Mexican Nights (2 page)

She wound the used film from her camera and put in a fresh roll, adjusting the setting to compensate for the lesser light in the corner of the hall where another magnificent monument was displayed. As she moved about, clicking the shutter again and again, her gaze strayed once more to Derek Storm. He was standing now, hands in pockets, legs firmly spread, his head nodding slightly, as if some personal notion had been confirmed by what he saw. But then Terri was certain he would never admit to being wrong, regardless of the evidence. Not he!

Jack and Mike, who had been waiting patiently for their employer's further instructions, were dismissed and came toward Terri. "We're about ready to go back to the hotel," Jack said to her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she met his look. "You're coming with us, aren't you?"

She shook her head. "I want to take some black-and-white shots. I'll find a taxi when I'm ready to leave."

Jack's good-looking face fell into dejected lines, and Mike's smile faded. They were such nice young men— both in their late twenties and both seemingly interested in spending time alone with her. They always appeared cheerful and fun-loving when they were away from their employer. How did they manage to work for such an egotist? Gracious, it was daunting enough to think of spending a mere four weeks with him. But these two had been with Derek Storm for several years. Maybe they just ignored his rudeness. Maybe they took his authoritative commands, shot at them like bullets, as simply a part of the job. Maybe there were compensations, although Terri could not think of any. Well, she didn't have to put up with the great writer for very long, and she wouldn't let him rattle her. She'd had photographs in several leading American and British magazines, as well as a one-woman show at a New York gallery, so she didn't need Dr. Derek Storm's instructions on how to do what she did best in the world.

"Sure you won't change your mind and come with us?" Mike was saying with his disarming grin. "All work and no play, you know."

"Work comes first," she said lightly. "I'll see you two later."

"Maybe we can take in some of Mexico City's nightlife," suggested Jack hopefully.

"Maybe," Terri replied, and waved as she left them outside the Aztec Hall.

She made her way across the patio, weaving her path around tour groups. She'd caught a glimpse of the museum restaurant earlier and decided to go there for a cup of coffee before continuing her picture-taking in the Mayan Hall. In the restaurant she found an empty corner table and deposited her camera and bulging camera bag on it before plopping, with a tired sigh, into a chair. When she'd given the waitress her order, she took a compact from her shoulder bag and flipped open the lid, dabbing at the shiny end of her nose with the powder puff. She stared at her reflection with a detached sort of interest. Her face was a source of occasional distress—not that it was blemished or anything like that. In fact, it was pretty enough, in a scrubbed, all-American-girl sort of way. It was just that it looked so
young
. Some people actually thought she was still in high school, instead of being nearly twenty-two years old!

She sighed and rummaged for a comb to run through the short, curving blond hair that was cut in a style called "the wedge," a sort of short pageboy with feathery, swept-back waves on the sides. If only it would stay put in this shining golden cap, but, since she was inclined to move about rather energetically, her hair, more often than not, framed her face in casual disarray. This, of course, only accentuated the teeny-bopper look, along with the cut-off jeans and cotton halter she wore. But, my goodness, it was summery in Mexico in April! Appearance had to give way to comfort, at least when she was working.

It occurred to her that her "sweet sixteen" image put her at a decided disadvantage when she was face-to-face with Dr. Big Shot Derek Storm. What was even worse—she
felt
about sixteen as far as her ability to cope with him was concerned. She believed he actually enjoyed cutting her down. He probably found it amusing to insult her in front of a roomful of people, knowing she was no match for his practiced verbal thrusts. But she'd stood up to him, at least. And he hadn't liked it one bit! "We will get it right, Miss Thompson!" he had said. So, he thought he could improve upon her photography, did he? She grimaced at her reflection, her soft lips clamping together in a stubborn line. "I'll show
you
who knows about photography, Dr. Storm," she said, her mouth relaxing again into a satisfied smile.

Her coffee arrived, and she sipped the steaming liquid absentmindedly. My, wasn't she brave now that she was safely away from Derek Storm's disturbing presence? Actually, she was dog tired. She'd been working here at the National Museum of Anthropology since morning and it was almost four now. She had wanted to go back to the hotel. Of course, she had to take more shots in the Mayan Hall, but she could have done that tomorrow. She could have gone with Jack and Mike—and Derek Storm. And that was the real reason she'd decided to stay behind. The idea of riding in the rented car with
him
—especially in her present state of weariness and dishevelment—was too unnerving. Never had any man made her feel so ignorant, so gauche, at such a disadvantage. And the frustrating thing was that she didn't understand why this was so—and had been so ever since she'd first met him at the Mexico City airport two days earlier.

Ever since that first meeting there had been this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach—a crazy contusion of anticipation and fright. What did it mean? Why should this assignment be any different from the others? When had her excitement over getting the job been transformed into something more? Why, when she thought of his dark, mocking eyes, did the air seem too thin, all at once—as if she could not breathe deeply enough? Derek Gonzales Storm. Why should he cause such uncertainty in her—she who was normally the soul of self-confidence? Had he actually been
trying
to insult her, to make her angry? But he had agreed to her being given the assignment, so why would he want to make things difficult for her? Something in his manner had been disturbingly ominous. Or was it merely her imagination?

Terri drained the last of the coffee from her cup and motioned to the waitress for more. Cradling the refilled cup in the slender fingers of both hands, she tried to remember what she had read and heard about Derek Storm. He was the son of an aristocratic Spanish mother and a self-made American millionaire father. To his credit, she admitted grudgingly, he did not seem inclined to trade on the wealth and influence of his parents. The copy on the dust jacket of his books said that, before devoting himself full time to his successful writing career, he'd been a professor of ancient history at the University of Chicago. With the publication of
The Egypt of the Pharaohs
his first book—other than one scholarly text—his name had become news. He was suddenly a celebrity—seen on television talk shows and lecturing, when he could be persuaded, in crowded auditoriums. That first book had been five or six years ago, and there had been another since then. He was now working on the third and fourth books—on the Aztecs and the Mayas—which were already expected to be worldwide best-sellers.

Although he must be about thirty-five now, he had never married. In spite of that—or perhaps because of it—his relationships with the opposite sex were rumored to be exciting and varied. A year or so ago, Terri remembered suddenly, his name had been linked frequently with a popular Mexican actress.

As a writer, he could not be faulted. His research was meticulous, his style polished to perfection, his books appealing to a wide audience. Maybe she should try harder to grasp what he had evidently been trying to make her understand a while ago in the Aztec Hall. Maybe she did need a deeper understanding of her subject to do a first-class job.

She shook these doubts away quickly. What did that arrogant giant of a man know about photography anyway? That was one area about which she could tell
him
a thing or two. She smiled to herself. She would, too, if he tried that professorial tone with her again.

She would work harder than she had ever worked in her life! She grabbed up her camera, camera case, and purse, and, after paying for her drink, headed for the Mayan Hall. She was relieved to find the hall empty of visitors. She went directly to the wall case where small statues from Jaina, an island near the coast of Campeche, were displayed. They were wonderful examples of Mayan sculpture, representing priests and ball players, richly attired, with fans, sandals, and necklaces. She found an empty stone pedestal that made a suitable place for sitting and for some time sat quietly studying the small figures, intrigued and much impressed.

The marvelous workmanship was enough to take her mind off unfamiliar emotions and infuriating writers— until Derek Storm himself walked in. What was he doing here? Why hadn't he left with Jack and Mike? The sight of him—when she had thought he must be back at the hotel by now—was a shock to her already frayed nerves. The beckoning empathy she had begun to feel with the long-ago Mayan craftsmen vanished like a puff of smoke, leaving her feeling exposed and, for some inexplicable reason, short of breath.

They were alone in the hall. His unreadable eyes fastened on Terri like two arrows shot from a taut bow, and she felt an unexplainable blush creeping up her neck and into her face. Without a word of greeting, he came toward her with a blasé amble, as if he owned the place. Terri renewed her vow not to be intimidated by him and said, in a voice that held an unfamiliar quaver, "Am I to have another lesson, Dr. Storm?"

He seemed amused by her question. "I will be happy to instruct you on whatever topics you may wish, Miss Thompson." For a moment a shade seemed to have been pulled back from his dark eyes, exposing a knowing gleam. She straightened uncomfortably on her stone perch, feeling like a grade-schooler called upon to recite in front of the class.

"Where shall we start?" His head was tilted to one side slightly, his thickly lashed eyes narrowed in a way that seemed to challenge Terri to some unknown act of daring. The yellow knit shirt was open halfway down his chest, exposing curling black hairs that Terri had a sudden impish impulse to pull. His gray trousers were somewhat wrinkled from the day's activities, but he had the sort of body that would look good in almost anything. Terri forced herself to meet his steady gaze. His features were rugged, but certainly not perfect— the lean face perhaps a trifle too long. She had seen handsomer men, she supposed, but there was some power in him that was more than physical attractiveness. Intensity, perhaps, for lack of a better word. Probably, if he were a movie actor, he would be labeled a "sex symbol." But he surely wasn't Terri's idea of a dream man, she told herself. She didn't like that domineering sort of character. She certainly resented the way he looked at her sometimes, as if he were mentally undressing her—just as he was doing now.

"You hinted in the Aztec Hall that I lack a certain— feeling." She paused, unnerved by his slanting smile.

"Passion would be a better word." Although he had spoken softly, the words seemed to echo threateningly in the silent hall. Terri felt an inward chill and had to fight an impulse to hug herself protectively. Deep brown eyes assessed her reaction.

She felt her cheeks burning. "I am speaking of my photography, Dr. Storm."

"If you say so." Black lashes swept down, shadowing his eyes. Was he mocking her? Suggesting something illicit? She could not begin to fathom that hard face. Had he been any other man, Terri would have put him in his place in no uncertain terms, but indignation did not seem to faze him. She had an urge to slap the smug face that was much too close to her own for comfort.

She could almost see the gears turning in his calculating mind—planning, conniving—estimating how many days before she was putty in his experienced hands. Well, he had better think again!

"After you've seen Teotihuacán and Chichén Itzá," Derek Storm went on calmly, "perhaps you'll begin to understand the ancient Indians." His expression became grave, intense. "Once you catch the sheer, raw emotion of those people—yes, the passion, for that is the best word—you'll know what I mean, Terri."

Was he
trying
to be blatantly suggestive? Moreover, why was he, out of the blue, calling her Terri? She felt a growing uncertainty about her ability to complete this assignment in a way that would jibe with his preconceived ideas. Was this chipping away at her confidence his way of making her dependent upon him? Well, she had managed previous assignments without his help— and she would manage this one the same way.

"I am surprised," she said, tossing her blond hair, "that you don't do the photography as well as the writing for your books." She smiled with forced sweetness. "You seem to know so much"—she waved a hand flippantly—"about everything."

"Don't use sarcasm on me." His low voice took on a silky tone. "It's a waste of breath."

Her heart suddenly banging against her ribs, Terri slid off the stone pedestal and took up a position in front of the Mayan carvings, lifting her camera in what she hoped was a dismissing gesture. Unfortunately, she could still see him from the corner of her eye. His gaze traveled the length of her slender figure. How much could he see in the plunging V of her halter from where he was standing? She wanted desperately to tug the straps higher, but knew such a gesture would give away her confusion. She peered determinedly through the camera lens and began to snap pictures.

Derek lounged nonchalantly against the pedestal, watching her. She could no longer see his face, but she was very sure it wore a smug expression. The camera slipped in her trembling fingers as she flicked the shutter. "Darn!"

"Why are you so nervous?"

She had given herself away all right. Sudden anger flared in her. "Must you stand there glaring at me like that?"

"I may want to suggest certain shots," he said, "although technically you're an excellent photographer."

"Pardon me if I don't kiss your hand for the compliment," she said cuttingly.