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Ayla Desmond didn’t want to disembark. Not here.

The roads were filled with deep ruts and potholes. The dilapidated buildings were even dingier. Power lines hung dangerously close to the sidewalks.

It wasn’t only the neighborhood, although that was bad enough. It was the gang members waiting nearby. They terrified her.

Ayla was glad she didn’t know Puerto Jardinese Spanish slang. Desperately, she looked for a taxi.

There wasn’t one.

She might not understand most of what the gang was saying, but she didn’t need to know the meaning of the words when their tone made them clear. Ayla had to get out of there. She turned and began walking away from the men. It took all her willpower not to run.

They followed her. Crowded her. Touched her.

Don’t show fear. Don’t show fear.

Ayla tried to walk faster, but they surrounded her. She didn’t know what to do. A hand grabbed her ass, and she batted it away.

Another hand grabbed her, the fingers sliding between her legs. She was so glad to be in pants. Ayla pushed the man’s arm away, but as soon as she did, another man touched her. Frustration welled alongside the fear.

“Hey! Get your hands off my wife,” a man called in Spanish. It sounded as if he were walking across the street toward the gang.

The groping stopped. The voice held a threat, and Ayla was so grateful someone was helping her, she didn’t care who it was or what he said to keep them from molesting her. With the gang members standing between her and the man, she couldn’t see him, but she nearly cried in relief.

She didn’t understand every word but deciphered enough to know the gang was calling his claim into question. His response was slightly easier for her to translate. Something about why else would he sit at a café for hours, waiting, if not for her?

His next words were in English and directed at her. “Come over here, honey.” An American. The man was American.

Ayla tried to squeeze between the gang members blocking her, but they didn’t move.

The man helping her let loose with a barrage of Spanish that came too fast for her to decipher.

Suddenly, a path opened up. Without hesitation, Ayla hightailed it toward safety.

Her step nearly faltered when she got a look at the guns her rescuer held, but he pointed them at the gang members, not at her.

She hustled toward him, the suitcase bumping along wildly.

She kept her gaze focused on the street, afraid she’d step into a rut, break her ankle, and make everything worse.

As she neared him, he said quietly, “Stand behind me.”

His voice was familiar, and Ayla glanced up. She might have stopped in her tracks if one of the assholes who’d threatened her didn’t holler something that sounded like an obscenity.

Gripping her suitcase handle tighter, she did as her rescuer instructed.

She was the practical twin. Everyone told her that.

The smartest thing to do was to follow orders.

The relief she felt when she had him between her and the gang was intense, and she had to blink back tears again.

They might not be out of trouble yet, but she couldn’t dismiss the sense of safety that filled her, knowing she had his protection.

It wasn’t his size, although he was big. A few inches over six feet with broad shoulders and lots of muscle. A lot of muscle. He seemed like a bulwark against danger. No, what had her feeling secure was she knew she could trust him.

She already had once before.

Ayla waited for him to tell her they were leaving, but it didn’t come. She peeked around his big body. If they tried to walk away, those men would be on them before they made it to the other side of the street. Terror returned. What could one man do against a dozen?

Her protector spoke in a lazy, bored voice. “Do you really want to start a war? The city is filled with mercs with nothing to do. You attack me or my wife, and they suddenly have revenge to keep them occupied. Mercenaries don’t allow anyone to take out one of their own.”

It took a few seconds for her to translate his Spanish into English, but Ayla must have gotten something wrong. Mercenaries?

“Do you think we’re afraid of a mercenary?” one of the gang sneered.

“One? No, but you won’t be facing one. You’ll be facing dozens.”

“They care only for money, not for friendship.”

Her protector shrugged. “You know better. Allowing an attack to go unchallenged puts more mercenaries at risk. The answer will be swift and brutal retaliation. You and the rest of your buddies won’t live to see mass on Sunday.”

Division brewed among the gang members.

The camouflage pants and shirt her rescuer was wearing finally registered. She’d been focused on the guns when she’d rushed toward him, but if she remembered correctly, he’d been wearing the shirt open over an olive green T-shirt. Military attire. Mercenary attire?

He couldn’t be a mercenary. He must be claiming to be one to get them safely out of here. That had to be what was happening.

There was more muttering from the gang, and Ayla leaned to check out what was going on. One man was murmuring to the leader. She couldn’t make out the words, but the scowl suggested the asshat in charge didn’t like the message. More rumbling and then a sharp nod.

“Killing you isn’t worth the effort, not for some scrawny woman.”

Ayla stiffened. Scrawny? She went to the gym every day. She could do half an hour on the elliptical while scrolling on her phone. That leader wouldn’t be able to do that.

The gang started breaking up, leaving in smaller groups of two or three. They remained standing in the street until the leader finally walked away. He was the last one.

“Let’s go, chicken woman,” her rescuer said.

Her brows went up. “Chicken woman?”

“That’s what the dude called you.” His lips quirked.

“I thought he said scrawny.”

That got her a shrug. “Either way, we need to move in case he changes his mind and returns with reinforcements. Come on, Pollita .” He holstered his guns.

“Little chicken?”

He moved her hand off the telescoping handle of her suitcase, lowered it, and then reached for the grip. Lifting her bag, he headed across the street toward a café. Ayla followed him, not willing to give up the safety his presence gave her. “Little chicken?”

“Relax, I know you’re not a scrawny chicken woman. I remember everything about that night,” he said over his shoulder.

Ayla’s cheeks went hot. She should have let him call her Pollita without complaining about it.

It was less embarrassing. Especially in that deep, sexy tone he used.

It made her body heat and brought that night front and center in her mind.

The things he’d said. Things he’d done. The things she’d done.

Her breath quickened, and it had nothing to do with hurrying after him.

He paused when he reached the sidewalk, waiting for her to catch up with him. “Are you really wearing heeled shoes?” He sounded incredulous.

“I didn’t realize where the bus station was.”

“Yeah, but you were traveling from Rio Blanco to Trujillo. You should dress comfortably, not for the office.”

Ayla frowned up at him. “These are my comfortable clothes.”

Her rescuer shook his head but didn’t comment. Instead, he took off without a word, expecting her to follow him. Which, of course she did, because she didn’t want to be alone in any section of town that looked like this.

“Where are we going?” she asked after a few minutes.

“First? Out of this neighborhood. This is one of the most dangerous places in Trujillo.”

“And second?”

“Second, we’ll have a conversation when we don’t have to worry about either of us taking a knife in the back.” His tone was dead serious.

That sobered her. He might be big and have a gun, but he was only one person. What if those gang members had attacked? He’d have no hope of defeating a dozen men. Ayla remained quiet and worked on keeping up with him. They were moving briskly, but she knew he moderated his pace for her.

It took a while before the surroundings improved, but her rescuer didn’t slow.

She was about to ask him again where they were headed, but then she saw a park up ahead.

There were spokes of concrete leading into a hub that held a statue.

She saw benches, a handful of trees surrounded by red and white flowers, and a smattering of people.

There might be more hidden from her view, but as they entered, she counted half a dozen.

He stopped at a bench near the statue, far away from those few other people, and set down her suitcase. For a long moment, he studied her and Ayla returned the favor.

Since she’d seen him, he’d gotten his dark hair cut.

It was a drastic haircut, taking his hair from below his pecs up to his shoulders.

He’d also shaved and had stubble, not a full beard.

He was better looking without it. No doubt about that.

Without thick facial hair to hide it, she could see his firm jaw and the slight cleft in his chin.

It seemed to make his lips appear fuller, his aqua-blue eyes more piercing.

As if he needed to look more gorgeous. He’d been devastating enough with all the extra hair.

“How’d you know I was in Trujillo?”

His question stunned her before anger replaced her surprise. The arrogance was outrageous. Ayla didn’t have time to put him in his place.

With a menace in his voice, he demanded, “How’d you find me down here?”