tourist.”
Grunting, he said, “Wouldn’t matter. You’re beautiful, Sierra. And those mercs, when they get time off to come here, are ready for drink and womanize. There’s no way I’m putting you in their path.” Her cheeks went a deeper pink. Wasn’t she used to being complimented? That she was a damn good-looking woman? And she was avoiding his eyes. Luckily, their breakfast came.
Sierra sat on the stone steps that led up to the beautiful Spanish architecture of one of the Catholic churches in Cusco. Mace had stuffed her purchases into her day pack and zipped it closed. The sun was warm and welcoming near noon as they sat there watching Indians and Peruvians of Spanish cast begin to walk into the church for the noontime Mass. The wind was playful, tugging at the strands of hair at her temples. She’d plaited her hair into two long braids. The women who’d sold her the colorful Alpaca sweaters she’d bought had thought she was Q’ero; many of them spoke only broken Spanish. So, Mace, who spoke their indigenous language, had translated for her. The women in black or brown felt bowler hats, swathed in bright cotton shawls, and long, full skirts sat constantly knitting one after another alpaca sweaters, their wares displayed on a blanket in front of them. Sierra loved those moments, seeing the women doing what they did. And, although Mace was an intimidating size, whenever he spoke Quechua, their faces always glowed and smiled with approval.
Sierra gave Mace a warm look as he sat down next to her. She said, “I love this place. It feels like a second home to me.”
Mace kept an eye on all the tourists and native people that flowed in and around them. They sat on the lower steps, off to one side to stay out of the way of most of the traffic. “If you’re up to it, I’ll take you over to the market of theirs they have near Plaza de Armas. It’s really something.”
“This is so nice to really relax and let down,” she murmured, giving him a look of thanks. Mace wore civilian clothes, trying to appear a tourist. But he still didn’t really fit in. He was so damn tall and stood out. Trying to emulate him, Sierra wore nothing on her head and hoped she fit in a degree. Her head felt bare without her baseball cap on it though.
“Yeah, it is.” Mace said.
“Do you guys get a week off every three months?”
“Usually two weeks.”
“Why only one week this time, Mace?” Sierra found herself wishing she could spend two weeks in this city with him, just exploring its Incan history.
“Because the CIA wants Belov taken out.”
Snorting, Sierra said, “You guys bust your humps out there. No one gets any decent sleep. Aren’t they concerned about your team? Sleep deprivation?”
He watched a group of policia coming up and moving quietly through the gathering crowds that traversed the steps. “No. They could care less.” Straightening, he asked, “Want lunch? I know a nice little hole in the wall that has the best Peruvian food you’ll ever taste.”
Perking up, she said, “I’m starving.” Grinning, Sierra touched her stomach for a moment above the vest she wore. “I loved overeating on our first night out and finishing off that twelve-ounce steak.”
Unwinding up, Mace offered her his hand. “Was I right? Best steak you’ve ever eaten?”
She gripped his large, scarred hand, taking secret pleasure in sliding her fingers into his, feeling the thick, hard callouses on his palm. “Absolutely right. That was an amazing meal.” Reluctantly, Sierra started to release his hand but felt his fingertips hooking hers back into a palm-against-palm clasp.
“Just play along for a bit?” he asked, keeping her hand firmly in his. “We want to appear to be an American tourist couple.”
“Okay,” she said, looking around. Sierra noticed a lot of policia in the plaza. She glanced up at him. His face was unreadable as he perused the area. “Is something up?”
“No,” he murmured, tugging on her hand, leading her down to the sidewalk. “Usually, midday until dark, the policia are a heavy presence in the squares. There’s a lot of pickpocketing that goes on from the young boys. They target foreigners.”
Mace led her down a side street, a narrow alley. Large gray blocks that had been cut and fashioned by ancient pre-Incan stoneworkers sat as the foundations for the 15thcentury buildings above them. The streets were all cobblestone pavement. As she walked on them, Sierra wondered about the men who had slaved and worked over placing each single rounded rock into the earth to make this roadway. Every stone of Cusco was an amazing page of history to her, even the ones under her very feet.
She liked holding Mace’s hand. There was something protective about it. But her body was tightening with need of him—as usual. Sierra still had no idea what was going on between them. She liked being in Mace’s company. He was a man versed in history. He pointed out Inca temples, showing her how tight the fit between the huge gray blocks of stone that made up their foundations were. It was like listening to her mother tell her stories about the Cherokee people, their myths, their feats.
Mace led her into a very narrow alley. Halfway down, on the right, was a bright red door that stood open. Inside, it was semi-dark, no windows, but the smell of spices and food made her stomach growl with anticipation. The owner, a short, balding Spaniard, knew Mace by name, heartily welcoming him into the tiny restaurant. The tables were round, the chairs looking hand-hewn and simple. There were three other couples eating. The owner led them to a table against one wall made of Incan, hand-carved stone. With a flourish and a big smile, he pulled out the chair for Sierra. She smiled back and thanked him, sitting down. Mace took his own chair across from her where his back was against the stone wall so he could see who was coming and going through the only entrance/exit point.
“Let me order for you?” Mace asked.
She grinned. “Sure. Just make sure it doesn’t move, all right?” She saw a faint smile touch that wonderfully shaped mouth of his. How she ached to kiss this man! Sierra knew he would be a good lover.
“You got a deal,” Mace rumbled, switching to Spanish to order their lunch from the owner. “You want gas water to drink?”
“Yep. Thank you.”
A bowl of tortilla chips and three small dishes filled with sauces, were placed between them. Mace pointed to the green one on the end.
“Unless you want to rip the skin off your tongue, I’d advise you to try it last or leave it where it’s sitting.”
She grinned and scooped up the red sauce on her chip, carefully tasting it. She saw Mace pitch his chip into that green sauce.
“You must have a cast iron stomach, Kilmer.” she said, leering up at him.
