by Lisa Jackson
Nikki flinched, knocking over her glass and Trent’s beer. Liquid and ice cubes sloshed across the table, beer foaming into lemonade as it drizzled over the edge, spilling onto her lap.
“What the devil?” Trent demanded, looking from the dog, now being dragged into the building by the toothless man, and the parrot, unable to fly away because of its leash, to Nikki.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she apologized, grabbing at her glass as it rolled toward the edge. “What a mess!”
Trent hardly blinked, just shouted to a passing waiter as Nikki dabbed at the table with a napkin. Her shorts were soaked, her blouse sprinkled with the beer and lemonade that still oozed through the cracks in the table and dripped to the brick patio.
“Señora, por favor…” A waiter with cloth in hand came to the rescue, and in the confusion, Nikki touched Trent’s sleeve. “I’d better try to rinse this in the women’s room,” she said, motioning toward her clothes. “So that they won’t stain.”
“Let’s just go back to the hotel.”
“No!” Her fingers tightened over his arm. “We’ve had such a good time, let’s not spoil it. Order another couple of drinks and I’ll try not to be so much of a klutz.” Without waiting for any further protests, she dashed into the building, ostensibly in search of a restroom.
She took the time to look back through the window and spied Trent talking with the waiter. Good. As quickly as possible, without causing a scene, she ducked through a side door and dashed along the shady side of the street to José’s. Her ankle began to throb, but she kept running. A tiny bell tinkled as she entered the shop. A young, darkskinned girl was at the register, helping another customer, a man with silver hair and a cane. Nikki waited impatiently, wishing she could push the older man aside. As he paid for his purchase, he turned, and his gaze collided with Nikki’s. For a second, Nikki felt as if she should know the man, as if she’d stepped into the bottom of a dank well. A seeping coldness crept along her skin as she stared into eyes devoid of emotion. Her heart nearly stopped. The old man forced a smile that was well-practiced but friendly. The wintry feeling she’d experienced dissipated. “Pardon me, miss,” he said in perfect English. With a tip of his straw fedora, he walked slowly out the door.
She gazed after him, but she didn’t have time to wonder who he was—probably just some old guy who was surprised by her bruised face. She yanked her roll of film from her pocket and set it near the register. With the aid of her dictionary, and in halting Spanish, she asked the girl to process the film pronto. Nervous as a cat, she kept checking her watch while the pretty salesgirl took her sweet time about filling out the paperwork. Sweat began to collect on Nikki’s palms, but eventually the salesgirl told her the film would be ready in two days. Nikki said a quick thanks and hurried out of the shop.
Breathless, she slipped back through the side door of the café and into the restroom, where, still dressed, she splashed her blouse and shorts with water before attempting to wring out all the liquid from the clumps of material she could squeeze in her fingers. She looked a mess, but couldn’t worry about the half-baked job. Forcing her breathing to slow, she returned to the table where Trent, cradling his new bottle of beer on his stomach, was waiting.
He cast a glance at her wet clothes. “Okay?”
“Mmm.” A fresh glass of lemonade was waiting on the clean table. She took a long swallow and hoped that she appeared calm, that she didn’t show any sign of pain from her ankle or look as if she’d been running.
“Took long enough.”
“It was a busy place.” Smiling sweetly, she picked up a peanut from the dish on the table and popped it into her mouth. “I guess a lot of women had spilled on themselves.”
He lifted a brow over the rim of his sunglasses but didn’t comment. She wanted to squirm under the intensity of his gaze, but managed a smile as she lifted her glass to her lips. Feeling a tiny drop of sweat slide down her temple, she silently prayed he didn’t notice that she was nervous as a mouse trapped in a rattler’s cage.
“Cheers,” she said, touching the rim of her glass to the top of his dark bottle. “To the honeymoon.”
The muscles in his face flinched a little. “Cheers,” he muttered, but his eyes didn’t meet hers. Instead, he scanned the sea of people strolling past the umbrella tables situated in the courtyard.
Inwardly, Nikki breathed a sigh of relief. The lemonade was tart and cool, and now that she’d accomplished her mission, she could relax. They finished their drinks, and though Nikki protested, Trent insisted they return to the hotel.
She wanted to argue with him, but he was insistent and guided her back to the carriage stop. She decided it was better not to do battle just then. Besides, the sun was blistering, heat waving up from the cobblestone streets. Only the breeze off the ocean offered any relief. Nikki’s face began to hurt again and her ankle throbbed.
Trent helped her into the carriage.
Two days, she thought, as the horse trudged slowly up the hill. Only two days. Then she would pick up the pictures. Finally she might have an answer or two about Trent McKenzie, the heretofore mystery man.
So what would she do if she discovered no sign of her “husband” in the shots? Worse yet, what would she do if he was in the photographs, holding her hand, kissing her, flashing his sexy smile toward the camera?
Her stomach did a nosedive. What if she found out that she really was married to this stranger?
CHAPTER SIX
“I want to go back to the mission,” Nikki said calmly as she shuffled the cards she’d been playing with for nearly an hour. Slowly but surely she was going out of her mind, cooped up with this man she wanted to trust, but couldn’t let herself. She’d spent most of the time since they’d gotten back from the carriage ride pretending to play solitaire, surreptitiously studying him from beneath lowered lashes, willing herself to remember, knowing in her heart that a man like Trent McKenzie was unforgettable.
“You’re not serious.” He was stretched out on the bed, half listening to some Spanish program on the television while flipping through the pages of a sports magazine devoted solely, it seemed, to soccer. He’d been restless, as restless as she, since returning from the carriage ride. Like the clouds gathering in the tropical sky, the tension between them had grown heavy and oppressive.
“I’m dead serious, Trent. I think I should go back to the mission.”
“Are you out of your mind?” He tossed his magazine aside.
“What mind?” she quipped, though the joke fell flat and he raked his fingers through his hair in the frustration that consumed them both.
She knew the mission was a dangerous topic, but going back up that trail was something she’d decided she had to do. Before they left the island. While she still had the chance.
Sitting at the table near the French doors, she looked back to his long body lying so insolently over the mussed bed covers and tried not to notice the dark hair on his legs or the open V of his shirt and the chest hairs springing from darkly tanned skin. She even tried to dismiss the concern and worry darkening his gaze.
She continued shuffling cards, listening to them ruffle rather than think about how that atmosphere in the room had become sultry. She’d caught him looking at her, staring at her with eyes that seemed to burn straight to her soul. She flipped a card faceup. The jack of diamonds. “I think if I went back up there, to the ‘scene of the crime,’ so to speak, I might remember something. Something important.”
“There’s no road that goes all the way to the mission. You’d have to walk, and that ankle of yours—”
“We could ride.” She flipped another card. Queen of hearts.
“Ride? Ride what?”
“Motorbikes.”
“Too bumpy.”
She slapped down several more cards. “Horses, then. There’s got to be some way up there.”
“I don’t think you’re ready to go horseback riding.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think.”<
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“Like hell!” He leaped from the bed and strode across the room. In one swift motion, he shoved her cards out of the way and placed his palms flat on the table so that his head was level with hers. “You’re my wife, damn it. My responsibility. I’m not going to have you hurt yourself again and—”
“I’m a person!” she shot back, glaring at him, nose to nose. The air seemed to crackle between them, and she could see the streaks of gray in his blue eyes. “Whether you’re my husband or not, I’m an adult. Able to make my own decisions.” Oh, Lord, she’d had this conversation before. A long time ago. With…with someone else…. Her father! They’d been arguing—about trust and responsibility—and her father’s face had been flushed, his lips tight with anger at his wayward daughter.
“You can’t decide anything until you’re well!”
His words snapped her back to the present, and all the old anger mingled with her new fury. “And who decides that?” she demanded, thrusting her chin out mutinously. “You or God?”
His eyes sparked. “You are the most aggravating female I’ve ever met!”
“Great reason to get married, isn’t it?”
Like a panther springing, he grabbed her. He dragged her into his arms, clamped his lips over hers and kissed her with a hot desire so wild she couldn’t break free. Her blood was already pounding through her veins, and now his rough kiss caused her heart to thud and her mind to spin.
She yanked her head away from him. “Let go of me,” she ground out.
“Not until you start making sense!”
He kissed her again. Harder this time. She tried to fight him, for she knew that kissing him, relying on him, giving herself up to him, was an irretrievable mistake. But his tongue was playing magic upon her lips, prying them open, pressing inward, and he’d all but climbed over the table to force his body close to hers.
Heat swirled inside her. Liquid and white-hot, desire coiled in wanton knots that slowly unwound and slid through her bloodstream.
“God, you make me crazy,” he said when he finally lifted his head and stared into her eyes. His chest was rising and falling, his breathing torn from his lungs.
“You are crazy.”
“Only with you, darlin’.” He dropped his hands and gritted his teeth, desire still flaming in his hot blue eyes. By sheer force of will, he walked away from her. “Only with you.”
Nikki rubbed her swollen lips and bit back another sharp retort. This was no time for her temper to take command of her tongue. If he chose to be autocratic, so be it. She’d wait him out. It shouldn’t be all that hard. There was no way he’d spend an entire day tomorrow cooped up in the hotel, and when he left, she’d do exactly what she damned well pleased.
Flopping back on the bed, he picked up the phone and ordered room service for dinner. With one hand over the receiver, he asked, “What do you want?”
“Anything you order for me, O lord and master.”
“Knock it off.”
“I have no right to make decisions,” she said sweetly, though her eyes were shooting daggers. “Remember?”
Jaw tightening, he ordered for her in Spanish, hung up and said, “Hope you like liver and chick-peas in a hot pepper sauce.”
“My favorite,” she replied with a smile.
Growling about unappreciative women, he strode to the veranda, slammed the door behind him and stared at the dusky sky.
Liver and chick-peas! Still fuming, Nikki went into the bathroom, locked the door and soaked in a tub of warm water. She didn’t know if she could stand another moment of being alone with Trent.
Forty-five minutes later, refreshed and ready to do battle, she returned to the room and found him seated at the table, waiting. The dishes from room service had arrived and were still covered. A glass of white wine shimmered, waiting, next to her plate while a long-necked bottle of beer was sweating on the table in front of his chair. There were smaller dishes of bread, butter and dessert as well.
“Didn’t want to start without you,” he said, kicking out her chair as she rounded the table wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas.
“Noble of you.”
He snorted as she took a seat opposite him. She felt his eyes linger on her a little too long before he slid his gaze away. “May as well eat. Wouldn’t want that hot pepper sauce to cool down.” With a flourish he lifted the lid from his dish and steam rose from the platter of whitefish, sautéed vegetables and pasta covered with a cream-and-garlic sauce. “Specialty of the house.”
Nikki braced herself and uncovered her meal to discover that Trent had ordered the same for her.
“All out of the other stuff,” he explained as he twisted off the cap of his beer.
“Sure.”
“Maybe tomorrow.” He was teasing her, and his eyes glinted seductively.
“After the ride to the mission.”
“Don’t start with me,” he warned, his lips pulling into a harsh frown.
“Okay, okay!” She lifted her palms outward. “Truce.”
“Is that possible?”
“God only knows,” she said with a smile before lifting the glass of wine to her lips.
She tried her best not to antagonize him during the rest of the meal. They ate in companionable silence, and the food was delicious. Tender and flaky, the fish was the best she’d eaten in a long, long while.
She tried not to stare at him, attempted to make small talk, but there was only so much that could be said about the hotel, the weather and the town of Santa María.
She was nearly stuffed when he lifted the lids on two small dishes. “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, shaking her head at the small custard cup filled with a crème pudding, covered by brandied bananas and drizzled in sauce.
“Come on. It’s an island specialty.” He poured them each a cup of coffee and added a slim stream of cream into her cup. She watched the lazy white clouds roll to the dark surface and wondered how many times in the past Trent had poured her a cup of coffee. How many times had they eaten, just the two of them at a table like this? How many times had they fallen into bed and made love until dawn?
Her throat felt suddenly dry, and she took a long drink from the coffee. She had to quit thinking about him like that—to stop her mind from running away with these fantasies. She glanced at him over the rim of her cup and her stomach turned over. He stared at her with such intensity, such hot-blooded desire, that she forced her gaze away.
Nerves tight, she tackled the dessert, eating most of the sweet concoction, until, belly stretched, she shoved the cup aside. “That’s it. No more.”
“You sure? There’s more coffee—”
“No way. Go ahead.” Yawning, she stretched in her chair and noticed that his eyes slid to the V of her neckline.
“Nah. I, uh, think I’ll go clean up.”
He shoved himself away from the table and walked straight to the bathroom. He locked the door behind himself and wondered how in the hell he’d get through the next few days. Didn’t she know what she was doing to him? Didn’t she care? Or had she changed so much since the accident? He didn’t want to force himself upon her, not until she was ready, but damn, being this close to her, sleeping with her, for God’s sake, and trying to keep his hands off her was driving him up the wall.
You’re losing it, man.
Muttering under his breath, he turned on the shower spray. He kicked off his boots, yanked off his clothes and stepped under the ice-cold spray. Closing his eyes, he hoped the frigid water would temper his blood and take care of the erection that seemed to sprout every time he was alone with her.
The water stung. Sharp, cold needles against his skin. He leaned against the tiles and waited, forcing all thoughts of Nikki from his mind. He had other things to worry about. Tomorrow, first thing, he’d have to check with el Perro, just to make sure she wasn’t up to any funny stuff. At the thought of the disgusting little man, Trent scowled, wishing he never had to deal with the likes of the Dog.
Unfortunat
ely it was all part of the game.
* * *
Nikki took advantage of her time alone in the room. She was still angry that he thought he could tell her what she could and couldn’t do. Well, he had another think coming. Trent wasn’t going to get the best of her. She might not remember her past, but she wasn’t some mindless wimp who didn’t know what was best for her! With one ear tuned to the running water, she dug through his jacket and pants pockets and came up with his wallet.
“Bingo,” she whispered, opening the leather with shaking fingers and a cat-who-ate-the-prized-canary smile. What would she do if she discovered he wasn’t Trent McKenzie, that he had several aliases, that he’d lied to her? Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it through the closed door and above the shower’s spray. With clammy fingers, she opened the wallet and held her breath.
The Washington state driver’s license confirmed that his name was, indeed, Trent McKenzie, and that his address was the same as he’d listed on the hotel registration. His picture stared up at her, his harsh glare challenging her, and she felt like a thief. For a second she thought about returning the wallet, but she knew she might not get a second chance to discover more about him.
She told herself that going through his things was all part of investigative journalism, her job. Besides, if he truly was her husband, then he shouldn’t mind. Quickly, she flipped through the cards stuffed neatly in special slots: social security, American Express, MasterCard, Visa, Puget Sound Insurance and an oil company card issued to Trent McKenzie. There were no pictures in his wallet, no clues to the inner man, but he was carrying a few hundred dollars in cash and traveler’s checks worth nearly two thousand. She was about to flip the wallet closed when she checked one final recess. Her heart stopped beating as she read the permit to carry a concealed weapon.
Because he was a private investigator. She supposed she should feel comforted, but a knot of worry tightened in her guts and she bit her lip against the fear that shot like ice-cold bullets through her bloodstream.
The shower stopped and, with clumsy fingers, she hastily returned the wallet to his pocket. She slid between the covers, snapped off the light, settled her head on the pillow and again feigned sleep. The ruse of dozing wouldn’t work indefinitely, she knew, but until she was ready to suffer the consequences of making love to her “husband,” she was more than willing to sink to deception.
