Raiders of the Lost Heart(6)

The wind whipped through Corrie’s hair as they traveled down the dirt road. Even though she had it pinned to the back of her head, a few unruly deep brown waves dipped with dark honey danced through the air, brushing across the smooth golden skin of her face.

Dr. Corrie Mejía was even more beautiful than he’d remembered.

Too bad she hated his guts. Not that he could blame her. Hell, sometimes he hated himself, too, or at least the times when he put on that smarmy act like he’d done at the airport. But he couldn’t help it. Whenever he was around her—her and only her—Ford the Douchebag always made an appearance.

He couldn’t believe he’d actually told her she could call him boss.

Douche. Bag.

He shook his head thinking about it, catching Corrie’s curious glance in the rearview mirror. A glance that quickly turned intense as those rich brown eyes bore through him like lasers. Perhaps this was her attempt at being menacing. Little did she know, however, that the only thing on his mind was wondering what those eyes would look like staring up at him from his bed. Staring at him like that one night they’d spent alone in the library.

Did she ever think about that night, too?

This dig was way too long to be on a forced sexual sabbatical while in the Mexican jungle with Corrie around, especially if she kept wearing outfits that hugged every single one of her soft curves the way this one did.

“How much longer?” she called out.

“About fifteen minutes,” he called over the wind and the roaring engine as they careened down the bumpiest dirt road in all of Mexico, lined with Mexican elms.

“Good. My back’s killing me,” she said as she arched her torso, pushing out her breasts even farther.

Why? Why couldn’t the only person with any possibility of helping him look like a troll? Or at least not be a goddess like Corrie? Ford wouldn’t mind her tearing off his clothes given the opportunity.

A small part of him hoped that she’d change her mind. That they’d get in one of their infamous arguments once he showed her the site—or, preferably, even before—and that she’d leave. In many ways, it would be better to simply let the investor know that they’d failed rather than have to put up with Dr. Corrie Mejía for who knows how long. He already knew from experience that they worked terribly together, if you could call it working together at all. He didn’t need to add sexual frustration on top of it.

Because if there was one thing Ford knew, it was that he and Corrie could never sleep together. Ever. No matter how many times he’d thought about it. Because if there was another thing he knew, it was that sleeping with Corrie would end disastrously, giving her yet another reason to hate him more than she already did.

But Ford was desperate. So desperate he’d willingly risk all the wrath and fury of Corrie Mejía if it meant he might be able to save his mother.

A tear pricked his eye, and he quickly blinked it away, though not before earning another curious look from Corrie. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, Corrie always watching him. He couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or something else, but every time he caught her eye, his X-rated imagination strayed and kicked up the temperature another couple of degrees. The conditions were bad enough as it was. More heat was the last thing Ford needed.

Well, that and another failure to add to his growing list.

Dusk settled over the heavily canopied jungle, casting darkness over the area. He’d hoped they would arrive earlier so they could give Corrie a tour this evening, but now it would have to wait until morning. With this new arrangement, though, and the potential that she might pull the plug in the morning, he didn’t really want to get into all the specifics of the dig. Maybe Ethan trusted her, but Ford hardly trusted anyone in this business, at least not until they’d had time to build a solid foundation. What he was doing on a dig funded by a complete stranger was beyond him. But, so far, the investor, Pierre Vautour, had come through on every promise. No expense spared. And despite his rocky relationship with his boss at Yale, he trusted that Dr. Crawley wouldn’t have sent him astray by introducing him to Mr. Vautour in the first place.

One thing was certain, though—Corrie didn’t trust him, which didn’t exactly instill the confidence in Ford that would make him want to divulge any specific details until she agreed to stay. After all, what if she hired someone to sneak into their camp and snag the artifacts? Assuming they ever found them, that was. He didn’t think Corrie was the type, but then again, she had an axe to grind. People did strange things when they wanted to exact revenge.

“We’re here,” Ethan called out to Corrie as Ford slowed down and eased the Jeep into the camp.

Several large tents outlined the perimeter of the small clearing in the forest—a few bunk tents for the crew and interns and two singles that Ethan termed “glamping” tents for Ford and Ethan—all built on platforms to protect them from the frequent unrelenting downpours. A larger mess tent with picnic tables and a makeshift kitchen sat in the center of camp, and a couple of padlocked equipment sheds sat outside the main camp area near the bathrooms, although calling them bathrooms was generous. They consisted of little more than pit toilets and flimsy stand-up showers. But the fire pit was the best part of camp. Out there, the team could unwind after a long day, drinking, telling stories, singing songs. Out there, surrounded by the towering mahogany and ceiba trees, abundant feathery palms and ferns, fluttering bats, and raucous spider monkeys, they were a family.