Shadows of the Heart

by Lorena McCourtney

  “Miss Bellingham!”

  In spite of her determination to keep moving, the commanding voice stopped her in her tracks. Reluctantly she turned to face him.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m driving into San Jose this afternoon. Would you care to accompany me? I have some business to attend to first but we could have dinner afterward.”

  Trish was so surprised that it was only with effort that she kept her mouth from literally dropping open. She hesitated, her emotions vacillating wildly. She was again aware of Armando’s warnings and her own flaming recognition of how Marc might find her “useful.” She remembered the cold hostility with which he had greeted her today and his former harsh suggestion that she go away. One part of her wanted to tell him with icy aloofness that she did not care to dine with an arrogant stranger who first treated her with cold hostility and unwarranted suspicion and then expected her to jump at the chance to eat with him, but the other part of her simply rejected all the warnings both from without and within her and shouted yes, yes, yes!

  One slim hand played nervously with the bottom button of her plain blouse while she weighed and rationalized the decision already made within her. “I would like the opportunity to look for some special lace for Edith’s wedding gown,” she said finally.

  “Good. We’ll leave immediately after lunch,” he said briskly. He turned toward the door, dismissing her, then glanced back. “And wear something feminine. I get tired of women in pants all the time.”

  Trish gasped in indignation, a furious retort rising to her lips, but it was too late. He was already disappearing inside, mocking her with a flashing smile thrown over his shoulder.

  She covered the distance back to the house rapidly, her mind running at an even more furious pace than her slim legs. Now she could think of any number of sharp retorts and remarks she should have made, including one that she certainly did not intend to let any man tell her how to dress.

  In her room she paced back and forth, telling herself she was not going to go anywhere with a man as insufferable as Marcantonio de la Barca. But even as she was telling herself that, she was riffling through the clothes in her closet, digging out a pair of almost frivolously feminine high-heeled sandals, skimming out of her jeans and blouse and into the shower.

  She ate a hurried lunch and couldn’t have said five minutes later what she had eaten. Within a quarter hour after lunch she was eyeing her image in the mirror, assuring herself that she had chosen the filmy, scoop-necked dress because it was cooler than a pantsuit and not because of anything Marc had said. In truth she preferred something dressy and feminine for a dinner date, so it would have been foolish to change her personal preferences just to prove to Marc he couldn’t boss her around, she rationalized.

  She debated about how to handle telling Edith and Armando about her absence, quite certain-they would disapprove of any association with Marc. Finally she left a short note for Edith, commenting lightly in it that perhaps she could act as a peacemaker between the two feuding cafetales.

  She went out to the courtyard to wait for Marc, suddenly realizing he evidently intended to drive to the house to pick her up in spite of Armando’s antagonism. Or did Marc intend that she should hike back down to the beneficio in her dress and high-heeled sandals? Actually she wouldn’t put it past him, she thought wryly. And, a bit ruefully, she suspected she just might do it if she had to.

  She sat in the shade under the protective overhang of the wide roof, from where she could see the road. In spite of her good view she got up every few moments to pace past the courtyard gates to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. Once she was almost sure she saw the Mercedes and her uneasiness increased. Edith and Armando had made it plain that Marc was, if not an open enemy, at least an adversary. Was she being rude, perhaps even disloyal, in having anything to do with him?

  Her thoughts were interrupted as an expensive Italian sports car drove up and braked to a smooth stop in front of the house. Marc stepped out.

  “I’m coming!” Trish called, stopping him before he was more than a step away from the car. She saw no point in wasting time and perhaps encountering Armando at the last minute. Hastily she slipped through the gates and ran to meet him, a little breathless by the time she slid inside the door he held open for her.

  He had changed clothes, smoothly sophisticated now in a well-cut suit and tie and even more intensely masculine. Once seated beside her, he raised a questioning eyebrow at her hasty actions.

  “I was afraid… I mean, Armando—”

  “I can take care of Armando,” he said calmly.

  Trish tried to minimize his actions, reminding herself he probably knew Armando was away for the day and that there was no danger of encountering him. But somehow she knew Marc meant exactly what he said. He could take care of Armando.

  They exchanged some polite comments about the weather and the beautiful countryside, but Marc did not seem particularly inclined to talk. Trish kept thinking about that visit he had made to the house when he harshly suggested she leave, but now that the opportunity was at hand she was somehow reluctant to question him about his unfriendly advice.

  They passed a steep side road marked with an unreadable, faded sign, and Trish inquired about it. Marc said the road went to the village where most of the cafetal workers lived. Another much plainer sign warned Peligro, that the road was dangerous. Trish turned to look back at the mountain looming behind them, a scarf of cloud caught on its tip, and remarked that she had heard his grandfather could remember when steam rose from the mountain. Marc said yes and did not elaborate.

  Trish finally gave up on small talk and concentrated on the lush green scenery, trying to ignore Marc’s masculine presence that somehow dominated her even in silence. She marveled at vegetation both strange and familiar. Incredibly lovely calla lilies grew wild, seemingly considered almost as weeds as they clambered over pasture fences. There were brilliant poinsettias and hibiscus, hydrangeas, a strange plant with huge leaves that resembled elephant ears, and flowering trees. Giant ferns filled steep ravines. They passed a varied assortment of vehicles on the road, everything from old-fashioned ox-drawn carts to lumbering trucks and makes of cars Trish had never seen before.

  Finally, quite abruptly, Marc said, “Tell me about yourself.”

  Trish was a bit taken aback by the remark, which sounded more like a command than a request. “I’ve already told you about my relationship with Edith and how I happen to be here,” she said coolly. But slowly, encouraged by his questions, she went on to tell him about her parents and her Minnesota childhood with her grandparents, her partial college education, even her vague feeling of drifting rather aimlessly in life.

  “Your decision to come to Costa Rica was a rather impulsive one then?” he asked.

  “You mean because you didn’t know ahead of time that I was coming and you always know everything that is going on?” she returned lightly, remembering his quick knowledge of the fire in her room.

  He shrugged. “I was aware Edith had a half-sister. But you do not resemble each other to any great extent.”

  They were on the outskirts of San Jose by now, passing through pleasant residential suburbs with an abundance of flamboyantly flowering trees.

  “Armando attended an agricultural college in the States for a time before coming to work for the Heplers,” he commented casually. “Could that have been the same college you attended?”

  Trish had the sudden, peculiar feeling that this entire conversation, perhaps even the purpose of the dinner invitation, was to lead up to that single question. Did Marc have the mistaken impression that she knew some information about Armando that Marc could use against him? She gave him a sideways glance, but his handsome face was inscrutably expressionless. Trish was suddenly reminded that Armando had said Marc might use her for his own purposes. Perhaps she had been flattering herself to think that those purposes had anything at all to do with her personally even in a temporary, physical sense.

&
nbsp; “You asked me once before if I had met Armando in the States and I told you no,” she said sharply. Deep down she knew she was more hurt than angry, since it now appeared that Marc’s invitation had been prompted by some ulterior motive rather than an honest desire to be with her. “I thought this was supposed to be a dinner date, but if it is a question-and-answer time, perhaps I have some for you!”

  He raised a languid eyebrow.

  “Why… why did you tell me to go away?” she asked, her voice unexpectedly shaky now that the words were out.

  “I thought it would be for the best.” His voice hardened. “I still think it would be, but somehow I doubt that you’re the sort of woman who would take my, or any man’s, advice.”

  “And I’m sure you’re the sort of man who prefers an obedient, submissive sort of woman!”

  An amused smile curved his lips. “Perhaps.” He reached over to brush a strand of hair away from the nape of her neck. “But I also like one with a bit of spirit. And you’re right, this is a dinner date.” His voice suddenly became brisk. “Our small country has a surprising variety of continental cuisine available. I know an excellent French restaurant that I am sure is the equal of any at which you have dined in the States.”

  That was undoubtedly true, Trish thought, since she had never dined in a French restaurant in her life. His hand lingered on the bare skin at the nape of her neck and she was oddly conscious of two completely opposite sensations—that his hand was cool to the touch and yet her skin felt on fire beneath the gently moving fingers. The pressure of his hand increased, massaging the muscles from neck to shoulder gently.

  “Your muscles are tight as wires,” he chided. “Why are you so tense?”

  “Just… just a little nervous. New place and the fire and all,” she stammered lamely. But she knew quite well why every muscle and nerve in her body was tense with awareness, and that it had nothing at all to do with the place or the fire but only with the. man sitting so coolly, calmly next to her. Why, she thought in sudden frustration, didn’t she affect him the way he affected her?

  “Well, here we are,” he said briskly, removing his hand. “My business won’t take more than a few minutes and then we’ll find Edith’s lace and do a bit of sight-seeing before dinner.”

  “Fine,” Trish agreed, half relieved, half disappointed when his hand left her skin. She peered around. “In fact, that appears to be a fabric shop right over there.”

  They got out on opposite sides of the sports car and headed in opposite directions. The street was typical of San Jose, narrow and busy, crowded with both vehicles and people. Trish stopped short, remembering she had never changed any American money into Costa Rican colones. Perhaps Marc could change a few dollars for her or tell her where to do it.

  She turned and hurried in the direction he had taken, pausing on the corner to search for his tall, commanding figure. There he was, just turning into the doorway of some professional offices.

  Trish hurried forward again, her eyes on the door he had entered. There was a discreet sign: Hans Schwarz, Licenciado.

  Trish paused, her mind hesitating first over the name, jarringly German, and then over translation of the other word. Then she had it. Licenciado meant lawyer. Marc was going to see an attorney.

  Trish couldn’t specifically account for her abrupt action. She only knew some sixth sense prompted her to retreat quickly, before Marc turned at the reception desk and spotted her. She remembered Edith’s quiet but ominous declaration that Marc had not lessened his determination to own the Hepler cafetal.

  And she had the uneasy feeling that she had all too willingly been enticed into the camp of the enemy for dinner and that Marc’s calculated intentions might well involve using her for his own devious means.

  Chapter Five

  Trish stretched deliriously, the first thing meeting her eye the glorious, deep purple blooms of guana morada that Marc had bought for her from a street vendor the afternoon before—not just one but a full bouquet of the beautiful orchids, Costa Rica’s national flower. Then they had toured the National Theater, dined on a heavenly concoction of seafood in a sinfully rich sauce, and washed it down with a heady wine in the intimate setting of the French restaurant Marc had chosen.

  Something nibbled at the edge of Trish’s mind, something unpleasant, but she refused to let it eat its way into her happiness.

  The National Theater, a three-quarter scale reproduction of the Comedie Française in Paris, had been fantastic. Marc had held her hand as they strolled across gleaming parquet floors and lush carpeting, climbed the marble staircase, peered into the luxurious box seats, gazed at the enormous, ornate chandelier. He had steadied her with an arm around her shoulders as they looked up at the delicate murals adorning the ceiling. His darkly handsome face had smiled back at her from the tall mirrors framed in gold curlicues.

  His conversation over dinner had been warm and intimate as he talked about his boyhood on the cafetal, complimented her on her sparkling eyes, her choice of dress, and the creamy smoothness of her skin. The vision of the lovely Ramona de Cordoba that had occasionally haunted Trish seemed very dim and far away.

  And when he brought her home, boldly walking her to the carved doors, he had kissed her…

  Trish’s heart tripped erratically at the very memory of his mouth against hers and she closed her eyes, bringing back each pulsing moment. Her palms were damp as she raised up on one elbow to peer out the window in the direction of Marc’s house, but though she waited hopefully for several minutes she had no glimpse of him. All she saw was the stallion Demonio staring contemptuously in her direction, as if he could see into her very window. There was something in the proud toss of his head that uneasily reminded Trish of Marc’s earlier arrogance.

  Trish rested her head on the pillow again, trying to bring back the delicious aura that had enveloped her when she first awakened, but somehow the spell was broken. The unpleasant thoughts she had pushed into the background of her mind refused to be ignored any longer.

  Marc had gone to see a lawyer. He had stayed a considerable length of time, long enough for Trish to examine thoroughly every length of lace in the fabric store.

  He had returned in good spirits, brushing off her attempts to repay him in American dollars when he paid for the lace in colones.

  There were any number of reasons he could have had for going to see an attorney, Trish reminded herself. He was a powerful, busy man, no doubt with many investments and business matters that required legal attention. But Trish couldn’t escape the ominous feeling that his appointment with the lawyer had to do with his obsession to possess the Hepler cafetal, that matters were stirring beneath the surface like the invisible mutterings of a long quiescent volcano about to erupt.

  And on an even more personally disquieting note was her unhappy feeling that Marc had taken her to dinner for the sole purpose of charming out of her information about Armando, which he seemed to think she possessed.

  Trish determinedly brushed those thoughts aside and went looking for Edith after breakfast, wanting to show her the lace and discuss the wedding gown. She could not find Edith, however, and one of the servants finally informed her that the seňorita was spending the morning with her father.

  Trish did not see Edith until just before lunch. Edith tapped on Trish’s bedroom door while Trish was dressing after a dip in the pool. Trish opened the door a crack and then widened it to let her in.

  “Let me show you the lace I found,” Trish said eagerly.

  “A little later.” Edith seemed preoccupied. “I just wanted to suggest that you not mention anything to Armando at lunch about your trip to San Jose with Marc. I made excuses for you last night at dinner.”

  “Yes, of course,” Trish agreed. She hesitated. “I suppose I shouldn’t have gone, but I wanted to look for the lace.”

  Edith smiled faintly. “I’m sure Marc can be very charming and persuasive.”

  Trish felt her fair skin flush slightly. She turned b
ack to the mirror and gave her hair a quick swipe with the brush. “But what if Marc mentions it to Armando?” she asked, eyeing Edith in the mirror.

  “We shall have to hope that does not happen,” Edith said flatly.

  Trish disliked the vaguely underhanded quality all this gave her impulsive trip with Marc, but there was no point in adding fuel to the fire of Armando’s hatred of Marc. Armando undoubtedly would be especially unhappy that she had gone with Marc after he had taken the trouble to warn her about him. Trish considered telling Edith about Marc’s visit to the lawyer, but decided against that also. She linked her arm with Edith’s as they approached the dining room together and was gaily inquiring about horseback riding when Armando rose to greet them.

  “Ah, Trish, you must be feeling better today,” he said.

  Trish looked at him blankly for a moment, then remembered Edith’s excuses. “Yes, I’m fine. now. I was just asking Edith about taking a horseback ride.”

  They settled around the table and a servant brought salads and an unusual and surprisingly delicious cream of avocado soup. Edith barely ate, however. She looked distinctly uneasy and kept giving Trish nervous little glances, as if afraid Trish might forget and make some mention of her trip with Marc. Trish determinedly kept the conversation headed in another direction, asking about places to ride.

  “There’s a good trail to the village that is shorter than the road,” Armando suggested. “Or, if you’re really feeling ambitious, you might enjoy the ride up Monte Decepcion.”

  “You mean there’s a trail all the way to the top of the mountain?” Trish asked with interest. “Oh, I’d love that. What’s up there?”

  “The view isn’t as magnificent as that from Costa Rica’s most famous volcano, Irazu,” Edith said. “From there you can sometimes see the Pacific Ocean in one direction and the Atlantic in the other.”

  “But the ride up Decepcion is certainly worthwhile also,” Armando interjected.