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d upon Trent or a bevy of doctors to take care of her. She was a grown woman, and, if everyone were to be believed, a strong-willed and independent person who could handle her own life. An investigative journalist, for crying out loud.
She should be able to figure out if Trent was who he claimed to be. She watched the lemon dance between the ice cubes in her glass and decided that it was time to find out if Trent was her husband or an impostor.
Before it was too late. Before she made a horrible, irrevocable mistake.
Before she slept with him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The man was known as el Perro, the Dog, and Trent thought the name fit. Small and wiry, with long black hair tied in a stringy ponytail, el Perro slouched behind the wheel of the beat-up old Pontiac, squinting moodily through the smoke curling from the cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth. His beady black eyes were ever vigilant as he surveyed the empty, dusty road. Harsh sunlight baked the hood of the car, filtering through the grime on the windshield and causing the temperature in the Pontiac to rise to over a hundred degrees, despite the fact that the windows were down.
The car was parked on a desolate patch of ground. Dry weeds grew heavy between the two dusty tracks on the hillside. Far in the distance, the sea was visible. Below, the town of Santa María stretched along the beach, whitewashed buildings almost blinding as they reflected the sun, and high above on the hill, the ruins of the mission were visible through the trees.
El Perro drew on his filterless cigarette, pulling smoke deep into his lungs. “You want me to watch this one.” He jabbed a grubby fingernail at the photo of Nikki with her sisters, a copy Trent had made.
“Yes.”
“Qué bonita.”
Trent couldn’t argue. Nikki Carrothers was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met. Her smile was nearly infectious, her green eyes intelligent and warm, her hair thick and lustrous. But it wasn’t her beauty that intrigued him. No. His fascination for her went much deeper. Too deep. He felt as if he were drowning. Nikki messed with his mind. She had from the first time he set eyes on her. He slid his gaze away from the photograph and gritted his teeth.
“She is in danger, eh?”
“She’s in danger and she’s dangerous. Both.”
El Perro chuckled. “A tigre, ¿sí? Wild like the island.”
“She’s my wife,” Trent said with a meaning that bridged the language and social barrier between the two men. Silently he cursed the fact that he had to deal with this lowlife. But el Perro came highly recommended. The best on Salvaje.
“You need another man to watch your wife?” With a disgusted snort, the sullen man said, “I trust no one but myself with my woman. No other man—”
Trent grabbed the front of el Perro’s shirt, the sweaty cotton wadding between his fingers. He shoved his face so close to the native’s that he could see the pores in the smaller man’s skin and acrid smoke from the Dog’s cigarette burned Trent’s eyes. “Get this straight, amigo, you’re not to lay a hand on her, you’re not to speak to her and you’re not to be seen by her. You got that?” He gave the shirt a jerk.
El Perro’s eyes slitted and he drew hard on his cigarette. Smoke drifted in angry waves from his nostrils. “You do not frighten me,” he snarled, though his eyes grew black as the depths of hell. “For your money, I will watch your woman. She will never know that I am near.”
“Good.”
Releasing the other man’s clothing, Trent settled back against the broken springs of the car, reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small envelope. He tossed the payment onto the stained seat and climbed out of the Pontiac, leaving the door ajar. “The rest when the job is done.”
“How will I know when it is finished?”
“I’ll find you,” Trent vowed, surprised at the force of his emotions.
El Perro grinned lazily, showing off a slight gap between stained front teeth. “It is not always easy to find the tracks of the Dog, eh?” He tossed the butt of his cigarette out the open window.
“I’ll find you,” Trent promised, his lips drawing into a cruel smile. “You can bet on it.”
* * *
No suits!
Not even a sports jacket. Nikki rifled through the clothes in the closet, searching for a clue to Trent’s identity. She’d worked quickly, her fingers dipping into each of his pockets, rummaging through a denim jacket, two pairs of jeans, a pair of shorts and several shirts. For all her efforts, she discovered an opened pack of gum, loose change in American money, and a pair of nail clippers.
“Okay, Nancy Drew, what next?” she asked herself as she hobbled into the bathroom. His shaving kit was there and it held nothing more than shaving cream, a razor which obviously didn’t get much use, a bar of soap, toothpaste and a brush. “Great. Just great,” she muttered under her breath and wondered when he’d return. How much time did she have? If he were to be believed, the airport was overflowing with concerned tourists trying to make connections back home, and he would be standing in line for hours.
Feeling like a traitor, she picked up the telephone and with the aid of the operator, managed to get through to the hospital, though Nurse Sánchez was not on duty. Nor could Mrs. Martínez come to the phone. In heavily accented English, the hospital operator assured Nikki that Nurse Sánchez would call her when her schedule permitted.
“Great,” Nikki mumbled in frustration as she eased back on the bed. There had to be a way to check him out. Another way. She picked up her address book and flipped through the pages, stopping at the section marked M, but nowhere in the pages had she scribbled Trent’s name, address or telephone number.
