Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) (6 page)

He leaned forward, his face close to mine. “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.”

“I didn’t say anything.” I could feel his hot breath on my face. I tried to keep my voice non-confrontational. “Now here we are. In this whirlwind romance.”

He held my gaze for a long moment. Then smirked. “Yeah.”

I broke away and went back to my suitcase. “What was all that about horseback riding with Maria?”

Dalton shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“It seemed like an opportunity to get close to George. Why wouldn’t we do it?”

“You need to follow my lead, not question everything.” Before I could respond, he screwed up his face, annoyed. “We just need to be cautious, that’s all, not seem too eager. This is a delicate thing.”

“All right,” I said, staring at him. What was that all about?

“When the time is right,” he said. “You can chat and do whatever it is women do.”

“Whatever women do?” Wow, he was a piece of work. “And what was that outside the door a few minutes ago? Is that just what men do?”

He glanced at the door and I could read his thoughts. “I was playing a role.”

“Really?” I said. “You weren’t the slightest bit into it?”

His eyes lit with fire. “Hey honey, I’m a healthy, virile man. You were rubbing up against me.”

Two could play this game. “Just playing my role,
hubby
.” I crossed my arms. “Speaking of that, I don’t get Maria. She doesn’t seem like a woman who would go for someone like George. She was too—”

“You need to work on your observation skills. Didn’t you notice his fat wallet? A lot of women find that pretty darn attractive.”
 

“I know, it’s just that—”

“That’s what women do. Act all aloof and independent, suck you in, then whine when the dough dries up.”

I shook my head. “You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?”

He huffed. “Divorced.”

“Shocking,” I said. With those strong arms and his boyish grin, he oozed sex in an all-American kinda way. “I bet you were a football player and made all the cheerleaders swoon. She was the prom queen, right?”

“Listen, you’re here for one thing. Until then, your job is to look pretty and keep your mouth shut. Go shopping, go to the beach. Get your hair done.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t care.”

“Let me get this straight. I’m to do nothing, say nothing? Even think nothing?”

“Now you’re getting the idea.”

“You don’t care about my experience, my abilities, my skills.” I slammed my hands down on my hips. “I’m only here because I have boobs.”

His eyes dropped to my chest. “And you’ve come with very fine assets.” He ripped the cover from the bed, plopped down in the chair, and drew it over his head. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

I took a cold shower. I still didn’t sleep well. Too many things about this whole situation bothered me. Namely, Special Agent Dalton. What the hell? He practically had me panting for him and then claimed it was all an act. Asshole. My mother was right. What really bothered me was that I couldn’t decide which was worse—him or my mother being right.

I rolled over but couldn’t get the image out of my mind of him standing in the shower with the towel wrapped around his waist. I really needed to get out of the north woods. I loved the boreal forest, but the boyfriend prospects up there were nonexistent. I contemplated a second cold shower, forced my mind elsewhere.

Why had George brought all the potential buyers together for dinner at his house? What would be the advantage? If anything, you’d think a savvy business man would want to keep his associates from talking to each other. There had to be a logical reason.

And the postcard from García. He must have thought Nash could put it together. A beautiful butterfly. What in the world did he mean by that? Butterflies were big business on the black market. But he hadn’t mentioned one species specifically? I needed some knowledge of local butterflies.

When dawn rolled around, Dalton grunted something about going to do his job, to have fun at the beach.
 

Like hell. I wasn’t going to sit on my hands and do nothing. I was going to the palapa bar, see what I could find out. I know how to blend in, be discreet. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be open for several hours, so I had time for my morning yoga. After that, I decided to check out the butterfly garden. Worth a shot. Maybe I could get an idea of what García might have been referring to on the postcard.
 

I brushed my teeth, tied my hair back into a ponytail, threw on a t-shirt and shorts, grabbed Mrs. Strix’s handbag, and headed out.
 

The valley surrounding our bungalow had a mix of tourists, ex-pats, and snowbirds. A nice walking path had been slashed through the edge of the jungle for ease to the shopping district where one could find all the modern conveniences yet still feel as though in a tropical paradise.
 

The morning air was cool. I took my time, enjoying it. This close to the equator, afternoons could be oppressively hot and muggy. I’ve never understood the phrase “tropical paradise.” It’s an oxymoron, if you ask me. Heat and I don’t mix.

There was no denying though, this truly was a nature lover’s paradise. The trees were filled with birds, squawking, chirping, chattering. An iguana scampered off the path where it had been basking in the morning sun.
 

From above, I heard a distinctive swish in the canopy. Two white-faced capuchin monkeys scampered across a limb like a couple of squirrels. The way these two could romp through the treetops was breathtaking to watch. They dropped down, one at a time, to swing on a hanging vine, then flip over onto the next limb, keeping balance with their prehensile tails. One seemed to notice I’d stopped. He sat back on his haunches, his arm around a branch, his round, black eyes lit with curiosity as he chittered at me with his high pitched call.
 

He reminded me of the Philippines and the tarsiers I loved as a kid, though the tarsier’s ultrasonic call is inaudible to the human ear. With large, bug-like eyes and long, bony fingers, they grasp a branch in a pose that always makes them look like they’re hugging it.
 

My dad would get me up before dawn and we’d hike into the forest, to a blind he’d placed the day or two before, and we’d wait for one to come along and then hope for the light to be just right for the perfect wildlife photo.

I wished I had a camera with me right now. The capuchin was so close and seemed unafraid in my presence. I lingered for a while, watching the two watch me. This is why I’m here, I thought. This is how it should be.

Before I moved on, I glanced behind me and caught sight of Yipes, several paces back, trying to act nonchalant. So I had a tail. Hm. Good to know.

I continued down the path toward town and found the butterfly garden tucked away on a side street, a tiny educational building serving as its entrance. I went inside and wandered for a few minutes, taking in the layout, before I was greeted by a guy about my age, an American with movie-star good looks. “Bienvenida al Jardín de Mariposas,” he said in greeting.
 

I understood him perfectly, but I had to keep my cover. “Um…hello to you, too. Do you speak English?”

He gave me a smile that made me smile involuntarily in response. “Welcome to the butterfly gardens.” His voice had husky, earthy notes, a sound that belonged in the bedroom. My bedroom.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I said. I stared a moment too long.
 

He stood with his weight on one leg, his hand on his hip, exuding an easy confidence. He knew he was hot. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. His square jawline and scruffy stubble made me want to tug him into a dark back room and go crazy.
Damn Dalton for getting me all revved up.
 

I shoved my hands into my pockets to hide the monster diamond on my left hand, thinking how ridiculous it was to have to hide my fake ring because of my fake husband that I wasn’t getting any action from anyway, fake or otherwise.

“Would you like a tour?”

Um, with you? Yeah!
I glanced down at my shoes.
Poppy, get it together. You’re a federal agent for god’s sake.
“Yes, I think so,” I said with a shrug, trying to act indifferent.
Wait. Maybe this guy has some information. And flirting will get me a lot further, get him talking, won’t it?
“When’s the next one?”

“Oh, we aren’t that busy. I can take you right now, if you’d like.”

As I ransacked my purse for the ten dollar fee, I slipped the ring off and let it drop to the bottom.

“We’re a non-profit, supported completely by donations and volunteers.”

“You’re a volunteer then?” I said, stating the obvious.
Geez. My hormones must be eating away at my brain cells.

“A couple days a week.”

I glanced around. “Are you the only one here?”

“Yeah, we’re a pretty small operation.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Oh, I’m Noah. Glad to meet you. And you are?”

I stared at him, my mind blank. For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with my cover name. “Noah, that’s a nice name,” I said, stalling. “I get it. As in the guy with the ark.” His expression changed.
Oh my god. I’m such an idiot.
“Oh my gosh, I’m sorry. That’s really your name, isn’t it?”

He cocked his head to the side, a look of confusion on his face.

“I figured you must get a lot of children and”—
kill me now—
“that was part of your, you know…”

He gave me a genuine smile. “Naw, we don’t get a lot of kids. Wish we did, actually.”

I extended my hand. “Well, I’m Brittany. It’s nice to meet you, Noah. ”

“Likewise,” he said, and led me to the insectarium, a room rimmed with glass aquariums, each housing some exotic native insect—beetles of all sizes and shapes, scarabs with iridescent green shells, spiders that would make my mom vow to never set foot in this country. Posters adorned the walls showing comparable sizes of insects, butterflies, and moths, as well as paintings from local artists, and a large case of pinned insects.
 

Noah patiently told me about each live insect—its lifespan, eating habits, predators—while taking it from its tiny habitat and holding it out for me to see. “Half of the species on Earth are arthropods,” he said.

“That’s a lot of bugs. I’m glad they’re not all as big as that one.” He was holding the Hercules Beetle, a bug the size of an Idaho potato with horns. He assured me it was harmless and offered to let me hold it. He looked surprised when I took it and held it in the palm of my hand.

He grinned. “Wow, most ladies won’t touch him.”

I looked right into his eyes. “Well, I’m not like most ladies.”

His eyes turned sultry. “I can see that.”

We moved out of the building to the gardens, several of which were designed to replicate different natural habitats from low-elevation forest to cloud forest, a habitat rare on Earth save for a few specific locations, one being right here in Costa Rica. Each was enclosed with netting to keep the butterflies in.
 

In the first, I learned about the Blue Morpho butterfly, the pride of Costa Rica. One lighted on his hand and I swear its wings spanned eight inches. When it opened its wings, it shined a brilliant iridescent blue, but the underside of the wings was a dull brown color with swirls and eyespots. Noah told me that in flight, the contrasting bright blue and dull brown colors flash, making it appear as though the butterfly is magically appearing and disappearing, inspiring countless tales in local folklore.

As we moved on through the other gardens, Noah told me about the unique glass-winged butterflies that don’t rely on bright coloring, but rather use pheromones to attract a mate. I could have told him a thing or two about the effect of pheromones right now.
 

The last stop was a giant leafcutter ant colony. Noah seemed to come alive as he spoke about it. Next to humans, he said, leafcutter ants form the largest and most complex animal societies on Earth. Deep within their nests, the ants work collectively to cultivate a fungus that grows on their chewed leaves—gardening to produce their own food.
 

Through observation, scientists realized that certain species of leaves, avoided by the ants, tend to possess compounds called terpenoids, a breakthrough discovery of antifungal chemicals now used for medicinal purposes or fungicides.
 

Noah relayed this information to me as though it were the most amazing discovery of mankind.

The tour ended back in the tiny building in which we had started. Noah gestured toward the items for sale in the room—artwork, jewelry, books, nature guides. “All the proceeds from our gift shop support our conservation efforts and the upkeep of the gardens here, the care of the butterflies, that kind of thing.” He pointed to a jar near the cash register. “And if you can, we’re asking for donations for our capital campaign to build a wildlife sanctuary here for animals that have been injured or orphaned. Our goal is $200,000.”
 

Normally, I’d empty the bottom of my handbag of all its loose change for such a thing, but I couldn’t risk my cover.
 

I stood there, trying to search my rational mind for insight. Could Noah be involved somehow with the smuggling? After all, I’d come to the butterfly garden to poke around, see if there was any connection to the clue from Agent García’s postcard. It certainly would be an excellent cover. No one would suspect. I glanced at Noah. No way.

I chose a book,
The Birds of Costa Rica
, and paid cash. “Do you know of any good birding trails?” I asked.

He gave me a free map of the area and pointed out a few of his favorite spots. I thanked him, stuffed the map in my purse, and lingered. I didn’t want to go. He had some kind of gravitational pull.
 

He leaned on the counter. “What brings you to Costa Rica, anyway?”

I smiled. I could stay and talk with him all day. Maybe he’d take me by the hand and lead me into that back room. “The birds, actually. I’m kind of a bird nut. I was hoping to see a keel-billed toucan. And the resplendent quetzal, of course.”