Understand, yes. Terri would like to understand those ancient people whose gods were so capricious, whose environment was so enormously threatening. Maybe Derek was right. Maybe this was the way to accomplish that. Yet some part of her mind still suspected he had an ulterior motive for this trip—to seduce her. Though there was something not quite in character about that. Would the great Derek Storm really believe he had to kidnap her, get her alone in some out-of-the-way spot to accomplish that feat? Surely, his arrogance would convince him he could seduce her anywhere, anytime. If it was intimacy he wanted, didn't he have it with Margarite Lopez back in Mexico City? So, she would give him the benefit of the doubt. If he tried anything not "in the line of duty," she would handle it when it happened.
Try to look at the bright side, Terri, she told herself wryly, if it comes to that, it will at least provide good experience in fending for yourself. Self-defense and the single girl!
"We'll have time for some sight-seeing in Mérida before going out to the plantation," Derek said. "It's a lovely old Spanish city. I think you'll like it."
At the Mérida airport, Derek rented a car and, after storing their luggage in the trunk, they followed a traffic-congested highway into the city. There the narrow streets were surprisingly free of moving vehicles.
"It's siesta," Derek explained.
Terri's gaze had already been taking in the majestic cathedral on the east side of the plaza. Although they had passed several old churches on their drive through the city, this one, built in the moorish style, was the most imposing of the lot.
Following the direction of her gaze, Derek said, "That's the Cathedral of Mérida, built in the fourteenth century."
Although it was not the most beautiful religious edifice Terri had so far seen in Mexico—in fact, it was almost ungainly-looking—it was too imposing not to impress her. "It looks more like a fortress than a church," she mused. "The towers look too small for the rest of it, as if they were an afterthought."
"It was both fortress and church, of course," Derek said. "Those wall slits were designed to accommodate firearms should the Mayas attack, which they still did frequently in the early years of the Spanish conquest. The interior is quite beautiful, though."
They parked the car, crossed the street, and entered the cathedral, where Terri found Derek had not exaggerated its attraction, which—unusual in Mexican churches—was a beauty of stark, simple lines rather than ornateness and clutter. High vaulted Gothic cross-ribbing stood out against pure white walls. Be-hind the altar, a sixty-foot-high Christ figure carved from dark wood drew the eye irresistibly, there being no naves or transepts to break the boxlike lines.
"It's more impressive than gold and jewels," Terri whispered, and Derek nodded, gesturing for her to follow him down the aisle of the nearly deserted sanctuary to a small chapel to the left of the main altar. There a simple wooden cross held the place of honor.
"This is the church's venerated relic," Derek told her. "It's called the cross of the blisters."
Terri, gazing at the cross, frowned. "Why?"
"Legend has it that in Ichmul, a Mayan town, the Indians saw a tree burning one night. The next day, when they examined the tree, there were no scorch marks. After that, on several nights, the tree was seen to be burning; but in the light of day no evidence of fire could be found. So they cut down the tree and carved this cross out of it. It was placed in the church at Ichmul. Later, after that church was totally destroyed by fire, the cross was found in the rubble with only a few blisters on the wood. So it was brought here. There is an annual celebration to commemorate the miraculous occurrence."
"The wood must contain something that made it fireproof," Terri said, studying the cross.
Derek chuckled. "You're a skeptic, Terri. I never would have guessed it."
She looked up at him and found that he was watching her with a curious smile. "What do you mean, you wouldn't have guessed it?"
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I thought you were a romantic."
"Maybe I am," she admitted, "in some ways. But there's a streak of realism in my character, too."
His eyebrow quirked. "It will be interesting to discover just how wide that streak is."
She followed him from the cathedral, wondering what he meant by that last remark.
They spent the next hour in the Government Palace, studying the murals painted by the Yucatán artist Pacheco. Terri dutifully recorded them on film, but she did not find them as arresting as the Rivera murals in Mexico City.
It was after four when they returned to the car and left the city on a two-lane highway traveling east. During the hours of sight-seeing in Mérida, Terri had managed almost to forget the strain between them. But as they drove through some of the most desolate country she had ever seen, her disquiet returned.
"How far to the plantation?" she asked after several moments of silence.
"About thirty miles," Derek said. "It's very close to several of the important archaeological sites."
They traveled in silence for quite some time then, looking through the side window of the car at the barrenness. Terri asked with puzzlement, "Is your friend very rich?"
"Salvadore? That's Salvadore Divila, by the way. Yes, he inherited great wealth from his father, who inherited it from his father. The Divilas developed one of the largest sisal plantations in the Yucatán."
He slowed the car and indicated a field next to the road where rows of large plants, with long, rigid-looking leaves reaching skyward from a central thick stalk, ran to the horizon. "Those are agave plants, from which sisal—or henequen, as it is also called—is made. It takes five years before one of those plants is big enough to use. Then, twice a year for about twenty years, they cut four or five leaves from each plant. From the field, the leaves go to a shredding plant, where the fibers are separated and dried."
Derek accelerated the car again and the last miles to the plantation passed by quickly. Nothing broke the seemingly endless rows of agave plants on all sides until the road made a long, sweeping curve and topped a small rise. They passed between broad white pillars and entered another world. Before them sprawled the plantation house with dazzlingly white stucco walls and red-tiled roof. Surrounding the house were well-irrigated lawns and gardens, lush and green. They drove between palm trees with white-washed trunks, and as the lane twisted sharply, Terri saw a small white cottage—undoubtedly the guest house—set farther back than the main house on the north lawn.
The car came crunching to a halt on the gravel beside the main house. "I'll check in with somebody and get the key," Derek said, and was out of the car before she had a chance to reply.
He was back within minutes, climbing into the car, which he started and drove along the graveled lane, stopping in front of the cottage. Between the white wrought-iron panels of a fence, Terri caught glimpses of a shady courtyard behind the main house as well as a corner of the blue water of a swimming pool.
Still without speaking, Derek got out of the car and unloaded their luggage from the trunk. Terri followed him to the back of the car. "Isn't your friend at home?"
Derek hoisted the suitcases and she caught an odd look in his eyes. "No." He hesitated, then said abruptly, "I might as well tell you now. Salvadore was called away unexpectedly on business. He won't be back for a few days."
Feeling her misgivings beginning to take an unpleasant shape, Terri asked, "What about the rest of the family?"
"Salvadore isn't married. He lives here alone— except for a retinue of servants, of course. However, it seems that since he'll be away for several days, he decided to give most of the servants a little vacation, too. He left an elderly Mexican couple in charge of the house, but we'll have to wait on ourselves, I'm afraid."
He started toward the guest house, leaving Terri staring after him with her mouth open. As he reached the front door, she grabbed the typewriter and hurried to catch up, a mass of suspicions hardening into angry certainty. "You—you planned this!" she fumed, as s
he reached his side. "You knew no one would be here! You're not going to get away with this, Derek. You can take me right back to the airport!"
He glanced at her briefly, his mouth set in a firm line, and unlocked the door, banging it back as he entered. Terri lingered timorously on the porch and cast a quick glance around, trying to determine the best direction to make her escape, if the need arose.
But the agave fields began again a few hundred yards behind the guest house and seemed to go on forever, with no road or other break in view. Apparently, the only way out was the road by which they had arrived. The flat, sunlit silence was suddenly ominous, rather than a comforting relief from city bustle. Hesitantly, she followed Derek into the guest house.
Cool air conditioning wrapped itself around them. Clearly, they had been expected and prepared for—by the elderly Mexican couple? Well, if so, it seemed their responsibilities at the guest house ended with having it ready for visitors. They would have to wait on themselves, Derek had said—but, of course, he must be assuming that Terri would take over the cooking and other household chores. That was her role, wasn't it, or so the male chauvinist would think. Ah, but she had news for Dr. Derek Gonzales Storm. Whatever house-hold chores were done around here would be shared— equally.
Derek had set the suitcases in the middle of the small sitting room into which one stepped from outside. A shining tile floor was broken by several small rugs of Mexican design. A red velvet couch faced two black leather armchairs near the far wall. Derek was now opening and closing cabinet doors in the kitchen, which opened off one side of the sitting room. Another door, opposite the kitchen, Terri discovered, led into a hallway with other doors leading off of it.
Derek came back from the kitchen. "There's a good supply of food on hand. Looks as if we'll be comfortable enough for a few days."
"Correction," Terri said flatly. "You'll be comfortable. I won't be here."
Thoughtful dark eyes stared across the sitting room to where Terri stood framed in the doorway leading into the hall—a slender blond figure in jeans and plaid shirt, casual waves tumbling about her face.
"Stop behaving like an obnoxious adolescent," he said curtly, glancing away from her toward the small table with two chairs that occupied the corner of the sitting room, which looked out upon the courtyard and swimming pool.
"Obnoxious adolescent!" Terri sputtered. "How dare you, Derek Storm! You led me to believe that Salvadore Divila would be here!"
"Terri," he began slowly, surveying her with indifferent calm, "it makes no difference whether Salvadore is here or not. We are here to work. I thought you would enjoy our little stop in Mérida, but we've wasted most of the day, as far as productive work is concerned. Why don't you pick out whichever bedroom you wish and unpack your things? Perhaps we can still get some work done after dinner."
"No!" she wanted to scream at him, feeling frustrated by his refusal to take seriously her demand to be returned to Mérida and strangely hurt at his brusque-ness. She stared at the stubborn hardness of his tanned features for a moment, realizing he wasn't going to relent. Then she stepped to her suitcase, picked it up, and went along the hall. There were three bedrooms, all furnished rather spartanly, but comfortable enough. She picked the room at the far end of the hall and closed the door behind her.
Having accepted that she was not going to leave the plantation—not right away, at least—she unpacked the few things she had brought. That accomplished, she stretched out across the bed and stared through one of the windows, from which the draperies were drawn back, at the deep cloudless blue of the sky. It was nearly five; dusk could not be far away, and then the night would descend. Darkness would enclose the guest house, transform it into a sort of prison. Terri shivered at the thought and wondered what Derek was doing.
She must have been more tired than she realized, for after a few minutes she dozed. When she awoke, the sun was very low, leaving quite a bit of daylight yet, but more muted than before. She sat up, momentarily disoriented, and smelled fresh-brewed coffee. After splashing cold water on her face and running a comb through her hair, she left the bedroom, crossed the sitting room, and stopped in the kitchen doorway.
Derek was standing at a built-in electric range, a pan in one hand, a large spatula in the other. As she watched, he eased a fluffy, golden omelet onto a waiting plate. He'd changed into faded jeans and a short-sleeved gray sweat shirt and a wayward strand of dark hair fell across his forehead.
The arrogant author had been replaced by a disarmingly relaxed, sexy-looking man who appeared amazingly at home in a kitchen.
He glanced at her with a smile. "Your timing's perfect. I hope you like omelets. My repertoire of culinary creations is pretty limited, I'm afraid."
"I love omelets." She managed to sound matter-of-fact as, fingers tucked into the pockets of her jeans, she strolled into the kitchen, her eyes taking in the efficient compactness of stainless steel appliances, dark-stained cabinets, and polished black-and-white tiled floor.
"Would you mind pouring the coffee?" Derek inquired as he left the kitchen carrying two plates. She found cups and filled them, then followed Derek to the table in the corner of the sitting room, which had already been set with red straw placemats, silver, and soft cream-colored pottery.
She sat down and tasted her omelet, which was light and seasoned just right. The coffee, too, was brewed to perfection. Derek Storm was full of surprises! She had started to relax a bit when Derek said, "We can still get in several hours' work." He glanced at his watch. "It's just now six."
"We?" Terri asked, swallowing quickly.
"I thought we'd go over those contact sheets you said you brought with you. I want to get some idea of where we stand on the illustrations." He paused and gazed at her across the table from beneath half-lowered lids. "We may find," he went on, in low tones that sounded to Terri disconcertingly intimate, "that you're more competent than I thought."
She had been deceived by appearances. Not only was the arrogant author still with her, he was just as bossy and insulting as ever.
"Of course! Who can better judge photography than a writer?" she inquired sweetly.
He could not fail to understand the implied insult. "I don't pretend to be a judge of photography," he retorted, "only a certain photographer, who seems far too sensitive for someone who is supposedly a professional. Still can't take a few constructive suggestions, eh?"
"Keep your suggestions!"
"Touchy, touchy." He grinned sardonically, almost wearily. "But don't start a fight now, Terri. I'm not in the mood to humor you at the moment. We'll get around to everything—in time."
"We'll get around to nothing—except work!" She hadn't meant it to sound as if she expected anything personal, but she knew too late that it had sounded that way. Flushing, she dropped her gaze to her plate and concentrated on her omelet.
But Derek, who was sipping his coffee with deceptive nonchalance, hadn't missed the hidden jibe. "Isn't work the purpose for this trip? That's what I've been talking about. You haven't been listening, Terri."
Terri stole a glance at him from beneath lowered lashes. He was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, dark eyes watching her, narrowed with a catlike watchfulness that struck Terri as being extremely dangerous.
"Oh, but I have," she retorted, "especially between the lines. With you that's necessary."
"How tiring it must be," he murmured lazily, "to be always filled with distrust."
"Not at all." What was he up to with that indolent look?
"I suppose I'll have to let time prove to you what a waste of energy your suspicions are." Now how did he mean that? That he had no ulterior motives? Or that her suspicions were wasted because he could so easily assuage them?
"I'm not sure we have that much time!" Goodness, why was she arguing? Couldn't he see that she had his number?
"Finish your omelet—and wash the dishes." His tone was growing hard again as he finished flatly: "And don't be all night about i
t."
"I—I'm tired," she protested rather faintly.
"If you imagine"—his voice gathered momentum as he continued—"that you can get out of your share of the household chores simply by pleading tiredness—" Derek gestured impatiently. "It won't work. We will share the cooking and cleaning up equally."
She couldn't argue with that; and she knew it was useless to try to get out of working on the illustrations this evening, too. Derek's mind was made up, and trying to change it would be like trying to move a house single-handedly.
Relenting, she finished her dinner and cleared the table. There weren't enough dirty dishes to bother with the dishwasher, and Terri washed them by hand, stacking them to dry in a rack found under the sink.
When the kitchen was put to rights, she went back to the sitting room. Derek was standing at the window, hands in his jeans pockets, attention fixed on the darkening courtyard. Sighing, Terri went into her bedroom and took the film packet from her suitcase. Returning to the sitting room, she tossed it on the table as Derek turned around.
He opened the packet and pulled out a thick stack of contact sheets. "Now, let's see what we have here." He shuffled through them slowly, studying them with a frown of concentration. Then he spread them out across the tabletop.
"Some of these might do," he said thoughtfully. "The contrast is good."
Terri bit her bottom lip and did not answer. She watched as he bent over the table, studying the contact sheets. Slowly, his head began to shake as he moved the sheets about, as if something in all of this was missing—some vague and indefinable ingredient—but lacking nevertheless.
Terri put her hands on her hips and braced herself, marshaling her arguments. Still he did not speak, but merely stared at the contact sheets, frowning.
Finally, the silent disapproval became too much for Terri to take, and she drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"Okay, obviously you're not satisfied with what I've done," she exclaimed. "What's wrong with those? If you know so much about photography, tell me!" Her blue eyes were blazing.
Mexican Nights Page 8