Mack hadn’t moved. He was sitting there, looking at her, warmth and compassion and something else in those wonderful eyes of his. Before she knew what he was doing, he slid his large, warm hand behind her neck, under the loose braid, and pulled her face down to his. His mouth caught hers in a gentle, open-mouthed kiss that was reassuring, restrained, and yet hinting at a passion that had been waiting to burst forth.
She was too surprised and too exhausted to react—to respond or to fight—and before she could make up her mind, he moved away, sliding over into the driver’s seat.
She climbed in, the warmth of his body still clinging to the tattered seats. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “We can’t afford to complicate matters.”
He said nothing, his face blank as he put the Jeep in gear and started down toward the city. “I’m simplifying matters,” he said finally. And she was too weary to argue or even ask him what he meant.
Hotel La Ceiba was a small, quiet, unprepossessing little place on a side street in the surprisingly noisy town. Pulaski checked them in, prepaid the extravagant fee of eight dollars, and led her up to a small room on the third floor. The halls were narrow and well-swept, the room he took her to had two narrow beds, colorful rag rugs on the floor, and a crucifix on the whitewashed wall.
“Home sweet home,” Mack announced, dropping the knapsack in the chair.
“It looks like paradise to me,” Maggie said, shoving a filthy hand through her wispy hair and leaving a streak of dust on her sweating face. “I’m going to find the shower and scrape some of this dirt off me. What about you?”
He leaned against the door, and his eyes were distant, almost thoughtful, as they swept over her. “Why don’t we meet in the lobby in a couple of hours? You look like you could use a nap, and I want to do a little exploring.”
“Not without me,” she said, struggling to sound professional in the thick afternoon heat. “It’s too dangerous—”
“No one knows we’re here, Maggie,” he said patiently. “I want to check out the neighborhood, see if I can find a store that has a travel guide and cigarettes. I’ll check into what kind of flights they have. At least we could probably rent better transportation in a town this size.”
She wanted to argue, knew she should put up a fight, but she was too damned tired. “Suit yourself. But watch out. I didn’t get this far to lose you.”
“You aren’t going to lose me, Maggie.” Again there was that curious note in his voice, a thread of promise that was both frightening and reassuring. Before she could rouse herself enough to push him, he was gone, and she was left staring at the thin pine door with its flimsy lock.
The water was lukewarm, rusty, and not much more than a halfhearted dribble in the semiprivate bath, but Maggie didn’t give a damn. The salty residue of their dunking made her skin itch, her scalp flake, and even if her change of clothes were still stiff with salt, they at least didn’t smell of sweat and dirt.
She walked barefoot down the deserted hallway, her long blond hair hanging like a wet curtain down her back. She promised herself that once she got to L.A. she’d give in to her mother’s blandishments for the first time and give her poor abused body over to the best hairdresser, masseur, and beautician Sybil Bennett could find.
The narrow bed was surprisingly comfortable. The room was shadowed with the late afternoon light, and the trade winds blew gently across her body as she stretched out for what she promised herself was only a short nap. She stayed awake long enough to wonder if Mack was going to stay in his own bed tonight, and then sleep claimed her.
She awoke exactly one hour later, her internal alarm clock efficient as always, and the room was dim and shadowed. Suddenly she was completely alert, knowing that she wasn’t alone. She could see Pulaski sitting in the one chair the room boasted, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his expression brooding.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she murmured sleepily, sinking back down on the bed. “Did you find anything useful?”
“I did,” he said, still watching her with that odd intensity. And then he shook himself, an infinitesimal movement that Maggie nevertheless noticed. “I’ve got the latest edition of Fodor’s Guide: Central America, published about five years ago, toothbrushes, toothpaste, and an airline schedule. There are flights to Tegucigalpa almost every hour from the airport just out of town.”
“I don’t know if I trust your abilities as a travel agent,” Maggie said, stretching, her lazy smile taking the sting out of her words. “I think poor old Lonesome Fred left a little bit to be desired.”
“That’s why I didn’t make the reservations. Someone stole the Jeep, by the way.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, we can get a taxi out to the airport. I figure it was our gain, their loss. I agree with you, I’d rather not have to drive that monstrosity again. Come on, Maggie, stir your buns. Or aren’t you hungry?” He rose, stretching, and in her sleepy state she allowed herself the luxury of staring at his lean, sexy body.
“Pulaski, I could eat a horse,” she said, not thinking of food at all.
He grinned, and she wondered if he was reading her mind again. God, she hoped not! “Maggie May, I know a place where they make the best horse in Central America. Come on, kid. Let’s do the town.”
eleven
This night out was just what they needed, Maggie thought several hours later as she stared dreamily out into the harbor. The lobster stuffed with local Cuyamel fish, the odd, sweet-starchy vegetables, the salad, and the local cerveza left her replete and happy. The town was noisy, cheerful, and colorful, and the company could not have been improved upon. Mack was in an expansive mood, out to charm her out of any lingering paranoia, and she went gratefully, tired of looking over her shoulder, tired of worrying about the future.
Tomorrow would take care of tomorrow’s problems, she told herself with a shrug. Tomorrow they would board a flight for Tegucigalpa and be linked up with Van Zandt in probably less than twenty-four hours. For now she could lean back in her chair on the terrace of the oceanfront cafe, sip her wickedly strong coffee, and enjoy herself.
“So tell me more about growing up as Sybil Bennett’s daughter?” Mack questioned, his voice low and rumbly, his eyes warm and relaxed and flattering in the candlelight. “And don’t tell me any more superficial Hollywood stories, tell me about you.”
She grinned in silent acknowledgment of his perspicacity. She had a supply of stock answers about growing up in Hollywood. None of which would do for Mack Pulaski.
“Wonderful, exciting, exhausting, depressing. Sybil’s always been a romantic—she never feels alive unless she’s desperately in love. God only knows when it started—she was twenty when I was born and I’ve always had the suspicion she’d been busy before me. She’d meet someone, fall in love, and of course have to marry him. That was the early fifties, and she’d seen what happened to Ingrid Bergman when she didn’t follow Hollywood’s idea of morality. So Mother would fall in love, get married, and immediately present the current husband with proof of her adoration in the form of an offspring. By the time said offspring was a year old, Mother would have lost interest, both in the husband and in the child, and gone on to new conquests.”