by Anne Stuart
“Don’t throw me any crumbs, Pulaski,” she snarled. “You’re right, I’m wrong, and my ego isn’t so fragile that I can’t admit it. How do we get to La Ceiba?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Maggie.”
She bit her lips, glaring at the underbrush. “You may as well—you haven’t held back so far.”
“You’ve been driving toward La Ceiba for the last hour anyway. I should think we’ll hit it by midafternoon.”
“The hell I am!” she exploded. “I’m heading due west—”
“La Ceiba is due west, Maggie. Tegucigalpa is directly south of us,” he interrupted calmly.
She would like to have driven the balky Jeep into a banana tree before admitting he was right. She’d envisioned the geography in her mind, but turned it sideways. She’d been carefully heading west, thinking it was toward the Pacific Ocean and the Honduran capital halfway between, and instead she’d simply been moving farther away.
“Pulaski,” she said in a deceptively gentle voice, “no one likes a smart ass.”
“Maggie,” he replied, his raw voice curiously sweet, “no one likes someone who’s perfect.”
“Then I guess I don’t have to worry about whether you like me or not,” she said with a brittle laugh. “I’m getting further and further from perfection every day.”
“I like you, Maggie,” he said. “I like you just fine.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a Holiday Inn in La Ceiba?” she asked in a mournful voice, changing the subject.
“What is this fixation about Holiday Inns? I’ve seen enough in my younger days to last me a lifetime. Don’t you want to immerse yourself in the experience anymore?”
“I want to immerse myself in a heated swimming pool, a hot tub, a sauna, and a king-size bed with clean sheets.”
“Sorry, it looks too small to have a Holiday Inn. There might be some nice resorts by the beaches, but I would think you’d be happier if we took a small hotel in town.”
“I wouldn’t be happier, but I’d be smarter. All right, Pulaski, I know when I’m beaten. But tell me there’s a Holiday Inn in Tegucigalpa.”
“We can probably find a Fodor’s Guide in La Ceiba that will tell us. That is, if Fodor even publishes one.”
“I wouldn’t think too many people are eager to travel in Central America nowadays,” Maggie said. “Still, they must have some sort of guide. I’ve got a good memory for geography and history but I can’t remember much about Honduras except that it’s all mountains.”
“Good memory for geography? Then why were we heading in the opposite direction?” Mack drawled.
“Shut up, Pulaski, or I’ll hand you over to the rebels when we reach Tegucigalpa. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to help you find Van Zandt. Or at least make sure that you wouldn’t ever need to see him again.”
“Empty threats, Maggie. Think of the long hot shower you’ll get tonight. Probably a wonderful seafood dinner, maybe a local wine.”
“Sadist. Hand me a tortilla and be quiet. I’ve got to concentrate on my driving.”
“How are you going to concentrate on your driving when you’re trying to eat—”
“Shut up, Pulaski,” she said in a dangerous tone of voice.
“All right, Maggie. But I don’t think—”
Whatever he didn’t think was destined to remain lost as a bullet whizzed directly between Maggie and Mack, straight through the center of the cracked windshield.
“Hell and damnation,” Maggie cursed. “Duck, Pulaski.” She stamped on the gas, and the balky four-wheel-drive coughed, sputtered, and then jerked forward at a marginally faster speed. Another bullet whistled past her ear, followed by the ominous crack of a rifle, and Maggie hunched over the steering wheel, biting her lip and cursing in a low, steady voice.
“What the hell is this?” Mack demanded from his position on the floor of the front seat. “You sure you paid for this Jeep?”
“I don’t have your talents for hot-wiring,” she muttered as the Jeep careened wildly down the jungle track. Her vision was not the best, since she didn’t dare do more than peer over the steering wheel, and she had more than one glancing encounter with the underbrush before righting the vehicle. “I can’t imagine why someone would want to shoot at perfect strangers—” Another bullet slammed into the dashboard five inches from her hand, knocking out the speedometer, which didn’t work anyway, and Maggie stamped on the accelerator once more.
“I can imagine. Didn’t you take a good look at this Jeep, Maggie?” How Mack could manage to sound reasonable from his hunched-over position on the floor of the Jeep was beyond her comprehension, but his raspy voice was calm and collected. “This was some sort of government vehicle, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it once belonged to the local equivalent of the DEA. I imagine we’ve stumbled into a branch of the local import/export business that doesn’t care for government visitors. Probably doesn’t care for turistas, either. I think the sooner we get out of here, the better.”
“I’m driving as fast as I can!” she snapped as they bounced and jarred their way through the underbrush. The only sound in the steamy noontime air was the sound of jungle birds and the laboring noise of the old engine. “Do you hear anything?”
Slowly Mack pulled himself back into the front seat as Maggie took some of the pressure off the gas pedal. “I guess we’re out of range. For now.”
“What do you mean ‘for now’?”
“I mean I expect there are any number of drug operations in these jungles. And we’ll have to count on luck to avoid them.”
“Luck and my driving,” Maggie shot back, daring him to say something.
Mack only raised his eyebrows and sunk down lower in the seat. “Sure thing, kid. Wake me when it’s over.”
They drove into La Ceiba just after three o’clock in the afternoon. Maggie’s Rolex had survived its long submersion of the day before, but her nerves weren’t holding up as well. The sight of the bustling port city, surrounded by white beaches and fertile valleys, and the sheer mass of people sent mixed emotions through Maggie.
“Civilization,” Mack said.
“Yes. For what it’s worth.”
“For what it’s worth, I think there’s an airport here,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we could get a flight to Tegucigalpa.”
“God, I’d give my right arm to get rid of this damned Jeep,” Maggie said fervently.
Mack could have made the obvious comment, and she steeled herself for it. He’d never once offered to drive on the long, hot trip, even when she wrestled with the stubborn clutch, the stalling motor, or the windshield wipers, which had flown off their stalks when they’d hit a flash rainstorm. He hadn’t given her a word of advice when she’d had to drive the damned thing almost straight down a cliff, hadn’t done anything more than clench the door handle and his teeth when they’d skidded on the rubble and ended up sideways in a shallow streambed.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, would have made her give up in her battle to control the Jeep, and Mack must have known it. Even now he said nothing, simply waited for her to shove the damned gear shift into first and head down into the port city. She put her narrow, long-fingered hand on the gear shift, paused, and looked at him.
She had battled the jungle, the narrow track that was better suited to mules than motorized vehicles, battled and won. And never in her life had she known a man who could just sit back and let her fight her own way, in her own time. Who trusted her enough to know what she had to do. A sudden rush of gratitude, affection, and something more swept over her, and with it came the exhaustion she’d been holding at bay. He looked so solid sitting there, and suddenly she wanted to put her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, and forget her battles.
“Pulaski,” she said. “Would you drive the rest of the way?”
She’d finally managed to surprise a reaction out of him. His warm hazel eyes were startled, his eyebrows rose in his newly tanned face, and his mouth quirke
d upward. “Tired of fighting, Maggie May?”
“I’m not fighting you.”
“I know that. We both know who you’re fighting.” And of course he did, bless his heart. He knew her almost as well as she knew herself. In some ways even better. It was an unnerving thought, and one she didn’t have the energy to dwell on right there and then.
“Yes, I’m tired of fighting. Drive till you come to the cleanest, quietest hotel you can find.” She climbed out of the driver’s seat, stumbled around behind the Jeep, and stood by the passenger’s side.
Mack hadn’t moved. He was sitting there, looking at her, warmth and compassion and something else in those wonderful eyes of his. Before she knew what he was doing, he slid his large, warm hand behind her neck, under the loose braid, and pulled her face down to his. His mouth caught hers in a gentle, open-mouthed kiss that was reassuring, restrained, and yet hinting at a passion that had been waiting to burst forth.
She was too surprised and too exhausted to react—to respond or to fight—and before she could make up her mind, he moved away, sliding over into the driver’s seat.
She climbed in, the warmth of his body still clinging to the tattered seats. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “We can’t afford to complicate matters.”
He said nothing, his face blank as he put the Jeep in gear and started down toward the city. “I’m simplifying matters,” he said finally. And she was too weary to argue or even ask him what he meant.
Hotel La Ceiba was a small, quiet, unprepossessing little place on a side street in the surprisingly noisy town. Pulaski checked them in, prepaid the extravagant fee of eight dollars, and led her up to a small room on the third floor. The halls were narrow and well-swept, the room he took her to had two narrow beds, colorful rag rugs on the floor, and a crucifix on the whitewashed wall.
“Home sweet home,” Mack announced, dropping the knapsack in the chair.
“It looks like paradise to me,” Maggie said, shoving a filthy hand through her wispy hair and leaving a streak of dust on her sweating face. “I’m going to find the shower and scrape some of this dirt off me. What about you?”
He leaned against the door, and his eyes were distant, almost thoughtful, as they swept over her. “Why don’t we meet in the lobby in a couple of hours? You look like you could use a nap, and I want to do a little exploring.”
“Not without me,” she said, struggling to sound professional in the thick afternoon heat. “It’s too dangerous—”
“No one knows we’re here, Maggie,” he said patiently. “I want to check out the neighborhood, see if I can find a store that has a travel guide and cigarettes. I’ll check into what kind of flights they have. At least we could probably rent better transportation in a town this size.”
She wanted to argue, knew she should put up a fight, but she was too damned tired. “Suit yourself. But watch out. I didn’t get this far to lose you.”
“You aren’t going to lose me, Maggie.” Again there was that curious note in his voice, a thread of promise that was both frightening and reassuring. Before she could rouse herself enough to push him, he was gone, and she was left staring at the thin pine door with its flimsy lock.
The water was lukewarm, rusty, and not much more than a halfhearted dribble in the semiprivate bath, but Maggie didn’t give a damn. The salty residue of their dunking made her skin itch, her scalp flake, and even if her change of clothes were still stiff with salt, they at least didn’t smell of sweat and dirt.
She walked barefoot down the deserted hallway, her long blond hair hanging like a wet curtain down her back. She promised herself that once she got to L.A. she’d give in to her mother’s blandishments for the first time and give her poor abused body over to the best hairdresser, masseur, and beautician Sybil Bennett could find.
The narrow bed was surprisingly comfortable. The room was shadowed with the late afternoon light, and the trade winds blew gently across her body as she stretched out for what she promised herself was only a short nap. She stayed awake long enough to wonder if Mack was going to stay in his own bed tonight, and then sleep claimed her.
She awoke exactly one hour later, her internal alarm clock efficient as always, and the room was dim and shadowed. Suddenly she was completely alert, knowing that she wasn’t alone. She could see Pulaski sitting in the one chair the room boasted, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his expression brooding.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she murmured sleepily, sinking back down on the bed. “Did you find anything useful?”
“I did,” he said, still watching her with that odd intensity. And then he shook himself, an infinitesimal movement that Maggie nevertheless noticed. “I’ve got the latest edition of Fodor’s Guide: Central America, published about five years ago, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and an airline schedule. There are flights to Tegucigalpa almost every hour from the airport just out of town.”
“I don’t know if I trust your abilities as a travel agent,” Maggie said, stretching, her lazy smile taking the sting out of her words. “I think poor old Lonesome Fred left a little bit to be desired.”
“That’s why I didn’t make the reservations. Someone stole the Jeep, by the way.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, we can get a taxi out to the airport. I figure it was our gain, their loss. I agree with you, I’d rather not have to drive that monstrosity again. Come on, Maggie, stir your buns. Or aren’t you hungry?” He rose, stretching, and in her sleepy state she allowed herself the luxury of staring at his lean, sexy body.
“Pulaski, I could eat a horse,” she said, not thinking of food at all.
He grinned, and she wondered if he was reading her mind again. God, she hoped not! “Maggie May, I know a place where they make the best horse in Central America. Come on, kid. Let’s do the town.”
eleven
This night out was just what they needed, Maggie thought several hours later as she stared dreamily out into the harbor. The lobster stuffed with local Cuyamel fish, the odd, sweet-starchy vegetables, the salad, and the local cerveza left her replete and happy. The town was noisy, cheerful, and colorful, and the company could not have been improved upon. Mack was in an expansive mood, out to charm her out of any lingering paranoia, and she went gratefully, tired of looking over her shoulder, tired of worrying about the future.
Tomorrow would take care of tomorrow’s problems, she told herself with a shrug. Tomorrow they would board a flight for Tegucigalpa and be linked up with Van Zandt in probably less than twenty-four hours. For now she could lean back in her chair on the terrace of the oceanfront cafe, sip her wickedly strong coffee, and enjoy herself.
“So tell me more about growing up as Sybil Bennett’s daughter?” Mack questioned, his voice low and rumbly, his eyes warm and relaxed and flattering in the candlelight. “And don’t tell me any more superficial Hollywood stories, tell me about you.”
She grinned in silent acknowledgment of his perspicacity. She had a supply of stock answers about growing up in Hollywood. None of which would do for Mack Pulaski.
“Wonderful, exciting, exhausting, depressing. Sybil’s always been a romantic—she never feels alive unless she’s desperately in love. God only knows when it started—she was twenty when I was born and I’ve always had the suspicion she’d been busy before me. She’d meet someone, fall in love, and of course have to marry him. That was the early fifties, and she’d seen what happened to Ingrid Bergman when she didn’t follow Hollywood’s idea of morality. So Mother would fall in love, get married, and immediately present the current husband with proof of her adoration in the form of an offspring. By the time said offspring was a year old, Mother would have lost interest, both in the husband and in the child, and gone on to new conquests.”
“That mustn’t have been pleasant.”
“It was all right. Sybil is a very loving woman—it’s just that children bored her once they got past the stage where they posed successfully. I think she th
ought of us as fashion accessories—pretty little girls to smile up at her adoringly, with or without cameras around. She didn’t care much for grubby hands and blue jeans and sticky kisses.”
“So who got the grubby hands and sticky kisses?”
“Granny Bennett, for as long as she lived. And Queenie, Sybil’s housekeeper. And then me.”
“You?”
“I brought up the other three. Kate and Holly and Jilly. I was a very maternal older sister, a little domineering, I suppose. By the time I was twelve, even my mother was coming to me with her problems.” Maggie laughed, a wry, accepting sound in the warm night air. After a moment Maggie looked distracted and sad. “My ex-husband told me I was too much for any man to live up to. Peter Wallace said pretty much the same thing.”
“Do you think that’s true?” He was toying with his brandy glass, and his hazel eyes were warm and tender in the reflected lights from the street.
Maggie shrugged. “Close enough. I scare the hell out of men, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I scare even you.”
“Who says?”
“You did. Last night, on the beach.”
Mack considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose you do scare me. But I’m willing to bet it’s not in the same way you scared the others.”
“How do I scare you?”
He grinned. “As you said last night, that’s for me to know and you to find out. Would you like more coffee or would you like to go for a walk along the water?”
“Neither,” she said with a yawn. “It’s after eleven already, and we need to get to Tegucigalpa as early as we can tomorrow. I want to go back to the hotel, take another shower, and go to bed.”
“Another shower? You just took one.”
“Yes, but you brought me lavender soap, shampoo, and conditioner. I’ve never appreciated the pleasures of civilization so much in my entire life, and I intend to take full advantage of them. Once we get to Tegucigalpa, God knows what will happen.”
“Does this mean I get spared the Holiday Inn?”