First Things First

by Barbara Delinsky

  3

  CHELSEA WAS utterly dumbfounded. Sam London?

  It suddenly hit her that since the moment she’d been scooped from the rain-drenched ground she hadn’t given a second’s thought to the man she was supposedly tracking down.

  Now she stood staring at this stranger who’d breathed his name. Her awareness of him hadn’t diminished even with the small distance he’d put between them. To put her hand in his, she knew, would be to lapse again into sensual madness. But … he was the one who had to be demented. Sam London? The Samuel London? Samuel Prescott London?

  “Sam?” she gasped. “You’re Sam London?”

  He nodded, but his puzzlement was back, bringing tiny furrows to his brow. He slowly lowered his hand. “You’re familiar with my name?”

  Familiar with it? She’d been all but living and breathing it for the past week! “I … I’ve been looking all over for you, but …” She scrunched up her face as she studied his. This had to be a ruse, a would-the-real-Samuel-London-please-stand-up farce. “You can’t be Sam London,” she finally protested. “I’ve seen his picture. He doesn’t look anything like you!”

  An easy laugh met her ears. “I’ve been away from home for over six months, so any picture you’ve seen would have had to have been a ‘before’ shot. I’ve changed some.”

  “Some? It’s … impossible! His hair—”

  “Has grown longer. Too long?” he asked cautiously.

  “No, no, but it was darker in the picture.”

  “It had never been in the sun long enough to lighten before.” Indeed, now that it was drying, she could see the same sun-bleached sheen she’d earlier noticed in his mustache.

  “And the mustache—”

  “Grew.”

  “And the pale skin—”

  “Tanned.”

  Chelsea slowly shook her head, unable to believe that the Samuel Prescott London of her waking nightmare and this acutely virile man to whom she was phenomenally attracted were one and the same. “But Samuel London wears glasses—”

  “When he works, which was all the time back home. He needs the glasses for reading, which he hasn’t done a helluva lot of lately. Things are different here. Very different.”

  She was still trying to mesh the two men. “He was skinny.”

  One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement and he held up a hand in mock protest. “He was slim. Not skinny. Slim. And he’s had six months of healthy living to fill him out. Honest physical labor can do that to a man.” He drew himself to his full height and straightened his shoulders. “Whaddya think? Is it an improvement?”

  Chelsea’s eyes flared at the expansion of his chest. “It’s …it’s wonderful,” she stammered, unable to lie or play coy. “I … this doesn’t make sense. I was expecting someone totally different!” Her gaze narrowed. “How do I know you’re not an imposter?”

  His eyes narrowed in return. “How do I know you’re not my mother’s spy?”

  That left her mute once more. She feared she’d gone pale, that guilt was written all over her face. So she forced herself to speak, choosing offense as the best defense. “Tell me about yourself,” she ordered quietly. “Convince me that you’re Samuel London.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I come from Boston but grew up in Wellesley Hills under the eternally watchful, if dictatorial eye of my mother, Beatrice London, and the more gentle and loving, if meek eye of my father, Thomas. My father died four years ago, at which point mother stepped in to formally wear the pants she’d been wearing on the sly for years. Needless to say—” he glanced down at himself, then returned his gaze to Chelsea’s face “—I wear my own pants. I have a condominium on the waterfront and a firm called London and McGee. I’m a real-estate developer. I play golf at the country club once a week when the weather permits … . Enough?”

  The raw facts she could argue with; the man had only to read Samuel London’s résumé to know where he’d been born and raised, where he lived, what he did for a living. But the editorial content of his speech convinced her. After all, she’d met Beatrice London herself.

  Plus there was the matter of his eyes. And his nose. When she superimposed tension on the relaxed features before her, she could buy the idea that they were the same as those in the pictures she’d seen. And his height fit. As did the arguments he’d made concerning those aspects of his appearance that had changed.

  “Enough,” she said softly, then shook her head again. “But it’s going to take some getting used to. I had such an indelible image in my mind …”

  “I’d like to know the why of that, but you’re still soaking wet and you must be uncomfortable. How about a shower?”

  She grimaced. “Wasn’t that what I had?” Then she looked down at herself and her grimace intensified. “I look awful! My dress will never be the same!” Considering that it was the only piece of clothing she had to her name at the moment, she was appalled.

  He glanced at her bag, which lay on the ground where she’d dropped it earlier. “Have you anything to change into?”

  Her laugh was high and short. “Not here or at the hotel. The airline lost my luggage.” She gestured with her hands. “This trip has been a disaster from the word ‘go.’ First my luggage, then the crazy language thing, then the car the rental agent foisted on me, then the rain and the bugs—”

  Sam interrupted her with a chuckle. “Whoa. One thing at a time. First off, that shower. No, I take it back. First off, your name.”

  “My name?”

  His eyes danced. “You do have one, don’t you?”

  Her mouth had dropped open; she promptly forced it shut. It seemed impossible that he didn’t already know her name, when she knew his and much more. And there had been that kiss … “It’s Chelsea. Chelsea Ross.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Chelsea Ross.” This time when he held out his hand, he reached with his other as well. His clasp was warm, familiar, heady, and her stomach made a series of feathery pirouettes. “And now that the formal introductions have been dispensed with, you can take your shower. Need another towel?”

  Towel? She searched dumbly for her first, saw it lying on the ground and used it as an excuse to take her hand from his all-too-captivating grasp. She scooped up the towel and pressed it to her breasts.

  “This, uh, this should be fine. I didn’t really use it much before.” She looked toward the back room. “The shower’s out there?”

  “All the way. Just go on out the back door and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

  Avoiding his gaze as she was, she missed the twinkle in his eyes. Then he turned away, going to the room in back and returning with one of his shirts. “Not exactly a huipile,” he mused, holding the white shirt up by its shoulders, “but it’s clean and it’s the best I can do at the moment.” He sent a calculating glance down Chelsea’s body. “Yup. It’ll do.”

  Accepting the shirt with a self-conscious “thanks,” she followed his directions, hastening through a room smaller than the first until she reached the back door. It stood wide open, as had the front door; the two were perfectly aligned so that looking from the outside one could see straight through the hut.

  Peering cautiously through the raindrops and to the right, she saw what appeared to be a tiny shed. Head down, she dashed the few feet through the rain and let herself into what was, in essence, an outhouse with a primitive shower head rigged at one end. She had no illusions about a hot water heater, and she didn’t mind that there wasn’t one. The outhouse was as muggy as the hut had been, and she was more than hot enough to welcome cold water.

  It was quite effective. By the time she’d washed her filthy clothes, showered the dirt and grime from her body, dried off and donned Sam’s shirt, she was thinking clearly again.

  All personal feelings for Samuel London aside, she had a job to do. She’d found the man. Now she had to lure him back to Boston. Theoretically, given the way he’d kissed her, she had a head start on her task, though she realized his kiss might h
ave reflected his simple hunger for a woman, any woman. Chelsea gave no credence to what he’d said about loving her and being her slave forever; those surely were the words of a man who’d been in near-isolation for six months.

  No, she sensed that the hard part would be to convince him to leave. Sexual hunger, even infatuation, would mean nothing if he felt the free choice that dictated his prolonged stay in the Yucatan was being threatened. She still didn’t know what he was doing here or, indeed, why he’d remained so long. Those were things she was going to have to discover before she could begin to convince him to return home.

  First, though, she had to give him some answers. Finger-combing her hair—she was sure it looked awful but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it—and checking to make sure that her shirt was securely buttoned from throat to thigh—she’d never been prim, but then she’d never come face to face with a man as decidedly male before—she reentered the hut.

  If she thought she’d regained control of her emotions, she was mistaken. But then, she hadn’t anticipated finding Sam as she did.

  He was silhouetted against the front door, his back to her. One arm was raised, elbow bent, forearm against the frame of the door. The other hand was anchored in the pocket of a pair of denim cutoffs, the only piece of clothing he wore. His legs were long, the backs of his thighs and calves firm and deeply tanned. His shoulders were broad and well muscled, though not in the inflated way of a weight lifter, and his back was a solid expanse of dark skin tapering to a delightfully lean waist.

  As Chelsea stared, she felt telltale tremors whisper through her. For an instant she contemplated turning and running. It simply wasn’t right for her to be so attracted to him. He was a case, and personal involvement would only complicate things. Samuel Prescott London was supposed to be boring and stiff. It wasn’t fair that he should turn out to be breathtakingly virile.

  But virile he appeared to be, all the more so when he turned his head and caught sight of her. Grinning broadly, he pivoted on his heel and came to meet her. Chelsea could only swallow hard as his solid, bronzed chest neared.

  “Better?” he asked gently, stopping directly before her.

  Her gaze shot guiltily from his chest to his face and it took her a minute to understand what he meant. The shower. “Uh—” she cleared her throat “—yes, it was fine. Felt good.” She glanced down at herself and blushed. “Thanks for the shirt. I left my … my things hanging in the bathroom. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. Once the rain stops we can hang them on the line. They’ll dry faster that way, though nothing dries particularly well in this humidity.”

  “I’d read that it was the rainy season. How long does the rain keep up?”

  “Anywhere from an hour to twelve. The mornings are usually bright. It’s the afternoons you’ve got to watch out for.”

  She gave him a facetious look. “Now he tells me.”

  “I’d have told you sooner if I’d known you were around. But I’m thoroughly in the dark—” he took her elbow and guided her toward a low bench “—which is something you’re about to remedy.” His voice returned to normal. “How about a beer? I’m afraid it’s the best thirst quencher I’ve got right now.”

  “Beer’s fine,” she answered. She’d seen a small icebox in the back room and relished the idea of holding something cold, really cold, between her hot palms. So intent was she on the image—a far safer, saner one than that of Sam’s big, beautiful body—she overestimated the height of the bench and landed low and hard. “Ahhh!” she cried and shifted gingerly. “Am I sore!”

  “You’ve also done something horrid to your knuckles,” was Sam’s grim reply, and within seconds he was on his haunches, taking her hand in his to study the bruise.

  “That’s from changing a tire. This—” she shifted on her bottom again “—is from hitching a ride in a vintage pickup truck. These—” she scratched her arm, her leg, the side of her neck “—are from the mosquitoes, and these—“she pointed toward the red blisters on her feet”—are from my sandals.” She scowled. “When they talk of Montezuma’s revenge, they ain’t whistlin’ dixie.”

  Sam gave a full-throated laugh. “Let’s hope that’s the worst of it,” he said, rising again and padding from the room.

  Amid the muted patter of rain on the thatched roof, Chelsea heard the clink of bottles, then the thud of the icebox closing. Filled with anticipation—she told herself it was for the beer and not Sam—she waited for him to return. When he didn’t, she diverted herself by examining her surroundings.

  The entire hut was dim, the only natural light—what there was of it, given the heavy rain clouds that obscured the sun—tittering in through the doors and through tiny cracks between the sticks that formed its walls.

  The front room was wide, though not deep, perhaps twenty-five feet by fifteen, and nearly empty. A round wooden table seemed to be the focal point; it was low, little more than two feet off the ground. Benches, similar to the one on which she sat, squatted at intervals around the table and the room.

  “Here we go,” Sam announced, reappearing with two narrow-necked bottles of beer dangling between the fingers of one hand and an armful of medicinal supplies in the crook of his opposite elbow. Straddling the empty half of her bench, he lowered himself, set the bottles on the floor and took up her injured hand. “It’s an antiseptic salve,” he explained as he spread warm cream over her bruises. “Should make it feel better.”

  What made it feel better was the gentle way he spread it on and the fact that his other hand craddled hers in support. Chelsea noted the difference in size between their hands and suddenly felt delicate, a fact that annoyed her. Being delicate implied the need for protection, something she’d never felt before.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said more gruffly than she intended, though she made no move to withdraw her hand until Sam placed it carefully on her thigh. At that point she wished she’d retrieved it herself, because his fleeting touch seemed to burn through the fabric of her shirt, leaving her entire leg tingling. And that was before he treated her blisters and bites!

  She was grateful for the bottle of beer he gave her at long last and took an immediate and lengthy chug.

  “Okay, Chelsea Ross,” he declared after he’d set the supplies aside and taken a healthy swallow of his own beer. “Tell me who you are and why you’ve been looking all over for me.”

  Chelsea took another drink. She sensed she’d need it. Not that she feared she’d trip over her story, rather Sam’s closeness was doing fearful things to her nerve ends. He was straddling the bench …straddling it …in his cutoffs. His long legs were bent at the knees, one of which actually brushed her back when the motion of raising his bottle shifted his body that tiniest bit.

  She pressed her thighs together and leaned forward to prop her elbows on them, hoping the pose looked casual and not like the cowardly move it was. “I’m a writer,” she began. “I thought I’d do a piece on the modern Maya. When I heard that you’d been living down here, you seemed the perfect one to speak with.”

  “A writer for whom?” he asked conversationally.

  “I free-lance. I’m not quite sure where I’ll sell the story, though I’m sure it will sell. Even the little bit I’ve seen since I drove out here has been fascinating.”

  She’d been hoping to fast-forward the discussion to the Maya themselves, but Sam wasn’t about to be rushed. He’d been in Mexico too long, she mused grudgingly, or perhaps he was simply too sharp. He tipped back his head to take another more leisurely drink of his beer, and she was suddenly fascinated by the strength of his neck, by the muscles in his tan throat as he swallowed the cool liquid. Ironically, every drop of moisture within Chelsea seemed to heat.

  “Who told you I was here?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat, wanting to take another cool drink herself but fearful that her hands would be trembling. “An old friend. I believe he went to school with you. Jason Ingram?” Re
sting her chin on her shoulder as she looked over at him, Chelsea thought she saw a moment’s surprise in his eyes, so she rushed on to make her story more palatable. She’d gotten the impression from Sam’s mother that Sam and Jason hadn’t seen each other since college. Sam was probably asking himself how Jason had known he was in the Yucatán. “I saw Jason when he was in Boston last month. When I said I was thinking of writing this article, he mentioned that he’d accidentally bumped into someone who’d heard from someone else that you were here.”

  Sam looked pensive. “A name from the past …Jason Ingram. How is good old Jason?”

  “Just fine. He sends his regards.”

  Sam nodded—somewhat guardedly, Chelsea thought, and she wondered whether the two men had been even less of friends than the yearbook inscription had suggested. But she wasn’t about to ask. Taking sentimentality into consideration, it was plausible that an old college friend, or acquaintance, perhaps even enemy, might have indeed sent his regards. Evidently Sam reached the same conclusion.

  “Return them for me when you see him … . So he’d heard I was here—but you mentioned seeing photographs. All he had was an ancient yearbook, which I doubt he’d have carted East.”

  “No. I called your mother to verify what Jason had heard. She wasn’t sure exactly where you were, but she gave me several other names to call.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Sam muttered under his breath.

  Had Chelsea been as innocent of the situation as she was supposed to be, she would have asked him what he meant. But the last thing she felt was innocence, and though she wanted to probe, she felt that a more appropriate time would come. Too intense an interest in something so personal might sound suspicious, particularly where her relationship with his mother was concerned. The sooner she moved from the topic of Beatrice London, the better.

  So she ignored his muttered aside. “Anyway, I saw the photo from your Annual Report. And one of the men in your office told me that you were living somewhere between Cancun and Chichen Itza. When I got down here and started asking questions I was put onto Professor Paredes in Merida, who told me to start looking in Xcan.”