Mexican Nights
By
Jeanne Stephens
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
"Do You Have A Glimmer of What I'm Saying?"
Terri lowered the camera and gritted her teeth in irritation. Who did he think he was anyway?
"This is the greatest glory of Aztec art and culture, Miss Thompson," he intoned as if talking to a slow-witted child. "Not even a shadow can be allowed to detract from its impact."
Was she to endure insults for the four weeks of this assignment? Terri could not remain silent another minute.
"I have done my homework," she said haughtily. "And it's going to take fifty-two weeks to finish this assignment if you insist on interfering at every turn."
Derek Storm's eyes gave off fierce sparks. He might be one of the best-known writers in the world, but she was the photographer.
JEANNE STEPHENS has been greatly encouraged with her writing career by her husband who thinks she can do anything. She is a voracious reader and often takes long walks during which she works out her plot problems.
Dear Reader,
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Copyright © 1980 by Silhouette Books
First printing 1980
ISBN 0-340-26443-8
Chapter One
"I'll need that series of articles from last year's Annals of Mexican Anthropology, Jack. Go to the library tomorrow and get copies."
The deep voice boomed in the silence of the Aztec Hall. Heads turned toward the tall man who was striding across the polished floor, followed by two shorter, somewhat younger men, one of whom was scribbling furiously in a small notebook and both of whom looked washed out in comparison with the electric energy of the darker man.
"Miss Thompson! The most famous archaeological monument in the world is surely of enough visual interest without adding people!" The Spanish blood could not be detected in the voice inflections, but the volatility could. There was outrage in Dr. Derek Gonzales Storm's dark eyes, which glowered from beneath scowling brows at the slight girl who stood, camera raised, in front of the Aztec calendar stone.
Terri lowered the camera, gritted her teeth in irritation, and turned steady gray-blue eyes on him. Who did he think he was anyway? He might be one of the best-known writers in the world, but she was the photographer. Oh, she'd dealt with know-it-all writers before, but her coolly aloof gaze, with just a hint of the raised eyebrow, ordinarily cut them down to size. Most of them had retreated in the face of that look; a few of them had even apologized for daring to give Teresa Thompson instructions in photography. But Derek Storm did not back down one inch. There wasn't the faintest shadow of apology in the harsh lines of his tanned face as he glared down at her.
"This is the greatest glory of Aztec art and culture, Miss Thompson," he intoned, as if attempting to explain the multiplication tables to a slow-witted child. "We want the wildness of the sun god's face, the sensuous rhythm of the fire snakes. Not even a shadow can be allowed to detract from their impact." The dark brows slanted determinedly, almost meeting where indignation had etched lines across the bridge of the straight nose. The chiseled jaw jutted squarely, pulling the sensuous mouth into a hard, straight slash mark.
Terri could almost feel the blond hairs rising on the crown of her head. Was this pedantic tirade supposed to impart information previously unknown to her? Of course, the Aztec calendar was one of the finest archaeological pieces in the world. Of course, it attested to the genius of that ancient culture. She had read up on the Aztecs before accepting this assignment. She had plowed through three books on the subject, as well as several on the Mayas, before setting foot on Mexican soil. The famous Dr. Derek Storm wasn't dealing with an amateur, for heaven's sake!
Terri's pale hair swung about as she tapped one sandaled foot impatiently and set her small chin. She could feel Jack Ledbetter's blue eyes and Mike Petersen's hazel ones shifting expectantly from her face to their employer's. The other people in the hall— museum visitors—were also watching the confrontation curiously. Even the young Mexican man who had agreed to pose next to the calendar stone—merely to give the viewer some idea of the size of the monument—seemed to be expecting an explosion. Her one swift glance in his direction took in the sympathy in the black eyes, as if he expected her to burst into tears and wished to be of comfort. But Terri hadn't resorted to tears once during the three years she'd been establishing a reputation for herself as a professional photographer, and she certainly had no intention of allowing Derek Storm to reduce her to such a state. She stared up at him, certain that she exuded confidence, although feeling, for the first time in her memory, an incomprehensible mixture of confusion and alarm. He seemed to be expecting an emotional outburst of some sort—so Terri uttered not a sound.
"Do you have a glimmer of what I'm saying?"
Was she to endure insults, then, for the four weeks of this assignment? He continued in his deep, authoritative voice. "Understand that I do not resort to cheap tricks in either the text or the photographs in my books. The grandeur of the ancient Mexican cultures needs no embellishment. Have you the vaguest notion, Miss Thompson, of the magnitude of these people's accomplishments?" This was said with a sweeping gesture of one long arm toward the twelve-foot-tall calendar stone. "More than a hundred years older than the Gregorian calendar. Fifty-two years in the carving, and only stone tools to work with."
Terri could not remain silent another minute. "I am not as knowledgeable as you, Dr. Storm," she said haughtily, "but I have done my homework." Then, on an insane impulse, she added furiously, "And it's going to take fifty-two years to finish this assignment if you insist on interfering at every turn."
A pregnant hush hovered in the hall as the watching faces waited for the other shoe to fall. Predictably, Derek Storm's eyes gave off fierce sparks.
"As you wish," he retorted threateningly, then in a lower tone that was somehow even more ominous: "If it takes that long to get it right, then that is how long we will work at it. But we will get it right, Miss Thompson!"
While Terri cast about for an appropriately scorching reply, his glittering gaze swept away from her and landed on his secretary. "Mike, I want those letters out today." He then regarded his research assistant. "Jack, Miss Thompson is to have a copy of my recent article on the calendar stone."
Pompous male chauvinist! She turned to the young Mexican man waiting beside the monolith. "Thank you for accommodating me. You are very kind. Gracias."
He smiled, bowed graciously, and said in heavily accented English, "It was my pleasure, seňorita," before walking away.
Terri moved across the hall to where a stone jaguar was displayed on a broad pedestal. The jaguar was carved as he was about to leap; a receptacle had been formed in the animal's back to hold the hearts of human victims sacrificed to the
Aztec gods. Adjusting the focus on her 35-mm. camera, she shot the jaguar from various angles, using available light. Derek Storm still stood, as if transfixed by the calendar stone, allowing Terri to study surreptitiously the man with whom she would be forced to work closely for the next several weeks. He had made a specialty of writing studies of ancient civilizations in such clear, vibrant language that his books were consistently on the best-seller lists. Being given the job of providing illustrations for two of Derek Storm's books—one on the Aztecs, the other on the Mayas—was the biggest assignment of Terri's career. She could live comfortably for a year on the commission from these four weeks of work—not to mention the professional boost that was assured by collaboration with the famous Dr. Storm— and she would not be intimidated.
From behind her camera, she watched him. His concentration on the monument was so intense Terri could almost feel it—as if he were trying to think himself into the minds of the carvers. Perhaps that is how he managed to write such sparkling, believable descriptions of long-dead civilizations. A tight-fitting yellow knit shirt molded itself to his broad chest and muscular upper arms, and when he moved slowly to view the giant disk from a different angle, Terri saw a glistening of scattered silver hairs at his temples and the sweep of a thick, dark wave falling carelessly across his forehead. She felt oddly comforted by these tiny flaws, for they proved he wasn't perfect after all.
She wound the used film from her camera and put in a fresh roll, adjusting the setting to compensate for the lesser light in the corner of the hall where another magnificent monument was displayed. As she moved about, clicking the shutter again and again, her gaze strayed once more to Derek Storm. He was standing now, hands in pockets, legs firmly spread, his head nodding slightly, as if some personal notion had been confirmed by what he saw. But then Terri was certain he would never admit to being wrong, regardless of the evidence. Not he!
Jack and Mike, who had been waiting patiently for their employer's further instructions, were dismissed and came toward Terri. "We're about ready to go back to the hotel," Jack said to her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she met his look. "You're coming with us, aren't you?"
She shook her head. "I want to take some black-and-white shots. I'll find a taxi when I'm ready to leave."
Jack's good-looking face fell into dejected lines, and Mike's smile faded. They were such nice young men— both in their late twenties and both seemingly interested in spending time alone with her. They always appeared cheerful and fun-loving when they were away from their employer. How did they manage to work for such an egotist? Gracious, it was daunting enough to think of spending a mere four weeks with him. But these two had been with Derek Storm for several years. Maybe they just ignored his rudeness. Maybe they took his authoritative commands, shot at them like bullets, as simply a part of the job. Maybe there were compensations, although Terri could not think of any. Well, she didn't have to put up with the great writer for very long, and she wouldn't let him rattle her. She'd had photographs in several leading American and British magazines, as well as a one-woman show at a New York gallery, so she didn't need Dr. Derek Storm's instructions on how to do what she did best in the world.
"Sure you won't change your mind and come with us?" Mike was saying with his disarming grin. "All work and no play, you know."
"Work comes first," she said lightly. "I'll see you two later."
"Maybe we can take in some of Mexico City's nightlife," suggested Jack hopefully.
"Maybe," Terri replied, and waved as she left them outside the Aztec Hall.
She made her way across the patio, weaving her path around tour groups. She'd caught a glimpse of the museum restaurant earlier and decided to go there for a cup of coffee before continuing her picture-taking in the Mayan Hall. In the restaurant she found an empty corner table and deposited her camera and bulging camera bag on it before plopping, with a tired sigh, into a chair. When she'd given the waitress her order, she took a compact from her shoulder bag and flipped open the lid, dabbing at the shiny end of her nose with the powder puff. She stared at her reflection with a detached sort of interest. Her face was a source of occasional distress—not that it was blemished or anything like that. In fact, it was pretty enough, in a scrubbed, all-American-girl sort of way. It was just that it looked so young. Some people actually thought she was still in high school, instead of being nearly twenty-two years old!
She sighed and rummaged for a comb to run through the short, curving blond hair that was cut in a style called "the wedge," a sort of short pageboy with feathery, swept-back waves on the sides. If only it would stay put in this shining golden cap, but, since she was inclined to move about rather energetically, her hair, more often than not, framed her face in casual disarray. This, of course, only accentuated the teeny-bopper look, along with the cut-off jeans and cotton halter she wore. But, my goodness, it was summery in Mexico in April! Appearance had to give way to comfort, at least when she was working.
It occurred to her that her "sweet sixteen" image put her at a decided disadvantage when she was face-to-face with Dr. Big Shot Derek Storm. What was even worse—she felt about sixteen as far as her ability to cope with him was concerned. She believed he actually enjoyed cutting her down. He probably found it amusing to insult her in front of a roomful of people, knowing she was no match for his practiced verbal thrusts. But she'd stood up to him, at least. And he hadn't liked it one bit! "We will get it right, Miss Thompson!" he had said. So, he thought he could improve upon her photography, did he? She grimaced at her reflection, her soft lips clamping together in a stubborn line. "I'll show you who knows about photography, Dr. Storm," she said, her mouth relaxing again into a satisfied smile.
Her coffee arrived, and she sipped the steaming liquid absentmindedly. My, wasn't she brave now that she was safely away from Derek Storm's disturbing presence? Actually, she was dog tired. She'd been working here at the National Museum of Anthropology since morning and it was almost four now. She had wanted to go back to the hotel. Of course, she had to take more shots in the Mayan Hall, but she could have done that tomorrow. She could have gone with Jack and Mike—and Derek Storm. And that was the real reason she'd decided to stay behind. The idea of riding in the rented car with him—especially in her present state of weariness and dishevelment—was too unnerving. Never had any man made her feel so ignorant, so gauche, at such a disadvantage. And the frustrating thing was that she didn't understand why this was so—and had been so ever since she'd first met him at the Mexico City airport two days earlier.
Ever since that first meeting there had been this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach—a crazy contusion of anticipation and fright. What did it mean? Why should this assignment be any different from the others? When had her excitement over getting the job been transformed into something more? Why, when she thought of his dark, mocking eyes, did the air seem too thin, all at once—as if she could not breathe deeply enough? Derek Gonzales Storm. Why should he cause such uncertainty in her—she who was normally the soul of self-confidence? Had he actually been trying to insult her, to make her angry? But he had agreed to her being given the assignment, so why would he want to make things difficult for her? Something in his manner had been disturbingly ominous. Or was it merely her imagination?
Terri drained the last of the coffee from her cup and motioned to the waitress for more. Cradling the refilled cup in the slender fingers of both hands, she tried to remember what she had read and heard about Derek Storm. He was the son of an aristocratic Spanish mother and a self-made American millionaire father. To his credit, she admitted grudgingly, he did not seem inclined to trade on the wealth and influence of his parents. The copy on the dust jacket of his books said that, before devoting himself full time to his successful writing career, he'd been a professor of ancient history at the University of Chicago. With the publication of The Egypt of the Pharaohs his first book—other than one scholarly text—his name had become news. He was suddenly a celebr
ity—seen on television talk shows and lecturing, when he could be persuaded, in crowded auditoriums. That first book had been five or six years ago, and there had been another since then. He was now working on the third and fourth books—on the Aztecs and the Mayas—which were already expected to be worldwide best-sellers.
Although he must be about thirty-five now, he had never married. In spite of that—or perhaps because of it—his relationships with the opposite sex were rumored to be exciting and varied. A year or so ago, Terri remembered suddenly, his name had been linked frequently with a popular Mexican actress.
As a writer, he could not be faulted. His research was meticulous, his style polished to perfection, his books appealing to a wide audience. Maybe she should try harder to grasp what he had evidently been trying to make her understand a while ago in the Aztec Hall. Maybe she did need a deeper understanding of her subject to do a first-class job.
She shook these doubts away quickly. What did that arrogant giant of a man know about photography anyway? That was one area about which she could tell him a thing or two. She smiled to herself. She would, too, if he tried that professorial tone with her again.
She would work harder than she had ever worked in her life! She grabbed up her camera, camera case, and purse, and, after paying for her drink, headed for the Mayan Hall. She was relieved to find the hall empty of visitors. She went directly to the wall case where small statues from Jaina, an island near the coast of Campeche, were displayed. They were wonderful examples of Mayan sculpture, representing priests and ball players, richly attired, with fans, sandals, and necklaces. She found an empty stone pedestal that made a suitable place for sitting and for some time sat quietly studying the small figures, intrigued and much impressed.
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