Authors: Billie Green
By the time Bill politely explained he really didn't want them to buy him a drink, Delilah had disappeared.
"Damn, damn, damn," he said, then let out a long breath. It was okay, he told himself. She was staying at the same hotel. The gods were with him.
❧
Several hours later, when the sun hung low in the west, Bill stooped awkwardly on the red brick terrace of the hotel, shifting his position slightly to get the cramp out of his right leg. Beside him were a cheerful-looking dark-skinned boy and a sad-looking blue bicycle.
Shade for the trio was provided by a cluster of palm trees that grew right to the edge of the hotel terrace. Beyond the trees was a startlingly white stretch of beach. On the beach there were splashes of color in the form of blankets and bikinis. On the blankets and in the bikinis were the sun worshippers; old and young alike were uniformly brown and slick with tanning oil. Beyond the sun worshippers, dazzlingly blue water met dazzlingly blue sky.
"Tell you what, sport," Bill said to the boy, "I'm not an expert, but I believe we're going to need at least a pair of pliers to get this thing back together."
The boy scrambled to his feet. "I'll get some pliers quick. No one runs faster than Luis." The last words were said over his shoulder as he ran toward a row of buildings.
Bill smiled as he watched the boy disappear. Luis, an enterprising young man of about eight, hadn't been shy in asking for Bill's help with the bicycle, and Bill hadn't had the heart to tell the boy that he didn't know a thing about bicycles ... or anything else mechanical for that matter.
For a reason heaven only knew, mechanical ability had been left out of Bill's genetic makeup, a fact that had caused him not a little embarrassment during his teenage years when his brothers and friends had spent ninety percent of their lives under the hoods of their cars.
Everyone who knew Bill understood that he was helpless in the face of gears and sprockets and moving parts, but Luis was still young enough to believe that adults were all-knowing simply because they were adults. Rather than disillusion him, Bill had decided it wouldn't hurt to give it a try. Maybe he was just a late bloomer.
"It won't work that way. You're trying to put it on backward."
Bill recognized the smooth, husky tones instantly, but even if he hadn't, he would have known it was Delilah by the way his heart, not to mention other parts of his body, reacted.
Glancing up, he found her standing beside him. Delectable Delilah, he thought with pleasure. The golden girl. Her hair was in one long braid that fell across her shoulder, and she now wore a black off-the-shoulder blouse and a wide silver belt with a hand-painted Mexican circle skirt and black sandals.
The look suited her, he decided. She had become a Gypsy with golden-blond hair. A seductive angel.
My angel,
he told himself. That was the stunning truth that had hit him at the airport, the truth that had made him determined to find her. the truth that had made him shamelessly invade her privacy. This was his woman. This was the woman who had been made only for him.
He would have to go slowly, he told himself. He couldn't take a chance on scaring her off. He would have to be cautious and wait before he told her that she was the woman he had been looking for all his life, the woman he had feared didn't exist.
Yes, he told himself as he stared up at her with a totally captivated smile, he'd wait. He'd wait at least until tonight to ask her to marry him.
After a moment she shook her head, as though to clear it, and frowned. "Do I know you? Wait, I saw you in the bar. You were staring at Booger."
"Booger?" He rose to his feet but couldn't manage to take his gaze from her face.
"My large, slightly warped friend."
Bill remembered the man, but it hadn't been Booger who had caused him to stare. It was Delilah who had held his attention then, as she did now. And he had been thanking whatever guardian angel had been responsible for putting her in the same hotel with him, just as he was thanking it now.
"I apologize for staring. I'm Bill Shelley. And you're"—he smiled slowly, with real pleasure— "Delilah."
"How did you—oh, yes, the banner." Laughing, she extended her hand. "Delilah Jones."
He wiped his right hand on his khaki shorts and, in what seemed like slow motion, took hers. A remnant of sanity told him that shaking hands was an ordinary social ritual, but the remnant faded completely as the extraordinary pleasure of touching her took over. It required a genuine effort on his part to release her hand.
With a slightly puzzled expression she returned his stare, then said, "Did your chain slip off?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," he said. Then, "Oh, you mean the bicycle. It's Luis's bike and his chain." He grinned. "He seemed to think I could fix it."
"Luis?"
"A young friend I've just met. I sent him to get a pair of pliers."
"That's not necessary. Let me show you." She squatted beside the bicycle, then glanced up at him. "You're obviously not a plumber."
Bill laughed and stooped beside her, more fascinated than ever. "It's not how people usually start conversations with me, but I guess it's as good as anything else. Why can't I be a plumber?"
"I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you have no mechanical aptitude."
"I see what you mean. That's too bad. I hear plumbers make good money."
She reached across the bike to lift the chain. "Jazz musicians don't do so badly either, if they're good, that is."
"I suppose you're right." Bill had no idea what she was talking about, but it didn't bother him. She could recite Jabberwocky backward for all he cared, just as long as she kept talking, just as long as she stayed near.
"Are you good?"
With some women Bill would have taken the question as a not-too-subtle come-on, but not with this woman. There was genuine curiosity in the appraising look she gave him.
"Define 'good,' " he said cautiously.
"Do you play a musical instrument well enough to give others pleasure?"
"No, I'm afraid not," he admitted.
'Then maybe you should consider changing your profession," she suggested kindly.
"Believe me, I've considered it . . . often. But I can't. It has me hooked."
She nodded in sympathy. "I know exactly what you mean. Here, hold the bike up a little while I turn the pedal," she said, then glanced up as Luis returned with the pliers.
"The bicycle is mended?" the boy asked.
"Not yet, but now I have expert help." He saw the boy look longingly toward the beach and said, "Go ahead, play with your friends. I'll call you when Lila and I are through."
"Gracias, Bill. . . Lila," he said even as he turned toward the beach.
When Bill turned back to the woman beside him, he was struck by a strange expression on her beautiful face. Hers was an almost painfully wistful look, and it disturbed him deeply.
"What is it?" he said sharply.
"You called me Lila."
He frowned. "I'm sorry. It seemed to fit." The truth was, Lila sounded more intimate than
Delilah, and above.all else Bill wanted to be on an intimate level with this woman. "Would you rather I didn't?"
"I don't know. No one except—no one calls me Lila now." She shook her head. "No, I don't mind." She sounded surprised, then almost relieved as she smiled at him. "I don't mind at all."
"Delilah!"
They both glanced up at the sound of her shouted name, then watched as two men approached. Bill recognized the slender man with Oriental features as Jack. The other was a stranger, a tall, angular man who looked confused and uncomfortable, as though he didn't quite know what he was doing there.
When the men reached them, Delilah rose slowly to her feet. "Bill, this is Jack Takara and ..."
"And this is Frank Devlyn," Jack said, his voice hearty and portentous.
"Nice to meet you both." Bill reached out to shake hands with the men.
There was an awkward silence, then Jack said, "Well, I guess well let you get on with your repairs." His voice wasn't quite so hearty as he turned to Frank. "I'll catch up with you in the bar."
As soon as Frank was out of sight, Jack glanced at Delilah. "What's this? I don't get it. If I were a woman, I'd be drooling all over the place. He's exactly the kind of man I would choose for—"
"Jack darling." Delilah patted him on the shoulder. "Think about that statement, then get back to me."
Jack glanced at Bill. "I'm not positive, but I think IVe just been insulted." He gave them both a good-natured grin and saluted. "I adjust."
As Jack walked away, Delilah stooped again beside the bicycle without offering a word of explanation. Bill stood for a moment, looking down at her, then a slow smile spread across his face.
He wanted to laugh out loud at the wonder of her. She was a pirate's cache. And he was going to have the time of his life sorting through the treasure.
As Delilah worked on the bicycle, she openly studied the man beside her. He was of average height and weight, and his thick brown hair was the kind that looked habitually tousled and was a perfect match for his slightly crooked front teeth. He had the offbeat, carefree look of an adventurer.
She had noticed his blue-gray eyes in the bar, but now, as he glanced at her, she saw that his left eye was not completely blue-gray like the right one. One small section of the left eye was distinctly, brightly, green. It made her want to laugh in surprise and delight.
Cute. Definitely cute
, she thought. But why was he smiling in that peculiar moonstruck way?
"By George, I think we've got it," Bill said, turning the pedal smoothly. Then he looked at her and grinned. "At least, I think you've got it. I would never have managed to fix it by myself."
"No," she agreed without Inflection. "You wouldn't have."
He laughed, then stood and waved toward a group of boys on the beach. "Luis! The bicycle's ready."
Minutes later, after the boy and his friends had collected the bicycle and disappeared. Bill wiped his hands on a handkerchief as he stood smiling at Delilah.
"Lovely Lila to the rescue," he said. Taking her arm, he began to walk away from the terrace. "You've saved my reputation in Acapulco. I can hold my head high and not be afraid that people are snickering and making rude comments about me behind my back."
She laughed. "I suppose that's important, especially here in Mexico, the birthplace of machismo."
"The word may have come from Mexico, but I'm afraid the concept is universal. The majority of the men in the world, no matter what their nationality, waste big pieces of their lives trying to convince themselves that they are real men, whatever that means."
"You too?" She studied his features, her curiosity genuine.
"I'm afraid so." he admitted ruefully. "I tell myself I'm not as bad as a lot of men, but today, when I stepped off the plane . . . You see, I live in Houston, a nice city, but there is a sameness about big cities that makes them almost invisible to the people who spend their lives there. Acapulco is blinding in contrast. And a couple of hours ago, when I saw those again"—he gestured toward the mountains that rose on their left—"I felt the same thing I always feel."
"Small?" she ventured. "Helpless?"
He shook his head in a wry, negative movement. "No, I felt uncomfortable . . . embarrassed."
She stopped walking, her expression puzzled. "Why on earth would you feel embarrassed?"
"Because beauty so intense"—his gaze moved slowly over her face—"is a real problem for a man to deal with. It brings all the passions too close to the surface for comfort. A real man isn't supposed to get a lump in his throat simply because the world is suddenly a lovely place."
Delilah fell silent. There was much more to this man than she had supposed. She had been thinking of him as an attractive but ordinary man, the kind of thoroughly nice man found at Little League baseball games and church picnics. The kind of man Delilah had always been curious about but rarely came into contact with socially.
She glanced up and realized that they had left the row of hotels far behind. Why was she here, she wondered suddenly. She should be using every spare minute to accomplish the goal she had set for herself. She shouldn't be strolling along the beach with a self-admitted second-rate jazz musician.
It was that damn smile, she told herself. It was like a campfire on a chilly morning—one automatically tried to get closer to the warmth. And maybe part of the blame belonged to his crazy patchwork-quilt eyes. They were the eyes of a child, a little vulnerable, a little wistful, but always prepared for wonder and delight.
Yes, she thought with a frown, there was definitely more to Bill Shelley than what was on the surface. But why on earth should that disturb her?
As they walked, Delilah had been unconsciously listening to him whistle under his breath, and now something began to nag at her. "I know you said you weren't very good," she said slowly, "but what kind of musician can't carry a decent tune? That's not even jazz. It's—"