“No, Christian is at the studio doing a voiceover. He said it’ll take him hours to finish so I should be alone all night.”
“All right, talk to you later.”
“Later, bye.”
I shimmy out of my bikini panties and walk into the stone-and-wood shower to wash off the sweat of an hour spent sunbathing on the outside patio. As I quickly foam myself up, my thoughts inevitably drift to my sister.
In the past few months, I haven’t talked to her much. I still can’t forgive Summer for what she did to Lana. The thought of my sister having an affair with Lana’s boyfriend still sends me on a rage tailspin. But I hope that if they’re mending their relationship, we, too, can find our path back to each other. Being so mad at my twin that I can’t stand to see her face—incidentally, my face also—isn’t healthy.
I hop out of the shower, towel off, comb my hair back without drying it, and don the clothes I prepared. Flip-flops on, I’m ready to go. I slip out of the bungalow, opening the French windows the bare minimum—no monkeys in sight, but I’m not taking chances. Imagine if they stole one of my cameras… I’d be swearing far worse than Mr. White Buttocks. Yeah, better safe than sorry. Triple-checking the door is locked, I pocket the key and skip down the steps of my stilt hut to walk to the resort’s reception and go meet the others.
I hope the team is solid. I’ve never worked with the agency that booked me for this job, so I don’t know anyone on this trip.
Fingers crossed.
Nothing could be worse than being stuck in the jungle for three weeks with a bunch of morons.
Logan
I stare at my watch impatiently. Everyone’s here, except for the photographer.
When the Social Sciences dean told me a woman had been hired, I tried to persuade him to cancel. But Dr. Voss insisted she came highly recommended, and I couldn’t make a fuss. Securing the funding to finance this entire operation has already been close to impossible, and since UC Berkeley is our sole sponsor, I wasn’t able to put my foot down too hard.
But now I wish I had.
With weeks of heavy trekking ahead of us, bringing a woman on board was a terrible idea. I’ve nothing against women per se. With my ex, we’ve been on countless archeological trips together. But a few bad experiences with mixed-gender teams afterward have taught me what a nightmare having a slow, whiny, drama queen on the payroll can be. I never want to go through that again. And this trip will be no joke, it’ll be physically exhausting even for the most trained of us, and I’m used to setting a punishing pace. And even if the photographer is fit, she’s bound to slow the group down. Plus, having one woman join a team of eight men is going to be an unwanted distraction on its own. We won’t even be able to take a leak without making a fuss.
I hope at least she’s ugly. Or married. Less chance of my team falling over themselves trying to impress her if she is. I have enough problems without adding yet another to the mix.
Already this expedition hasn’t started in the best of ways. I unlock and re-lock my phone, reading the time on the newly-cracked screen. Fifteen minutes late and counting. I can already tell she’s going to be a massive headache for me.
I snort and walk to the refreshment table to grab another pineapple juice. The humidity in this place is overwhelming. Even standing in the shadow of the Welcome Center—an open-walled wooden structure with a thatched roof—there’s no break from the heat.
I grab a glass covered in condensation and turn back to rejoin the others, almost choking on my first sip when I spot a slender blonde walking into the hotel’s reception.
Wet platinum-gold hair frames an angel face—big blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and full lips. And the body that goes with the face… Well, let’s just say it brings to mind a very different kind of angel, as in the ones walking down the runway at the annual Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show—generous rack, tiny waist, legs that never seem to end.
The blonde is wearing a flimsy T-shirt and a pair of light-washed jean shorts that are basically underwear. Really, great legs. I low whistle in my head, thinking the wait and the heat suddenly aren’t quite as annoying, with this gorgeous woman to distract me.
My appreciation turns to dismay as the blonde takes a quick scan of the reception, pinpoints our group, and promptly walks toward the team to introduce herself, shaking hands left and right. It would appear our photographer has arrived.
I gape at the scene, aghast, as a band of hardened men transforms into a pack of doting puppies all wagging their metaphorical tails.
Please tell me this isn’t happening.
Oh, but it is.
All my worries are confirmed as I study the group’s dynamic now that a Pin-up has joined the ranks. She’s the focus of everyone’s attention, all the sensible topics my colleagues were discussing beforehand forgotten at once. How are we going to get anything done?
The only attitude worse than the widespread adoration is the approving leer curving the lips of Colonel Smith, our chief of security and another member of my team I didn’t pick.
I wasn’t eager for a squadron of mercenaries to join the expedition in the first place. But Smith and his two minions are one more nuisance that came as a package deal with the funding. Still, I can’t help not liking the man; he honestly gives me the creeps. An ex-Delta Force assault squad leader, Smith has turned to private security in his retirement. Of an undecipherable age between forty-five and fifty-five, he’s retained all his military bearing: buzz cut shorter at the sides, lean muscled body, and a hard face marked by a livid white slash. The ominous scar cuts from his left eyebrow to halfway down his cheek. And he probably enjoys frightening children with it in his spare time.
The colonel is dressed in a military-like uniform of all black—from shirt, to boots, to weapons—and he looks like he’s constantly standing at attention. And so do the other two soldiers, Carter and Montgomery—all three men only provided surnames—who also are ex-Special Forces. The trio is inseparable, apparently.
I drop the empty juice glass on the appropriate tray and join the rest of the team, ready to tighten the leash before my puppies get in a dog fight to gain the photographer’s attention.
“This should be everyone,” I say, entering the semicircle the others have formed. “Why don’t we make the introductions official? I’m Dr. Logan Spencer.”
The woman turns toward me, her eyes widening as if in—recognition? Nah, impossible. I’m sure we haven’t met; I’d remember a face like that. Next, she blushes slightly, and, finally, her expression settles on a half-amused grin she’s working hard to suppress. What does she have to smirk about? It’s unnerving.
Determined not to get sidetracked by the woman’s cryptic half-smile—See? She’s already a distraction—I tear my eyes away from the blonde and continue with my self-introduction. “I’m the lead archeologist on this team, and also a professor of Archeological Research Strategy at Berkeley University. Before I lay out the details of our itinerary, I thought it’d be good for each team member to introduce himself to—”