Книга - Temple Of The Moon

Temple Of The Moon
Sara Craven


Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.TEMPLE OF THE MOONSultry nightsNo matter how attractive he was, Gabrielle knew there was no future for her in any relationship with sophisticated cynical Shaun Lennox – just the basic fulfilment of a mutual need. And for her, that was not enough. She was worth more than that!But how to make the bitterly mocking Shaun listen to her? She couldn’t tell what he truly felt. One minute he seemed to regard her as a pretty distraction, the next he was holding her at arm's length with a kind of wary contempt. Yet when he kissed her, she was so tempted…









Temple of the Moon

Sara Craven







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.




TABLE OF CONTENTS


COVER (#u6bb54aa9-a4c3-5978-9879-0000efa2f4f6)

TITLE PAGE (#u27975a32-6dc8-5360-b8fe-1661d2dca351)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u6253fa8e-4fc3-5717-9fe5-e391fc768e04)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

ENDPAGE (#litres_trial_promo)

COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#u5dc0cbaa-f3e0-5f1a-ae8b-0b5b044067a7)


IT had been raining for several hours, a monotonous, relentless downpour that turned the gutters into miniature torrents and transformed the once sun-baked streets into shallow canals, swirling with red dust and debris.

Gabrielle sat alone in the foyer of the Hotel Belen, her eyes fixed bleakly on the huge glass swing doors which gave on to the street. Her fingers drummed restlessly on the small carved table in front of her, keeping time with the raindrops. She felt totally alien to the laughing, chattering groups of tourists sitting around her, exclaiming over this unseasonable break in the weather pattern in what was officially the dry season in the Yucatan peninsula. Once or twice she glanced down at the camera case lying at her feet as if seeking reassurance.

She was here, she told herself, where she had every right to be, so it was ridiculous to think that this sudden rainstorm was some kind of ill-omen. Even if James was not prepared to welcome her to Merida, she still had her commission from Vision magazine to fulfil. She was a working woman now, whether he liked it or not. And there could be all sorts of explanations as to why he had never answered the slightly defiant letter she had sent him, telling him that Vision had bought some of the work she had sent them in a fit of bravado and wanted more. Perhaps he had never received the letter. After all, this was hardly the most accessible place in the world, and if James was in the depths of the Mayan forests somewhere, he would hardly be in a position to conduct a correspondence.

But the more she tried to bolster up her self-confidence, the more frankly depressed she became. Other archaeologists managed to keep in touch with their wives and families, she knew, and long silences had invariably been James’ way of manifesting his displeasure with her during their brief married life. And in the past, she had always been the first to ask forgiveness, daunted by this forbidding chill, but not now, she thought. Not any more. This time, there was nothing for James to forgive. He had deliberately, almost cold-bloodedly shut her out of his career. He could not prevent her seeking one of her own, although he had made it icily clear before he had left for Mexico that he did not want a working wife.

Gabrielle sighed, and ran her fingers round the neck of her dress, lifting the collar away slightly from her throat. In spite of the air conditioning in the hotel, she found the humidity trying and she knew that in the forest regions she would have tropical conditions to contend with. But even the prospect of more discomfort could not prevent a mercurial change in her spirits at the thought of the trip ahead.

To think that she was actually going to see them—these strange ancient pyramids rising out of the jungle, evocative memorials of an advanced civilisation that had been wiped out by the Spanish conquest. For as long as she could remember, the conquest of Mexico had fascinated her, and she had read every book on the subject she could lay her hands on. Her father, who had taught at a northern university, had always encouraged her interest, although he had not shared it particularly. His own researches were based nearer home into Roman and Celtic remains, and father and daughter had amicably agreed to differ. They’d had a warm, happy relationship, made even closer by her mother’s death quite unexpectedly during a minor operation. Dr Christow had aged visibly under this blow, but he had been determined not to allow it to affect Gabrielle’s growing-up, and his older sister Molly, herself a widow, had come to live with them, becoming a more than adequate substitute mother as Gabrielle advanced into her teens.

Her father’s death had occurred when she was halfway through a photographic course at art college, and she had immediately offered to abandon the course and get a job to help out financially, but Aunt Molly had been adamant in her refusal. Gabrielle might well be glad of some qualifications one day, she had insisted, although she had no means of knowing how right she would be.

Gabrielle had been at the end of her course when she met James. She had seen his lecture on ancient Aztec civilisations advertised at the local adult education centre and had recognised in the Dr James Warner with the impressive string of letters after his name the Jimmy Warner who had been at university with her father and worked with him on digs in their younger days.

When the lecture was over, she nerved herself to approach him and explain who she was. James Warner was a slightly built man, with severely cut greying hair and a trim beard, and in her wildest dreams Gabrielle could not envisage anyone, even her extrovert father, calling him ‘Jimmy’, but he had greeted her with every appearance of delight and asked her to stay on and have coffee with him.

Her initial reservations had soon been swept away by his evident affection for her father and distress at the news of his death.

‘I was abroad, of course, when it happened,’ he told her. ‘By the time I heard about it, I felt it was too late even to write and offer my condolences. I had no idea Charles had a daughter, either.’

He drove her back to her digs after the lecture and said they must keep in touch, but it was a vague remark and Gabrielle did not really expect to hear from him again, although she thought regretfully that she would have liked more time with him to give her a chance to ask more things about ancient Mexico that did not come within the normal scope of a lecture.

But to her surprise, she did hear from him again, and quickly. He wrote to her, and followed this up with a telephone call and flowers. He had several speaking engagements in the neighbourhood and invited Gabrielle to go to these as his guest. It was useless to pretend she was not flattered by his attentions and in many ways she felt as safe with James as she had with her father, although the two men were not a bit alike and she knew it.

At first she told herself that James’ kindness to her was prompted solely by the fact that she was her father’s daughter, but as time went by, she began to realise this was not the whole truth. His wooing might have begun cautiously, but soon there was no doubt of his intentions. James wanted to marry her. He told her so one evening when they were dining together before going to the theatre. He spoke frankly on the considerable difference in their ages and on his previous marriage which had ended in divorce some years previously.

‘My former wife could not accept the demands that my work made on my time,’ he said. ‘She had no interest in my researches and hated travelling. Whereas you, my dear Gabrielle, share my fascination with the Maya. You could be a great help to me—even an inspiration.’

If Gabrielle hesitated at all, it was only momentarily, and if an inner voice warned her to make sure she was attracted by the man and not merely by the life he could offer her, she hushed it. She had been oddly touched too by James’ old-fashioned ideas of courtship and his evident respect for her innocence. She had been disturbed by the permissive behaviour that seemed to be the pattern at the college she had attended and her determination to stay apart from it had resulted in her being called a prig, and even more unkindly a professional virgin by some of the other students. The labels had stuck and in spite of the attractions of her dark copper hair and green eyes, fringed by long lashes, she had spent a rather lonely existence during her student years.

Even when they were engaged, James made no attempt to push their relationship to a more intimate level, and she was grateful to him for this. The only souring of her happiness came with Aunt Molly’s overt disapproval.

‘Are you quite sure what you’re doing, child?’ she had said abruptly one day, watching Gabrielle packing some of the books she had decided to take with her to her new home. ‘He’s a middle-aged man, and set in his ways, and you’re so young … Sometimes I feel so worried.’

Gabrielle sat back on her heels and looked at her aunt wide-eyed. ‘But, Aunt Molly, surely you’ve known James for years.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve known him all right,’ her aunt reorted rather grimly. ‘And that just increases my misgivings. Even your father used to say there was a side to James that no one would ever know, and that it was probably just as well. Oh, it’s not just the fact that he’s so much older than you, although that does disturb me too. I just wish you’d wait for a while—get to know each other a little more.’

‘Oh, Aunt Molly!’ Gabrielle curbed her exasperation. ‘Haven’t you said time and time again that no one really knows anyone until they have to live with them?’

‘Yes, I have,’ her aunt returned. ‘And if that was all you and James wanted to do, I’d feel much happier about the whole thing.’

‘I’m shocked,’ Gabrielle said with an attempt at lightness. ‘But seriously, can you imagine James agreeing to anything as—swinging as a trial marriage?’

They laughed together, but their amusement was forced and Gabrielle was relieved when the conversation turned to another, less personal subject. Aunt Molly was a dear, but her views of marriage were as old-fashioned in their way as James’. She believed in romance, and that love would win the day, whereas Gabrielle was convinced that marriage was a relationship demanding toleration and hard work on both sides if it was to succeed. She had been prepared to work at her marriage. What she had failed to do was ask herself if James was prepared to do the same.

Gabrielle gave a little sigh and signalled to a passing waiter. ‘Quisiera una horchata, por favor,’ she said haltingly, indicating the few drops of the pale almond and rice drink remaining in her glass so that there would be no misunderstanding.

This was not how she had imagined her introduction to Mexico would be, sitting alone in a hotel foyer. She had thought James would be with her, advising her on what to order, encouraging her to use her Spanish, so painfully acquired in the comparatively brief period before she set out on her journey. But James had not even been there to meet her at the airport. Again, she had tried to make excuses for him, blaming the unreliability of the postal system, but at the same time something told her that even if one of her letters had in fact gone astray, it was unlikely that two would have done so.

She had tried very hard with the second letter. There was no note of triumph in her announcement that Vision had decided to send her to the Yucatan to accompany the expedition of which James was a member. She had acknowledged that she was going against his expressed wishes, first in accepting full-time employment, and again in following him to Mexico, but she had begged him to understand that she needed more from life than to spend every day sitting in that immaculate flat, watching the housekeeper Mrs Hutchinson tending the pottery and figurines so strikingly displayed in showcases and alcoves. Gabrielle had not visited James’ home before their wedding, but when they returned there after the honeymoon. she was immediately conscious of a feeling of oppression. It was all so beautiful and tasteful—and slightly unreal. She had imagined she would be able to stamp something of her own personality on their home, but it had soon been made clear to her that there was no room for the sort of improvement that she visualised. Her tentative suggestion that the living room furniture could be re-grouped to provide a more homely effect had been greeted by James with a kind of horrified amusement. Gabrielle sometimes felt like a ghost. If she was merely sitting in a chair reading, and left the room momentarily, she found the cushions had been plumped up in her absence. Not even her own bedroom seemed to belong to her.

The waiter arrived with her drink and she paid him and murmured her thanks.

She had always known that there was more affection than passion in her feelings for James, but she had never intended that their marriage should be anything other than a normal one. She had been shocked and hurt to discover that James seemed in no hurry at all to consummate their relationship. At first, she had felt she ought to be grateful for his consideration—he had told her that he felt they should take time to become mentally attuned to each other before they became lovers in the physical sense—but as time went on Gabrielle felt growing doubts that James had ever wanted a wife in the real sense at all. And far from becoming mentally attuned, they seemed to be growing apart.

She had assumed that as his wife, she would be expected to take part in a certain amount of socialising. That he would have colleagues to entertain and that she would act as his hostess as she had sometimes done for her father. But they saw no one. James went each day to the Institute of Central American Studies and she was left entirely to her own devices. In the evening he read or worked in his study while she sat alone watching television.

Once and only once she had suggested that they might do some entertaining. His face had taken on the frozen look she had come to dread. ‘When I wish my privacy to be invaded by a chattering horde of strangers, I’ll tell you, Gabrielle.’

In spite of his unspoken disapproval, Gabrielle had invited Aunt Molly to visit her, but her aunt had not been nearly so reticent.

‘Good heavens, child, it’s like living in a museum!’ She walked over to one of the showcases and inspected its contents with raised eyebrows. ‘It must cost James a fortune in insurance. Some of these things are incredibly valuable.’ She swung round and looked her niece over with a touch of grimness. ‘And what are you, exactly? The latest addition to his collection?’

Gabrielle had naturally protested, but Aunt Molly’s words had stayed in her memory.

The greatest disappointment of all had been James’ refusal to let her take part in any of his work. During their courtship he had patiently answered all her eager questions. Now she was made to see that her curiosity was a nuisance to him, and that she interrupted his concentration.

He was busy, she told herself, but when all this paperwork was behind him and he began to prepare for the real work—for the expedition to the Yaxchilan region that she knew was brewing, then he would need her. Perhaps when they were actually in the Yucatan her enthusiasm would be the inspiration that he had once spoken of, instead of the irritation it now seemed.

She could hardly believe it when she learned that he was going without her.

‘But you’ll be gone for months,’ she had burst out. ‘You can’t mean to leave me here alone. What will I do?’

He stared at her. ‘Do? Occupy yourself in the same way as other wives, I imagine. You have the flat to run and …’

‘The flat!’ Gabrielle’s voice was contemptuous. ‘Mrs Hutchinson runs the flat and you know it. I’m not even allowed to so much as boil an egg on that immaculate stove of hers.’

James looked a little flustered and murmured something about ‘female squabbles’.

‘James,’ she put her hand on his arm, trying not to notice his almost instinctive withdrawal, ‘please let me come with you. I’ve always dreamed of going to the Yucatan—you know that. Besides,’ she flushed, ‘we are supposed to be—getting to know one another better. How can we do that if we’re thousands of miles apart?’

James made an irritable exclamation. ‘Why is it women can never understand that a man’s work and his personal relationships must be kept separate?’ he asked in martyred tones.

‘I accept that—or at least I accept that’s the way you feel about it,’ Gabrielle said desperately. ‘But you said once that I could be—an inspiration to you. Was that just words, or did you really mean it?’

‘Of course I meant it.’ James sighed. ‘And you are an inspiration to me, my dear. From the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one woman whose beauty would complement the setting I’d devised here. The rain forest——’ he frowned and shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’

‘Why not?’ Gabrielle asked bitterly. ‘Are you afraid the goddess might come down off her pedestal and behave like a real woman after all? That I might get hot and dirty, and covered in leeches and insect bites like other human beings? I know what’s involved, James, and I’m prepared to accept it if it means I can stand just for a moment on the pyramid of the Sun at Palenque, or look down into the sacred well at Chichen Itza.’ She ended on a note of appeal.

‘Well, I’m not prepared to accept it,’ James said flatly. ‘Nor am I prepared to argue about this any more. I’ve made my wishes clear, I think. There’s nothing further to discuss.’

Up to the day of his departure, she had hoped secretly that he might relent—suggest that she joined him later, but she should have known better. His goodbyes to her were almost abstracted, as if his mind had gone ahead of him to that violent and beautiful land where stone ruins stood deserted and forgotten among the towering trees.

His letters when they came were brief, containing none of the detail or description she hungered for. All she had learned was that the expedition which was being led by a Professor Morgan was based at the Institute’s headquarters in Merida, the capital of the Yucatan, and that her own letters should be directed there.

But she could not occupy every minute of the endless day in writing to James. She wasn’t even sure that her letters were wanted or that her small items of news would hold any interest for him.

Photography had been her salvation. She had wandered through London, enjoying the summer weather and recording her impressions on film more for her own amusement than with any commercial intention. There was a tiny boxroom at the flat, as immaculately neat and sterile as the other rooms, and Gabrielle turned this into a temporary darkroom, ignoring Mrs Hutchinson’s hostility to the move. One set of pictures involving children’s street games had excited her, and these she had sent to Vision.

An invitation to meet the editor Martin Gilbert had followed and soon she was working regularly for them. It was over lunch with Martin and one of his feature writers one day that the name Yaxchilan had cropped up unexpectedly and she had said without thinking, ‘The place of green trees.’

‘Quite right.’ Martin had sounded surprised. ‘Now how did you know that?’

She tried to make her laugh sound light. ‘Don’t sound so surprised! The Mayan jungle happens to be one of my obsessions.’ She twisted the plain gold ring on her left hand. ‘That’s where my husband is now, as a matter of fact.’

‘Indeed?’ Martin gave her a long considering look. ‘I’m surprised that you’re not with him—feeling as you obviously do.’

Gabrielle bent her head. ‘I have my work here,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Perhaps I’ll go another time. Anyway, you haven’t explained what your interest is in the expedition?’

Martin laughed. ‘Need you ask? We have our sights set on a feature—a big one. You know the sort of thing—cities where no human foot has sounded since the Maya left all those centuries ago—carving the memorial to a civilisation out of the encroaching jungle. There’s always a fascination in that sort of thing, and we’ve been lucky enough to persuade Dennis Morgan, the man leading the expedition, to write the copy for us, so we can concentrate on the visual side.’

‘It—it all sounds wonderful.’ Gabrielle forced a smile. ‘And a wonderful trip for someone,’ she added bleakly, not noticing the speculative glance being exchanged by Martin and his companion.

When, a few weeks later, she was offered the assignment, she still could not believe it. She had convinced herself that her lack of overseas experience would count against her, and Martin told her frankly that she had not been far wrong.

‘It was the fact that your husband is an actual member of the expedition that swung the balance in your favour,’ he admitted. ‘It gives you the sort of “in” that no one else could hope for. Besides, I like your work, and I have faith in it. Why shouldn’t we take a chance on you?’

‘You won’t regret it.’ Gabrielle could hardly contain her rising excitement. It wasn’t just a tremendous professional opportunity, she had realised at once. It was also a chance—the best possible chance—to get her personal relationship with James on a proper footing. They could not continue as they were—she knew that. But it did not seem fair to come to any decision in isolation. James had to be consulted—she felt she owed him that, although she knew wryly that it was unlikely that he would have extended the same courtesy to her.

The more she thought about their marriage and the form it had taken, the more convinced she became that an annulment was the only answer. It was not a pleasant prospect, but it had to be faced. At best, it would be an honourable admission by them both that a mistake had been made and would leave them free to pursue their separate lives as if this strange, brief marriage had never existed. But if James did not agree—Gabrielle’s heart sank every time she considered the possibility—then it must be made clear to him that she was not prepared to go on living this half-life with him. If their marriage was to continue, it had to be a real marriage with her own career and personal aspirations respected.

She sighed and bit her lip. It was wrong and cowardly, she told herself, to pray that James would opt for an annulment, yet if she was honest with herself she knew that to take up her life again with him, as his wife in deed as well as name, was the last thing she wanted. If he insisted that their marriage must be given a chance, she would have to concur, she thought wearily, and tried to subdue the quiver of revulsion that went through her.

She had been terrified that James would get wind of her visit and do something to prevent it, so she had persuaded Martin to notify the Institute that the party gathering in Merida was being joined by ‘G. Christow’ instead of ‘Mrs J. Warner’. Later she had chided herself for cowardice and had made herself write to James, telling him the truth. She had been on edge ever since, in case word came from the Institute, rejecting her. In the meantime she had gone ahead blindly with her arrangements, obtaining the necessary documents, and having her smallpox vaccination renewed.

She had flown by jet from London to Mexico City and then had used one of the smaller domestic airlines to fly her to Merida. She would have preferred to travel there by train, stopping off on the way to visit the famous ruins at Palenque, but had sacrificed her own wishes under the compulsion to get to Merida and establish herself with the expedition.

One of her first actions, after taking up her reservation at the hotel, had been to write a note to Professor Morgan announcing her arrival and sending it round to the Institute. She knew they would all be busy with last-minute preparations for the trip and felt it would be better to allow the professor to contact her at his own convenience rather than arrive on the Institute doorstep, tacitly demanding attention they might not have time to give her. For the past twenty-four hours she had not dared to leave the hotel in case a message came for her, but she had been disappointed. She told herself resolutely that much of the depression she was feeling was due to jet lag—nothing more. But James’ failure to meet her at the airport, followed by this chill silence from the Institute, was unnerving to say the least.

The hotel doors swung inwards, and she glanced up instinctively as she had done so many times during the course of the day. But this was no influx of wet, disgruntled tourists. It was a man, on his own, and somehow Gabrielle knew, as her casual gaze fixed and sharpened, that he was no tourist. He was tall and long-legged moving with an easy animal grace in denim shirt and pants with a matching rain-spattered jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. He threaded his way through the chatting groups to the reception desk where a smiling clerk turned to greet him. She couldn’t hear what passed between them, nor could she lip-read, but he was obviously asking a question, and Gabrielle felt a sudden, illogical trickle of apprehension along her spine as the newcomer turned, his eyes flicking almost indifferently over the tables. She sensed rather than saw the clerk reply, and knew with all the certainty of pounding heart and pulses that they were both looking at her.

She picked up her glass with fingers that shook, and took a hasty sip. Surely this couldn’t be Professor Morgan? Martin had given her the impression of a much older man—a contemporary of James, she had decided in her own mind. For an endless moment, she made herself look down at the table, trying to pretend she was oblivious to his regard.

‘Is your name Christow?’ She had not heard his approach and she started violently, spilling a little of her drink. His voice was low and resonant, but held no welcoming warmth.

Gabrielle looked up reluctantly. He was standing over her, his thumb hooked negligently into his belt. At close quarters, the attraction she had only sensed across the room was quite devastating and she was conscious that they were the cynosure of envious feminine eyes from adjoining tables.

‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I’m Gabrielle Christow. And you?’

His face was narrow, the cheekbones and jawline prominent, with dark hair in need of cutting springing aggressively back from his forehead. Against his deep tan, his eyes were as pale as aquamarines. They held incredulity and hostility in almost equal amounts.

He said slowly, ‘My God, I don’t believe it. The fools! The bloody, incompetent fools!’

Gabrielle stiffened, aware as he was not of the interested ears surrounding them.

She said with a hint of ice, ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’

‘No?’ One of the slanting dark eyebrows lifted in a sardonic question. ‘Were you naively expecting to be welcomed with open arms? If so, I’m afraid, young woman, you’re in for a sharp disappointment.’

Gabrielle was very pale. She stammered, ‘But I though—I mean, Vision made all the arrangements—I understood I was expected.’

‘We were expecting a photographer from Vision to join us—yes.’

There was no doubting the implication in his words and she glared at him.

‘Are you questioning my professional competence?’ she demanded hotly.

‘That’s the least of my concerns.’ He hitched forward a chair, and straddled the seat, his arms folded across the back of the chair. ‘In any case, I shall not be in a position to judge it.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that you’ll be on the next flight back to Europe from Mexico City as soon as it can be arranged. We’ll cable Vision and if they care to do a hasty re-think and send us a replacement before we leave, all well and good. If not …’ He shrugged.

‘A replacement?’ she echoed dazedly. ‘But why?’

‘I should have thought it would have been obvious even to the meanest intelligence.’ The cool blue eyes went over her from the chic sandals to the scooped neckline of the sleeveless white dress. ‘This assignment is not for a woman, Miss Christow.’

For a stunned moment she looked at him, then she managed a brief, scornful laugh. ‘What kind of absurd prejudice is this, may I ask?’

‘Ask away.’ He produced a cheroot from a case and lit it. ‘It has nothing to do with prejudice—just ordinary common sense. The rain forest is no place for an inexperienced girl. I should have thought your editor would have had more sense.’

Gabrielle shook her head in disbelief. It had been bad enough coming from James, but to come all this way and get the same reception from a complete stranger was almost more than she could bear.

She said coldly, ‘In Britain now women have equal opportunities with men. Legally we can no longer be discriminated against on the grounds of sex.’

‘That’s fine for Britain.’ He drew deeply on the cheroot. ‘But it cuts no ice in the Yucatan—which is where you are, in case you hadn’t noticed. The expedition we’re involved in has dangers and discomforts you’ve never even imagined in your comfortable London office. A man could—just—have made it. But you?’ He spread his hands, his eyes going over her dismissively. ‘No way.’

Gabrielle stood up angrily, ignoring the speculative looks being directed at them from all over the foyer.

‘I should prefer to continue this—discussion somewhere less public,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Willingly.’ His smile lifted the corners of his firm-lipped mouth. ‘My place or yours?’

Gabrielle felt her cheeks redden in spite of herself.

‘Professor Morgan …’ she began in angry protest.

He shook his head. ‘Wrong again, I’m afraid. My name is Lennox—Shaun Lennox. Dennis Morgan is ill—a touch of fever.’

She stared at him, a glimmer of hope appearing on her bleak horizon. ‘You mean you’re not even the leader of the expedition and yet you presume to come here—to give me my marching orders as if …’

‘Yes, I do so presume.’ His brows snapped together. No laughter now. ‘Dennis is not a young man any more and he’s been quite sick. I want to spare him as many minor worries and irritations as possible.’

Gabrielle lifted her chin. ‘I suppose there’s no need to ask which classification I come under. Well, I don’t want to cause Professor Morgan any anxiety either, and I’m quite prepared to wait until he’s well again for his decision.’

‘I can assure you it will be the same as mine.’

‘Perhaps.’ Gabrielle suddenly felt as if she gained the advantage and pressed it home eagerly. ‘But I’d prefer to hear it from his own lips—if you don’t mind,’ she added sweetly.

‘Please yourself,’ he said shortly. ‘I suppose, having come all this way, you’re entitled to a few days’ holiday at Vision’s expense. They probably owe it to you, anyway, having sent you here under false pretences.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Gabrielle asserted confidently. Then a new and disturbing thought occurred to her. ‘Er—about my accommodation.’

He leaned forward and stubbed out his cheroot in an ash tray. ‘What about it?’

She flushed. ‘Well, I’m booked in here for tonight, but I understood—that is, Martin said that I would be staying at the Institute headquarters—as part of the team.’

She did not add that this assumption had also been based on the fact that she was married to a member of the team as well.

‘An excellent idea—if you’d been the accredited representative we were expecting. As things are, maybe you’d do better to stay here.’

She looked at him, frankly dismayed. ‘But they may not have a vacancy. This is the tourist season, you know.’

‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘I know.’

His eyes were completely impassive as they met the indignation in hers. Gabrielle controlled herself with an effort and marched over to the reception desk. But the clerk met her halting inquiry with a blank face and a regretful shake of the head. There were no reservations available after that night. The hotel was full and he was unable to recommend anywhere else which might have a vacancy. Merida, he explained with much hand-waving, was full for the season—except for certain places where the señorita would not care to stay.

‘I shouldn’t be too sure,’ Gabrielle commented under her breath.

She walked back to the table, fighting an impulse to throw herself on this Lennox man’s dubious mercy and beg a lodging at the Institute. At the same time, she was deeply concerned by the reaction her arrival had caused. Was it possible that James had kept to himself the fact that the Vision photographer Professor Morgan was expecting was his wife? Was he dissociating himself from her completely. It was a troubling thought and made her position in Merida even more tenuous.

As she approached the table, she saw that Shaun Lennox had risen and was waiting for her, his hands resting lightly on his hips, a faint smile playing about his mouth. It was the smile that decided her. She would sleep in the street rather than ask any favour of him.

She forced an answering smile. ‘That’s settled,’ she said with spurious brightness. She hesitated. ‘Would it be in order for me to at least visit the Institute?’ She indicated the big square case on the floor. ‘Some of my cameras and equipment are valuable, and I’d feel happier if I could get them under lock and key there, rather than leave them in my room.’

He eyed the case expressionlessly. ‘I suppose that can be arranged,’ he said drily. ‘But don’t regard it as a foot in the door.’

She breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was sure she could find somewhere to stay if she no longer had her cameras to worry about. She had brought the minimum of luggage with her, feeling it was better to make up any deficiencies locally if necessary.

Besides, it was only too likely that the first person she came face to face with at the Institute would be James himself, and then her accommodation problem would surely be solved. Even James, she thought, could hardly repudiate his own wife in front of his colleagues without causing the sort of unpleasant scene that he would detest. She noted with a feeling of resignation that she seemed to have abandoned the idea of any kind of welcome from James.

‘Well, let’s go.’ Shaun Lennox’s voice broke impatiently across the depressing trend of her thoughts. ‘I’ve wasted enough time today already. That case is all you need to take, I assume. You’ll need your other luggage with you.’

Gabrielle, who had been searching for an excuse to take her large suitcase along as well, let the idea drop with an inward sigh. She could always, she supposed, tell this forbidding stranger her real identity and have the joy of seeing him eat humble pie over his rudeness to a colleague’s wife, but she was reluctant to do so. It would involve her in all kinds of awkward explanations at this late stage and if these were needed she would prefer to make them to Professor Morgan. But she hoped at the same time that they would not be necessary. James could not just go on ignoring the fact of her presence for ever.

‘Of course,’ she said, disliking him more than she would ever have thought possible.

‘Right, then.’ He glanced rather ostentatiously at his watch and she bent to pick up the heavy case, shifting her shoulder bag to the other side as she did so. It was an awkward movement, rendered even more so by the fact that she caught her sandal heel against the leg of the table and overbalanced, stumbling slightly.

‘So your much vaunted sexual equality doesn’t extend to carrying your own baggage,’ he commented drily, and before she could protest, he had swung the case to his own shoulder. ‘Can you manage now, Miss Christow?’

She glared at him impotently. ‘Thank you—yes.’

But once outside the hotel where a jeep stood waiting, another hazard presented itself. Although the rain had stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun, the street was still more like a miniature river than a highway and Gabrielle halted on the hotel steps with an exclamation of dismay.

‘Come now, Miss Christow. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that Merida is also known as Little Venice—among other things?’ he added with a sardonic curl of his lips.

‘No, they didn’t, Mr Lennox.’ She kept her voice cool. ‘That’s why I’m wearing sandals—not waders.’

Again she had to endure that look of total assessment that seemed to reach her shrinking skin.

‘I’m sure your job requires that you get your facts straight,’ he drawled. ‘It’s Dr Lennox, not Mr. And there’s no need to paddle, as long as you’re prepared to forgo your liberated woman’s principles yet again.’

He placed her camera case in the back of the jeep and before she could speak or move, reached for her in turn. He lifted her as easily as if she had been a doll, her legs dangling helplessly as she was held for an endless, unbearable moment against his hard muscular body, then with almost insolent ease he deposited her none too gently in the passenger seat. Gabrielle sat up, straightening her dress and smoothing her hair with hands that shook in spite of her efforts to control them, while he strode round to the other side of the jeep and swung himself into the driving seat.

He grinned at her, as he switched on the ignition.

‘We get more than our feet wet in the rain forest, Miss Christow,’ he said laconically. ‘Count yourself lucky to be out of it.’

‘We’ll see about that, Dr Lennox.’ Her tone held a restrained fury that could not have been lost on him. A moment’s pause and she added, ‘Male chauvinist pig isn’t a phrase I ever thought I would use, but in your case I have to make an exception.’

‘Well, don’t feel badly about it, Miss Christow.’ The jeep set off with a perceptible jerk and Gabrielle realised that her jibe had actually got to him. ‘There’s bound to be a female equivalent and I should have no hesitation in using it about you—if you’re around that long.’

And there was no answer to that, Gabrielle thought with a sinking heart.




CHAPTER TWO (#u5dc0cbaa-f3e0-5f1a-ae8b-0b5b044067a7)


IT was a relatively short drive to the Institute headquarters, but it seemed longer to Gabrielle. The silence between them seemed to crackle, but neither she nor her companion made the slightest attempt to relieve the tension by introducing some casual topic of conversation.

There was plenty she would have liked to have asked him, especially when she caught a glimpse down a side street of the huge pale lemon mass of the sixteenth-century cathedral. It was infuriating to think she had been kicking her heels in the hotel waiting for the Institute to contact her, and now that she did have a chance to do some sightseeing, it was being spoiled for her like this.

It was hard to maintain her reserve when they swung into a wide, busy boulevard lined on each side by big houses, most of which had the unmistakable appearance of having seen better days, and built in a crazy jumble of varying architectural styles. Gabrielle’s hands itched for her camera. She found all this forlorn grandeur intensely appealing, but the jeep sped on and she had to be content with promising herself a return visit on her own before she left Merida.

They turned off presently into a narrower thoroughfare, where the exotic topiary hedges gave way to high white walls, interspersed with anonymous wooden gates, and it was outside one of these that the jeep eventually drew up. The drainage must be better in some parts of the city than others, Gabrielle thought, as she noticed that the narrow pavement on which she was about to descend seemed to have escaped the recent flooding.

Dr Lennox had already reached into the back of the jeep and recovered her camera case. Now he stood unsmilingly, holding it while he extended his other hand to help her out of the jeep. Perversely, she ignored his proffered assistance and climbed down unaided, uncomfortably aware as she did so that the manoeuvre had revealed more of her slim legs than she had intended. But if she had expected some pointed comment, none was forthcoming. He merely unlatched the gate and stood aside to allow her to precede him.

The courtyard they entered was surrounded on three sides by an attractive two-storey building in white stucco. A covered verandah ran the length of the ground floor and was echoed by a series of connecting balconies on the upper floor. A fountain played lazily in the centre of the tiled yard and brilliant blossoms flowered in tubs or swarmed in heady splendour over the columns of the verandah.

Gabrielle drew an appreciative breath, but her companion seemed oblivious to the charm of their surroundings and showed no disposition to linger. He strode across the yard and up the steps to a pair of imposing louvred doors set in the middle of the verandah facing them. Gabrielle followed him, aware of a sudden pounding in her chest, and damp palms which owed nothing to the prevailing humidity.

She found herself in a large entrance hall, looking across the exquisitely blocked parquet floor to where a graceful staircase with a wrought iron balustrade swept up in a leisurely curve to the floor above. There were several doors in the hall, all forbiddingly shut, but from behind one of them came the sound of typewriters. Dr Lennox walked to this door and threw it open with an impatient twist of the elaborate handle.

It was a large room, giving an impression of space in spite of the efficient desks, filing cabinets and small switchboard it contained.

Two girls were busy typing while a third seemed occupied with a mass of official-looking forms, but she looked up with a smile at the newcomers, her gaze lingering questioningly on Gabrielle.

‘Esta es la señorita Christow,’ Dr Lennox remarked, apparently to the room at large. He indicated the camera case he was carrying. ‘Isabella, could you find a safe place for this, por favor?’

‘Si.’ The girl rose, quietly composed in her dark dress, her black hair neatly confined at the nape of her neck. ‘Perhaps I should put it in the strong-room.’

Her voice rose questioningly and Dr Lennox turned to Gabrielle. ‘Does that satisfy?’ His voice was chilly.

‘Thank you.’ Gabrielle moistened her lips and smiled over-brightly at Isabella. ‘Gracias. That will be fine. You’re very kind.’

‘No hay de que. De nada.’ Isabella lifted her shoulders in a graceful shrug. She paused. ‘You—are going to work here, señorita?’

‘I hope so,’ Gabrielle said awkwardly, acutely aware of the tall man who lounged beside her in the doorway, listening.

‘Don’t they say “Hope springs eternal in the human breast"?’ he interjected drily before Isabella could begin the polite reply which was already forming on her lips. ‘My advice to you, Miss Christow, is to book your return flight and save yourself and everyone else a lot of needless argument and trouble.’

‘That might be more convenient from your point of view, Dr Lennox, but I am here to work, not to creep home with my tail between my legs because of some whim of yours. I prefer to wait for Professor Morgan’s decision!’

‘As you wish.’ He shrugged negligently. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Isabella will arrange for Carlos to drive you back to your hotel. Unless common sense prevails with you in the meantime, I expect we shall be in touch. Hasta luego, Miss Christow.’

Gabrielle felt curiously solitary as the tall figure vanished. She turned back to Isabella, but the girl was already busy at the switchboard, presumably summoning the unknown Carlos. She was to be summarily hustled off the premises, it seemed.

She gave the other girl a perfunctory smile and wandered back into the hall. The building was very quiet suddenly. Even the distant traffic sounded no louder than the drowsy hum of bees. It was a surprisingly tranquil place, she thought. Too tranquil for someone as abrasive as Dr Lennox. She stared round restlessly at the quiet elegance of the hall, and her attention sharpened as she realised that some of the tall carved doors bore neat name-plates. Could they be the private offices of some of the Institute employees? If so, one of them could be James’. He might be working in there now, totally unaware of her presence. Her fingers clenched a little as she registered the bareness of her left hand. While things remained as they were between them, she had decided not to wear her wedding ring. It was in her small jewellery box at the bottom of her suitcase and it would stay there until matters were resolved.

‘You want something, señorita?’ Isabella was standing in the office doorway watching her. She was smiling no longer, and her piquant face held a faintly suspicious look.

‘It’s all right,’ Gabrielle said quickly. ‘I’m just—absorbing the atmosphere. It’s such a lovely building, isn’t it?’

Isabella shrugged, a little dismissively. ‘Es muy viejo—very old,’ she enlarged unwillingly, but she did not offer to show Gabrielle around any of it as she had half hoped she might. In fact, her earlier friendliness had evaporated—with the departure of Dr Lennox, Gabrielle realised ironically.

She badly wanted to read the names on some of those doors—but not while she was being watched. She glanced around, improvising rapidly. ‘It’s very hot, isn’t it? Muy caliente. I wonder if I could have a drink?’

Isabella frowned slightly. ‘There will be fruit juice. You want that I fetch?’

‘If you would be so kind.’ Gabrielle made herself smile winningly at her.

Isabella muttered something unintelligible in Spanish, then with an ungracious, ‘Be good enough to wait here, señorita,’ she disappeared down the hall. Gabrielle waited until the click of her heels had died into silence, then whipped across and began examining the nameplates. She had worked down one side of the hall and was just beginning on the other, her ears straining to catch the sound of Isabella’s return, when she found what she was looking for. ‘Dr. J. A. Warner’, the card stated. For a moment she hesitated, then lifted her hand determinedly and knocked. When there was no reply, she knocked again more loudly, then turned the carved handle and went in.

The anti-climax was complete. The room was quite empty. But it was not merely James’ physical presence that was lacking, Gabrielle realised as she glanced round. Both desk and filing cabinet seemed oddly bare—no comfortable clutter of papers or maps—no pen thrown down as if the room’s occupant would soon be back to resume his interrupted work. The waste basket was empty, and the bookshelves looked as if their contents had been severely pruned. There were a few standard works which Gabrielle recognised as also occupying a place in James’ study at home and a sprinkling of rather dog-eared pamphlets. Gabrielle felt oddly disturbed. At home, James had stamped his personality on the flat—obsessively so. Here, he seemed to have made no impression at all. There was no trace of him—not even an empty pipe.

Engrossed in her thoughts, her first consciousness that she was no longer alone came with Isabella’s shrill ‘Que hace usted aqui? What are you doing here, señorita?’ from behind her.

Gabrielle turned hastily and saw the other girl standing in the doorway, holding a glass of fruit juice.

‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised quickly. ‘I—I wanted somewhere to sit down and there were no seats in the hall.’

‘Es privado. Entrance is not permitted to these rooms—there are items of value. If you wish to sit, there is a bench in the courtyard.’

Gabrielle stiffened. Was Isabella insinuating that she looked like a thief? But she controlled her temper with an effort. After all, her conduct was questionable and Isabella was justified at least in judging her a snooper. It would have been far better to have introduced herself properly and asked for James quite openly, she thought unhappily, but having embarked on this course, she would have to continue with it. She had no intention of explaining herself to Isabella.

She made her voice equable. ‘I didn’t know these rooms were private or I wouldn’t have intruded. But I don’t see any valuable items—in fact the place looks deserted. Does—does anyone use it?’

‘Si, Dr Warner uses it.’

‘Do you know where he is?’ Gabrielle found she was holding her breath.

Isabella stared at her. ‘Why should I know? It is not my concern. There is much work now because soon an expedition starts to the Chiapas. Maybe Dr Warner is in Villahermosa making arrangements. Who knows?’

‘In Villahermosa? Are you sure?’

Isabella gave her a look of baffled hostility. ‘I am sure of nothing, señorita, but it is certain that he was there—with Dr Lennox. Maybe he stays there.’

Gabrielle could have groaned aloud, but she had already given Isabella too much fuel for her curiosity, she realised.

She said, hating the inanity in her voice, ‘Oh—of course. They’ll all be so busy. I didn’t think … Is that juice for me? How lovely. I think I will sit down—in the courtyard, did you say?’

Isabella’s eyes were openly contemptuous now. ‘Carlos is waiting for you, señorita. He too has other work to attend to,’ she mentioned abruptly. She turned and waited ostentatiously for Gabrielle to precede her into the hall. Then she closed James’ door with rather more than necessary force before marching across the hall to her own office without a backward glance.

‘And hasta la vista to you too,’ Gabrielle thought wryly as she sipped her drink. She wandered out into the sunshine and stood listening to the splash of the fountain as she finished the contents of the glass. She left the empty glass on the bench as she turned to greet Carlos who came out of the Institute to meet her. He was small and round with a warm smile, and he looked oddly familiar, although she was hard put to it to discover where the familiarity lay. It wasn’t until they were in the jeep and driving away and she saw him in profile that she knew. It was the typically Mayan profile that she had seen in endless pictures and reproductions, even to the slightly sloping forehead. It made the jungle palaces seem suddenly far less remote.

The return drive to the hotel was an altogether different proposition. Carlos needed no urging to deviate from the direct route and show off his abilities as a guide.

‘But a jeep is not the best way to see Merida, señorita,’ he told her reproachfully. ‘Tomorrow you must walk to the Plaza de la Indepencia and see the Casa Montejo.’

‘Wasn’t it a Montejo who founded Merida?’ Gabrielle searched her memory for the facts she had assimilated during her background reading on the Yucatan.

‘Si. Don Francisco de Montejo. He conquered forty thousand Indians with only four hundred Spanish knights. Our beautiful cathedral is built on the spot where he won his victory.’

Gabrielle sighed a little. ‘Quite a victory,’ she said drily. ‘And all in the name of God, I suppose.’

‘Si, señorita. How could it be otherwise? And in the cathedral, there is a beautiful picture of the visit of the king Tutul XIV visiting Don Francisco only weeks before his conversion to our blessed faith.’

Whatever the physical evidence might be, Carlos had chosen his own ancestors, Gabrielle realised, hiding a smile.

‘I think your Mexico is very beautiful, Carlos,’ she said.

Carlos gave her a disgusted look. ‘Is not my Mexico, señorita. I was born a Yucateco. I do not concern myself with Mexico.’ He removed his hands from the wheel to snap his fingers as a sign of his sublime disregard for both Mexico and the mass of traffic around them.

Gabrielle was sorely tempted to laugh, but managed to retain her self-control. ‘I’m sorry, Carlos. I didn’t realise feeling was so strong here.’

He grinned cheerfully. ‘We belong to ourselves, señorita, that is all. For so long we were alone that we became—accustomed.’

It was probably true, Gabrielle thought, visualising the small Spanish outpost that the conquistadores had set up on the peninsula and held against all odds.

Carlos was continuing, pointing out places of interest as they passed and recommending restaurants. ‘And when you are too tired to walk any further, señorita, you can go to the Parque Cepada and take a calesa for the rest of your tour.’

Gabrielle nodded a smiling agreement. She had already promised herself a ride in one of the pony-drawn buggies which could be seen everywhere on the streets. But before she embarked on any of these pleasures, she silently reminded herself, she had to find somewhere to stay. She nearly asked Carlos if he could help her, but bit the words back at the last moment. She had led that Lennox man to believe that she could continue to stay at her hotel. She did not want him to find out the truth through some chance remark from Carlos.

She was half toying with the idea of hiring a car to take her to Villahermosa, but common sense intervened. At least in Merida she had a contact—however tenuous—with the Institute. Sooner or later, James would return there. If she went to Villahermosa she would be searching for a needle in a haystack, and there was every chance that she would miss him again.

She ate a solitary dinner in the hotel dining room, very conscious that she seemed to be the only person in the room on her own. She ordered enchilada, but asked for it to be accompanied by a tomato sauce instead of the usual red chilli accompaniment until her palate had adjusted to the new highly spiced dishes. The last thing she wanted was a touch of ‘Montezuma’s Revenge’, especially if she was homeless, she thought wryly.

She was drinking the last of a reflective cup of coffee when she heard someone speak to her, and glancing up, she saw a couple, not many years older than herself, who had been sitting at the next table. They introduced themselves as Jon and Cathy Benson and needed no urging to accept Gabrielle’s rather tentative invitation to join her for more coffee. They seemed a friendly, outgoing pair and she soon learned that they were from California and were enjoying a delayed ‘honeymoon’ after five years of marriage. They obviously believed she was yet another eager tourist like themselves, and they were wide-eyed with interest as Gabrielle explained the work she hoped to do.

‘Gee, you’re lucky,’ Cathy sighed. ‘We have to start for home next week. Have you visited many of the sites yet? We stopped over to see Bonampak and Palenque on the way here. Oh boy, the Temple of the Inscriptions—it’s just so—tremendous. I felt like some kind of ant.’

Her husband laughed. ‘Cath’s exaggerating as usual,’ he teased. ‘Not even a Mayan temple could put her down.’

‘Oh no?’ Cathy laid her hand over her heart with an extravagant gesture. ‘Reading about all those human sacrifices gave me some genuinely bad moments, I can tell you.’

Gabrielle smiled. ‘I expect they had roughly the same effect on the victims,’ she said drily.

Jon shuddered. ‘This is a great after-dinner conversation! What we really came across to say was that a group of us are going to La Ermita tonight and as you seem to be alone, we wondered if you would care to come along too.’

‘La Ermita?’ Gabrielle looked at them questioningly. ‘What—or where—is that?’

‘It’s an old hermitage on the outskirts. It’s been restored and they’ve made a garden out of the old cemetery next door. At night, it’s all lit up and there’s even a waterfall. They have music and there are usually dancers that you can watch.’ Cathy laid an eager hand on her arm. ‘Come with us and see for yourself. We love it there.’

Gabrielle was sorely tempted. Things had gone so badly for her, it seemed, ever since she had first set foot in the Yucatan that the idea of an evening of gaiety appealed to her strongly. But at the same time, she was reluctant to leave the hotel in case James tried to contact her, although that was beginning to seem an increasingly remote possibility. And she also had the prospect of a strenuous day ahead of her, searching for fresh accommodation, she remembered.

She was genuinely regretful as she refused the invitation, and was warmed by the Bensons’ disappointment at her refusal, as well as their cheerful assurances that they wouldn’t take no for an answer next time. It was the first friendly reaction she’d had from anyone since she arrived in Mexico, she thought as she left the dining room, and instantly choked down the lump that rose in her throat at the thought. Self-pity was one of the last emotions she could afford to waste her energies on, she told herself resolutely as she went up to her room. She showered and climbed into bed, reaching for the book that stood on her bedside table. It was a modern account of the re-discovery of the Maya by Stephens and Catherwood during the 1840s, and reminding herself of the trials and sufferings they had endured in the rain forest would, she hoped, help her to get her own problems in perspective. But when, eventually, she fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming confusedly of jungle courts and creeper-hung palaces, it was not the pale bearded face of any Victorian explorer which stared at her from the shadowed doorways and arches but the dark, arrogant face of Shaun Lennox.

Gabrielle shifted her suitcase from one hand to another yet again, pausing to flex the muscles in her aching arm. She had stayed around the Hotel Belen as long as possible, hoping for the reprieve of a last-minute cancellation, but none had been forthcoming and she had realised eventually that she would have to vacate her room.

She had been on the point of departure when she had encountered the Bensons and she had felt foolishly embarrassed, as if she was leaving the hotel under some kind of cloud. They were naturally surprised to see her carrying her suitcase, but they accepted her rather halting explanation that she was transferring to the Institute without too much demur. She knew that if she had given one hint of her predicament, they would probably have offered to drive her round Merida until she found somewhere to stay, but at the same time she felt it would be unfair to involve them in her troubles when their own holiday was drawing to an end and they would want to make the most of the time they had left in the Yucatan.

Now she wished she had not been quite so altruistic. She might have found explanations slightly humiliating, but not as bad as this utterly fruitless trek from hotel to lodging house that had occupied most of the day. She had used a local guide book to draw up a list of the more likely places to try, but this was almost exhausted now and it was nearing sunset. She had to find somewhere quickly, she thought with alarm. It would be unthinkable to be out on the streets with her case after dark.

The Bensons had promised cheerfully to ‘Keep in touch’ as they said goodbye, and Gabrielle found herself longing for them to appear by magic in their big blue car and take charge. But that was negative thinking, she chided herself mentally. It was tantamount to admitting that Shaun Lennox could be right, and that she was out of her depth here.

She stifled a quick sigh and took a firm grip of her suitcase. She had one more place in her list—the Café Tula, which offered a few rooms to rent above its ground floor premises. She crossed her fingers superstitiously, hoping rather desperately that they might still have a vacant corner somewhere they could offer her.

Her spirits rose a little as she went in and glanced round at the neat booths with their solid-looking tables and benches and the spotlessly clean tablecloths. Several of the booths were already occupied by diners and an invitingly spicy smell of cooking drifted in from the kitchen. There was a well-stocked bar at one end of the room and a man was standing behind it arranging bottles on a shelf. He turned as Gabrielle approached rather diffidently.

‘Quisiera una habitation, por favor,’ she asked politely. the Spanish phrase requesting a room rising almost fluently to her lips after a day of practice.

The man studied her for a moment without reply. He had a round placid face with a slightly anxious expression. Then with a slight shrug, he called ‘Pilar!’ and turned back to his task.

Almost at once, the swing doors to the kitchen bounced open and a small, dark woman swathed in a white apron swept into the room. She paused, her hands resting aggressively on her hips. The swift flood of Spanish, directed primarily at the man behind the counter, was too fast for Gabrielle to follow, but from the tone and the accompanying gestures she gathered that Pilar was far from pleased at being brought from her stove to deal with a passing turista.

‘Que quiere usted, señorita?’ Her voice was brusque and impatient and Gabrielle flushed a little, and repeated her request for a room.

‘No hay ningunas?’ The woman spoke dismissively and turned as if to go back to the kitchen.

‘Oh, wait—please.’ Gabrielle spoke in English in her alarm. ‘Señora, estoy cansada. I’m tired—I need a room. Es urgente,’ she added on a note of appeal.

But the only response from Pilar was a sniff, followed by another tirade in Spanish, none of which was comprehensible to Gabrielle. The man behind the bar tried to intervene but was silenced with a look. Gabrielle turned towards him impulsively.

‘Señor, I don’t understand what your wife is saying. Can you explain to her that I’m not a tourist? I am—working here in Merida for a while. I do need a room very badly and I’m willing to pay whatever she asks.’

As she spoke, Gabrielle fumbled in her bag for her wallet, but the man shook his head.

‘Is not—money, señorita. Is—no room,’ he said haltingly, but he looked uncomfortable and his eyes did not meet Gabrielle’s as he spoke.

Pilar muttered something to him, then swung away and returned to her kitchen. The man sighed.

‘My wife says Hernandez may have room. The señorita should try there.’

‘Hernandez?’ Gabrielle was puzzled. It was not one of the names on her list nor one she had encountered in any of the guides, but it seemed she had little choice other than to go along with the suggestion. She produced a scrap of paper and a pen from her bag and laid it on the bar counter. ‘Como puedo ir a Hernandez, Señor, por favor?’

With another sigh, he drew her a brief sketch map, then turned away with an air of relief to serve some customers who had just arrived.

So much for the famed hospitality of the Yucatan, Gabrielle thought with an inward grimace as she hoisted her case and prepared to set off on her travels again.

Her uncertainty increased when she finally arrived at the place indicated on the map. It was not the small restaurant or posada she had envisaged but a small bar in a side street, its sign picked out in gaudy electric bulbs, many of which were either broken or missing. A beaded curtain gave access to the bar from the street and after a momentary hesitation, she pushed this aside and entered. Her nose wrinkled involuntarily as she glanced around. It had none of the clean, comfortable atmosphere of the Café Tula. The interior lighting was poor and a few noisy fans fixed to the walls were the nearest approach to air conditioning. The customers appeared to be all men and Gabrielle paused, fighting an instinctive urge to turn and go back to the dark street outside. Anywhere—even a bench in one of the plazas—would be better than this, she thought despairingly, before common sense came to rescue her, reminding her not to judge by appearances alone and that she had, anyway, very little choice in the matter.

‘Si, señorita? Can I help you?’ A large man who had been sitting alone at a corner table reading a newspaper heaved himself to his feet and came forward, his eyes roaming over her. He was an unprepossessing individual, his dirty shirt straining the buttons over his belly, while his smile revealed broken and discoloured teeth. But his voice was polite enough and Gabrielle forced herself to return his smile.

With the feeling she was living through some kind of bad dream, she explained her predicament in her halting Spanish and saw his smile broaden.

‘No norteamericana?’ he asked.

Gabrielle shook her head. ‘Inglesa,’ she returned.

‘And who tells an Inglesa to come to Hernandez?’

‘They sent me from the Café Tula. A woman called Pilar told me to try here.’ Gabrielle was relieved that his command of English seemed so good.

‘Pilar told you, eh?’ He was overcome by a spasm of silent laughter, his shoulders heaving up and down appreciatively. ‘It—figures. Pilar does not like gringas.’ He reached down and picked up Gabrielle’s case. ‘I show you the room, señorita.’

Gabrielle followed him across the room, embarrassedly aware of the frankly assessing glances fixed on her from all sides. She found herself uneasily checking that all the buttons on her navy shirt were fastened and that the cream flare of her skirt hadn’t been caught up in any way. She was almost glad to find herself out of the bar and going up a narrow stairway between stained and peeling walls. She felt a shiver of distaste which she firmly quelled. Whatever the room was like, she could put up with it for one night at least. Tomorrow she could make fresh plans—maybe even go to Villahermosa.

But the room was not as bad as she had anticipated. The floor was uncarpeted, and some of the slats were broken in the shutters at the windows, but the brightly patterned bedcover seemed clean and so did the cracked washbasin in the corner.

She turned to Hernandez. ‘How much is the room, Señor?’

The price he named made her gasp in disbelief. ‘I—I couldn’t possibly afford all that!’

He shrugged. ‘But the señorita is working. It is a fair rent.’

Now how did he know that? she wondered helplessly. She tried to speak firmly.

‘I am—hoping to work, yes, but nothing is settled yet, and I haven’t a great deal of money. Besides, I only want the room for one night,’ she added hastily.

Hernandez’ large greasy face creased into a frown. ‘Que? But the señorita is muy hermosa. She will not take long to find—work. But I am not a hard man. I make a reduction now and later we talk again.’

Gabrielle accepted with relief, deciding it might be better not to continue any argument about the length of her proposed stay. She handed over the money and watched Hernandez count it before stowing it away in his pocket. He gave her another ingratiating smile as he prepared to leave. ‘The señorita want anything? Tequila?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Gabrielle said hastily. Her empty stomach revolted at the thought of alcohol. She would have to find a restaurant nearby and have something to eat, she thought, flinching a little from the prospect of having to face another trip through the bar downstairs, and wishing that she’d had the foresight to buy some food during the day.

She was glad to see the back of Hernandez, who had seemed disposed to linger, but her heart sank when she finally closed the door behind him and discovered there was no lock on it, and a small broken bolt. She groaned aloud. If she did go out, what guarantee did she have that any of her belongings would still be here when she returned? She gazed rather desperately round the room, registering the fact that the door of the small wardrobe had to be wedged shut with newspaper. It looked as if she was a prisoner in her room until morning. Wearily she picked up her case and put it on the bed. She might as well try and get some sleep and forget her hunger that way.

She found her nightdress and slippers and closed the case again. There was no point in unpacking any further when she would be out of here first thing in the morning, she thought. She swung the case off the bed and looked round for somewhere to stow it. Under the bed seemed the most obvious place and she lifted a corner of the bedcover to make sure there was room.

Something—more than one—ran. Black, bloated and shining from the sheltering darkness under the bed, almost brushing her hand in passing. Her skin crawled uncontrollably and she heard herself scream in pure panic. She jumped to her feet, pulling the covers back from the bed with shaking hands, determined to find if there were any more lurking horrors.

‘What is the matter? Why are you shouting?’ Hernandez was back again. His voice sounded irritable through the closed door. She threw it open and confronted him.

‘There are cockroaches in this room, Señor!’

He looked at her almost incredulously and gave a short laugh. ‘So? Perhaps you should have taken a room at the Montejo Palace, gringa.’

She bit her lip. ‘I’ll need some insecticide. And a bucket of water, some disinfectant and a mop. I’m going to clean this room.’

Hernandez came in and shut the door behind him. He smiled at her genially, but Gabrielle felt a quiver of alarm run along her nerve endings.

‘Why do you make so much fuss? The room is cheap, no, and the—clients when they come do not notice such things. The other girls do not complain.’

Dry-throated, Gabrielle said, ‘Other girls?’

‘Si. You do not imagine you are the first? But you were wise to come to Hernandez, Inglesa. I will—look after you.’

The expression in his eyes as he watched her made her feel as if she was swimming through slime. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘I think there has been some mistake. I’d better leave.’

His small eyes narrowed. ‘Why you go? Soon everyone will know there is an Inglesa at Hernandez’ place. Many will come. You will make a lot of money. You were a fool to go to Pilar. Pilar is a good woman—very moral—go to Mass each day.’

‘No,’ she said desperately. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘I understand.’ He shrugged negligently. ‘You had to leave your hotel. Hotels here—very strict. But is O.K. here. Is good room, very cheap.’ He smiled again and took her arm, pinching the flesh between his stubby fingers. ‘Be nice to Hernandez, gringa, and maybe the room gets cheaper.’

Sheer panic lent her extra strength. She tore herself free from his grip and dodged past him out of the room, intent only on reaching the street and the comparative safety it seemed to offer. But there was a man coming up the dark stairs, blocking them. She collided with a hard body. Arms like steel bands went round her, controlling her struggles, as sobs of fright tore at her throat.

‘Calm down!’ The voice held a snarl, but it was English and it was also familiar. Dazedly, Gabrielle looked up into Shaun Lennox’s dark face, his eyes brilliant with anger.

‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped.

‘I could ask you the same, but it’s hardly the time for damfool questions.’ He took her arm in a bruising grip and led her back down the passage, ignoring her instinctive resistance. ‘Don’t abandon your luggage, Miss Christow. Hernandez will only sell it, and I imagine he’s had some money from you already. Don’t let him make more profit from your mistake.’

Hernandez was standing sulkily by the door as they went in. At the sight of Shaun Lennox, his whole attitude became defensive and he embarked on what seemed to be lengthy explanations in Spanish, causing every now and then to shoot accusing glares at Gabrielle.

Dr Lennox silenced him with one swift phrase which brought dull colour into the swarthy cheeks. Then he turned to Gabrielle.

‘Get your things together, Miss Christow,’ he advised curtly. ‘They’re holding dinner for us at the Institute.’

She stared at him unbelievingly for a moment. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘I haven’t,’ he said succinctly. ‘Dennis Morgan has made one of his lightning recoveries and wants to have a look at you. I phoned your hotel this morning to let you know and found you’d left without a forwarding address. We’ve been looking for you most of the day.’

‘How did you find me?’ She rolled her nightdress into a ball and rammed it into a corner of the case.

‘Quite by accident. Rosita who works in the office at the Institute—you may have seen her yesterday—was dining at the Café Tula with her novio tonight and she saw you. She got the gist of what was going on and it worried her, especially when she heard friend Hernandez’ name being mentioned. This bar is pretty notorious. But her English isn’t too good and she doubted whether she’d be able to make you understand, so she telephoned me instead.’

‘I’m very gateful to her.’ Gabrielle snapped the locks on her case with trembling fingers.

‘You have good reason to be,’ he said drily. ‘From your dramatic appearance just now, I imagine I came just in time. Here.’ He held out an imperative hand for the case and she surrendered it without a word.

The jeep was parked outside. She climbed in, still without speaking and sat, staring rigidly ahead through the windscreen. Shaun Lennox joined her.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said in a tight little voice.

‘You’re just hungry.’ He started the engine. ‘Try and think about something else.’

‘How can I think of anything else?’ There was an edge of hysteria in her voice. ‘You don’t know the sort of day I’ve been through. And now this!’

‘You were warned,’ he reminded her. ‘I told you that this was not the place for practising your new-found sexual equality or women’s liberation—or any other half-baked ideas for that matter. But you had to find out the hard way. Why didn’t you tell me the Belen wanted your room and that you were stranded?’

‘You know why!’ she flashed.

‘Pride, I suppose.’ His lips twisted wryly. ‘And if Rosita hadn’t recognised you just now—I wonder how much pride you’d have had left in the morning. Would you have thought it was worth it?’

The tears which had been threatening forced their way to the surface and spilled over. She felt totally humiliated. It was bad enough that she had placed herself in a position where she had to be rescued by this man, but now to display such ridiculous weakness. All she was doing was confirming that she didn’t have the stamina for the job she had been sent to do. She was condemning herself before she even got to see Professor Morgan.

‘Here.’ He produced an immaculate linen handkerchief from his pocket and passed it to her.

‘Thank you,’ she managed.

He grinned maliciously. ‘What restraint! Why don’t you fling it at me, and damn me to hell for good measure? Women with your colouring aren’t usually so placid under adversity.’

She dried her eyes, forcing herself to speak normally. ‘You’ve known so many, of course.’

‘My fair share,’ he said laconically. ‘And as we’ve moved on to a personal level—how many men have you known?’

Suddenly the picture of James was large in her mind. It had not occurred to her until then that he might be back at the Institute, returned from whatever mission he had been carrying out for the expedition. She felt a cold chill at the thought. She could imagine the image she presented at that moment—tangled hair, eyes red and blurred with weeping. Her appearance, quite apart from the mess she had all unwittingly landed herself in, would be a total affront to his tidy soul.

‘You’re very quiet,’ he commented laconically. ‘Are you searching your memory or simply freezing me with your silence?’

The colour rose in her face as she recalled what his original question had been.

‘I was thinking about something else,’ she said lamely.

‘It figures. You have plenty to think about.’ He glanced at her. ‘Have you given any further consideration to going home?’

She thought of the empty, immaculate flat and shivered a little. ‘Where is home?’ she said, almost inaudibly. But he heard her.

‘What does the old cliché say? Home is where the heart is. To put it in more manageable terms—with your family—your friends.’

‘I—I have no family.’ It felt like the truth, she thought desolately, clenching her ringless left hand in the folds of her skirt.

‘Miss Lonelyhearts herself.’ His voice was smooth and mocking. ‘Is this why you’ve come to the Yucatan, Miss Christow? In the hopes of finding someone to play Tarzan to your Jane in the rain forest?’

She flinched. ‘No, Dr Lennox,’ she said tightly. ‘I came because my interest in the Maya is as serious as your own, and I’d be grateful if you’d stop treating me as if I was some silly child …’

‘Is that how I’ve been treating you?’ His smile widened. ‘I can assure you I don’t see you in that light at all.’

Her head was aching slightly. She put up her hand and pushed her hair back. Her fingers felt warm and a little clammy. She thought longingly of a cool shower and some food.

‘I’m tired of all this verbal fencing, Dr Lennox,’ she said wearily. ‘I realise, of course, that you’re quite determined that I shouldn’t accompany this expedition, but I can’t find any adequate reason for your opposition.’

‘Can’t you?’ She felt his glance on her.

‘No. You can’t pretend, for instance, that women never go. Are you saying that you wouldn’t take part in an expedition that included women?’

‘Certainly not,’ he drawled. ‘There are some women I’d be quite happy to include.’

‘But not me.’ Anger was taking its grip on her. ‘Will you please tell me why—why there should be one rule for “some women” and another for me?’

He pulled the jeep over to the side of the road and switched off the engine. It was too dark to see him properly. Everything was very quiet suddenly, and his voice was part of the quietness.

‘You really want to know? You really want one good reason why I shouldn’t take you into the rain forest?’

‘Yes,’ she said shakily, her mouth suddenly dry with an apprehension she did not fully understand.

Hands like steel bands took hold of her shoulders, impelling her towards him, so hard and so fast that she did not have time even to utter a protest. His mouth was warm on hers, without gentleness, a bruising menace in the darkness. She tried to resist after the first panic-stricken seconds of rigidity to pull away, but his arms were shackles holding her against him, her breasts crushed against the hard strength of his chest. Every nerve she possessed was screaming with shock. No one—not even James in their courting days, and certainly not later in that mockery of a marriage—had ever kissed her like this, parting her lips with dangerous sensuality, forcing her into this terrifying intimacy. Each time she tried to break free, his kiss merely deepened. She could feel his hands on her back, moving tantalisingly over her shoulders and down the shuddering length of her spine. She could feel their warmth through her thin shirt and knew with a shock of utter dismay that she wanted to feel them on her skin …

He let her go so suddenly that her head swam and she was glad to lean back against the seat, gasping for breath, her eyes partly closed as she fought for self-control against the traitorous longing to turn to him again, offering him her mouth and more.

‘Now do you see why?’ His voice sounded completely toneless. ‘Do you understand why it’s impossible for you to come with us?’

She had almost forgotten she was being taught a lesson. She shrank inside, thanking any listening God that she had not betrayed to him that sudden wild urge to respond.





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