Free Obsession by Sharon Buchbinder Page A

area, we could be searching for months. She stays put. She can wait here until we come back with the baby.”
    Isabel whirled on him, eyes narrowed, fists on hips. “If it were my kid, I’d make damn sure I was with the rescue team, too.”
    “Be reasonable. We have zero intelligence on a cold, rough area of the country, dangerous for experienced hikers and hunters, much less for a tenderfoot gringo. If this operation goes sour, we could bring down the wrath of the US government and Homeland Security. I doubt you want them all up in your business.”
    Isabel glared at him. “Do you have a death wish? You’re doing this my way—or you know the drill.” She ran her red-tipped index finger across her throat. “And, at this rate, the way you’re going, I may just take care of you myself.”
    The red-haired Amazon in question filled the doorway. “Tenderfoot gringo? Seriously, did you just say that?”
    Now two women—strike that—two mothers —were really pissed and snarling at him. Angie stomped into the office and came toe to toe with him. “I’m betting the only tenderfoot in this room is you, my flabby friend.”
    Flabby? His hand flew to his abdomen. Was he gaining weight?
    The redhead continued, “I’m betting I can out run, out climb, and out kick your ass in the great outdoors.” She put her hand out. “Do we have a bet?”
    Alejandro shrugged and extended a palm.
    She surprised him with a bone-crushing grip.
    “Yes, fine, we have a bet.” He jerked his hand away, but she wouldn’t let go. What was she, part wrestler, part pit bull?
    “All right, enough. I give up.” He shook his aching digits. “Let me do some research. Then we can start planning our search for the treasures of the Sierra Madre.”
    ****
    Angie stormed back to the guest room suite and slammed her fist against the rough stucco wall. Tiny flecks of white paint fluttered to the floor and speckled her scraped knuckles. How dare he mock her? Damn straight she was going to search for her treasure, her son, hidden, God only knew where, in Copper Canyon. The cult follower had given her that scrap of information just moments before he died in her arms.
    She had a right to be there when they found her son and her sicko father. Angie closed her eyes and imagined the old man on his knees, bloodied, beaten and begging for his life. His lips would move but no sound would come out—only faint grunts because her hands would be around his neck—crushing his larynx with her thumbs, silencing his sadistic voice forever. Zeke Edmonds was hers and hers alone to destroy. No one was taking that away from her, not even a beguiling, intriguing, ridiculously handsome cartel underboss.
    Thug. Pig. Disgusting dealer of drugs, disease, and death . Where did he get off acting so high and mighty, ordering her to stay back? Since when did she take orders from criminals? The room was too damn hot. She was too damn hot. No. Alejandro was too damn hot. She needed to take a run, blow off this steam, or she’d tear the silk drapes and smash the gold framed mirrors in the suddenly too small room. Where were her athletic clothes? She found them in her duffle bag, along with her shorts and tee shirt, miraculously clean despite the multiple aggressive searches, first at the border, then at the mercy of Raul’s filthy paws. Raul. Where the hell was he? And what had Isabel done to him? One could only hope that he’d been at the receiving end of some form of medieval torture that left the man crippled and impotent.
    Running clothes on at last, she flew out a side door into the pool area and smack into that damn man, Alejandro. Half-naked. Despite her verbal jabs about flab, his six-pack abs and sexy scar made her fingers itch to touch his skin. He wore a tiny, tight Speedo that left absolutely nothing— nothing —to the imagination. Had he no sense of modesty? Were there no laws about indecent exposure or just plain lewdness in this freaking country? Or unconcealed