Songs for Perri

by Nancy Radke

  CHAPTER TEN

  She stepped back, her hand slapping against her throat as if to grab the absent pendant in self defense.

  "You!"

  "Sí." He didn't waste time with preliminaries. "Where's your step-father?"

  "Who are you?"

  "I'm a friend of Owen’s."

  Maybe he was, but it was not the same man Perri had spoken to on the telephone. This man's voice was higher and he accented his words differently. She took a step backward, aware of the empty corridor stretching out beyond them. "How do I know you're who you say you are?"

  "You aren't wearing your pendant, right?'

  "Right. Oh, I see what you mean."

  "So, where is he?"

  "He's nearby. I—”

  "This hotel?"

  "I don't know."

  "What do you mean? You've been in touch with him—”

  "He'll meet you on the beach, tomorrow morning at 6 a.m. There's an old hotel that wasn't completed—”

  "Out by Sabalo?"

  "Yes."

  "He didn't say where he's staying? We want to see him tonight. Every minute extra is dangerous."

  "I'm sorry. He didn't—”

  "Then tell him to be there. We're having a hard time keeping Owen and Alvaro hidden."

  "Alvaro?"

  "Senor Alvaro Suarez, a refugee from Cuba. An important man. The Cuban authorities are all over this town, looking for him."

  "Where is Owen hiding?"

  "I can't tell you. It might endanger the people who have taken us in."

  "But I wouldn't—”

  "There are ways of making people talk. It is best you know as little as possible."

  "You sound like Walt."

  "A clever man, your step-father. Once we meet him tomorrow morning, your part is finished. Go ahead and have a vacation; we'll take it from here."

  He turned and strode down a side corridor, leaving Perri to return to her room. As she walked slowly toward the lobby, she stopped at the desk to leave a note for Joe.

  Junior was there, asking for messages, and she waited until he left before handing the desk clerk the small slip of paper she had torn from her notebook. "Mike. Room 430. AM meeting arranged."

  He took if from her and laid it in the letter box. Perri had done her part. Now it was all up to Walt and Joe.

  Wide awake by now, Perri picked up a brochure from the desk describing the various acts there at the hotel and the nights they would be performing. Donegal's photo was on the front, showing him and his small band.

  The brochure mentioned the mystique surrounding his life; that he disappeared as soon as his act was finished, keeping his personal life entirely private. There was speculation that he spent his time in his manager's rooms, refusing to see reporters, busily composing new songs, for he was known to be a prolific songwriter. He never checked into the hotel in which he appeared—at least not using his own name—so no one knew just where he stayed.

  Perri stared hard at the picture. He sure didn't look like Hugo. The chin was the same, but then Joe's chin looked like Donegal's too: it was a common-looking chin, broad and slightly rounded. It held determination. A decisive chin.

  Like Joe, the laugh lines were deep in Donegal's face and the scar—Hugo's scar—wasn't there. Did Hugo camouflage it with make-up?

  But the eyes...although not the same color, definitely had Hugo's intensity, now that she had seen Hugo with his dark glasses off. No wonder he wore them everywhere.

  How many other women knew his secret? She'd like to believe that she was the only one, but that would be unrealistic. He daren't tell many people...otherwise it would no longer be a secret. What had made him trust her so much that he'd told her after so short an acquaintance?

  Even Walt's man hadn't found out when he had checked on him. Well, she wasn't going to be the one to tell Joe.

  Returning to her room, she slid open the balcony door to listen to the pounding of the surf and smell the soft scents of the ocean air.

  Owen was out there somewhere, in the darkness, waiting for his family to help him. She prayed that all would go smoothly.

  Yet it didn't, for Sunday morning at eight, Perri received a phone call from Joe.

  "What happened?"

  "No one showed up."

  "But he promised.... Do you think they followed him back to Owen?"

  "Maybe, and maybe not. What did he look like?"

  "Well, he was...oh, you saw him. Remember the man Hugo got rid of. Who wanted to be my guide?"

  "Uh huh. That's the one?"

  "Yes. Perhaps you can find him. You won't need to set up a meeting—”

  "No. I've been around Walt too long, Perri. I don't trust anyone. If he contacts you, tell him to come to the beach again."

  "I can't just point you out?"

  "No. He might be a friend...or, he might be trying to find out who I am to follow me to Owen."

  "So what should I do? Wait until I see him again?"

  "No. You attract the eye...that hair of yours is like a beacon. Travel around Mazatlan like a tourist ...or do some buying. Take Hugo with you. Maybe Owen will spot you, himself. I don't trust that guide."

  "Okay." He hung up and Perri went down for breakfast. Hugo was waiting in the lobby, dressed as usual in dark glasses, black jeans and boots; sporting a white tank top that emphasized his muscular build and well tanned body.

  He greeted her with a broad smile of such evident welcome that it brought out her sunniest smile in return, dancing happily across her face. Typically, he didn't ask if he could join her, but engulfed her hand in his, accompanying her out onto the broad open entrance of the hotel.

  Already the sun was warm enough to create heat waves and by mutual consent they stopped in the shade of the large entrance portico.

  She was dressed as cool as possible in white cotton slacks and short-sleeved blouse, her only ornament a simple charm bracelet...and her pendant.

  "Let's eat, then you can tell me where you want to start searching," Hugo said.

  "We don't need to. I found him."

  "Good."

  "I can ‘play tourist' for awhile, if you'd like."

  "Sure. Would you like to go around and see some of the old town...the residential areas? I'll rent us a motorcycle. That way you can go slow enough to have a good look, yet we won't be walking. I enjoy seeing the homes...out of the tourist areas. How's that sound?"

  "Great. I was wondering what I should do today."

  "Of course," he shrugged carelessly, "if you'd rather lie around on the beach...?"

  "No, thanks," she hastened to forestall him. "I broil like a hot dog whenever I'm under the Arizona sun. I wouldn't dare sunbathe here in Mazatlan. At least not unless I'm covered with sun block." She needed to be where Owen could see her, not lying on the beach.

  He squeezed her hand meaningfully. "Whatever you want." His tone deepened. "I'm yours until next Thursday night."

  The words rang, echoing in the marble-covered area. It was probably a good thing Hugo was wearing his dark glasses again. They camouflaged the deeper meaning only hinted at by his tone of voice.

  No one had ever said that to her—in just quite that way—and a wistful smile stole across her responsive features. The sincerity of his words had filled her with a sudden shyness...and at the same time a touch of unease.

  A man as assured as Hugo did not speak lightly about such things, and Perri treated it with the respect it deserved. It sounded like he was becoming serious about their friendship and she wasn't sure she wanted that yet. First she needed to know more about him. She still hadn't adjusted to the fact he was Donegal.

  Smiling warily up into those dark eyes she felt were devouring her from behind the protective shield of the sun glasses, she said, "I don't want to take up all your time."

  His voice was firm and emphatic, the low timbre rich with meaning. "I want you to."

  "But, you—” She had better diffuse this situation right now! "Look, Hugo, there are going
to be times...times when I might not want you with me."

  He was silent for a long moment, as if to consider the possible implications. "Why not?" he demanded finally.

  She was an old hand at telling unwanted men to get lost, but she'd never tried to walk the line...to discourage them and yet hang onto them at the same time. "I...I might meet someone I want to, uh...go out with"—like Joe or Owen—”and I wouldn't want you to get hurt—” she stumbled.

  "Or spoil your fun?" he snapped curtly, his mouth hard and resentful.

  This wasn't going at all the way she wanted it to. Ruefully she realized she hadn't explained things very well.

  She hadn't imagined Hugo's possessiveness. It was there in full sweeping power and needed to be slackened. "I'm sorry, Hugo, but it might come to that," she emphasized as determinedly as possible, while at the same time trying to avoid being rude or ungrateful for the help he had given her so far.

  His hand came out to cup her face, lifting it to him slightly, his thumb tenderly stroking along her jawline. It was a strong hand, one that could snap her neck in an instant, yet Perri felt no touch of fear, only a sweeping desire that parted her lips.

  His touch, though firm, was gentle, like his voice, which had the power to draw her to him even when he was disagreeing with her. He used it effectively now to counter her argument. "I'll take my chances, love. I know how to get lost...if you ever want me to. But in the meantime...well, in the meantime, I'll stick as close as a lover, sweetheart, like a pair of tight-fitting boots. Who knows, you might not want to consider any other men."

  "But if I do—”

  He waved the idea away with a toss of his hand, dismissing the matter as of trifling importance. "We'll see about that when we come to it. Now let's go eat and then rent a bike."

  There was something else she had to add; that she felt was important to reassure him about. Her hand caught his arm while she stressed the significance of her promise. "Whatever happens, I'll never tell anyone who you are...not anyone."

  She couldn't read his eyes of course, but his mouth kicked up in a quirky grin and his hand squeezed hers again, as that richly eloquent voice of his shook her emotions. "Of course you wouldn't, sweetheart. I know. That's not your style."

  For a moment they stood there, staring amazed at each other, as shaken by the minor exchange as if they had just promised to wed.

  What had happened? Why did she feel like she had given this man her life? That whatever he demanded of her, was his?

  She must not think this way. Already he was too skilled at reading her thoughts.

  Perri squeezed her eyes tightly closed while attempting to calm her breathing. Her impulsive need to reassure him had just cancelled out any progress she might have made towards cooling down their relationship.

  In the meantime, his endeavors to entertain her and keep her by him had its advantages. For one thing, there was no longer the danger of having to fend off unwanted males, attracted to a single woman on her own. Hugo had his uses. He was a safe protector.

  But, she thought uneasily as she followed him into the sunshine, was she going to need protection from herself?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The small black and red motorcycle Hugo rented was the perfect way to see Mazatlan. Seated behind him, she had but to hang on to his muscular frame and enjoy the tour. He seemed intent upon pointing out styles of buildings, crisscrossing the residential areas with a sure knowledge of the terrain.

  Twice he stopped so that they could watch some of the building being done throughout Mazatlan; from large hotels to small sheds. It never failed to fascinate Perri, how the workers mixed their cement, sand and water on the flat sidewalks, shoveled the mixed concrete into pails and then carried it up the many wooden ladders to pour into place. To make a "ceiling," a forest of sticks propped up innumerable wooden pallets which supported the concrete until it set. Walls were done with brick and mortar and reinforcing rods. Then everything was smoothed over with a trowel and mortar.

  "It would give our building inspectors fits," Hugo remarked.

  "But it works."

  "That's because they don't have any freezing weather," he reminded her. "They don't have to worry about broken water pipes or insulating a wall."

  "Or labor costs."

  "Right."

  "But it sure does play havoc with the sidewalks. They never seem to get all those little piles of concrete scraped up."

  "That just makes it more interesting for the skateboarders," he quipped.

  She laughed aloud at that, remembering her own amazement at the skill and daring of the youngsters flying down the unpredictable sidewalks on their skateboards.

  It was all part of the charm of the city. Things got built...not how a foreigner would think it should be done, or in the time frame expected; but, it got done. A project would be undertaken that an engineer from the states wouldn't even dream of, much less attempt, if limited to the simple tools the local builders used. Perri felt only admiration for them.

  With her blonde hair flying behind her like the tail of a shooting star, she and Hugo motored through the outlying parts of the city, stopping now and then to look at the varied sights around the town. They covered a surprising amount of area in a short time, zipping around the narrow streets with enthusiasm.

  Hugo took it upon himself to play guide, laughing and joking, his jovial manner causing her to relax and enjoy the day. There was nothing much else she could do anyway.

  Perri found it easy to relax when she was with him. He knew much of the history of the city, and pointed out places such as Ice Box Hill and the lighthouse, El Faro; telling of their part in the history of the city. Some were new to her as she usually didn’t take in too many sights while on a buying trip.

  Confident, a strong leader, he made the decisions, but only after inquiring if it suited her. Perri fell in quite willingly with his plans, letting him do all the work. He also knew the best eating places, subtly planning their route so that they ended their tour at a small cafe. A leisurely lunch was followed by more sightseeing in other residential areas.

  Later that afternoon they returned the motorcycle and took a taxi to the mining village of Copala, about an hour's drive from Mazatlan. Here too, Hugo knew the history of fortunes made, dreams realized.

  "Somewhat like my dreams, Perri," he said as they sat resting on a low wall. They were alone and he pulled off the dark glasses, rubbing the area around his eyes. "Sudden and immense wealth, a blessing only if handled with care. Wealth and fame have their drawbacks: alcohol, drugs and people acting like you're someone important, when you aren't."

  "But you are," she protested.

  "What's a singer? Just having a voice doesn't make anyone special." he scoffed.

  Silently Perri agreed, feeling his attitude toward himself was the thing that really made him special.

  "But you've handled it well, even keeping your identity a secret. I don't think I'd have been able, if it was me."

  "It's hard. I've succeeded mainly by keeping my different lives completely separate. During most of the time I'm a rancher from Arizona; when we go on tour I'm just Hugo, the stagehand who sets up the instruments and makes sure the lighting and electronic gear is set up properly. When show time comes, I switch to Donegal. And as soon as it's over, I switch back to Hugo. Now and then I make an appearance as Donegal...but a calculated one where I figure I won't lose my wig. My manager keeps all of Donegal's papers and things, so no one will inadvertently find them in my room."

  "But Hugo's your real name?"

  "Yes. I was born in a blizzard in Hugo, Colorado. My dad took a fancy to the name and tacked it onto me."

  "I like it," Perri admitted, nodding her head with surprise at how adamant she was. She suddenly realized that not only did she like the name, she favored it—exceedingly.

  He grinned, dark eyes gleaming, intrigued at her avid admission. "Why, thank you. Maybe I'll keep it."

  "I should hope so. People don't change th
eir name just because someone doesn't like it."

  "It depends on who that someone is," he remarked, his eyebrows flicking suggestively upwards, provocative as ever. "Women change their names. Why can't men?"

  She rushed to disagree, trying to hide the extent of her interest in him. "Cause they usually don't, that's why. If you changed your name all the time, people would never know who you are."

  "They don't know now," he declared, delighted with her sudden state of confusion.

  "But I know. You told me."

  "So I did."

  "Why did you tell me?"

  "I wanted to."

  Her bewilderment was plain in her voice and expression as she continued. "But you hardly know me at all, and to tell me something so extremely important...that's a lot of trust on your part."

  He dug a tiny trench with his toe in the dirt, then wiped it out again. "Not really."

  "What if I’d have told? It would have ruined everything for you?" she asked, agonizing over what she felt was an unfounded trust in people he scarcely knew. If he told other people as soon after meeting them as he'd told her....

  "That's true. But I had to tell you."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Because you have a basic honesty about you that's hard to find...and impossible to fake."

  "So you don't go around telling everyone—”

  "No, no," he laughed, easing her fears. "Only one other woman knew. She kept my secret well. I never had to worry about her...either." His voice dropped, the laughter gone from it as he spoke the last sentence; his eyes abruptly saddened.

  Puzzled, Perri reflected on the tense of the verbs he'd used. Past tense. The woman was dead then. His wife? Or a former love? Perri refrained from asking, for the catch in his voice indicated the pain was still present...and Perri knew all about that kind of pain.

  Hugo took her slender hand in his strong broad one, turning it over so that he could run his thumb across the palm. "It's been good to tell you. Good to share my secret with someone."

  Perri nodded. She had had that kind of feeling, too.

  "It gets kind of lonely," he added slowly, "whenever I’m Donegal. There's no one I can have a heart to heart with, other than my manager. I live so much of the time pretending to be whom I'm not." Again he shifted his quietly intense gaze upon her, so that she felt the full impact of his personality.