Mexican Nights (10 page)

Mumbling protestingly, she felt for her wristwatch, which she had placed on the bedside table, and held it in front of her half-open eyes. It was nine o'clock. Drowsily, she snuggled back into the enticing softness of the bed. It was early yet…

But with the persistent throbbing of the vein at her temple, reality intruded. It was nine o'clock, and she was already an hour late for her appointment with Derek. She sat up, pressing her palms against her aching head.

"Oh, wow," she muttered. "Never again."

She sat up slowly, reached for her purse, and found the bottle of aspirin. Then she shuffled into the bathroom for a glass of water to wash down three tablets. After splashing cold water on her face and brushing her teeth, she felt slightly better.

She had a vivid mental picture of Derek fuming in his suite across the hall because of her lateness. Well, she didn't care, she told herself as she got into a cool cotton jump suit with matching elasticized waist-cincher. What right did he have to order her around, anyway? After all, she was working
with
him, not for him. The publisher was her employer; that little detail seemed to have slipped Derek's mind. He thought his best-selling status gave him the authority to organize her working hours, even to give her instruction in photography. In fact, she was surprised he hadn't been banging on her door at 8:01. She was over an hour late now, and there hadn't been a peep out of him.

Deciding against her regular morning shampoo ritual, she ran a brush through her tousled hair, creating some semblance of order, while she puzzled over Derek's failure to put in an appearance at her door. He was probably saving up all his insults to unload on her the minute she stepped into his suite. Maybe she wouldn't give him the chance. She was quite capable of going about her work without his help.

Suddenly, she had a wickedly gleeful idea. She'd been wanting to visit the National Palace, where the famous Diego Rivera murals, depicting Mexican history, adorned the walls. Today seemed an admirably suitable time for it, particularly since it would remove her—temporarily, at least—from Derek's anger. On the way, she would drop off film for developing at the photographic shop around the corner that promised twenty-four-hour service.

Quickly, she picked up her purse and camera bag and, going to the door, opened it quietly just far enough so she could see into the hallway. The door to Derek's suite was closed, and she saw no one in the hall. Tiptoeing into the corridor, she closed her door softly behind her and made her way stealthily toward the elevator.

When she reached the main floor, she cast a wary eye about before venturing across the lobby. She gained the sidewalk with a deep sigh of relief. Hurrying around the corner she dropped off her film, then got into one of the taxis that waited outside the hotel.

Upon reaching her destination, she paid the driver and stepped out into Mexico City's central plaza, turning to view the huge building facing the square, which she recognized from photographs as El Palacio Nacional. The National Palace, occupying the entire east side of the plaza, covered four large city blocks, having been built on the ruins of Montezuma's Palace, originally by Cortes, in 1523. It had, however, undergone twenty-six reconstructions, so the present palace was probably very unlike the original.

For three hours she wandered about the palace, studying the murals with the aid of a guidebook purchased on the spot and shooting three rolls of film. Surely Derek would want to use some of these in his new books. She was certain they would reproduce beautifully.

It was after one when she left the palace and took a taxi back to the hotel. Inside, she headed, straight for the coffee shop, hungry after the morning of working without breakfast. Her mind still half-occupied with the beauty of the murals she had left with much reluctance, she glanced about for an empty table and was brought up short when her gaze came to rest on Derek.

Their eyes met and he gave a cool nod and gestured for her to join him. Knowing she would have to face him sooner or later, Terri lifted her chin and made her way to his table. Surely he would control his temper in a public place.

"Good afternoon, Terri," he said calmly. "Won't you join me?"

She sat down across from him. "Where are Jack and Mike?"

"Working," he said curtly. "The three of us have been working very hard all morning."

"Well, I—I have been working, too." Terri stumbled over the words. "I've been to the National Palace. I filled three rolls of film with shots of the Rivera murals."

A waitress appeared and they ordered club sandwiches and iced tea. When she left, Derek settled back in his chair and regarded Terri with an insolent sort of interest. "Did you enjoy your morning, Terri?"

"Oh, yes," Terri replied with a nervousness that made her breathless. It also caused her to speak with unnatural speed, running her words together. "I've rarely seen anything so awe-inspiring as those murals. Rivera's attention to detail is incredible, not to mention the scope of the work. Did you know he painted the highlights of Mexican history from sometime around eight hundred A.D.? Such a chaotic history, too! And the colors, Derek—they're simply beautiful."

"I know," he returned dryly. "I've visited the National Palace numerous times."

"Oh." She tried to mask her confusion by taking a bite of her sandwich and chewing slowly, her eyes averted. Derek did not help her by taking up the conversational gauntlet. "I should have realized, of course, that you've already seen the murals." Meeting his gaze again, she rushed on, "They'll photograph beautifully—I'm sure of it. You should be able to use several of my shots in your books. I—I really think this morning was the highlight of this trip—so far. Of course, I couldn't begin to absorb it all in one visit. I want to go again."

Derek finished his sandwich, dabbed neatly at his mouth with his napkin, and said, "That will have to wait, I'm afraid."

She looked at him quizzically, sensing a certain satisfaction in the nonchalant manner with which he was looking at her. "What do you mean?"

"We are leaving for the Yucatán tomorrow." Yes, there was a definite smugness behind the lazy smile.

"The Yucatán—but I don't understand—I mean, didn't we plan to stay here for another week?"

"Something has come up. A friend who owns a sisal plantation near Chichén Itzá has offered me the use of his guest house. The location is ideal—and we'll be far more comfortable than in a hotel in Mérida, which is the nearest city of any size."

"But tomorrow!" Terri resented the high-handed manner with which she was being presented a fait accompli. They were associates, weren't they? Why hadn't she been consulted? "I think we should talk this over," she continued. "There are still several places I want to visit in this area—"

"Nothing to talk over," he said with maddening finality. "Mike has already made the plane reservations."

"Oh, really?" Terri fumed. "You shouldn't make a reservation for me without first checking my schedule. I've made plans for the next few days. I have to work my own way, Derek. Mike and Jack may have to trail after you to the Yucatán—or wherever—but I don't!"

"Mike and Jack aren't going. They still have work to do here."

"What!" Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you telling me that you've made plans for you and me to move into somebody's guest house—alone?"

"It's in the middle of a vast plantation," he said irritably. "There are servants and field hands all over the place." He smiled cynically, taunting her with his eyes. "Furthermore, the guest house has several bedrooms, so your honor will not be threatened."

She clutched nervously at her napkin while her heart hammered a warning against her ribs. "I know we have to go to Chichén Itzá eventually, but I must say it seems highly impractical without Mike and Jack. I don't like the idea one bit, Derek. I'd prefer not to go under these conditions."

He motioned for the waitress to bring their check. When he had it in his hand, he took out a bill and placed it with the check on the table. Then he shoved his chair back and looked across at her, his face unreadable.

"Suit yourself, Terri. You can grow up and accompany me to the Yucatán tomorrow—or you can give up the assignment and go back to New York." His tone held a finality that frightened her, and for a moment she stared at him, unable to speak.

At length, he got to his feet. "Think about it. I am sure your good sense will win out over this momentary impulse. If I don't hear from you beforehand, I'll expect you to meet me in the lobby at nine tomorrow morning." He stood, looking down at her. "Don't be late this time, Terri."

She sat there for several minutes after he had gone, wondering whether he really would stand by his ultimatum. Cringing inwardly, she rejected any idea of softening on Derek's part. Her effort to assert her independence by failing to meet him in his suite that morning had backfired. He had managed to put her quite firmly in her place. She was certain he was, at this very moment, savoring his victory.

Terri was standing in the lobby at ten till nine. She had had breakfast in the coffee shop at eight and had then gone to the photography shop and picked up the large film packet that was waiting for her.

At exactly nine o'clock Derek came sauntering in, looking rested and cool in pale beige knit shirt and slim-cut duck trousers. Terri was certain that by comparison she looked rumpled in jeans and a sleeveless cotton shirt. Really, he was quite striking, she thought as she watched him speaking to the desk clerk. If only he were someone else—
anybody
else—if she didn't despise him for ordering her about like a servant and ruining her first trip to Mexico, which she had anticipated so eagerly.

Derek strolled over to Terri and set his suitcase and portable typewriter beside her luggage. "All ready?" he asked, his eyes dancing with lively mockery.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"So you are, and on time, too. You're improving, Terri."

She glared at him without reply. He bent and lifted a suitcase in each hand. "If you'll bring my typewriter, I believe our taxi is waiting." She followed him from the lobby and looked silently out the taxi window at the passing bustle all the way to the airport.

When they had found their seats on the plane and buckled themselves in, Derek said, "Whatever is on your mind, Terri, you might as well spill it here and now. I don't relish being given the silent treatment for the next week."

She turned to look at him coolly. "Since when are you interested in what I think?"

"Of course, I'm interested. We have to work together." His tone was matter-of-fact.

"I resent your high-handed attitude, Derek," she said with definite emphasis. "You don't care one iota that I didn't want to make this trip alone with you. You don't even seem to realize that the whole setup is highly improper—at least, it will seem so to other people."

He sighed impatiently. "We're not here on holiday, Terri. You're here to provide photographs that meet with my approval for my Mexican books. I intend to see that you live up to your obligation." He looked into her angry eyes calmly. "I haven't the time nor the inclination to deal with your prudish ideas of what is proper. I can't concern myself with how you feel about me personally, either." His flat tone sent a chill up Terri's spine. "We have a job to do, and we will have to tolerate each other until it's completed."