The Bride Tamer (6 page)

“No. Not usually. But Vivian never wore makeup or pretty clothes. Then she got so fat and swollen when she was pregnant. She was sick a lot too.”

Cash imagined a young girl in a strange land who'd been misunderstood, pregnant, sick, her emotions in turmoil. It sounded like she'd had no one, not even her husband, to turn to.

“Clearly Vivian won you over at some point.”

“As soon as Miguelito was born, I began to adore her.” Isabela explained, “She's a wonderful, selfless mother. He was a sickly baby at first.”

“My wife had a difficult pregnancy,” Cash said. “I didn't cheat on her.”

“Well, Julio said she gave Miguelito more attention than she gave him. But I don't want to talk about her.” Isabela's hand curled over his.

Cash's fingers remained stiff. He couldn't stop thinking that Vivian deserved a better life. He wanted to go to her, to find her, to apologize for this morning—not to sit here where he had to force every smile.

He was in a strange mood. If the maid hadn't been heading toward them with a breakfast tray and his
huevos motuleros,
he would have made some excuse to Isabela and gone to look for Vivian.

“How's your father feeling?” he asked after the maid left them alone to enjoy glasses of fresh orange juice, plates of fruit, and
huevos motuleros.

Warily he observed the dish of
mole,
a favorite, spicy, chocolate-flavored sauce. Marco had splashed it on every
thing. Cash detested
mole.
Luckily Isabela had served it on the side.

“Papacito?”

Isabela watched him attack his
huevos motuleros,
a dish composed of refried beans, fried eggs, chopped ham and cheese on a tortilla slathered in tomato sauce, bits of fried banana, and peas.

“Better?” she asked. Isabela was watching him as she picked at her fruit.

He kept their conversation to the old days, to impersonal, shared interests. They talked of their impending trip to her beach house this afternoon and her ideas for its renovations.

“I want something much grander,” she said.

“Then you shall have it.”

He relaxed when she didn't flirt with him, and he could think about the house instead of her. But the more questions he asked about the beach house, the more tense she became.

“What's the matter?” she finally whispered, leaning forward.

“Nothing.” He dropped his fork on the stones of the patio and had to shove his chair back to pick it up.

“You're different than you were in the city.”

When their eyes met, he looked away. “I'm just tired…jet lag. Maybe I drank too much last night.”

He resumed eating, but his eggs were cold and tasteless now, and the pineapple was too sweet. He set his fork down and looked up at her beautiful face. When she smiled, he told himself there was nothing for it but to propose. And yet…

“Isabela, there's something I've got to do before…”

He pushed back his chair and stood up. Then he leaned across the table and took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Wait for me? I'll just be a minute.”

Her face grew radiant. “I'll be right here.”

Unfortunately, as soon as he was in the pool house and had the black velvet box clenched in his palm, he made the mistake of looking at the seven gilded mirrors. In an instant he
was flooded with memories of silken copper-red hair cascading over slim shoulders, of large blue eyes filled with longing.

He snapped the box closed and tossed it back into his suitcase. Before he could ask Isabela to marry him, he had to find Vivian and make things all right between them. Maybe when they met fully clothed and had a real conversation, she would relax, and he would too. Maybe then he could quit obsessing about her and get on with his life. With Isabela.

Maybe…

But first he had to find Vivian.

C
ash's taxi careened through the narrow streets like a fighter jet. For a second or two he was so worried about crashing he forgot his quandary about Vivian.

He didn't need this. Without taking his eyes off the road, Cash tossed his jacket onto the seat. When the driver nearly hit a burro and cursed, Cash forced a tight smile and then tapped the driver on the shoulder.

“Despacio,”
he said.
“Más despacio.”

The driver ignored his suggestion to slow down. Instead of arguing, Cash rolled his long-sleeved shirt up and stuck his left elbow out the cab's window. Some things were bigger than he was.

Like what you feel about Aphrodite.

Suppressing the ridiculous thought, he grinned again. If these were his last few minutes alive, he might as well try to enjoy them.

Not that he could. He kept remembering Vivian as colonial buildings and the pandemonium of bulldozers and power
drills rushed past him in a blur. Normally, he paid attention to old buildings and new construction sites.

Not possible with the cab jouncing over ruts and holes. Not possible when the exhaust fumes were so dense he could barely breathe.

Isabela? Vivian? He felt ensnared between the two. Isabela had clung to him for an eternity before letting him get in this suicidal cab, begging him to take her with him.

Cash had peeled her hands loose from his forearms and tried to calm her, promising he'd be back in an hour.

“What about my beach house?”

“We'll go the second I get back.”

“It will be too hot,” she'd pouted.

“Patience, my love.”

“Am I your love?”

He hadn't answered her.

It was hot and getting hotter fast. His shirt stuck to his body and his thick hair felt damp against his scalp. Still, despite the heat and the stench of the thick fumes of diesel that belched from the exhaust pipe of the truck in front of his cab, he couldn't help noting that Mérida was more appealing than most cities in Mexico. Maybe it was the colonial architecture painted in pale pastel shades that made the city look so clean.

Not that Cash was thinking all that fondly of Mérida. The poverty in Mexico always got to him. The bleak hopelessness he saw in so many people's eyes was the same even in this sparkling city.

When Cash spied the twin spires of the yellow cathedral, he tapped the driver's thick shoulder again and told him he'd walk the rest of the way. No sooner was he on the street then he regretted his decision. If the cab had been hot, the sidewalk was broiling.

He slung his jacket over his wide shoulder. Even so, he soon felt like an egg frying on a preheated griddle.

Motionless
campesinos,
their backs plastered against the windowless facade of the cathedral, drooped low on their
haunches, their dark, dead-looking gazes following him. No doubt their bodies were boiled. Cash felt even sorrier for the Indian women seated on the sidewalk near the church's massive Corinthian doors of solid wood and brass nails. They extended their hands toward him even while they suckled their babies. He passed out coins and dollar bills until his pockets were empty.

When he spotted the House of Montejo on the opposite side of the square, he paused. A bank now, the wonderful old colonial building was the oldest in Mérida, having been completed in 1549 by Francisco de Montejo, a city founder.

A glance at his watch and he moved on. The sidewalk became more crowded the nearer he got to the market, which was located behind the Palacio Municipal.

“Permiso,”
he droned, avoiding the beggars' eyes because he had no more money to hand out.

“Pasale,”
they replied.

Against his better judgment, he plunged into the bowels of the cavernous market, which was made up of shops covered with makeshift roofs of faded canvas and tin. Inside, the stifling air reeked of fried food, hemp, cayenne, green spices, curry, leather and disinfectant. After the day's blinding brightness, the cramped aisles and crowded stalls seemed dark and confining. He wandered among sandal shops, candy stores, hammock makers and piñatas. Soon the stalls and merchandise made him feel like he was in a maze. Would he even recognize Aphrodite—dressed?

Smiling vendors jumped in front of him. “Sandals. From Campeche. Handmade,
señor.
”

“Señor, guayaberas?”
A man flapped a short-sleeved shirt with four pockets and distinctive vertical rows of double stitching at Cash.

Cash shook his head politely. Swiftly he moved past tables of leatherette watchbands, used magazines, videocassettes of pirated American movies, leather backpacks, silver and coral jewelry, as well as embroidered
huipiles.

“Souvenir? Live pet beetle?” A pretty girl with jet-black hair, pale brown skin and high cheekbones, as well as the Mayan's hooked nose, jumped in front of Cash and pointed to her arms that were crawling with beetles.

“No,
gracias,
” he murmured, holding his hands up.

Suddenly he'd had enough. Vivian would just have to get over her embarrassment and return to Isabela's on her own. He'd never find her in this labyrinth.

Stumbling blindly down the aisles, he banged into hanging piñatas and got hopelessly tangled in a
rebozo.
Luckily a Mayan girl gave him directions.

He was striding toward a street entrance when a redheaded woman in a shapeless, brightly embroidered white
huipil
and a black skirt looked up and saw him. Screaming, she dived under a table, knocking sandals and hats everywhere.

He knew
that
scream and
that
shade of copper-red hair.

“Vivian!” he shouted.

When he lunged for her, she kicked a stool at him. He tripped over it and went sprawling on the concrete. He was scrambling to his feet when he caught a glimpse of her copper curls under the counter.

“Aphrodite?”

A young man with a thin black mustache offered him a hand up.

His eyes narrowing on the woman, Cash shook his head and flattened himself on the concrete. “Vivian?”

“Go away!”

“Come out from behind there.”

She made an animal sound that hung low in her throat and crouched lower, trying to conceal her bright head behind a counter leg.

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” he said as she began to crawl backward. When she didn't respond, he added, “There's a wall behind you—filled with hats. The jig's up.”

They stood up slowly, not taking their eyes off each other. She was wearing Mexican silver jewelry with amethysts, the
white
huipil,
the local blouse lots of the Mayan women wore, a black skirt, and huaraches.

“You've gone native,” he muttered.

“Why aren't you at the beach with Isabela?” she whispered. “Why aren't you ever where you're supposed to be?”

“Do you know heem, Mees?” The young man with the mustache was picking up his sandals and hats and frowning at Cash.

“We're friends,” Cash said, dusting himself off. “Give us some privacy,
amigo.
”

“I don't know him, Huicho,” Vivian said. “Sell the gringo a hat or some sandals for his big feet.”

Huicho grabbed Cash with one arm and pulled a wide-brimmed straw hat off a shelf. But when she tried to bolt, Cash lunged and seized her by the wrist. She wriggled, but he yanked her closer.

“Forget it, kid. I have a big head.”

Smiling, Huicho patted his hat.
“Muy grande, señor.”

“Let me go!” she snapped, squirming.

“When you calm down, maybe I will.”

She quit struggling and stared at him until he released her.

“Why aren't you with Isabela?” she asked, as Cash took the hat Huicho kept shoving toward his head.

“I don't know,” he said, plopping the hat on his head with a scowl. “Why would I prefer your company to hers?”

He pulled the absurd hat off and handed it back to the mustached man. “See—head too big. Feet too big for your sandals, too.”

“You're supposed to take Isabela to the beach house,” Vivian insisted.

“You and I need to talk first.”

Huicho held up another hat and Cash grimaced so fiercely, the young man skidded backward several steps.

“Did you ever hear the term ‘Ugly American'?” she whispered.

“In that sissy hat I'd damn sure fit the bill.”

She laughed, and the sound lit him up. Then she shyly hid her beautiful mouth behind her slender fingers so he couldn't see she was smiling. “The hat messed up your leonine mane.”

“My leonine what?”

“Your beautiful hair,” she said softly, reaching up and smoothing it.

She likes my hair.

“There. That's better,” she said as she tucked a damp raven lock behind his ear.

He had a thing about his hair, and the instant she stroked it, he went rigidly still, his breath indrawn. Her fingertip against his ear had his blood zinging. His mood changed instantly.

Then her hand fell away, but the zing got worse. She couldn't seem to move either, and her hand hovered near his face, tempting him to touch her too.

“Feels better,” he whispered, his voice tight.

Slowly, but still staring at him in that funny, dazed way he found so appealing, she lowered her hand a little, her curled fingers helplessly digging into her palm.

“This is bad,” she whispered. “I shouldn't—
We
shouldn't—”

“Yes.” They were in this god-awful market. People like Huicho were watching. But Cash's blood was on fire. He liked her body, her face, her eyes. He liked talking to her, being with her. Most of all, he liked the heat in her blue gaze when she looked at him.

It felt like fate, and he didn't believe in fate. But how could you not believe in something that was happening to you?

“This is very bad,” he repeated, even as he felt a powerful desire to taste her.

“I never meant—”

His hand closed over her wrist, and it was his turn to stroke her in reverent wonder. What was it about her? There'd been the occasional pretty woman that had made him zing. But he'd
been busy. He'd had a life. Nobody had ever gotten to him like she did. Not this fast. Not this powerfully. And he didn't trust it.

“I mean I shouldn't have touched—” She broke off.

He knew what she meant, and he knew better than to touch her, too. Still, he continued to stroke her arm, lightly, ever so lightly because he couldn't seem to stop. Her skin was soft and warm, just liked he'd known she'd be.

“I'm glad you did,” he said. “Why did you stop?” He put her hand against his temple, and the heat of her splayed fingertips against his scalp made him feel like he was drowning in pleasure. She was becoming addictive. For a moment he couldn't breathe.

One minute parakeets were chirping, piñata vendors were yelling, and a little girl was weeping for fried candy. A bunch of rowdy kids in big jeans and T-shirts raced by carrying boom boxes.

Then Vivian's fingertips slid against his temple, and the sounds in the market died to nothing. The boom boxes shut down like clams. Traffic noises—honking, brakes squealing—all gone.

He couldn't hear a damn thing. Everything else seemed to slow down too. Mainly he noticed his sluggish, heavy breathing as well as the violent thudding of his heart.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Or maybe it did and he just couldn't hear. She had a beautiful mouth, and all of a sudden, more than anything, he wanted his lips on hers. He had to taste their sweet, voluptuous heat.

“You're going to marry Isabela,” she said helplessly.

“That was the plan,” he admitted, but the plan seemed alien and all wrong to him now.

“I think you got the incorrect impression. This morning…when you saw me…”

“Naked?” he supplied helpfully, smiling.

The word and smile set off sparks. Her eyes flashed and her cheeks flamed, and he got hot all over too.

She lowered her voice. “I was embarrassed.”

“Ditto.”

“It's not ditto. You got naked deliberately.”

“To make you feel more at ease.”

“You make it sound like it was a gentlemanly act.”

“It was.” The need to taste her soft lips was intense.

“Well, it didn't work, and that's not why you did it.”

“I know why I do the stuff I do.”

“Well, then admit men enjoy getting women in compromising situations. They like to create a sexual environment…so
anything
might happen.”

Like a kiss.

“I know how men like you think,” she continued.

“You just think you do.”

“Isabela thinks you're special. But you've got a dirty mind.”

“You tempted me.”

She turned red again. “If you're so pure—why aren't you with her?”

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to take her in his arms and put his hands all over her, to push his aroused body against hers, to see how they fit together. Hell, maybe she did have him pegged.

What he wanted was to slam her against the shelves of sombreros and bang her and get this crazy thing between them over with—once and for all.

He wanted to hold her tenderly too.

Which was exactly why he wasn't about to touch her—not with a ten-foot pole. Besides, he was hot, burning up in fact. And not because the market was a noxious-smelling oven.

“You want to know if I'd be an easy conquest,” she said. “Because I'm a divorcée.”

“I don't give a damn about you being a divorcée,” he muttered, stepping toward her. “But the other part—the easy conquest part… Well, are you?”

“See! I'm right about you.” She backed up fast.

“I was just teasing,” he retorted grumpily.