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tight-assed. He was still dazed by the sight of her in that get-up she slept in. For once in his life he’d been struck dumb, unable to come up with a fast comment or a lewd remark, and damn, did that woman deserve a lewd remark. Especially considering the way she reacted to the least little comment on his part.
    But the sight of her standing there in that skimpy sex kitten outfit had knocked him sideways with emotions he couldn’t even begin to sort through.
    It wasn’t as if he weren’t damned well used to sex, to skimpy clothing, to any and all forms of titillation. Anyone else wearing that jungle outfit would have raised an appreciative physical response but nothing more.
    But Maggie Brown hit him a lot harder than that. It was the contradiction. The touch-me-not coating of ice around her, the flinty eyes, the soft mouth, the way she had of meeting him toe-to-toe while part of her was shivering with some kind of reaction.
    He couldn’t figure her out. Was she cold as ice, or vulnerable in ways that were far too tempting? He shouldn’t even be thinking about it.
    He knew what he was going to do—it was much too important to get Miss Maggie Brown as far away from her missing sister as was physically possible. If he had to kidnap her, drug her, sleep with her, or dump her on the bandits’ doorstep, he had to do what needed to be done to keep her from interfering. In the end she might forgive him.
    Or maybe not.
    It didn’t really matter. Once everything was taken care of Miss Maggie Brown could throw any kind of hissy fit she wanted. He hit a particularly deep pothole, and she jolted awake for a brief moment, her rich brown eyes staring up at him dazedly. She closed them quickly, obviously not cheered by what she saw, and a moment later she was asleep again, or doing a good job of faking it.
    She probably faked orgasms, too, he thought coolly. She probably did it with another banker, beneath the covers and in the dark of night, and thought that was all there was to life. He’d be more than happy to broaden her horizons, given half a chance.
    She wasn’t going to give him half a chance, though. Sure, she had a way of looking at him when she thought he didn’t notice, but it wasn’t particularly female admiration. It was more the fascinated expression of a quivering brown mouse confronted by a hungry boa constrictor.
    Six days. Six days till she got on that plane back home. He could manage to kill six days on the road in San Pablo. Mind you, it was one hell of a small country, but the roads were so awful it made travel dangerous and endless, and after living here for more than five years he knew almost every back road and dirt track and goat path in the country. Even avoiding the mountains, he’d have enough to keep her occupied. Besides, she clearly had no idea what kind of situation she’d gotten herself into.
    He should feel guilty, if not about Maggie then about her dying mother. And he did feel guilty—there was just enough decency left in his worthless hide to feel regret that the senior Mrs. Brown wouldn’t get to see Stella before she bit the bullet.
    Then again, people had a habit of outliving everyone’s direst predictions. In the meantime, he was in the unpleasant position of having to play God, and he was making his choices. In the scheme of things, one dying old lady didn’t mean a hell of a lot.
    And one starched-up, neurotic young woman didn’t mean much, either. So he felt a passing amount of lust for her. He’d have to be half-dead not to react to that outfit she slept in.
    But then, if he was honest, he’d lusted after her from the moment she marched into Miguel’s cantina with her suit and her high-heeled shoes. He’d peered at her from under his hat and almost wanted to crawl out the back door. He knew trouble when he saw it, and she had his name written all over her.
    He could have bailed. Found someone else to take his place. He’d been at loose ends, waiting for the week-long