Embrace the dangerâ¦.
Thursday evening
The Amazon
IF THE WOMAN was trying to blend in, she wasnât very good at it. Itâd taken Michael Quinn no more than five seconds to pick her out in the dim, crowded interior of O Diablo Dos Ãngels, a rickety roadside barra in the bustling market town of Coroza, Brazil. Heâd been traveling for two days now, working his way through the stifling, humid depths of the Amazonian rain forest, and it showed in his haggard appearance. Two days that felt more like weeks, each passing hour grating against his nerves like a rusty nail, until he was in what could only be classified as a category-five, off-the-Richter-scale, completely uncharacteristic foul mood.
Not that he was usually cheery. Normally Quinn justâ¦existed. Itâd been years since anything, or anyone, had managed to touch him or throw him off his firm, even keelâand now this. He couldnât explain it, but from the moment heâd been given Saige Buchananâs photograph, his cool, steady calm had begun to fade, slipping away from him like water spiraling slowly down a drain. And in its wake, heâd been left with this seething intensityâ¦this gripping tension.
What made it even worse was the fact that Quinn hadnât even wanted the assignmentâhad, in fact, been adamant in his refusal. And yet, here he was, with his damp shirt sticking to his skin, the heavy scent of tobacco and sweat making his head hurt, while something piercing and uncomfortably sharp slithered through his system at the sight of his prey.
Huh. So this is little Saige, he thought, moving along the wall, away from the door, careful to avoid her line of sight as she sat at a small table on the far side of the room, a bottle of water held in one delicate hand. At her side sat a young man who couldnât have been more than nineteen, his dark skin, hair and eyes attesting to his Brazilian heritage. The boyâs lips were moving, and though Quinnâs hearing was far better than a humanâs, he couldnât make out the words over the raucous cacophony of sound coming from the crowd.
It seemed a strange setting for an American woman and her young companion, and yet, no one bothered them. Not even the drunks. Was she a regular, then? Under the ownerâs protection? Or was there some other reason the locals kept their distance?
Whatever the answer, it couldnât be from lack of notice. Saige Buchanan stood out among the weathered patrons like a neon sign in the midnight pitch of night, glittering and bright.
Quinn rubbed his palm against the scratchy growth of stubble that came from going several days without a shave, then slowly shook his head, already revising his analogy. No, the reportedly brilliant anthropologist wasnât brash or bold, like neon. As bright as she shone, there was a soft, almost tender aura about her, which probably made her stick out even more than that angelic face, lush body or unusual shade of hair. Neither red nor brown, it hovered somewhere in between, picking up the soft, hazy glow of light that spilled down from above, struggling against the lengthening evening shadows.