Under the baleful gaze of golden
brown eyes, Kerry halted.
“Where am I?” The words were garbled, ground out by a throat abused by tobacco and alcohol.
“Monterico,” she replied fearfully.
“What day is this?”
“Tuesday.”
“What about my plane?”
He seemed to have a difficult time keeping her in focus. The sunlight was growing brighter by the moment as it topped the trees. He squinted against it until his eyes were almost closed. When an extremely vocal bird squawked noisily overhead, he winced and cursed beneath his breath.
“Plane?”
“Plane. Plane. Airplane.”
When she only stared back at him apprehensively, he began searching through the pockets of his shirt with a great deal of agitation and practically no coordination. Finally, from the breast pocket, he produced an airplane ticket and what appeared to be an official exit visa. The whimsical government of Monterico was stingy with visas. They weren’t issued very often and were more valuable than gold. It took a king’s ransom in gold to have one forged.
He shook the ticket and visa at her. “I was supposed to be on an airplane last night at ten o’clock.”
Kerry swallowed. He was going to be upset. She braced herself for his wrath. But she tilted her head back fearlessly when she told him, “Sorry. You missed it.”
He turned around slowly, so that his shoulder was propped against the truck. He stared at her with such undiluted animosity that she quavered on the inside.
When he spoke, his voice was whispery with menace. “Did you make me miss my plane out?”
She took a cautious step backward. “You came with me of your own free will.”
He took a threatening step toward her. “You haven’t got long to live, lady. But before I murder you, I’d like to know, just out of curiosity, why you shanghaied me.”
She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You were drunk!”
“Which I’m living to regret.”
“How was I supposed to know that you were trying to get on an airplane?”
“Didn’t I mention it?”
“No.”
“I must have told you,” he said with an insistent shake of his head.
“You didn’t.”
He squinted his eyes and looked at her accusingly. “You’re not only a whore, you’re a lying whore.”
“I’m neither,” Kerry declared, blushing hotly.
Those unusual agate eyes traveled from the top of her tousled head to the tips of her toes. But this time, unlike the appreciative way they had moved over her in the cantina, they were scornful. His look made her feel exactly like what he was accusing her of being. In the daylight the cheap, ill-fitting dress showed no saving graces.
He asked sneeringly, “What’s your gimmick?”
“I don’t have a gimmick.”
“Was business so bad in the States, you had to come down here to peddle it?”