He moved then so that light from the street slanted across features that she knew so well. The small scar above his mouth. The slightly crooked nose. Those blue, blue eyes…
She put a trembling hand to her mouth. “Oh, my God. Is it really you?”
His expression darkened. “I know you have questions, but I don’t have time to explain. We have to hurry.”
The gate swung open, and Penelope stepped through without hesitation. Simon took her hand, and together they ran down the darkened alley. Only when they emerged into a tiny moonlit courtyard did Penelope balk. Too many questions bubbled inside her. She had to know how Simon could be here, with her, when she had been told that he was still in a coma.
But before she could turn, he moved up behind her and drew her against him—her back to his front—as he wrapped his arms around her. When his lips found her hair, Penelope’s breath came out on a sob.
The moment was so surreal she thought she might be dreaming, but her senses were keenly alert. She could still hear muted laughter and music from the street and the nearer sound of a trickling fountain. She could smell and feel the night. It was heavy and intoxicating, the scent of danger and jasmine mingling with the tuberose she wore in her hair.
When Simon’s arms tightened around her, Penelope wanted to resist. She wanted to demand how any of this could be real, but the feel of his body against hers was something she’d craved for far too long. She melted into him, letting the back of her head drop against his shoulder.
He bent so that their cheeks were touching. It was such an intimate sensation. “How can this be?” she whispered. “I just talked to your father. He said—”
“Shush.” Simon nuzzled her neck. “Don’t talk. I’ll explain everything as soon as I can, but for now there’s only time for this….”
He cupped her chin and tilted her head for his kiss. The feel of his mouth against hers was familiar, but the way he kissed her was not. He kissed her as he’d never kissed her before. There was no hesitancy and only a hint of gentleness. One arm was still wrapped around her, cradling her breasts, while his other hand stroked her face.
The kiss was searching and demanding, utterly devastating, but Penelope found herself responding with an abandon that took her by surprise. When Simon’s tongue slipped inside her mouth, she clung to him and shuddered.
“Am I dreaming?” she whispered against his lips, her heart pounding.
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice edged with an emotion Penelope couldn’t quite name. “Tonight never happened.”
And then, before she could ask what he meant, he kissed her again, more tenderly this time, as if he were trying to assuage her fears.
Something pricked her arm, and Penelope drew back in alarm. A blast sounded nearby. Fireworks, she thought dimly, as colors exploded overhead. Then almost immediately, her head began to spin and her legs turned to water. She reached out blindly for Simon.
“Help me,” she whispered as she slid into nothing but darkness.
Chapter Nine
Penelope awakened the next morning with a pounding headache and a really bad taste in her mouth. With an effort, she lifted herself on her elbows as she realized someone was knocking on her bedroom door.
“Who is it?” she called weakly.
“It’s Elena. I’ve brought you some breakfast.”
“Come in.” Penelope struggled into her robe as the door swung open, and Elena came in carrying a tray laden with goodies.
She placed it on the bench at the end of the bed and then straightened. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” The sight and smell of the pastries—freshly baked, no doubt—did nothing for Penelope’s weak stomach, but she would kill for a cup of coffee. She rubbed a hand over her scratchy eyes. “What time did I get in last night?” she muttered.
“It was just after midnight. I heard the car in the driveway.”
Just after midnight? Why had she stayed out so late? Penelope wondered. What had she been doing all that time?
Tying one on, if her pounding head was any indication.
She kneaded her temples, trying to remember. The sunset cruise. The phone call to Simon’s father. The drive into Manzanillo… She remembered all of those things, and then everything faded to black.
She glanced warily at Elena. “Did you see me last night? Did we speak?”
Elena kept her eyes lowered as she bent to pour the coffee. “No. I didn’t come out of my room. When I didn’t hear the front door, I assumed you’d come in through the garden.”
Penelope’s attention shot to the French doors. One of them was ajar, which seemed to confirm Elena’s assumption.
But even if she had come in by way of the garden, that didn’t explain how she’d managed to drive herself home, put on her pajamas, climb into bed and not have a single memory of doing so.
“Would you like some coffee?” Elena asked.
“Yes, please.” Penelope accepted the cup, then lifted the steaming brew to her lips. “What time is it, anyway?”
“A little after nine. I’m sorry to disturb you so early.” Elena placed a pastry on a delicate gold-rimmed plate. “But there is a man here to see you.”
“To see me?” Penelope glanced up in surprise. “Who is it?”
“A policeman.”
The cup rattled against the saucer as Penelope stared at Elena in shock. “What does he want?”
She fiddled with the tray, again avoiding Penelope’s eyes. “He didn’t say. Only that he wanted to ask you some questions. I told him that you would need some time to bathe and dress, but he insisted on waiting.”
Icy dread surged through Penelope’s veins. Had she been involved in an accident last night? She’d never driven under the influence of alcohol in her life, but how else had she gotten home last night? How else to explain the hangover? The memory loss?
She put a trembling hand to her mouth. What if she’d hurt someone last night? Killed someone?
“He didn’t say anything else?” she asked hoarsely.
Elena shook her head. “Only that he would wait for you.”
Penelope drew a shaky breath. “I’d better go see what he wants.”
“I wouldn’t rush.” Elena turned and headed for the door. “Finish your coffee. It won’t hurt him to wait a few minutes longer.”
After she was gone, Penelope somehow managed to place the cup and saucer on the nightstand without scalding herself. Then she fell back against the pillows and squeezed her eyes closed. What had she done last night? Why couldn’t she remember?
Think! Think!
The cruise, the phone calls, the celebration in town. Then what?
Something tantalized the fringes of her memory, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.
Still trembling, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, and as she stood, she put out her hands to steady her balance. The floor seemed to be moving beneath her.
Gingerly, she made her way into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. Then turning on the shower, she stripped and climbed into the stall, hoping the hot water would help clear her mind and settle her stomach.
It did neither. When she emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, fully dressed, she still felt shaky and sick.
The policeman waited for her in the living room. He turned when he heard her approach, then bent to set the cup and saucer he’d been nursing on a nearby table. “Ms. Moon? I’m Sergeant Garcia.”
“How do you do?” Penelope offered her hand, then realized too late how badly it still trembled.
Garcia was a tall, good-looking man in his late thirties, with dark, gleaming eyes and a military bearing. Imposing was the first word that came to Penelope’s mind. Intimidating was the second.
“I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“May I ask what this is about?” she hedged.
He motioned to one of the elegant armchairs placed near the fireplace. “Perhaps you’d like to sit first.”
“Will this take long?” she asked pointedly.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
His smile seemed a bit cool. “On your answers, of course.”
Behind them, Elena cleared her throat, and Garcia’s gaze moved past Penelope to linger on the beautiful brunette.
“Would you like coffee?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Penelope said, assuming the question was directed at her, since Garcia had barely touched his.
Elena turned and quickly retreated down the hallway, as if not wanting to be a witness to whatever was about to transpire. Garcia watched until she was out of sight, then he addressed Penelope. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit?”
Penelope didn’t want to give in to his suggestion, but she had little choice. Her knees wobbled so badly she couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t collapse if she remained standing.
She took a seat, realizing at once that it put her at a disadvantage to Garcia, who loomed over her.
“Look, what’s this about?” she asked again, trying her best to sound assertive.
Instead of answering her, Garcia strode to the windows to glance out at the gardens. He waited several heartbeats, letting the tension mount in the room before he turned.
“Do you know a man named Tonio Vargas?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Tonio Vargas?” Penelope said in surprise. “Yes, he’s an acquaintance. I met him for the first time yesterday. We had a business meeting at the Las Hadas resort.”
Garcia nodded slightly as if he’d anticipated her answer. “Would you mind telling me the nature of this…business meeting?”
Penelope shrugged. “I work for a museum in Houston, Texas. We’ve made arrangements to exhibit Manuel Vargas’s collection of pre-Columbian dance and ceremonial masks. I was to deliver some papers to him yesterday, but he was feeling under the weather, so Tonio, his son, came instead.”
“That was the extent of the meeting? You parted on amicable terms?”
“Yes, of course. Well…” Penelope bit her lip. “There was one thing.”
Garcia’s expression sharpened. “Yes?”
“He expressed concern about letting the masks out of his father’s possession.”
“And you argued about it?”
Was that eagerness she heard in the sergeant’s voice? Penelope frowned. “Of course not. We each stated our positions, and then he left.”
“That was the last time you saw him?”
“I’m…not sure.”
One brow lifted. “What do you mean, you are not sure?”
Penelope clasped her hands together in her lap. “I think I saw him later on a yacht. It was getting dark, and he was some distance away…” And he’d been speaking with a man who was a dead ringer for her fiancé, but that was a can of worms she didn’t particularly want to open.
“He was alone?” Garcia persisted.
“No, there was someone with him. A man.”
“Did you recognize this man?”
Penelope glanced down at her hands. “I thought I did at first, but I was mistaken. I don’t know who he was. Like I said, I don’t even know for sure if the other man I saw was Tonio Vargas.” She hesitated, her gaze lifting to Garcia’s. The policeman’s eyes were cold, dark, fathomless. The only glimmer Penelope could detect seemed to be one of suspicion. She said anxiously, “I’m trying my best to cooperate, but I don’t understand why you’re asking me all these questions about Tonio Vargas. Is there a problem with our permits?”
His brows lifted again. “Permits? No, this isn’t about permits, Ms. Moon. It’s about murder.”
Penelope gasped, her eyes widening in shock. “Murder? What are you talking about?”
Garcia didn’t bother to disguise his suspicion now. It was apparent by the way he looked at her that he thought her guilty of something. But murder? Penelope thought in panic.
He shortened the distance between them until he loomed over her once again. Penelope wanted to shrink away from him, but there was no escaping that relentless gaze. “Tonio Vargas was shot to death last night. His body was found in a courtyard off Av. Mexico where you were last seen with him.”
“What? No, you’re mistaken. I never saw him last night—” But had she? She couldn’t remember whom she’d seen last night. Or what she’d done…
Penelope’s stomach started to churn again. She clapped a hand to her mouth, trying to hold back the nausea.
And then suddenly a memory flashed like a strobe in her head. “You’re in danger. We both are.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispered.
“You asked him to meet you last night, didn’t you? His housekeeper said he left in a hurry after receiving a phone call from a woman. That was you, wasn’t it?” Garcia’s voice lowered to a menacing purr. Chills shot up and down Penelope’s spine at the way he continued to stare down at her. You killed him, his dark countenance accused her. Why don’t you save us all a lot of trouble and confess?
“No!” Penelope moistened her lips, trying to remember. “I went into town to watch the celebration. I had no idea Tonio Vargas would even be there. I was shocked when he approached me and said we needed to talk. I thought it was about the exhibit, but…he told me we were both in danger and that I needed to get out of Mexico.”
Penelope couldn’t tell if Garcia believed her or not, but at least he was still listening. Maybe that was a good sign. “In danger from whom, Ms. Moon?”
Penelope shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. He didn’t say anything else. He just…left.”
“And what did you do after that?” Garcia demanded.
“I…” The strobe was still going in her head, only now it wasn’t Tonio’s face Penelope saw flashing. It was Simon’s.
The two of them were kissing in a courtyard….
There had been some kind of explosion…or a gunshot.
But that was only a dream. It couldn’t have been real. Simon was still in a coma. Penelope had talked to his father less than twenty-four hours ago.
She glanced at Garcia. “I’m…sorry. I seem…” She faltered. “I’m not feeling well this morning.”
Garcia’s face hardened. “If you can’t explain your whereabouts, then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come along to the delegación with me.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong!” Penelope cried. “I’ve told you everything I know. You can’t possibly think I had anything to do with Tonio Vargas’s death.”
The policeman shrugged. “Perhaps not. But you may well be the last person to see him alive. Other than the killer, of course.”
OUTWARDLY, Captain Benicio Prieto, the precinct comandante, was the exact opposite of his underling, Garcia. Where the sergeant’s crisply pressed uniform enhanced his trim physique and ramrod posture, Captain Prieto’s rumpled and stained attire seemed to suggest a man somewhat lacking in discipline. He was around fifty, a tall, stout man with a bad complexion and an unfortunate mustache that he had a habit of twirling like the quintessential cartoon villain as he regarded Penelope across his battered desk.
However, unlike the dour Garcia, there was humor in Prieto’s dark eyes, and that had given Penelope a measure of hope until she experienced firsthand the man’s determination and patience—a combination, she soon learned, that made for a very effective interrogator. After an hour of his relentless grilling, she was very nearly on the verge of confessing to a crime she knew she wasn’t capable of committing.
“Let’s go back over your movements of last evening,” Prieto said easily as he sat back in his chair and entwined his hands over his paunch, apparently not at all bored or restless even though he’d heard the same story twice already. “You came into town last night to meet with Tonio Vargas, is that right?”
Penelope sighed, her own patience wearing very thin. “No. I’ve already told you. I didn’t come into town to meet Tonio Vargas. I never called him. I came to see the celebration. I didn’t even know he would be there. He
came up to me and said he needed to talk to me. He told me that I was in danger.”
“He warned you to leave Mexico, you said.”
“That’s right.”
“But he didn’t tell you why. He didn’t elaborate on this…danger?” Prieto’s style was deliberately plodding, but from time to time, Penelope could detect subtle changes in his tone, as if the inflection in his voice might somehow nudge her into giving a different answer.
She said wearily, “He didn’t elaborate, no. That’s all he said before he left.”
“And you have no idea what he meant?”
“None.”
“That was the last time you saw him?”
Penelope nodded. “Yes.”
Prieto began to twiddle his thumbs. “You see, that is where the problem comes in for me. You say that was the last time you saw Tonio Vargas, but you can’t or won’t enlighten me as to your whereabouts for the remainder of the evening.”
Yes, that was the part that bothered Penelope, too.
Aloud, she said, “I may not be able to account for every minute of my time, but I know one thing for sure. I didn’t kill Tonio Vargas. I could never hurt anyone,” she said desperately.
Prieto shrugged. “But you can see my dilemma. I have only your word for that.”
“You also don’t have any witnesses, do you?” Penelope demanded.
For the first time since she’d walked into his office, Prieto’s affable demeanor wavered and his face hardened. “We are in the early stages of our investigation. A witness may yet be persuaded to come forward.”
Persuaded how? Penelope wondered uneasily. She wasn’t naive enough to believe that justice always prevailed. Witnesses could easily be manufactured…for the right price.
Her grip tightened on the arms of the chair. “Look, you’ve had me here for over an hour. I’ve cooperated, haven’t I? I’ve answered all your questions. You promised I could make a phone call.”
He seemed to consider her request, and for a moment, Penelope thought he would deny her yet again. But to her surprise, he nodded to Garcia, who hovered in the background, guarding the door. “Take her to a phone.”
Unauthorised Passion/Intimate Knowledge Page 24