'However,' she continued, 'I won't flatter myself into thinking you're here because of me. I'm not that egocentric. So out with it, Hunt Winslow. Just what are you doing here?'
Hunt tested his quesillo, a uniquely Oaxacan specialty consisting of fiery local chiles stuffed with stringy cheese. 'Very goo—' he began, and then the chiles hit.
His eyes bulged.
He dropped his fork with a clatter.
And swiftly washed the chiles down with a mouthful of beer.
'Hot, hot, hot!' he gasped, furiously fanning his mouth with one hand.
His throat was on fire and his vision was swimming.
'My God! What was that—napalm? I think it got rid of my sinuses for good!'
'And probably sprouted some more hair on your chest,' Dorothy- Anne said unrepentantly. 'But don't worry. Ask any woman: no man can have a furry enough chest. Besides, you asked for it.'
'I asked for hot,' he objected hoarsely, taking another quick swig of beer. 'I didn't ask for lighter fluid.'
He added, looking wounded: 'You could have warned me, you know.'
'What do you think I meant when I said, 'authentic hot and spicy'?' she demanded, watching him polish off a tall glass of ice water.
His eyes were still streaming tears, and he looked so comical and boyishly miserable that she had to laugh, a laugh that came from deep down inside, a laugh so spontaneous that it changed the serious, tragedy- mauled businesswoman into a sunny, fun-loving young Holly Golightly.
'What's so funny?' he growled, crunching an ice cube between his teeth. It was all he could do to hide the joy he felt at hearing her laugh.
'Oh, just you. There's nothing like seeing a grown man cry. Men can be such babies. Anyway,' she said solemnly, taking pity on him and switching plates, 'here. Try mine. I'm really not very hungry.'
He eyed her plate with suspicion, sniffed it with little twitches of his nose, and then flicked a glance at her. 'What is it?'
'Red snapper. And stop looking like that. It's spicy, but modified for the north of the border palate.'
She paused, gazing at him from under half-lowered lashes. 'Well?' she asked.
He was giving the fish little prods with his fork. 'Well what?'
'You still haven't answered my question.'
'Sorry. I didn't realize you'd asked one.'
Her laughter was gone and she had reverted to her serious mode. 'What brought you to these parts?' she asked softly.
'Why?' He looked at her. 'Does my presence strike you as that unusual?'
'As a matter of fact,' she nodded, 'yes. It does. I mean, this isn't exactly Madison Avenue or the Georges Cinq.'
'No,' he agreed, 'it isn't.'
'Huatulco,' she went on, 'is not on the beaten track. It's definitely not the sort of place one accidentally bumps into friends or acquaintances. At least, it won't be for some years to come.'
'Actually,' he said, taking a very cautious, and very tiny nibble of red snapper, 'I'm here on business.'
'Ah. Don't tell me; let me guess. Courting future constituents . . . the illegal alien vote?'
But her dry humor went right over his head. Hunt was too preoccupied with enjoying the red snapper. His taste buds were singing. It was everything a freshly caught fish should be—and then some. Crisp on the outside and flaky and moist on the inside, with a sautéed topping concocted by a toqued Picasso.
'Now, this is more like it!' he enthused.
And Dorothy-Anne, forgetting that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, rested her chin on her hand and watched him eat.
It's so easy, she thought. So damn easy! Two minutes with him, and I feel as if I've known him a lifetime. Could it be we were meant for one another?
It occurred to her it was time to rein in her emotions. Around him, they tended to shoot into the stratosphere.
I must not get carried away, she warned herself firmly. I have to stop fantasizing. I've got to draw a line and not cross it.
It was a vow, a goal, her very, very best of good intentions. But even as she resolved to back away, she found herself helpless in the tidal pull of his enchantment.
Why was it that everything about him—even the simplest and most mundane of everyday functions such as eating—took on a kind of sexual intimacy?
Without consciously realizing it, she said: 'After lunch, why don't I show you around? Maybe once you've eaten, you'll be more forthcoming. Then you can tell me all about what brought you here.'
A little later:
Getting off the thatch-roofed funicular at the top of the hill, Dorothy- Anne hooked an arm through Hunt's and said, 'Let's walk off lunch, why don't we?'
'What's to walk off? You hardly ate,' he pointed out.
She smiled gorgeously and gave his arm a squeeze. 'Yes, but you pigged out. We'll both walk off your lunch!'
The gardens—there were two, actually, one the 'tropical rain forest,' which thrived in the hot dry coastal climate, thanks to hidden sprinklers delivering a twice-daily downpour, and the more arid, less water-dependent 'Mexican' garden.
Consulting her watch, Dorothy-Anne steered Hunt to the former. 'We'd better see this one first,' she decided. 'Otherwise we might get caught in the middle of a 'shower.' The watering system's computerized, and believe you me, when it 'rains' here, it pours!'
They passed a sign that specified that children under eighteen had to be accompanied by an adult. Other signs warned:
DANGER!
PLANTS CAN BE POISONOUS!
DO NOT TOUCH
Hunt raised an amused eyebrow. 'Isn't that a bit melodramatic?'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'Not at all. Come, I'll show you.'
The path, a carpet of moss like selaginella, was soft and springy underfoot, and meandered, by means of switchbacks, through a tunnel of dense, lush tropical foliage. Coconut palms, giant-leafed banana trees, and towering tree ferns filtered out the bright sunlight and provided the backdrop for thousands of flowering plants. There were rare orchids of all sizes and enormous hibiscus and spiky birds of paradise. Each curve of the path revealed new delights and breathtaking riots of color.
'My God!' Hunt exclaimed. 'You must need a full-time botanist!'
Dorothy-Anne smiled. 'Actually, there is one on staff.'
'He must be kept very busy.'
'She,' Dorothy-Anne corrected him gently, 'and she is. Consider the orchids. We have over a thousand species of them alone. Many were specially gathered in Brazil and flown here.'
He shook his head in amazement. 'You must be very proud of this place.'
Dorothy-Anne's expression turned wistful. 'I was,' she admitted quietly. 'But for obvious reasons, I'm not so proud of it right now.'
A little farther on, Hunt stopped to study a waxy, flowering cluster arcing down from a bromeliad. 'Interesting, isn't it? One tends to forget how many plants are parasites.'
'Ah, but Vriesea simplex isn't a true parasite,' she said. 'Granted, it clings to trees, but it's an air plant. It draws no sustenance from its host. Now, about those warning signs you saw back there . . . '
'Yes, what about them?'
Still arm in arm, she led him a little farther down the path, then stopped and pointed to a large, spectacular red and yellow bloom.
'Behold,' she said. 'Gloriosa superba, a climbing lily from Sri Lanka. Its root looks like a yam, but woe to anyone who ingests it. It contains a deadly poison.'
Hunt stared at the flamelike lily. 'Much like a woman I know,' he murmured. 'Beautiful to look at, but poisonous to the core.'
Dorothy-Anne looked at him sharply. He was obviously referring to his wife. His marriage really must be hell, she thought, and her heart went out to him.
She said, 'Perhaps now you can appreciate all those warning signs.'
He smiled. 'Not only that, but I'll never see flowers in the same light again. Remind me not to send you any.'
She laughed. 'Roses are always a safe bet.'
'I shall stick to roses, then.'
<
br /> They continued on, and as they walked, Hunt filled her in on Kevin Whitman's plight.
Dorothy-Anne listened, appalled. 'The poor kid!' she exclaimed softly. 'As if suffering Down's syndrome is not enough! His parents must be going out of their minds!'
Hunt thought of Midge and Joe Whitman. 'What's truly amazing,' he said, 'is that they're holding up as well as they are. Midge especially is a tower of strength.'
'But it's . . . inhuman!'
'Tell me about it! You should see the inside of that jail. It's a hellhole. But do you know what really burns me up?'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head.
'Chief Zuniga!' The name tore angrily from his lips. 'Despite the letter I hand-carried from the governor, he still refuses to release Kevin! The son of a bitch is determined to hold him until he receives written instructions direct from Oaxaca—as if the copy I brought is suspect!'
Dorothy-Anne sighed deeply and looked at a cluster of green-lipped, insect-trapping plants from Malaysia. Her voice was very low. 'This isn't the first run-in tourists have had with Zuniga. One of these days he'll really go too far. What I can't understand . . . '
'What?'
She turned toward him. 'Why no one informed me about the Whitman's.'
'That's simple. They're not staying at this hotel. It's a little . . . ah . . . too rich for their wallets.'
She nodded. 'And you?' She held his gaze. 'I didn't check the guest register. Are you staying here?'
A faint smile came to his lips. 'Indeed I am.'
'Hear, hear.' Her tone was gently mocking. 'Weren't you afraid of salmonella poisoning?'
'Actually, I tried to get a room at the Whitman's' hotel, but they were all booked. So then I tried here.'
She pulled a face. 'Where you could have rented half the hotel.'
He didn't speak.
She stared off into the distance. 'That damn outbreak! You try to anticipate everything, but . . . ' She shrugged helplessly.
'Accidents will happen,' he said softly.
She sighed heavily. 'Don't they just. And especially to me. Sometimes I think . . .' Her voice trailed off.
'Yes? What do you think?'
She shook her head. 'It can keep. Besides, I've detained you long enough. If we don't get a move on, the Whitman's will think you've deserted them. Tell you what. Why don't I grab one of the hotel cars and drop you off at the police station myself?'
Twenty minutes later:
Dorothy-Anne hit the brakes of the white Sebring convertible and pulled up in front of the soulless headquarters of the Policia. Hunt popped his seat belt and chucked open the passenger door and hopped out.
He slammed the door shut. 'Thanks for the lift,' he said, holding on to the side panel.
Dorothy-Anne smiled from behind her shades. 'We try to please. After all, you're that rare commodity around here. A paying guest.'
'We'll talk later?'
She nodded and watched him start toward the building. But before she could put the car in gear, the doors of the police station burst open and she heard a woman's excited cry: 'Mr. Winslow! Oh, Mr. Winslow!'
The sound of happiness bubbled in the air.
Dorothy-Anne kept the car in park as the thin woman in the celadon pantsuit and large-framed glasses rushed to give Hunt a fierce hug. Midge Whitman, she guessed. With good news.
Then a man in an aloha shirt, yellow slacks, and a Forty-niners baseball cap joined them. He had his arm around a pale, blank-faced youth who blinked in the glare of bright sunlight.
Joe and Kevin Whitman. Dorothy-Anne smiled to herself, then felt her eyes mist over as Hunt embraced the boy. Joe Whitman, obviously embarrassed by the displays of affection, stood by, looking at his feet.
Dorothy-Anne hit the horn lightly, and they all turned in her direction.
She stood up in the convertible. 'Well?' There was laughter in her voice. 'Are you folks just going to stand there? Or do you want to get out of here?'
Still later:
The little jet belonging to Winslow Communications reflected the blinding sunlight as it hurtled down the runway of the Santa Maria Huatulco airport. Dorothy-Anne and Hunt waved and watched the Falcon 50 climb steeply toward the Sierra Madre del Sur. Then they climbed back into the Sebring.
Dorothy-Anne put the car into gear and drove off the tarmac. 'They're nice people,' she said.
'Yes, they are. Real and unspoiled.'
'It was sweet of you to put your jet at their disposal.'
Hunt shrugged it off. 'They've been through hell down here. I figured the sooner they're back on U.S. soil, the better. Why should they have to wait for a commercial flight?'
She nodded and swung the car onto the road that would take them back to the coast. His reply was what she liked about him: the way he took charge, went beyond the call of duty, and then just shrugged it off, aw-shucks-like, as if it was nothing. In many ways, Freddie had been like that, but Hunt was even more so. He instinctively knew what needed to be done, and how to go about the right way of doing it.
'Besides,' he said, 'I'm not the only Good Samaritan in these parts. You chauffeured us around.'
'Oh, balls! It was the least I could do.'
'Maybe,' he said. 'The point is, you didn't have to do it.'
'No one has to do anything,' she growled, accelerating to pass a diesel-belching bus.
She drove like a man: neatly, confidently, and with no hesitation whatsoever. When she pulled over in front of the bus, her voice was suddenly husky.
'Anyway, it did me good,' she said, tossing her mussed hair and glancing out the side of her dark shades at him. 'Sometimes it takes other people's problems to put your own into perspective.'
'Yes.' Hunt nodded. 'I know.'
She switched conversational gears. 'Want the top up and the air conditioning on?'
'Nah.' He shook his head and flashed a boyish grin. 'I like the wind blowing through my hair. It takes me back to my wild youth.'
'Good.' Her smile lit up her face, and she decided to test him further. 'Radio?' she asked.
'And ruin the rushing of the wind? No way!'
He wins with flying colors, she thought happily, and for a while they drove in silence, elbows sticking out over the road. But it was a companionable silence. They were both at ease, and drew pleasure from simply basking in each other's company, from sitting back and enjoying the ride.
Enjoying their being together.
Dorothy-Anne imagined this was what it was like to be inside a big, shiny, clear glass bubble. A bubble in which painful pasts and pressing futures did not exist . . . only the wonderful here and now.
And there was something else too, she realized. She felt alive around Hunt—so truly and thoroughly alive it was as if she'd awakened from a hundred-year-long sleep. She could swear the sky was bluer and more flawless than she'd ever seen it, the trees greener and glossier, the clay earth richer and redder. Everything around her seemed to have taken on added clarity and texture and substance.
It's because of Hunt, she thought. He does something to me. Oh yes, he does a lot!
She kept sneaking quick little sideways peeks at him, and when he caught her at it, they both burst into peals of delighted laughter.
Words were unnecessary and speaking redundant.
Heaven help me. God, he was irresistible! I'm falling for him. I can't help it.
Just before reaching Highway 200, where a left turn would take them back to Huatulco, Dorothy-Anne had a sudden inspiration. She slowed down and glanced at Hunt.
'There's a place I'd like to show you. Mind if we take a detour?'
He smiled. 'I'm game if you are.'
So she took a right on 200 and stepped on the gas. 'It's just a little ways up the coast.'
The route cut through tropical ranch land. They saw horses grazing beneath coconut palms and banana trees, and Indian women washing clothes in the shallow, clay-colored streams on the sides of the road, doing their laundry the way their mothers and their mothers' m
others had done it before them, while the twentieth century sped past.
Some twenty miles later, at the town of Pochutla, Dorothy-Anne slowed and swung a left off the highway.
'Hold on,' she warned. 'Here's where the going gets tough. This road's a real bitch.'
The words were barely out of her mouth when the Sebring dipped and began bouncing down the steep incline.
Hunt braced his feet and held onto the dashboard. On both sides, dark green foliage appeared to jump and twitch and whip by in a drunken blur, while intermittent flashes of sunlight flickered through the leafy canopy overhead.
Dorothy-Anne handled the car expertly, easing up on the accelerator instead of applying the brakes. Even so, it was a tooth-jarring experience. Like slaloming down a jungle chute.
'Madre de Dios!' Hunt exclaimed, shouting to make himself heard.
Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'I didn't know you spoke Spanish,' she shouted back.
He grinned and held on. 'I don't. It's just one of the phrases I picked up from the household help. The others would curl your ears!'
And at last they were there.
'Voila!' Dorothy-Anne announced. 'Welcome to Puerto Angel.'
Hunt looked around with delight.
Puerto Angel was the real thing—a genuine, honest-to-goodness fishing village curled around a small, shimmering bay. The picturesque waterfront was lined with palapas offering freshly cooked seafood and exotic fruits. Lobster boats bobbed gently in the sheltered inlet, and a gray Mexican naval vessel was docked at the pier. From high atop a steep hill, an old red and white building presided over it all like a watchful dowager.
'What's that up there?' Hunt asked, pointing up at it.
'The Hotel Angel del Mar. It's gotten pretty seedy, but the view is out of this world.'
Dorothy-Anne parked by the pier and switched off the ignition.
'This is where we get out,' she said. 'If it tells you anything, even the taxi drivers from Escondido and Huatulco refuse to go beyond this point.'
Hunt looked up and down the rutted, unpaved road and laughed. 'I can't imagine why!'
'Oh, this is nothing. You should see the cobbled street that spirals up to the Angel del Mar.'
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