“Oh, yes,” Trish assured him. With a laugh she added, “And I think it cured me of smoking in bed.”
Armando laughed too. The servant brought lunch then and while they ate, Armando talked enthusiastically about the rising price of coffee and what a heavy harvest they were getting this year. Edith’s eyes, full of adoration, hardly left his face. Finishing his meal, dangled from back, his eyes on Trish.
“But I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing me talk about business all the time, are you? You must find us very dull here.”
“Trish gave me her word she would not leave before the wedding,” Edith interjected with an oddly anxious look at Armando.
Armando nodded approvingly. “But you’re young and pretty. You must be yearning for some fun.” He sighed. “I’m afraid we do not have much social life here. But we must do something to make up for the unpleasantness you have experienced so far. Perhaps a horseback ride? I believe Edith mentioned you enjoyed riding.”
“I’m afraid I’m not quite up to that yet,” Trish demurred. “I’m sure I’ll want to ride a little later on, but what I’d really like is a tour through the beneficio. It sounds fascinating.”
“By all means. Any time. Just come to the main office and I’ll give you a personally guided tour.” Armando sounded pleased with her request, and because he was pleased, Edith practically beamed. He asked about a letter he had mislaid and Edith hurried away to find it for him.
Trish had the uneasy feeling he had sent Edith away on purpose and she was right.
“I understand our neighbor came here to the house to see you while I was absent,” he said. He sounded more concerned than angry.
“Yes. I—I don’t know why.”
“Don’t you?” Armando smiled slightly. “I’m sure I do. Marcantonio de la Barca is not one to ignore a lady as young and lovely as you. But be careful of him, Trish. He is not to be trusted. He would have no compunction at all about using you for his own purposes.”
“I’m sure I don’t know how I could be useful to him,” Trish objected. But suddenly, remembering that smoldering glance in her bedroom, she had a very clear notion of just how Marc might find her useful. She felt a flush rising to her skin and concealed it with a sudden, energetic application of suntan lotion.
“Here, you’re making a complete mess of that,” Armando said disapprovingly. He took the plastic bottle and covered her back thoroughly with the lotion. He stood up as Edith approached with the letter.
“Just remember what I said,” he said in a low voice. “I know Marcantonio can be charming and say and do all the things to turn a young lady’s head. But do not be deceived by him. This is all just an amusing diversion to him. All he really cares about is himself and possessing this part of the cafetal.”
Trish was about to tell Armando that he needn’t worry, that Marc had so little interest in her that he actually suggested she go home, but Edith interrupted with a comment about the letter. Then Armando was his smiling self again as he departed, waving from the Mercedes as he drove off.
“Did Armando mention Marcantonio’s visit to the house?” Edith asked, her eyes following him. Trish nodded, surprised.
Edith smiled slightly. “I had the feeling that was why he sent me off. Don’t be angry if he sounds like a… a grumpy father, Trish,” she said. “It’s just that he is concerned about you and would not want to see you hurt. You have a certain look on your face whenever Marcantonio’s name is mentioned.”
Trish felt herself flushing again, knowing all too well that just the mention of Marc’s name, for some reason she could not explain, sent an unfamiliar fluttery feeling through her. She turned away to hide any more giveaway expressions. “When is the seamstress coming?” she asked briskly.
The seamstress arrived a few minutes later with yards and yards of mellow antique-white satin, netting for the veil, seed pearls for decoration, all very expensive and lovely. But Trish looked in dismay at the magazine clipping showing the gown Edith had asked the seamstress to copy for her. It was all wrong for Edith’s face and mature figure, far too frilly and fussy. Trish suspected Edith had chosen the style because she thought it looked feminine, and Edith desperately wanted to be soft and feminine for Armando. But Trish knew Edith would only look a little foolish in the frilly style. What Edith needed was something simple but elegant to match her almost queenly face and figure. Trish studied the clipping and finally tactfully pointed out how it could be altered by inserting a single, elegant band of lace in place of the bodice and neckline frills. Edith seemed interested but uncertain, obviously reluctant to abandon what she considered the feminine touches. Edith finally told the seamstress to delay starting the gown until she decided what she wanted to do.
Trish spent the next couple of days completing her recuperation by lazing around the pool. Her skin turned honey tan and the sun enhanced the pale gold of her hair. Edith seldom exposed her skin to the sun and always wore the floppy red hat to protect her face. She enjoyed gardening more than swimming or lounging, and her red hat was a familiar sight bobbing among the shrubs and flowers. There was no sign of Robert Hepler, though Trish occasionally caught glimpses of a white-uniformed woman she assumed was his private nurse.
Sometimes Trish wondered dreamily, as she gazed up at the picture-perfect clouds drifting overhead, what it would be like to spend a lifetime here like this. Not exactly like this, she reflected. Though it was marvelous to spend a few days doing nothing but sunbathing and swimming and sunbathing again, it was hardly a lifetime occupation. No, what would it be like to be the wife of a cafetal owner, helping to look after the workers and villagers as Edith did, competently running a full household of servants, raising a family with the man you loved… ?
For no particular reason, at least none she could think of, the image of Marc drifted into her mind. Marc—arrogant, domineering, ruthless, obsessed. But was he always that way? Did his eyes soften when he looked at the lush Ramona de Cordoba? Did the sensuous lips curve with laughter, the harsh grip gentle to a caress? There had been something in that lingering, smoldering glance in her bedroom.
And then he had told her to go home!
That thought broke the momentary spell that had enveloped Trish and she leaped up and dived into the pool, her slim, golden body arcing smoothly into the water. She swam until she was tired and by that time Edith was waiting with samples of wedding invitations to show and discuss with her.
The next morning Trish woke with a decidedly restless feeling. The first thing she did was peer out the window in the direction of Marc’s house, a gesture that had become almost automatic with her. Only once had she seen him, his lithe, commanding figure unmistakable even from this distance, but the glimpse had left her more disturbed than satisfied. It was evening and he was dressed for something obviously more important than a stroll to the stables to pat Demonio. Probably a business meeting, she had told herself, though the unsettling vision of Ramona de Cordoba’s shapely arms warmly welcoming him kept haunting her. She had watched for a long time but she had not seen him return that evening.
At breakfast Trish asked if Edith would like to take a horseback ride that day, but Edith regretfully said this was the day she held a regular monthly meeting with the village women. Edith drove off immediately after breakfast in the older Chevrolet she used around the plantation, and Trish wandered around restlessly. She washed out a few underthings by hand and took a dip in the pool, but somehow she didn’t feel like lying indolently in the sun today. The soreness was all gone from her lungs and throat.
With sudden inspiration she decided this would be a perfect day to hold Armando to his agreement to give her a tour of the beneficio. She had no idea what such a tour might entail, and she dressed in sneakers, comfortable jeans, and simple cotton blouse.
She already knew that the buildings she had thought were warehouses on the night Marc brought her home were actually the coffee-processing plant, but the walk was farther than it had seemed that night in the c
ar. The back of her blouse clung damply to her skin by the time she arrived. The area bustled with activity, trucks coming and going, the clack of machinery from inside the building. She made her way toward a trim building that appeared to be an office.
A pretty Costa Rican girl dressed very chicly looked up when Trish stepped inside. Trish hoped this smartly dressed young woman was bilingual and, in English, she inquired about Armando. The girl did not have a chance to reply.
“Seňor Albeniz has not honored us with his presence today,” a hard masculine voice informed her.
Trish looked up, startled, her breath catching as she saw Marcantonio de la Barca regarding her coldly from the doorway of another room. He was dressed in tan slacks and white shirt, the cuffs turned back to reveal leanly muscled forearms, the collar open to the husky column of his throat. He strode toward the young woman’s desk, and handed her a sheaf of papers with crisp instructions about their delivery.
His back was to Trish and his dark hair curled crisply against his tanned neck. Broad shoulders narrowed down to lean hips. He turned sharply and Trish’s eyes dropped, hoping he had not caught her scrutinizing him. He did not speak until the secretary left and he and Trish were alone on one side of the room. He inspected her with hostile eyes.
“I would think you could find ample opportunity to meet with Armando at the house without interrupting business hours,” he suggested arrogantly.
Trish took a wary step backward, trying not to be intimidated by his domineering presence, but not succeeding. She was suddenly aware of Edith’s and Armando’s warnings about this man; his hostile eyes and hard mouth seemed to confirm every one of those warnings. But she had never been so aware of the pure masculinity of any man as she was at this moment, a masculinity that seemed to overwhelm her. Unwillingly she felt her body reacting to his powerful maleness, a reaction that left her palms damp and voice uncertain.
“Why are you here?” she finally managed to stammer. “I mean… I didn’t realize—”
“Economics dictate that our two cafetals cooperate in the operation of the coffee-processing plant, despite our personal conflicts,” Marc stated dryly.
“I’ll just be going then,” Trish stated uneasily. “I’ll come back sometime when Armando is here.”
She took a step toward the door but unexpectedly a steely grip on her arm stopped her. “I do not think it advisable for you to come here again,” he said harshly.
“You don’t think it advisable!” Trish gasped, astonishment and anger finally breaking the spell of his masculine dominance over her. “I’ll have you know I’m here because Armando very courteously agreed to give me a tour of the beneficio. And I certainly do not intend to let you tell me the place is off limits to me!”
For a moment longer his powerful grip encircled her arm and his eyes held hers with suspicion and hostility. Trish momentarily thought about trying to break away, but she remembered what had happened the other time she had tried to resist him. She had no desire to find herself in another wrestling match here on the floor in the full view of half a dozen curious office workers. Somehow she knew Marc would have no hesitation about making just such a humiliating scene if she tried to pull away.
“If you don’t mind—” she said icily, her eyes on his lean hand gripping her arm.
Unexpectedly he smiled and released her. “If a tour means so much to you, then by all means allow me to show you around,” he offered. His eyes glinted with amusement as she shot a surreptitious glance at the office workers across the room to see if they were watching.
They were not. Perhaps, she thought furiously, because it was not unusual for their employer to be overpowering some strange woman in their midst.
She rubbed her numbed wrist. “Thank you, no,” she snapped. “I’ll wait for Armando.”
“As you wish.”
He shrugged, and his easy acceptance of Trish’s rejection of his offer somehow annoyed her. “Armando mentioned some problems here at the beneficio,” she said suddenly, not admitting even to herself that she interjected the subject to prevent Marc from striding away.
“That is true,” he agreed. “The quality of the coffee berries Armando produced this year was not high.”
“But he said the harvest was good.”
“Quantity does not necessarily indicate quality.”
Quality, Trish knew instinctively, was a matter of pride with Marc, a basic matter that must not be compromised.
“What do you know about coffee before it reaches your cup?” Marc asked suddenly.
“Not much,” Trish admitted.
“Come. I’ll show you.”
His voice, though no longer tauntingly arrogant, was commanding. His light touch on her elbow guided her through the maze of desks and out a rear door. There a truck was just pulling in with a load of ripe coffee berries. He grabbed a handful and selected one perfect, cranberry-red berry. With a pocket knife he cut into it, his strong hands surprisingly dexterous. He explained as he went, showing her how the outer skin covered a soft pulp, which in turn surrounded a tough inner parchment. Inside that was yet another delicate, silvery-colored skin surrounding each of the twin beans. When that was removed, the two beans lay in the palm of his hand, pale and greenish colored.
“Everything we do here is merely an involved process to get the beans dried and to this state,” he explained. “Now I’ll show you how it is done.”
He guided her through the beneficio, explaining that this was what was known as the wet process because water was used in the processing. The ripe berries were first washed and put through machines to remove the outer pulp. Then they were fermented in large cement vats for twelve to twenty-four hours to aid in removal of the sticky substance surrounding the parchment. Then came more washing followed by drying on large, open, concrete patios. The dried beans were then put through hulling machines to remove the parchment and silver skin. Finally they were graded and bagged.
“I’m impressed,” Trish admitted finally, as she ran her fingers through a pile of cleaned, dried beans ready for bagging. She sniffed a handful of the beans. “I didn’t realize so much work went into a cup of coffee. But I think I’m disappointed that the beneficio doesn’t smell the way I expected. Somehow I thought it would smell like the biggest cup of coffee in the world.”
Marc laughed, a husky sound without his usual patronizing superiority or taunting mockery, the kind of laugh that made Trish ache to say something that would make him repeat the sound and bring that warm light to his eyes. Edith’s and Armando’s warnings suddenly seemed unreal and far away.
“That coffee smell you miss comes when the beans are roasted. We don’t do that here. In fact most roasting is done within the country importing the beans. I imagine those places have an almost irresistible odor.” Irresistible. The word seemed somehow fitting as she looked up into his dark eyes. But even as she looked the warmth seemed to fade from them and a certain wariness took its place.
“I suppose you know by now that I have tried for some time to purchase the Hepler property,” he said.
“Single management could improve the efficiency of the operation considerably.”
As he spoke they moved along the walkway, following the exterior of the main building back to the office. She wondered if he was fishing for information about what Armando and Edith had told her.
“I’ve heard you were interested,” she said, carefully keeping her voice neutral.
“The cafetal belongs in my family,” he said arrogantly. “It was only through an unfortunate set of circumstances that it passed out of my family’s hands.”
Trish glanced at him in surprise. “I understood you were the only one of your family remaining. And yet you speak of family as if—”
“My family consists not only of those who came before but those who will come after,” he said with a kind of superior conviction. He touched her elbow lightly, guiding her around a lush drape of bougainvillea that threatened to block the walkway. “There
will be my sons to carry on.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’re rather adept at avoiding the institution of marriage.” The tart words slipped out before Trish could stop them.
“When the proper woman comes along, I will marry,” he said in the same superior tone.
And what, Trish wondered, did he consider “proper”? The dramatic Ramona de Cordoba perhaps: lush, beautifully groomed, gorgeously dressed, no doubt with the proper aristocratic family background. Trish suddenly felt very dowdy in her jeans and well-worn blouse, her face devoid of makeup except for a touch of lipstick. She realized he was looking at her as if perhaps thinking the same things.
“But one must take care of first things first,” he added, his voice hardening.
First things meaning the rejoining of the cafetal into one unit, Trish thought slowly. Armando knew what he was talking about; owning both portions of the cafetal was Marc’s obsession. They were almost back to the office now.
“Thank you for the tour,” Trish said, feeling a little awkward now. “You were very helpful.”
“Somehow I think that Armando will be less appreciative of my helpfulness,” Marc said dryly.
That could be true, Trish thought in dismay, thinking how eagerly Armando had reacted to her interest in the tour of the beneficio. She glanced uneasily down the dusty road, suddenly thinking how awkward it would be if he were to drive up just now.
Marc was standing on the steps to the office, a slight smile playing around his sensuous mouth as if perhaps reading her thoughts. It was possible, Trish thought suddenly, that he had given her the tour with the deliberate intent of angering Armando. That certainly seemed the only explanation for the unexpected visit he had made to the house. In spite of his professed interest in “everything about her,” he had certainly made no effort to pursue that supposed interest.
“Thanks again for all your time and trouble,” Trish said formally. She turned and started up the dusty road.
Shadows of the Heart Page 6
