by Flora Kidd
Across the table above their entwined hands their eyes met and clashed, and pawn had the craziest feeling she was locked in a duel with him to prove who had the superior strength. Looking at him, thinking of the little she knew about him, there was no doubt in her mind that he regarded himself as superior to her, for the simple reason that he was male. A fully mature man in superb physical condition and, Mexican into the bargain, he was probably as adept at singing and playing a serenade to his lady-love as he was at riding the surf or performing other athletic feats or at defending his honour. He was pure macho and obviously used to getting his own way.
But his attitude, the way he was holding her hand as if he had a right to do so and the way he had rebuked her brought her fighting Irish blood to the boil. She longed to hurl his words back in his face to tell him he wasn't of any account to her—and then she remembered he had saved her life the day before. She owed him her life. The thought was disturbing and it had the effect of putting the lid on her simmering temper for the time being.
'I can't see anything wrong in the way I spoke to you,' she argued. 'I answered your questions politely.'
'So politely that I feel frozen,' he retorted with a quirk of humour. 'A blast of icy wind from the Arctic regions.'
'Oh!' she exclaimed. 'I didn't mean to be like that. Please try to understand. I'm still feeling confused and a little nervous. I realise I'm under an obligation to you for rescuing me yesterday, but… '
'There is a way in which you could pay that obligation very easily,' he interrupted her.
'How? Please tell me,' she demanded impulsively.
'All you have to do is stay here for a while,' he replied, and again his thumb caressed her wrist and she felt the delicious sensuous tingle shiver along her nerves. Puzzled by his suggestion as well as a little alarmed by the effect his touch was having on her, she gave him another wary glance and took fright at the expression in his clear golden eyes. He was watching her as an eagle would watch its prey, coldly, objectively ready to swoop down and take it.
She was on her feet in an instant, determined to leave, find her way through the house and through its surrounding grounds to the road, be on her way. Where she would go she wasn't quite sure at that moment, but the instinct to run away from this powerful, attractive man before he could take over her life and run it for her was strong.
Yet he was still holding her hand and she couldn't get it free no matter how hard she tried. Her breasts heaving under the loose-fitting cotton gown, her eyes smoky with hatred, she glared down at him, too angry to speak.
'Now, you remind me of a bird,' he drawled, rising to his feet and standing before her still holding her hand in his, coming so close to her that their two hands held at the level of his chest were all that separated them. 'You remind me of a pretty parakeet I found once in the forest when I was a boy. It had a broken wing, so I took it home with me, intending to mend the wing. I put the bird in a cage and for a while it was most unhappy. It kept trying to escape, banging against the bars and hurting itself.'
'Wh-what happened to it?' she asked, fascinated by his story in spite of herself.
'It got used to the cage and to me. We became great friends. It grew so tame I was able to let it out for a few hours every day knowing it would always return to me.' He raised his free hand and touched her jawline close to her ear with gentle finger-tips in a feather-light caress which seemed to turn her knees to water. 'I wouldn't like you to get hurt, chiquita, trying to get away from me.'
There was a tense breathless moment as she stared at him and absorbed the message of his little story. Then her temper boiled over.
'I am not a bird, seňor,' she retorted, jerking her head back from those seductive fingers of his. 'I am a free woman, and you mustn't think that you have to look after me just because you saved my life. I'm very grateful to you, truly I am, but I can't stay here. I must go.'
'Go where?' he queried, letting go of her hand and folding his arms across his chest, but even though he had released her she guessed she hadn't a hope of getting past him. He would just reach out and grab her, and she wasn't going to give him the chance to lay hands on her.
'To Manzanillo, I suppose,' she said coolly, her head high. 'It's the nearest town.'
'You intend to go dressed like that?' His gaze roved critically over the cotton gown. 'On foot?' He shook his head slowly from side to side. 'Por dios, that would be foolish. You wouldn't get very far walking in the heat. It's almost noon and your white skin would blister and burn. You would get sunstroke. And supposing you did reach Manzanillo, what would you do there? You haven't any money or identification.' His mouth took on a straight determined line. 'No, I can't let you go, seňorita. If anything happened to you on the way or in Manzanillo I would never forgive myself.'
'What could possibly happen?' she demanded, trying to hide the dismay she was feeling, knowing he was quite right and she would have problems explaining to any authority in Manzanillo why she was in the country. 'I'm quite capable of looking after myself.'
'Are you?' His eyebrows tilted mockingly. 'I don't believe you are. Look what happened to you yesterday.'
The sound of footsteps coming across the terrace made them both look round. Carlos was coming, swinging his tray in his hand. When he reached them he spoke to Sebastian quickly in Spanish. Sebastian nodded and answered, then turned to Dawn.
'Excuse me, por favor,' he said. 'I have to go and speak with a police officer who has come to the house. Please stay here on the terrace. It might be necessary for you to talk to him too.'
'Why?' she exclaimed.
'I decided to report the theft of the hired car to the police. I've told them you're my guest—I thought if I arranged it that way it would give you a certain amount of protection.'
And would put her more than ever under an obligation to him, she thought, give him more of a hold over her.
'It wasn't necessary to report it as a theft,' she said coldly.
'I think it was,' he retorted. 'You hired it and it was taken from you.' His mouth curled sardonically. 'I believe in facing facts, seňorita. It has been stolen from you. Now hold yourself in readiness to be interviewed. The police sergeant will want to know the make, the colour and the year of the car, also the name of the rental agency in Los Angeles so that the Green Fleet, as we call our highway patrol, can be on the look-out for it. And remember, the sooner it is found the sooner you will have your money and your clothes back and you'll be as free as a wild bird again. Unless,' he added dryly, 'your kind and helpful friend Farley has disposed of them already.'
He turned away and went into the house. Dawn stood beside the table, staring after him and biting her lip. She could go now if she wanted to. She could go down the steps she had seen winding through the thick vegetation of primavera, papayas and palms which grew on the slopes of the cliff, down to the public beach. Once there it was possible she would find someone who could give her a lift in a car to Manzanillo.
But what good would running away do now? It would only be a gesture of defiance thrown in the face of the autocratic Sebastian Suarez and it would achieve nothing. Common sense dictated that she would be better off waiting here under his protection until there was news of the hired car. The police were much more likely to act for him, a Mexican national, than they were for her, a stranger without any form of identification.
Sighing a little because it went against the grain to have to give in to male authority, she turned to Carlos, who had almost finished clearing the table.
'Does anyone else live here besides Seňor Suarez?' she asked.
'Manuela, me and our daughter,' he replied woodenly.
'I realised that,' she said with a touch of impatience. 'I mean does Seňor Suarez have a wife and children?'
Carlos lifted the tray and balanced it cleverly on one hand close to his shoulder. His black slanted eyes regarded her with cool indifference.
'He does not have a wife, seňorita,' he replied politely. 'I do not know
if he has any children or not. Excuse me, por favor'
He went off in his brisk fashion and, feeling a little as if he had brushed her off as he might brush off a persistent mosquito which kept nibbling at him, Dawn wandered over to the wall and looked down at the green-blue water swirling among the rocks. The heat of the sun beat down on her bare head, the back of her neck, and Carlos's last few enigmatic words went round and round in her mind.
I do not know if he has any children or not—meaning that Sebastian Suarez could have fathered children but that Carlos didn't consider it any of her business if he had. The message was loud and clear: Carlos wasn't prepared to tell her anything about his employer.
How then was she going to find out about the man who had plucked her from the sea and had brought her into his house? Elbows on the rough stone of the wall, chin on her hands, she watched the water leaping in a cascade of glittering drops against dark jagged rocks, throwing up tiny pebbles and pieces of driftwood and leaving them stranded there. Like one of those pebbles or a piece of that driftwood she had been washed up on the edge of Sebastian Suarez's life, so why should she think it was important to know more about him?
'Seňorita?' Carlos was back on the terrace and calling to her. She turned to look at him and immediately had to shade her eyes against the sun-dazzled, snow-white complex of the house. 'Will you come, por favor, to the salon?' Carlos asked.
2
The young policeman, Sergeant Diego Moreles of the Green Fleet highway patrol, spoke English well and treated her with gentle yet firm courtesy. When she gave him details of the rented car he wrote down the information in a notebook, sitting beside her on one of the long velvet-covered couches while Sebastian Suarez stood at a nearby window, seemingly not a part of the interview yet obviously listening to everything that was being said.
'And you believe this car was stolen from you, seňorita?' asked the policeman when he had finished writing.
'No, not stolen, just borrowed,' she replied firmly, and was aware that Sebastian Suarez turned sharply away from the window. In a few strides he was across the room and standing beside her.
'But Seňor Suarez reported a theft,' exclaimed the sergeant.
'I know, but I don't believe it was stolen deliberately,' said Dawn earnestly. 'You see, I came down here in the company of two young men from Los Angeles and they have driven off in the car somewhere and I don't know where they've gone. I'd be grateful if you could find them, because in the car is my purse, my passport and tourist card and my clothes.'
'The young men were hitch-hikers, perhaps?' said the policeman writing busily in his notebook.
'No. We had arranged to travel together. One of them is a friend of my sister and I don't want him to be arrested for theft if you find him with the car. I'm sure he's only borrowed it for a while.'
The policeman was obviously puzzled and he glanced up at Sebastian Suarez as if expecting some sort of guidance.
'Your heart is too soft, Dawn, querida,' said Sebastian, a note of indulgent amusement in his voice, and Dawn couldn't help giving him an upward glance of surprise at his use of the endearment. At once his eyes flashed a warning at her and he put a hand on her shoulder to press it. 'She finds it difficult to believe badly of anyone, Sergeant,' he added, looking at the policeman.
'Si, I understand,' replied the sergeant, his frown of puzzlement clearing. 'Then perhaps you could give me a description of your friends, seňorita, and also their names. It will make it easier for us to approach them if we should find the car.'
Dawn described Farley and Brett as well as she could and gave their full names, and the policeman took more notes.
'Have you any idea in which direction they would go?' he asked. 'Would they turn inland and make for Mexico City? Or would they aim for Acapulco?'
'They like surf-riding, so I think they would keep to the coast,' she said.
'Bueno, then we shall do our best to trace them for you,' said the sergeant, putting his notebook away and rising to his feet. 'The patrol truck drivers in the area will be given all these details and asked to keep a look-out during the next few days. I'll report back as soon as I have some information for you. You'll be staying here, of course?'
His dark eyes were glinting with sudden interest as their glance lingered on the soft sheen of her pale hair. No longer was he an impersonal public servant doing his duty but a lively young man who liked young women and was possibly wondering at her presence in that house. And now by asking that question he had trapped her into making a commitment which she had been trying to avoid. She hesitated, wondering how to answer, and felt Sebastian's hand press her shoulder warningly again. It was no use, she would have to say she was going to stay there for the next few days. It was the only way she would get news of the car and of Farley. Without the support of Sebastian Suarez the police were going to be very suspicious of her.
'Yes, I'll be staying here,' she murmured, and felt the pressure of Sebastian's hand again before he withdrew it.
'That is good.' The sergeant's smile flashed white beneath the darkness of his moustache and his eyes glowed with admiration. 'Then I wish you good day, seňorita.'
'Buenos dias, and thank you,' she replied.
'De nada. It has been a great pleasure meeting you.'
He left somewhat reluctantly, urged on his way by Sebastian. Alone, Dawn leaned back against the plump velvet cushions of the divan and gave a sigh of relief. She was glad the questioning was over and that the policeman had been sympathetic and that she had been able to put in a word for Farley which would prevent him from being arrested for theft if he was found with the car. She knew that Sebastian hadn't been pleased because what she had told the policeman was in direct contradiction with what he had told him, but she couldn't help that. She was sure Farley wasn't a thief. At least she wasn't sure, but she hoped he wasn't.
And now she was committed to staying here for a few days whether she wanted to stay or not; committed to staying with the enigmatic, forceful Sebastian Suarez in this luxurious, exotic house all green and gold inside, open and airy with rounded arches and wrought iron screens instead of doors.
If only she knew more about him or could find out more about him she would feel better about staying with him. She realised by the way the policeman had behaved that he commanded respect, but that could be merely because he was wealthy and not because his character was good. And there were all sorts of unpleasant ways by which a person as young as he was could become wealthy these days. He could be involved in drug-peddling of white-slave traffic.
Smiling a little at the way her imagination was running wild, Dawn looked round the room in search of something which might give her a clue to Sebastian's background. In a small alcove partially cut off from the rest of the room by a wrought iron screen there was a dainty escritoire, an antique writing table made from gleaming walnut wood, on which a group of framed photographs were arranged.
Getting to her feet, she went over to the alcove and sat down in the elegant chair which was placed in front of it. The three photographs all seemed to be of the same person, a woman. Two of them were studio portraits, close-ups of a heart-shaped face framed by waves of dark hair. Long-lashed eyes looked out directly and with a glint of mockery that was familiar. The other photograph was of the same woman sitting with a silver-haired man on a garden seat in front of the house.
'I am glad to see you are making yourself at home.'
Sebastian's voice made her start guiltily and she tried to put the photograph she was holding back in its place. But she was clumsy and knocked down the outer two photographs. One of them skidded along the top of the table and fell to the floor. At once she jumped out of the chair and bent to pick up the fallen picture, only to find that he had moved to pick it up too and that their hands reached for it at the same time. Quickly she withdrew her hand and straightened up.
'I'm sorry,' she said stiffly. 'I didn't mean to knock them down.'
'No importa,' he murmured with a shrug
, and rearranged the photographs.
'She is very beautiful,' she remarked, hoping to find out who the woman was.
'Si. Many people have told me that. I don't remember her myself. She died when I was two,' he replied coolly, turning to look at her, and at once she knew why the eyes of the woman in the photograph were familiar. They were like his. 'My father, whom you can see sitting there with her, built this house for her. She called it her 'gilded cage'.' Again he shrugged. 'I don't know why.'
His remarks made something go click in her mind and her memory began to whirr like a movie film. A gilded cage. The phrase was familiar. Why? Her glance went again to the photographs of the man and woman. The man was easily more than twenty years older than the woman, old enough to be her father.
'The house is lovely,' she said, 'and from the outside it looks like something straight out of the Arabian Nights with all those Moorish arches and domes.'
'You have read the stories from the Arabian Nights?' he asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
'Yes, many times. My father had a copy which had belonged to his mother. It had wonderful exotic pictures. Judy and I read it so often that I'm afraid we wore it out and it fell to pieces.'
'There is a copy of it here,' he said, reaching a hand to the shelves above the desk on which there were a few books and some small ornaments. He took down a slim volume bound in green with gilt lettering and held it out to her. 'It belonged to her and perhaps it was from one of the pictures that she got the idea of how she would like the house to be designed.'
Dawn took the book from him. It was very similar to the one her father had owned and on the fly-leaf the name of the owner was written in flowing cursive writing. Polly Moore. Polly Moore. It sounded Irish and vaguely familiar, like the name of someone her father might have known, someone in show business.