First Things First

by Barbara Delinsky

  “But I just came from there and it’s not nearby!” Chelsea cried. “I can’t possibly get there without my car … oh, I’m going too fast again.” She slowed down. “I have no way to get there, but I need my car fixed. Maybe you could just … just take a look at it?”

  Unhurriedly, the young man pondered her words. Chelsea wasn’t sure whether he was trying to decipher them or whether, having understood her, he was merely considering the possibility. When he spoke, it was obvious that the latter was the case.

  “I don’t theenk eet. I work.”

  She could see how hard he was working. “It wouldn’t take long,” she pleaded. “Just a look?”

  He shrugged. “I haf no car. I would help eef I could, but … how do I say … bery important be here.”

  Chelsea took another tack. “Maybe someone else can look at my car. Someone else? Nearby?”

  To this the young man shrugged, but he did rock forward until the front legs of the chair hit the floor. “Maybe two hours. Three. Mi padre … my fader be back.”

  “Two or three hours?” She moaned. Two or three hours loomed like an eternity given the fact that she was already thoroughly frazzled. But she’d never been one to beat her head against a brick wall; it appeared that in this case she had no choice but to wait. And in the meantime …

  She lifted Samuel’s photograph and held it out. “Do you know this man?”

  The machine shop attendant studied the photograph, frowned, tipped his head, squinted. He darted a gaze at Chelsea before looking at the picture once more.

  “Si. Maybe.”

  Her heart skipped a beat and her fatigue momentarily eased. “Have you seen him?”

  “I theenk. An Americano ees leeving near here. Maybe theese one.”

  Though Chelsea had heard the same news from the professor in Merida, the fact that a local was now comfirming it—albeit guardedly—was gratifying. No, exciting!

  “Where? Can you tell me where he is?”

  The young man rubbed a lean forefinger across the broad bridge of his nose. “Down the road. Maybe five or ten meenutes walk time. There ees a path on the—” he pointed to one side, then the other, then came back to the first “—izquierda. The left. At the end of the path a pueblito. You ask there.”

  Chelsea was busy making mental calculations. Ten minutes walking. A path to the pueblito. She certainly had enough time to follow this lead before anything could possibly be done to fix her car.

  She gave the young man a wide smile. “Thank you. Gracias. I will be back to see your father.”

  With that, she turned and headed down the road as the young man had indicated. Though each step took her farther from her car and from Xcan, her thoughts were now solely on Samuel London. As indeed they should be, she told herself. He was the reason she’d flown to Cancun in the first place. It was because of him she’d lost her luggage, had spent hours on the phone trying to make herself understood to people she’d found equally difficult to understand, had been saddled with a car that had conked out on her at the most inopportune moment. It was because of him that she’d missed Xcan in the first place and had wound up in Valladolid, that she had a sore backside, that she was at this very moment trekking along the side of a narrow Mexican highway, sweating profusely, batting at mosquitoes, biting her lips each time her ankle twisted on the uneven shoulder of the road.

  Samuel Prescott London of the stern, pale face and glasses. Tall, skinny Samuel Prescott London. Samuel Prescott London, whose sole interest in life was his work.

  For just a moment she thought about the fact that he was a real-estate developer. Somehow, given the image she’d formed of him, she’d have assumed him to have been an accountant or a computer hermit, communicating not with people but with ledgers or disks. Perhaps he was the paper man behind the operation, leaving his partner, McGee, to handle the interpersonal aspects of the business.

  Pushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead, she walked on. At least the sun wasn’t shining, she reasoned, glancing upward. The blanket of clouds seemed to be compressing the heat toward the ground. The air was thick, stifling her as she trod onward, and her dress was clinging uncomfortably to her damp skin—all because of Samuel Prescott London.

  Five minutes passed, then ten, and Chelsea saw no path. Several cars and trucks had roared past, but none were going slow enough for her to ask. She kept her eyes peeled for some opening, any opening in the forest, on either side. Perhaps in his confusion the fellow at the machine shop had given her the wrong directions.

  But there was nothing. No road or path. No break in the jungle whatsoever.

  Swatting at a mosquito as it sampled her neck, Chelsea finally stopped. Disgruntled, she debated turning around and traipsing back to the machine shop to await the reincarnation of her car. Reincarnation? She’d never been a believer of reincarnation. Perhaps revival. Yes, the machinist’s father might be able to revive her car, but she’d have quite a bit to say to the man at the rental agency!

  And to Samuel Prescott London!

  Suddenly she hung her head and took several shallow breaths. She couldn’t tell Samuel London off! She was supposed to charm him!

  A high laugh bubbled from her throat. If she’d thought herself at a disadvantage without the rest of the clothes from her suitcase, she was positively pathetic now! She was covered with dust and dirt smears, made all the worse by perspiration. Her knees wobbled, her arm and neck itched, she hurt all over, and her hair had to resemble a rat’s nest—if rats did live in nests that were blond and damp and scraggly.

  Her only saving grace was that she had no intention of actually confronting the stodgy Samuel London today. No, she was simply following her hottest lead. If she arrived at this pueblito and was told that the man in question was very definitely living there, she had every intention of hightailing it back to Xcan, to Cancun, to the Camino Real to await her luggage and set herself to rights before swooping down on the unsuspecting Samuel.

  If she arrived at the pueblito. If she was told that the man was there. If she could find the damned path!

  Inhaling deeply, she plodded forward once more. And she found the path. On the left. Actually, had it not been for the jungle growth all around and the fact that the path took off at a perfect right angle from the road, she would have seen it before she did. It was actually more than a path, though less than a road. A single car could have maneuvered it rather harmlessly.

  Forcing herself onto the path, though, Chelsea felt decidedly at risk. Her sandals held to the stone-strewn earth even less surely than they had to the shoulder of the highway. Her skin prickled as she thought of the wildlife that had to be peering out at her from the stunted jungle on either side. She felt she was in a tunnel, whose sides would provide instant torture if she neared them and whose end was somewhere far in the distance.

  So she stuck to the center of the path, scratched the mosquito bites that were beginning to swell and walked on. And on. The bag cut into her shoulder and grated against her damp back, but she ignored it. Samuel Prescott London was out there—or in there—and she was going to find him.

  A blister opened on one heel, another on a toe where the strap of her sandal rubbed. Sweat trickled down her cheek, and she swiped at it with a grimy arm. Her lungs ached from inhaling the thick, hot air, and she would have given anything for the faintest hint of a breeze. But there was none. Nor was there any pueblito.

  Chelsea glanced back the way she’d come, then turned her sights forward once more. It seemed senseless to go back now. She had to be close. She had to be. She didn’t feel it in her bones anymore, because her bones were numb, which was a blessing since the rest of her itched and ached. But she remembered the way the path had simply materialized, and she told herself that the pueblito would do the same. Unless she’d taken the wrong path. Unless the young man in the machine shop had been wrong. Unless …

  She felt one drop, then another. She stopped in her tracks, looked at the sky, then the ground. Stunned, she
held out a hand. Not that she’d never seen rain before, but on top of everything else … . And she was totally exposed. Unless she chose to duck into the jungle, which she absolutely couldn’t … she couldn’t …

  Within minutes it was pouring and Chelsea was soaked. Standing there in the middle of a jungle path, miles from civilization, she began to laugh hysterically. Then, exhausted and uncaring, she sank to the ground and cried.

  Hunched over her bag, which lay between her limply folded legs, she let her tears flow. Tears, rain … there wasn’t much difference. She was hot and drenched and positively miserable. So miserable that she didn’t hear the thunder of running steps until they were nearly upon her. Then, with visions of jungle cats and wild boars flashing through her brain, she jerked her head up in terror, only to find herself being engulfed by a group of men, one of whom deftly scooped her up, bag and all, and continued with the others on their way.

  Her tears stopped instantly. “What are you doing?” she squealed and started to squirm. Though the man’s arms were gentle, they held her firmly.

  “Going somewhere dry. I won’t hurt you.”

  One, then another of the men tossed unintelligible words their way, laughing occasionally, jogging on all the while. The man who carried Chelsea answered them in their native tongue, his voice deep and smooth and kind in a way that reassured Chelsea. Further reassurance came from the fact that he’d spoken to her in flawless English. Not only flawless, but utterly natural.

  Through the rain that plastered her hair to her forehead, she looked up at his face. He was, she was sure, American. Though his skin was deeply tanned, its hue was markedly different from the muted brick shade of the Mexican faces she’d seen. His hair, too, was different—every bit as thick as that of the natives, but a lighter brown, even soaked as it was, and longer. but it was his mustache—thick and well-trimmed, brown with a lighter sheen—that caught Chelsea’s eye, and his gray eyes—holding hints of both mischief and warmth—that set her at ease.

  She felt she was in the arms of someone from home, someone new yet familiar, and she relaxed and let herself be trundled along in the pouring rain.

  Within minutes the men turned in at what had to be the pueblito Chelsea had been searching for. They scattered then, and through the droplets that pelted her face she was able to catch the briefest glimpse of an enclave of huts before she was carried into one and very gently set on her feet.

  Her rescuer turned away from her quickly and disappeared into the back room of the hut, returning momentarily with two towels, one of which he gave to her. She stood for an instant holding it, watching him mop his arms, his face, his hair. He stopped with his hand on the towel on his head and smiled.

  “Go ahead,” he urged softly. “I’ve got more.”

  Chelsea was filled with questions, the most notable being who this man was, but she found herself momentarily tongue-tied. Whoever he was, he was magnificent. She saw now that he was much taller than she, much taller than the other men he’d been with. She also saw that he was perfectly made. His wet pants did nothing to hide the narrowness of his hips, nor could his saturated short-sleeved shirt hide the breadth of his shoulders or the strength of his arms. But it was his face on which her attention focused—lean brown cheeks that bore just a hint of a shadow, a firm lower lip that curved ever so slightly beneath that wonderful mustache of his, a straight nose, laughing gray eyes.

  “It’s okay,” he said when she blushed at being caught staring, “I like you, too. In fact, I think I love you. You’ve saved my life.”

  “Saved your life?” Chelsea echoed dumbly. “I …isn’t it the other way around?”

  “No way. You’d have survived that rain. I’m not sure I would have survived the fate in store for me if you hadn’t shown up, though. Come on … dry off. You’re dripping all over my carpet.”

  Chelsea glanced down to see that she was indeed dripping, but there was no carpet underfoot, simply a hard-packed dirt floor. “Oh,” she said, going along with the game. “Sorry.” Gingerly she set her bag on the ground and, raising the towel, started at the top. “What would your fate have been if I hadn’t shown up?”

  The man was scrubbing at his hair again. The motion made his answer slightly choppy. It also emphasized the muscular twists of his forearms and the veins carrying his life’s blood through his body. “One of the fellows I was with has a daughter he’s been trying to pair me with. I’ve put him off for a good long time, but I was beginning to run out of excuses.”

  “Is she that bad?” Chelsea asked, bemused.

  “No, no. She’s sweet and pretty and more than capable of keeping a man well-fed and happy. She also happens to be fifteen years old.”

  “Oh,” Chelsea said. The man before her looked to be in his mid-thirties. She could understand—even respect—his hesitation. “I see what you mean … . Do they still do that here? Marry young?”

  “You bet. Juana’s sister is a year younger than she and has a husband and baby already.”

  Chelsea’s towel, which had been doing little more than inching over her hair, stopped moving altogether. “My God. Fourteen. That’s phenomenal!”

  “Not really. Not here, at least. Extended families live in villages together. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren—they’re welcomed and adored. It’s a marvelous thing to see. These people have very little by way of material wealth, but when it comes to love they’re richer than any people I’ve ever known.”

  Chelsea was enthralled by the look of admiration, of awe on his face. But as she studied it the look altered, seeming to leave the Maya behind and grow more immediate, more specific, more personal. She felt a different kind of enthrallment then, a tingling in the pit of her stomach that fanned out until her aches and pains and itches and fatigue were momentarily forgotten.

  Without taking his eyes from her, the man draped his towel over his shoulder and approached until he stood a mere breath away. Her body’s awakening increased with each step he took, and she had to struggle to keep her knees steady. His size was striking, appealing, and there was something elemental about him, about the way he walked, the way he held himself. It was as though he’d experienced all of life and knew the here and now to be the most vital part.

  The physical warmth he exuded was far different from the summer’s heat. The masculine scent of him rose above the earthy smell of the rain-soaked hut and its jungle environs.

  “I have two questions to ask,” he murmured as his eyes gently, hungrily, roamed her face. “Are you single?”

  Stunned into silence by the potent maleness that seemed to be reaching out, enveloping her, drawing her in, Chelsea simply nodded.

  His dark lashes lowered a fraction before he posed his second question, as quietly, as intensely. “Are you free?” This time there was a husky timbre to his voice.

  No other thought could have possibly intruded in Chelsea’s mind at that moment. Nothing in the world existed but the devastatingly appealing man before her. Barely breathing, she gave a second nod.

  Then he touched her. His hands framed her face with a tentativeness in keeping with the slight trembling of his fingers. Her own hand, which had held the towel clasped to her wet head, dropped to her side, the towel to the floor, forgotten.

  His fingertips examined her lightly, skimming her nose, her forehead, her eyes. His gaze held curiosity and wonderment, as though she were an apparition he wasn’t quite ready to believe in. And she could no more have moved than she could have denied her own curiosity and wonderment.

  As lightly as he’d touched her, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his, but there was nothing light about the intense, hot wave of desire that shot through Chelsea. Eyes closed, she swayed, but he’d taken a step closer so that his body bolstered hers, and his hands steadied her head while the pressure of his mouth slowly increased.

  Beneath the sensually abrasive tickle of his mustache, his lips moved surely, slanting and caressing, leaving hers and returning at just the
right moment and with a persuasiveness that had her hungering for more. As masterful as his kiss was, there was nothing programmed about it. Chelsea felt it was tailored to fit her shape, her taste, her needs. By the time he slid his tongue into her mouth, she was starving for it, and her fevered response matched his greed. Mindless, totally dominated by the moment’s passion, she twined her fingers in his damp hair, urging him closer, deeper, taking everything he offered.

  Never in her life had Chelsea felt what she did now. She’d been kissed. She’d been loved. But never had she known as instant and electric an attraction as she felt for this stranger. She wanted to breathe his name, but she couldn’t. She wanted to think his name, but she couldn’t. It was that reality that finally gave her rein over her abandonment.

  Her fingers formed fists in his hair and pulled, not sharply but firmly. When neither pairs of lips heeded the unwelcome intrusion she repeated the action. Then he raised his head and looked down at her. His breathing was as uneven as hers, his skin as flushed, his gaze as puzzled.

  “My God!” she whispered, astonished by the force of what she’d felt seconds before. Both her mind and her body wanted to know more of this man. “I don’t even know who you are!”

  His puzzled look grew less disturbed, then slowly melted into a heart-rending smile, a crescent of white in his tan face beneath his mustache. He brushed the pads of his thumbs over her throbbing lips, then, with a sigh that mirrored her feelings exactly, withdrew his hands, dragged one through his hair, and took a step back.

  “That’s never happened to me before,” he murmured sheepishly, massaging the back of his neck in a gesture that, coupled with his gaze dropping to the floor, spoke of embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I … it’s just that … well, it … oh, hell, I don’t know.”

  “Who are you?” Chelsea asked softly but more directly this time.

  To her consternation, he took a minute to think about it. Then he raised smiling eyes and shrugged. “After today, I believe I’ll be your servant for life.” He stretched out his hand. “My name’s Sam London, and I’m very, very pleased to meet you.”