by Lisa Jackson
Trent snorted, but his gaze never left her face.
“You know—demanding, arrogant, pushy,” she teased, unable to resist baiting him.
He reached over and clasped his fingers over her wrist. “Watch it, lady,” he warned, “or you’ll find out just how pushy I can be.” She might have been frightened, but the fingers around her wrist were warm, the curve of his lips seductive.
They wandered through the small town, and Nikki never stopped looking for a camera shop. As they window-shopped, pausing to finger trinkets of silver and gold, agate and shell, she never forgot the roll of film hidden deep in her pocket.
They passed carts laden with flowers, fresh fruit, handcrafted jewelry, sweaters and kites. On the docks, fishermen sat and smoked while repairing their nets or selling their catches. Past the boardwalk, the white sand stretched in a lazy crescent surrounding the bay. Sunbathers lay on towels, soaking up rays, drinking from tall glasses. Children waded near the shore and snorkelers waded deeper into the glimmering surf.
An island paradise, Nikki thought. A perfect spot for a honeymoon. She almost believed it was true. However, one glance at Trent and her romantic fantasy crumbled. She remembered nothing of him. While staring at his rugged, handsome features, no image of being with him surfaced in her mind. Slowly she was glimpsing small, murky fragments of her memory, but never had Trent appeared in any of the tiny vignettes of her past. Why not?
Because he’s a complete stranger, that’s why!
That thought hit her like a blow, and she realized that she’d let herself get caught up in this ridiculous fantasy, that she was beginning to believe, if only a little, that he was her husband.
Even the undeveloped pictures might not prove that he wasn’t her husband.
In the early afternoon, Nikki began to tire. They stopped to rest at an outdoor café situated on the north end of the boardwalk. Trent ordered drinks when Nikki spied the sign, a painted board attached to a short stucco building that housed José’s camera shop, which was located less than a block from the café.
She hesitated, but told herself there was no time like the present. The waiter deposited a frosty beer on the table in front of Trent and an iced lemonade for Nikki. They didn’t talk much, just sipped their drinks slowly, watching as the tourists, young and old, moved along the street. The canister of film felt hot against her thigh, and she watched the minutes roll by, hoping for some excuse to leave him.
A loud woman in a straw hat, chasing a slim youth, caught her attention before blending into the crowd that drifted slowly along the street. The seconds ticked by. Trent was nearly finished with his beer.
Nikki was taking her time, slowly drinking her lemonade, hoping for a reason to leave the table. She watched a black man without any teeth, who was playing a guitar in a doorway on the other side of the street. A thin old dog was lying at his feet, sunning himself and moving only to lift his head and sniff the air before letting out a low growl and lying back down again.
She felt Trent’s eyes on her and took another swallow. But her throat was nearly clogged and she had trouble drinking. At a nearby table, a single man was nursing a beer, and though his back was turned, Nikki felt as if she’d seen him before...in the hotel lobby or... As if he knew she’d spied him, he paid for his drink and left, never once glancing over his shoulder.
You’re imagining things, she told herself, turning back to the guitar player who was playing the soft calypso strains of an unfamiliar song. Nikki watched the crowd and noticed a tall, thin native dressed in white. A red sash was his belt and a green parrot was perched on his shoulder.
The dog lifted his head, sniffed, and spying the bird, jumped to his feet, barking loudly. The parrot flapped its great wings and squawked, trying to escape.
Nikki flinched, knocking over her glass and Trent’s beer. Liquid and ice cubes sloshed across the table, beer foaming into lemonade as it drizzled over the edge, spilling onto her lap.
“What the devil?” Trent demanded, looking from the dog, now being dragged into the building by the toothless man, and the parrot, unable to fly away because of its leash, to Nikki.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she apologized, grabbing at her glass as it rolled toward the edge. “What a mess!”
Trent hardly blinked, just shouted to a passing waiter as Nikki dabbed at the table with a napkin. Her shorts were soaked, her blouse sprinkled with the beer and lemonade that still oozed through the cracks in the table and dripped to the brick patio.
“Señora, por favor...” A waiter with cloth in hand came to the rescue, and in the confusion, Nikki touched Trent’s sleeve. “I’d better try to rinse this in the women’s room,” she said, motioning toward her clothes. “So that they won’t stain.”
“Let’s just go back to the hotel.”
“No!” Her fingers tightened over his arm. “We’ve had such a good time, let’s not spoil it. Order another couple of drinks and I’ll try not to be so much of a klutz.” Without waiting for any further protests, she dashed into the building, ostensibly in search of a restroom.
She took the time to look back through the window and spied Trent talking with the waiter. Good. As quickly as possible, without causing a scene, she ducked through a side door and dashed along the shady side of the street to José’s. Her ankle began to throb, but she kept running. A tiny bell tinkled as she entered the shop. A young, dark-skinned girl was at the register, helping another customer, a man with silver hair and a cane. Nikki waited impatiently, wishing she could push the older man aside. As he paid for his purchase, he turned, and his gaze collided with Nikki’s. For a second, Nikki felt as if she should know the man, as if she’d stepped into the bottom of a dank well. A seeping coldness crept along her skin as she stared into eyes devoid of emotion. Her heart nearly stopped. The old man forced a smile that was well-practiced but friendly. The wintry feeling she’d experienced dissipated. “Pardon me, miss,” he said in perfect English. With a tip of his straw fedora, he walked slowly out the door.
She gazed after him, but she didn’t have time to wonder who he was—probably just some old guy who was surprised by her bruised face. She yanked her roll of film from her pocket and set it near the register. With the aid of her dictionary, and in halting Spanish, she asked the girl to process the film pronto. Nervous as a cat, she kept checking her watch while the pretty salesgirl took her sweet time about filling out the paperwork. Sweat began to collect on Nikki’s palms, but eventually the salesgirl told her the film would be ready in two days. Nikki said a quick thanks and hurried out of the shop.
Breathless, she slipped back through the side door of the café and into the restroom, where, still dressed, she splashed her blouse and shorts with water before attempting to wring out all the liquid from the clumps of material she could squeeze in her fingers. She looked a mess, but couldn’t worry about the half-baked job. Forcing her breathing to slow, she returned to the table where Trent, cradling his new bottle of beer on his stomach, was waiting.
He cast a glance at her wet clothes. “Okay?”
“Mmm.” A fresh glass of lemonade was waiting on the clean table. She took a long swallow and hoped that she appeared calm, that she didn’t show any sign of pain from her ankle or look as if she’d been running.
“Took long enough.”
“It was a busy place.” Smiling sweetly, she picked up a peanut from the dish on the table and popped it into her mouth. “I guess a lot of women had spilled on themselves.”
He lifted a brow over the rim of his sunglasses but didn’t comment. She wanted to squirm under the intensity of his gaze, but managed a smile as she lifted her glass to her lips. Feeling a tiny drop of sweat slide down her temple, she silently prayed he didn’t notice that she was nervous as a mouse trapped in a rattler’s cage.
“Cheers,” she said, touching the rim of her glass to the top of his dark bo
ttle. “To the honeymoon.”
The muscles in his face flinched a little. “Cheers,” he muttered, but his eyes didn’t meet hers. Instead, he scanned the sea of people strolling past the umbrella tables situated in the courtyard.
Inwardly, Nikki breathed a sigh of relief. The lemonade was tart and cool, and now that she’d accomplished her mission, she could relax. They finished their drinks, and though Nikki protested, Trent insisted they return to the hotel.
She wanted to argue with him, but he was insistent and guided her back to the carriage stop. She decided it was better not to do battle just then. Besides, the sun was blistering, heat waving up from the cobblestone streets. Only the breeze off the ocean offered any relief. Nikki’s face began to hurt again and her ankle throbbed.
Trent helped her into the carriage.
Two days, she thought, as the horse trudged slowly up the hill. Only two days. Then she would pick up the pictures. Finally she might have an answer or two about Trent McKenzie, the heretofore mystery man.
So what would she do if she discovered no sign of her “husband” in the shots? Worse yet, what would she do if he was in the photographs, holding her hand, kissing her, flashing his sexy smile toward the camera?
Her stomach did a nosedive. What if she found out that she really was married to this stranger?
Chapter Six
“I WANT TO go back to the mission,” Nikki said calmly as she shuffled the cards she’d been playing with for nearly an hour. Slowly but surely she was going out of her mind, cooped up with this man she wanted to trust, but couldn’t let herself. She’d spent most of the time since they’d gotten back from the carriage ride pretending to play solitaire, surreptitiously studying him from beneath lowered lashes, willing herself to remember, knowing in her heart that a man like Trent McKenzie was unforgettable.
“You’re not serious.” He was stretched out on the bed, half listening to some Spanish program on the television while flipping through the pages of a sports magazine devoted solely, it seemed, to soccer. He’d been restless, as restless as she, since returning from the carriage ride. Like the clouds gathering in the tropical sky, the tension between them had grown heavy and oppressive.
“I’m dead serious, Trent. I think I should go back to the mission.”
“Are you out of your mind?” He tossed his magazine aside.
“What mind?” she quipped, though the joke fell flat and he raked his fingers through his hair in the frustration that consumed them both.
She knew the mission was a dangerous topic, but going back up that trail was something she’d decided she had to do. Before they left the island. While she still had the chance.
Sitting at the table near the French doors, she looked back to his long body lying so insolently over the mussed bed covers and tried not to notice the dark hair on his legs or the open V of his shirt and the chest hairs springing from darkly tanned skin. She even tried to dismiss the concern and worry darkening his gaze.
She continued shuffling cards, listening to them ruffle rather than think about how that atmosphere in the room had become sultry. She’d caught him looking at her, staring at her with eyes that seemed to burn straight to her soul. She flipped a card faceup. The jack of diamonds. “I think if I went back up there, to the ‘scene of the crime,’ so to speak, I might remember something. Something important.”
“There’s no road that goes all the way to the mission. You’d have to walk, and that ankle of yours—”
“We could ride.” She flipped another card. Queen of hearts.
“Ride? Ride what?”
“Motorbikes.”
“Too bumpy.”
She slapped down several more cards. “Horses, then. There’s got to be some way up there.”
“I don’t think you’re ready to go horseback riding.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think.”
“Like hell!” He leaped from the bed and strode across the room. In one swift motion, he shoved her cards out of the way and placed his palms flat on the table so that his head was level with hers. “You’re my wife, damn it. My responsibility. I’m not going to have you hurt yourself again and—”
“I’m a person!” she shot back, glaring at him, nose to nose. The air seemed to crackle between them, and she could see the streaks of gray in his blue eyes. “Whether you’re my husband or not, I’m an adult. Able to make my own decisions.” Oh, Lord, she’d had this conversation before. A long time ago. With...with someone else.... Her father! They’d been arguing—about trust and responsibility—and her father’s face had been flushed, his lips tight with anger at his wayward daughter.
“You can’t decide anything until you’re well!”
His words snapped her back to the present, and all the old anger mingled with her new fury. “And who decides that?” she demanded, thrusting her chin out mutinously. “You or God?”
His eyes sparked. “You are the most aggravating female I’ve ever met!”
“Great reason to get married, isn’t it?”
Like a panther springing, he grabbed her. He dragged her into his arms, clamped his lips over hers and kissed her with a hot desire so wild she couldn’t break free. Her blood was already pounding through her veins, and now his rough kiss caused her heart to thud and her mind to spin.
She yanked her head away from him. “Let go of me,” she ground out.
“Not until you start making sense!”
He kissed her again. Harder this time. She tried to fight him, for she knew that kissing him, relying on him, giving herself up to him, was an irretrievable mistake. But his tongue was playing magic upon her lips, prying them open, pressing inward, and he’d all but climbed over the table to force his body close to hers.
Heat swirled inside her. Liquid and white-hot, desire coiled in wanton knots that slowly unwound and slid through her bloodstream.
“God, you make me crazy,” he said when he finally lifted his head and stared into her eyes. His chest was rising and falling, his breathing torn from his lungs.
“You are crazy.”
“Only with you, darlin’.” He dropped his hands and gritted his teeth, desire still flaming in his hot blue eyes. By sheer force of will, he walked away from her. “Only with you.”
Nikki rubbed her swollen lips and bit back another sharp retort. This was no time for her temper to take command of her tongue. If he chose to be autocratic, so be it. She’d wait him out. It shouldn’t be all that hard. There was no way he’d spend an entire day tomorrow cooped up in the hotel, and when he left, she’d do exactly what she damned well pleased.
Flopping back on the bed, he picked up the phone and ordered room service for dinner. With one hand over the receiver, he asked, “What do you want?”
“Anything you order for me, O lord and master.”
“Knock it off.”
“I have no right to make decisions,” she said sweetly, though her eyes were shooting daggers. “Remember?”
Jaw tightening, he ordered for her in Spanish, hung up and said, “Hope you like liver and chickpeas in a hot pepper sauce.”
“My favorite,” she replied with a smile.
Growling about unappreciative women, he strode to the veranda, slammed the door behind him and stared at the dusky sky.
Liver and chick-peas! Still fuming, Nikki went into the bathroom, locked the door and soaked in a tub of warm water. She didn’t know if she could stand another moment of being alone with Trent.
Forty-five minutes later, refreshed and ready to do battle, she returned to the room and found him seated at the table, waiting. The dishes from room service had arrived and were still covered. A glass of white wine shimmered, waiting, next to her plate while a long-necked bottle of beer was sweating on the table in front of his chair. There were smaller dishes of bread, butter
and dessert as well.
“Didn’t want to start without you,” he said, kicking out her chair as she rounded the table wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas.
“Noble of you.”
He snorted as she took a seat opposite him. She felt his eyes linger on her a little too long before he slid his gaze away. “May as well eat. Wouldn’t want that hot pepper sauce to cool down.” With a flourish he lifted the lid from his dish and steam rose from the platter of whitefish, sautéed vegetables and pasta covered with a cream-and-garlic sauce. “Specialty of the house.”
Nikki braced herself and uncovered her meal to discover that Trent had ordered the same for her.
“All out of the other stuff,” he explained as he twisted off the cap of his beer.
“Sure.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” He was teasing her, and his eyes glinted seductively.
“After the ride to the mission.”
“Don’t start with me,” he warned, his lips pulling into a harsh frown.
“Okay, okay!” She lifted her palms outward. “Truce.”
“Is that possible?”
“God only knows,” she said with a smile before lifting the glass of wine to her lips.
She tried her best not to antagonize him during the rest of the meal. They ate in companionable silence, and the food was delicious. Tender and flaky, the fish was the best she’d eaten in a long, long while.
She tried not to stare at him, attempted to make small talk, but there was only so much that could be said about the hotel, the weather and the town of Santa María.
She was nearly stuffed when he lifted the lids on two small dishes. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head at the small custard cup filled with a crème pudding, covered by brandied bananas and drizzled in sauce.
“Come on. It’s an island specialty.” He poured them each a cup of coffee and added a slim stream of cream into her cup. She watched the lazy white clouds roll to the dark surface and wondered how many times in the past Trent had poured her a cup of coffee. How many times had they eaten, just the two of them at a table like this? How many times had they fallen into bed and made love until dawn?