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eBook Category: Romance
eBook Description: [Note: This book was written by "Maxine Patrick" which is a pen name for Jennifer Blake.] When Anne Matthews discovers she's accidentally become a stowaway on a private flight to Mexico she is devastated. What started out as a task as simple as delivering a catered dinner has turned into a disaster. Ramon Castillo is immediately suspicious of the stowaway. Sure that she is just another money-grubbing rip-off artist, he dismisses her with just an angry glare, ordering her on the next flight out of town. After the mix-up of a lifetime, Anne is reluctantly hired to play of part of loving fiancée for the aloof, but handsome man. But what Anne doesn't count on is her inability to control her feelings. Her growing love is becoming undeniable, but Ramon can only see her as a ruthless fortune hunter. She must regain possession of her heart before it grows cold in Ramon's hardened embrace.

eBook Publisher: e-reads, Published: 1978
Fictionwise Release Date: July 2001

72 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [524 KB], eReader (PDB) [198 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [189 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [165 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [217 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [214 KB], hiebook (KML) [419 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [214 KB], iSilo (PDB) [154 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [194 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [233 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [249 KB]
Words: 57800
Reading time: 165-231 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

It was going to be one of those days; Anne Matthews discovered that early. To begin with, she overslept. The small alarm clock that had been one of her presents when she left the family cottage of the Children's Home three years before had stopped during the night, ticking its last at half-past the witching hour. There was no time to sigh over it. She was late for work. Then in her haste to dress she snagged a run in her last pair of panty hose. A quick dab of clear nail polish prevented it from running further, and in any case it was hidden by the tongue of the sensible shoes she wore in her job as a caterer's assistant, but it left her feeling harried and unkempt. Neatness was important to her. There had been little of that commodity in the orphanage cottage shared with seven other foster brothers and sisters. Vaguely she could remember a quieter, more ordered time before her parents were killed when a bridge had collapsed, plunging their car into a flooded river in Louisiana. She could remember also the feeling of security she had known then, though she could not consciously bring to mind the faces of her parents or where and how they had lived. Still, those memories were enough to make her determined to use the secretarial skills she had been taught to reestablish that atmosphere around her. Toward that end, she adopted an air of calm efficiency. She wore her shoulder-length hair in a smooth pageboy not because the style gave her hair the sheen of tawny silk, but because it was easy to keep under control. Because it saved time, she used the bare minimum of makeup, disregarding the dramatic potential of enormous eyes of a velvet brown softness fringed with thick, dark lashes. The clothes she bought herself were practical and easily cared for as became her no-nonsense image. It was not her fault that their severity did not suit the warm impulsiveness of her smile or the secretive, almost dreamy look that touched her delicate features in repose.

The morning did not improve once she left the small apartment she shared with a roommate, Judy Kramer. Judy, a secretary in a nice, dull office building nothing at all like Metcalf Caterers Inc., had the long weekend off. She had flown to New Orleans with her parents, leaving behind the small red Toyota, a present from her parents when she left home, for Anne to use. The only catch was that Judy had used it the afternoon before to run the dozens of small errands necessary before she could pack for her trip, and she had neglected to put gas in it. Walking ten blocks to the nearest gas station with the chill wind of December penetrating her lightweight suit jacket, whipping her hair, and blowing fine Texas sand from the streets into her face did not improve Anne's temper.

Metcalf Caterers was not the largest catering firm in Dallas, but it was growing, and in the five years it had been in existence had built up a select clientele. Anne had been with the husband-and-wife team, Joe and Iva, for three of those years. Starting as secretary-receptionist, she had gradually become much more than that. She turned her hand to anything from marketing to serving at tables. She could blend a sauce, decorate a cake, arrange a centerpiece, or balance the books with equal ease, and as Iva Metcalf told her with a wry grin, look as if she were enjoying it. Usually she did just that, but there were days...

"Where have you been?" Iva exclaimed in pained accents as Anne came through the glass doors of the reception room at last.

"You will never believe what I have been through this morning..." Anne began.

Iva shook her close-cropped red head. "Don't bet on it. This telephone hasn't stopped ringing since I got here. Mrs. Burson, the woman who has the luncheon today, called to inform us that of the twelve guests she will be entertaining, one is allergic to tomatoes, one to eggs, and one can't abide the sight of mushrooms. She just thought we might like to know. Mrs. Otley, whose daughter is to marry the oil millionaire this evening, wants an oil derrick as an arch over the bride and groom on top of the cake she ordered, and Señor Ramón Carlos Castillo's secretary called to inform us that the señor has canceled his dinner party planned for tonight at his hotel suite. He is flying back to Mexico City late this evening because of illness in the family--it's his grandmother--and he would like a simple dinner delivered to his private jet at the airport before seven o'clock. He doesn't want anything elaborate since he will be traveling alone, without his usual steward, private secretary, and half-dozen flunkeys, just something he can heat and serve himself; a trout marguery, fresh asparagus, fresh pears--out of season, of course--and a bottle of chilled white wine."

"Good grief," Anne said faintly.

"Exactly so."

Turning to hang up her shoulder bag and coat in the closet, Anne asked, "Don't these people ever eat anything simple, like a ham sandwich?"

"If they did, we would be out of business," Iva replied. "Anyway, men like Señor Castillo can afford the best. Why shouldn't they have it?"

"It seems such a waste, all that time and trouble for one man when he could have solved the whole thing by buying himself a loaf of bread and a package of sandwich meat."

"You mean have his chauffeur stop for it on the way to the airport? Your trouble, Anne dear, is you don't think big enough."

"No doubt you're right," Anne agreed with a wry grimace. "What do we tackle first?"

"If you will see to Mrs. Otley's oil derrick, I'll start the search for the señor's trout and pears. We must pamper our largest account. Keep your head down as you go into the kitchens though. Tony is not in the best of humors after having to rearrange his menus, and he's threatening to quit again, of course. If you can manage to work your usual magic at calming him down, I will be eternally grateful."

Tony was their chef, and as such, a man to be placated at all costs. A french Creole from Louisiana, he had learned his art in some of the great kitchens of France. Returning to his native New Orleans with the title of cordon-bleu, he had worked for ten years in one of the most famous restaurants in that city. He had left to start a small restaurant of his own, but the venture had not been a success. One reason was his insistence on quality; only the best was good enough to go into his culinary creations, and not enough people were willing to pay the cost. Another reason was his temper. He was apt to take anything the diners left on their plates as a personal affront to his skill, and it was not unknown for him to charge out of the kitchen and demand what was wrong with a particular dish. To have anyone question or change his menus also raised his ire, and Anne was not surprised, when she passed through the doors that led to the chrome and white-enamel kitchens of the catering service, to find him chopping shallots with vicious precision and casting them into a skillet with all the muttered maledictions of a sorcerer brewing poison. Buttoning herself into the orange nylon cover-up she wore while in the kitchen, she summoned a smile and set herself to the task of soothing Tony.

She found time in the middle of the morning for a cup of coffee and a sweet roll, but she had to eat standing up. Finally the luncheon menu of baked red snapper in a brown oyster sauce, broccoli au gratin, Metcalf's special home-baked french loaves, and French chocolate silk pie was complete. It was Iva and her husband Joe's job to transport it to the home of Mrs. Burson, where her kitchen staff would serve it. But eleven o'clock came and went with no Iva. Then, just as Anne was sliding into the front seat of the van, Iva's station wagon came wheeling into the parking lot. She stepped out on the run, threw a package wrapped with butcher paper and a couple of brown paper bags into Anne's arms. "Paint it with black spray paint," she called, scrambling into the van, and then she was gone.

The butcher wrap contained three nice trout. In the bags were three flesh ripe pears with just a blush of pink on their tender green skins, and a white plastic replica of an off derrick.

Sprayed black, the derrick looked hideous towering over the poor little bride and groom dolls on top of a cake four layers tall. Painting it silver instead was slightly better, but Anne still thought, as she helped settle it into the van late that afternoon, that the best thing to be done with it was teat it off and toss it in the trash can. Cases of champagne, cans of nuts and mints, the ingredients for the firm's secret recipe bridal punch, and an assortment of hors d'oeuvres packed in white cardboard boxes had already been loaded. It was with a distinct feeling of relief that Anne watched Joe and Iva pull out of the parking lot with that assignment. Now all that was left was the señor's supper, and this temple day would be over. The weekend would be hers, two whole days to loaf, read, wash her hair, and recover from this ordeal.

The trout marguery sat cooling, filling the air with an aroma so delectable it was all Anne could do not to sit down and devour it; the asparagus, exquisitely tender, had been anointed with butter; the French loaves were wrapped in their heavy linen napkin; the pears nestled in a nest of tissue in a small woven basket; and the wine, a dry chablis, sat cooling in its disposable plastic cooler. Tony, his duty done, threw down his chef's hat and went home, and his two helpers, after clearing the kitchen and putting the dishes away, were not long in following him.

By a quarter after six Anne was growing anxious. The meal was due on board the plane at seven o'clock sharp. It would not do to disappoint their best customer. Anne had never met him personally, but from comments Iva had made from time to time, she thought Señor Castillo would not be the kind of man to easily forgive those who had failed him.

The jangle of the telephone cut across her thoughts. With a quiver of apprehension along her nerves, she reached for it. At the sound of Iva's voice, she let out the breath she had caught in a sigh of purest relief. It was short-lived.

"Anne, I hate to tell you, but Joe and I are hung up over here. There's been a five-car pileup on the Interstate and the traffic is so snarled up we won't be able to move for hours."

"Where are you calling from?" Anne asked, aware of the noise of a car's engine in the background.

"There was a nice man three or four cars ahead of us with a phone in his car and he patched the call through for me. I don't know what I would have done without him; it must be miles to the nearest public phone. But never mind about that. It looks like you are going to have to run Señor Castillo's dinner out to the airport. You do have your roommate's car, don't you? Good. I'm going to call ahead and clear the way with the airport officials for you. According to what the secretary said on the phone this morning, there is only one thing to remember, and that's to be sure everything is put away when you leave; that is, don't leave anything lying about loose that might slide around or fall during takeoff."

"Yes, but where--"

"I have no idea," Iva replied cheerfully before Anne could complete her question. "Joe and I have always put the food in the hands of the señor's steward, but apparently the man was given the weekend off and couldn't get back to Dallas in time for this unscheduled flight. Don't worry about it. You'll find where everything goes. It can't be too difficult; an airplane galley is just a small kitchen and you ought to know your way around one of those if anybody does!"

"It can't be too difficult--" That was Iva's opinion, Anne thought with something like bitterness. In the first place, Anne had never been on a plane in her life, much less a private jet, and the sight of that great silver monster sitting on the runway in the dusk with its lights blinking and its jets screaming was enough to bring her heart into her throat. She had never walked up to an entrance ramp barred by an armed guard either. She wished that she had thought to keep on her orange jacket with Metcalf's printed on the pocket. She had left it behind in the kitchen by force of habit, since she did not intend to return there before going on home.

She was half-afraid the guard would demand some form of identification, which could be a problem. She had locked her shoulder bag, a large, cumbersome affair of fringe and burlap, in the car, to leave her hands free. The only thing of value in it was her drive's license and a gas credit card. Because Joe and Iva had not returned, she had not been paid for this week.

Her fears did not materialize. Seeing the laden tray in her hands, the guard gave her a nod and a smile as she were not unexpected. Touching his cap, he stepped aside, motioning her aboard without attempting to speak over the noise of the jets.

Just inside the plane was a small section fitted with seats much like a commercial jet, but since Iva had said the galley was in the rear, Anne moved along the aisle between the seats past a shelf arranged with the latest magazines and a small alcove where wraps could be put away. Pushing with her tray through a pair of heavy drapes in maroon and black brocade, she stepped into the main body of the plane. For an instant, she stood still, surveying the large cabin that stretched before her. Short drapes of brocade were looped back from the small windows. A carpet of thick, lustrous maroon velvet covered the floor. At intervals down one side of its expanse sat round walnut tables flanked by deep, comfortable chairs of black leather. On the other side was a long walnut desk fitted with a built-in phone and dictating machine, and with a walnut and leather chair behind it. The remaining space was taken up by an extra-wide settee which at that moment was made up as a bed with a pillow and sheets in heavy ivory linen, monogrammed in black.

Lifting an eyebrow in token of her amazement, Anne continued through the cabin to a small metal door half-concealed by more drapes at the far end of the plane.

The noise of the jets warming up for flight was nerve-shattering in this section, especially when the cabin door swung to behind her. Anne would have liked very much to plunk the tray down and leave, but remembering her instructions, she began to look for a place to secure the contents. The wine fitted very nicely into the refrigerator unit with its cooler intact. There was a food container with a snap-down lid that held the hot entree and vegetable, and after a few minutes of searching, she found a bread box that pulled out of the wall. Giving herself a mental pat on the back, she was just turning to go when she noticed several cardboard cases stacked on the floor. Close examination showed them to be small glass bottles of grape juice. What a Mexican millionaire could possibly want with four cases of grape juice posed something of a mystery, but it had obviously been delivered by someone who assumed the steward would be there to put it away. There would be quite a mess to clean up if those bottles were to break in flight. It couldn't take more than a moment to put them out of harm's way.

Or could it? Every cabinet she opened seemed to be filled already with china and crystal in neat restraining racks, and with foodstuff in cans and boxes and plastic bags. Those drawers and cabinets that were not being used for normal purposes were filled with papers, bound account books, and boxes of letterhead, pens, and recording tapes. She was just about to give up and let the señor attend to his own grape juice when she found an empty shelf. It was above her head however, and it would take a great deal of effort to lift the cases up onto it, especially with the restraining ledge in place. It would be much easier, she thought, if she had something to stand on. In a cubbyhole between the refrigerator and the bank of cabinets that served as a pantry was a postage stamp of a table with a lightweight straight-backed chair on each side. The chairs, she found, were fastened to the floor, but a moment's study enabled her to decipher the simple locking mechanism. As she swung the chair where she needed it, she found herself hoping rather grimly that Señor Castillo appreciated the extra trouble that Metcalf's was willing to go to for his sake. Then she laughed at herself as she realized that the señor would probably never learn of it.

She was just settling the last case of juice when something in the shrieking roar of the jets caught at her attention. The sound had changed, gradually increasing. A vibration ran through the plane, setting the dishes in the cabinets around her to clinking with a soft regularity. And then as she stood in frozen stillness, she felt it. They were moving!

Panic galvanized her muscles. She dropped the juice case into place, slammed the cabinet door, and turned away. If she called out, it was doubtful anyone would hear her. She had to make her way as quickly as possible to the pilot's cabin. No, wait. If they were taking off, the señor must have boarded the plane. He would be in the main cabin just beyond the door.

Consternation flooded over her as she touched one hand to the cabinet front and started to step down from the chair. In that instant a surge of power gripped the plane and the floor tilted, slanting upward. The movement threw Anne off balance. She clutched wildly at a cabinet door handle as she felt herself falling, but her fingers would not hold. The top of the small table flashed across her vision, and the corner of it caught her squarely on the temple. Blinding pain struck deep into her brain and a soft darkness came up from the floor to catch her.

It might have been only a moment or two, it might have been half an hour, before Anne opened her eyes. For a dazed instant she could not understand why she was lying wedged between a table and refrigerator or why her head was throbbing with a furious pain allied to a steady humming noise. Remembering was not pleasant.

Slowly she levered herself into a sitting position. Nothing seemed to be broken, but there was a huge lump on the side of her head that ached to the touch. The plane had leveled off, and she could get to her feet without too much difficulty. The movement sent a wave of dizziness over her, however, and she subsided quickly into the remaining chair on the opposite side of the table. She would sit there for just a moment, and then she must find some way of letting someone know of her presence.

The opening of the small metal door between the galley and the main cabin did not immediately penetrate her consciousness. Awareness came with a sense of tingling disquiet. Combating a strange reluctance, she raised her head, and stared into the black eyes, lit by tawny flames of rage, of the man standing in the doorway. Her heart increased its beat, giving her a smothering sensation. For long moments she could not move, could not withdraw her gaze. And then, raking her pale face with his dark, feline glance, he drawled, "Airsick already? Too bad, but a fitting punishment for a stowaway."

Shock rippled through her. Unconsciously she straightened, drawing a deep, reviving breath. "I'm not a stowaway."

"Don't trouble to deny it. This plane is definitely-not public transportation; it belongs to me. There is not one of my employees who would dare to smuggle you aboard without my permission, and as I did not extend you an invitation..." he paused suggestively.

The sarcasm overlying the softly dangerous timbre of his voice made little impression on Anne. Her eyes widened a fraction. So this was Señor Ramón Carlos Castillo. She pictured the Mexican millionaire in her mind, for some reason, as short, plump, and graying. Nothing could have been further from the truth. His lithe frame filled the doorway, marking him as above-average height. No trace of gray threaded the blue-blackness of his hair, though from the fine lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes she thought he must be at least a few years over thirty. He had removed the coat of his suit, loosening his tie and opening the collar of his shirt. In contrast to the fine white silk, his skin had the golden swarthiness of an ancient Aztec idol. The planes of his face were rigid with the same impassive contempt she had seen once in a carving of their sun god.

"No more protests?" he queried, one corner of his firm mouth lifting in a mirthless smile as he moved into the galley. "Then perhaps you would like to tell me why you have foisted yourself on me?"

His presence in that tiny compartment was overpowering. Though he came to a stop with the heel of his hand resting on the refrigerator, he seemed to loom over her. She could not meet his fierce eyes, fastening her gaze instead on the signet ring on his little finger, a ring in black enamel on gold featuring the head of a small tiger. She wished she did not feel so disoriented. She could hardly expect him to be as concerned as she was over her predicament; still, his obvious anger and suspicion confused her.

With a supreme effort, she gathered her thoughts. In a voice that sounded weak even to her own ears she said, "I am sorry for the inconvenience to you, but could you please tell your pilot to turn the plane around and go back?"

"A time-consuming operation. Tell me why I should do that?"

She stared at him for a blank moment before answering, "Because ... I have to get off."

"Why? Hasn't your welcome been what you expected?" he asked, a soft tone in his voice that she did not like. His accent was very slight, she realized, more an intonation than anything else. Under other circumstances it might have been attractive.

"I--didn't expect a welcome of any kind," she faltered.

"Are you certain? Are you quite certain you did not expect ... this?" He leaned toward her with a swift, sure movement, encircling her waist, dragging her to her feet and against his chest. The grim mask of his face hovered above her, an odd, questing light in his black eyes, and then his mouth came down on hers.

Anne had never had much time for romance. She had had a brief flirtation or two, shared a few good-night kisses, but nothing more serious. She had never been kissed like this, never felt the burning force of barely leashed passion, never been held in a crushing embrace from which she could not have escaped, even if she had desired it. More in surprise than response, her lips parted beneath his, and then in the recesses of her mind she recognized the emotion that drove him. It was contempt.

His hold had slackened as he felt her complaisance. Abruptly Anne drew back, tearing herself out of his arms.

Señor Castillo retained his grip on her wrist. "Wasn't your welcome to your liking?" he asked, sarcasm edging his voice.

Anger erupted inside Anne's brain, crowding out shock and confusion, subduing for a brief instant the pain that still pulsed there. Her eyes blazing in her pale face, she lifted her free hand and struck out at the hateful, mocking face above her. She never reached her target. Her arm was caught, turned, and once more she found herself held against the silk-clad chest of the señor. Resistance, she discovered, was futile.

Panting with her struggles, she flung back her head, shaking the tawny gold hair out of her face. "Let me go," she said through gritted teeth.

He surveyed her, an expression in his eyes that made her far too aware of the quick rise and fall of her breasts against him. A muscle in the hard line of his jaw tightened, then suddenly she was free. She stepped back a quick pace, rubbing her wrists where his fingers had bitten into the flesh. A continuous tremor ran through her, and she clenched her hands to keep their trembling from becoming obvious to this man who stared down at her. It was rage, she told herself, only rage.

"Well," he gibed.

She looked up at him in mute incomprehension.

"Aren't you going to favor me with the excuse you made up for the occasion? Or didn't you even intend to try to explain why you are here?"

Anne took a deep breath. "I am here," she told him as calmly as she could manage, "because your secretary placed an order with Metcalf Caterers. We were to deliver a light dinner to your plane. I brought it."

"You will forgive me if I point out that you don't have the look of a caterer?" he said dryly.

"Looks have nothing to do with it--" she began, only to be interrupted.

"Still, I suppose you are fully prepared to tell me what Metcalf's has sent for my delectation?"

She was, of course. She had been just about to present her knowledge of the menu as proof positive of her story. The implication that such a move was expected, and would, therefore, carry little weight, brought a flush to her cheeks. But what could she do? There was nothing else she could use to convince him. She told him, in considerable detail, the contents of the refrigerator and the warmer.

"Very good." He applauded. "You have used your time while hidden back here to excellent advantage. I congratulate you on your intelligence. It seems to be superior to the average of the women who usually try such bizarre methods to bring themselves to my attention."

Anne clung to her temper with difficulty. "I did not come aboard this plane to bring myself to your attention," she said evenly. "In fact, I can't think of anything I would be less likely to do. Why any woman would want to put herself in such a humiliating position is more than I can understand."

"I don't understand it either, but there it is. Rock stars, movie stars, men of power, position, and wealth affect young women in strange ways. I have had women accost me in hotel rooms, on the beach, the golf course, and tennis court. They wait in my limousine if it is left unguarded for an instant. On one memorable occasion I was invaded in a sauna bath. So you see, you are not the only one who has tried this ruse, though I will grant that you are the first to stowaway on my plane. You must tell me how you managed it."

"I did not stowaway," Anne said, her voice rising, "and furthermore, I doubt that half the other women you claim have been throwing themselves at you had any such intention. You are the most arrogant, conceited, obstinate man I have ever come across--"

"I never claimed the attraction was anything more than my money," he interposed with a slight smile. But ignoring his comment, she rushed on.

"And I would have been perfectly happy if I had never set eyes on you! And I wouldn't have if it hadn't been for those ridiculous cases of grape juice I found shacked up on the floor. If I hadn't stopped to put them away, I would have been gone long before you came on board! Though what use," she ended bitterly, "a man who ordered wine with his dinner can have for so many bottles of grape juice is more than I can see."

"For my grandmother," he murmured, an arrested look in his dark eyes. "She has a preference for that brand only."

Anne's face cleared as that small mystery was solved. "I see, for the one who is ill," she said before she thought.

His features hardened immediately. "That is correct. You really must tell me your sources of information. In the meantime I suggest you come into the cabin and make yourself comfortable for the remainder of the flight."

"You are going to turn back?" Anne asked, driven by a distinct feeling of misgiving.

The señor had already turned toward the cabin door. Now he swung back. "Unfortunately not."

"You can't mean--you don't mean that you are going on to Mexico City."

"I mean exactly that. We are already nearly an hour into a flight that normally takes approximately two and a quarter hours. To turn back would be a waste of time, fuel, and money, but especially time, which may be of the essence."

"But I can't go to Mexico City with you! I have no money with me, no papers. How will I get back to Dallas? And if I can't get back how can I stay? I haven't a change of clothing, not even a toothbrush."

"You should have thought of that before you smuggled yourself on board."

"I did not smuggle myself on this plane," she grated. "I walked on with the tray from Metcalf's. If you don't believe me, you can ask the guard who was stationed at the foot of the gangway."

"That is your first mistake, señorita. You know very well there was no guard--that he was called away to assist with a heart-attack victim on one of the commercial airliners. Which is the only reason you are here."

She might have guessed there was some such reason why the guard had not informed the señor that she was still on board. What was the use of arguing? What difference did it make what Señor Castillo believed? With luck she would never see him again. When she reached Mexico City, perhaps she could throw herself on the mercy of the airport officials, and if she explained what had happened, maybe they would put her on a return flight to Dallas. Failing that, there was always the American consulate. They would surely help her to get in touch with Joe and Iva. These tentative plans forming in her mind, she marched before him into the cabin and seated herself in one of the cushioned lounge chairs.

It was a little unnerving to have the señor, instead of returning to the rumpled comfort of the settee made up as a bed for him, lower his long length into the chair across from her. She tried to ignore his close scrutiny by staring out the nearest window at the twilight purple of the late-evening sky with the cloud layer just below them shot with the gold of the last rays of the sun reaching from beyond the edge of the horizon. It was a beautiful sight and one that was oddly soothing. When, after a time, Señor Castillo spoke, she was able to turn to him with at least an appearance of composure.

"You have someone who will be worried when you do not return this evening?" he queried. "Your parents, perhaps?"

Her roommate, Judy, was out of town. Joe and Iva would not expect to see her again until Monday morning. No, there was no one. She shook her head.

The face of the man across from her turned a shade harder and the brooding silence fell once more.

"What is your name?" he asked abruptly.

She struggled for a brief moment with the impulse to tell him it was none of his business. She could foresee no good in making him the gift of it. She wanted no more to do with Señor Castillo than she could help. In truth, the quicker she forgot the entire day leading up to this moment, the happier she would be. There might, however, be one thing to be gained by withholding it.

"Why?" she inquired.

The inclination of his head was a masterpiece of irony. "You have a slight advantage of me," he replied.

The recessed lighting of the cabin was dim. It gave a soft sheen to her tawny hair and made mysterious pools of her gold-flecked eyes as she faced him. "If you want to know my name," she said slowly, "you can ask at Metcalf Caterers."

He stared at her, his eyes narrowed speculatively under thick dark brows; then he gave a quick, impatient shake of his head. With an abrupt change of subject he asked, "Have you had dinner?"

She was forced to admit she had not.

"Nor have I," he rejoined shortly. "Since you have inspected the provisions made by Metcalf's, you should have some idea if there is enough food for two?"

"Yes, I think so," she answered, adding quickly, "It is Metcalf's policy to give ample portions."

"Spare me the corroborating statements," he requested with a sharp gesture as he got to his feet. "I am asking you to share a meal with me, no more than that."

Anne would have liked to have refused to eat with him, but that would have been foolhardy. She had eaten only the sketchiest kind of lunch, a half of a sandwich and a cup of coffee, more than eight hours ago, and there was no way of knowing when she would be able to eat again since she had no money with her. Moreover, the smell of the trout marguery, when her host removed the cover from the container, would have shaken a much stronger will than her own. While she searched for china, silver, and a glass for the señor's wine, he meticulously divided the fare into two equal portions. He insisted that she have wine also, finding the glass and filling it for her when she demurred. She was not accustomed to wine with her meals, and the first taste of the sparkling, pale-gold liquid sat oddly on her palate, but as she gradually grew used to it, it seemed right for the time and the place. It was not easy to force the first few bites of food down her throat that was tight with nerves. She was helped considerably, in time, by the señor's attitude. Concentrating on his dinner and, afterward, staring into his wineglass, he gave every appearance of having forgotten she was there.

It was, she discovered, a false impression. No sooner had she drained her wineglass than he leaned to refill it.

"No, please. Really, I don't want it," she protested. He paid no attention, tipping the last of the bottle into her glass. The idea flitted across her mind that he was trying to make her tipsy, then she had to suppress a smile at the absurdity of it. Nothing was less likely.

"Drink it," he told her, his gaze on her long, slender fingers playing in a nervous gesture with the stem of the wineglass. "It will help you relax."

"I don't need to relax," she said, flicking him a puzzled glance from under her lashes.

"Don't you? I would have thought there was something troubling you. Are you certain there is no one at home who will care what becomes of you?"

The wording of his phrase disturbed her. Immediately on the defensive, she answered, "Only for tonight. I have a roommate who will be back tomorrow. Naturally she will be concerned if I'm not at the apartment." It would be late Sunday evening before Judy returned, but Señor Ramón Carlos Castillo did not need to know that.

"She? This roommate is a young woman?"

"Of course," Anne replied, a shade of tartness creeping into her voice.

The señor raised a brow. "Your pardon," he drawled. "These days such a thing cannot be taken for granted. What of your parents, then? Are they so modern they take no notice where you go or when you return?"

"I fail to see what concern it is of yours," Anne said, lifting her chin, "but my parents are dead. In any case, I am over twenty-one and have been taking care of myself for some time."

The señor nodded. "I begin to see."

As she caught the trend of his reasoning, a frustrated anger such as she had never felt before rose up in Anne. He thought that, because she had been orphaned, she was a girl with some kind of obsessive need for the kind of security he represented. In her rage and chagrin she could not decide which was worse, to be thought mercenary or merely pathetic.

Glaring at him, she said distinctly, "You do not see anything, anything at all!"

When he smiled into her stormy brown eyes, she could have reached out and slapped his golden, sardonic face--if she had not been afraid.