Made For Each Other Page 5

  It was nearly one in the morning before the bright lights of El Paso illuminated their backdrop of the Franklin Mountains and another hour before Nick drove over the International Bridge to the old-world town of Juarez with its slumbering stucco homes and ra¬cous cantinas that filled the night with the trumpets and guitars of mariachi bands.

  Three quarters of New Mexico’s population spoke Spanish, so Nick, also bilingual, seemed to have no trouble in locating among the winding maze of narrow streets the alcalde's house. Behind the simple whitewashed walls, the home was more like a villa.

  While the housekeeper roused the alcalde from his bed, She looked around the sala, or living room. A plaster statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe occupying a niche in one wall hinted that a religious man would be performing the wedding, something she wished were otherwise—why couldn’t the man be merely a justice of the peace? She preferred to think the ceremony was more or less a farce, one of those fly-by-night chapel affairs that take place in Las Vegas, not something binding, reserved for people who really loved each other.

  “Won’t he be upset—your waking him at this hour?” she asked Nick in a hushed whisper, perversely hoping Nick would change his mind now.

  Nick grinned down at her. If he had any of her last-minute doubts, his cynical expression did not indicate it. “Are you half hoping that the alcalde will refuse to marry us? If so, your hopes are dashed, for I would only find some-one else. But Guido Lopez won’t refuse. He’s been my guest at both the San Ramon ranch and my hunting cabin several times.”

  The portly middle-aged man soon appeared, an expansive grin of welcome beneath his walrus mustache. “Amigo! Como esta?”

  Nick shook the hand that pumped his, replying in fluent Spanish, “Muy bien, gracias, Guido. Quiero casarse.”

  “You want to get married!” Guido echoed in English. His protuberant eyes moved to the tiny waif in the large masculine shirt. Only the delicate cast of the pixielike features gave any hint of the gender. Guido raised an incredulous brow. “You wish to marry”—he nodded disbelievingly at her—“this gracious lady . . .’’he finished on an unsure note.

  Nick laughed. “Si, Guido. Ahorrita— immediately!” When he added, “We’re too much in love to wait even one more minute!” She glanced up to see Nicholas looking at her with what had to be an expression of feigned adoration.

  Guido hit the palm of his hand against his forehead. “Dios mio, such haste. Let’s begin! Pronto!”

  Frantically she looked at Nick, but he ignored her beseeching gaze. At Guido’s in-struction he took her hand, and her frozen fingers welcomed Nick’s warmth. She could not bring herself to meet the derisive lips that professed love and fidelity.

  The ceremony was quickly performed, the vows exchanged, but when Guido asked for the ring, Nick, for once, looked unprepared. Then he said lightly, “I’ll buy one in Cozumel.”

  Guido nodded agreeably, as if buying a wedding ring on a tropical island were a most reasonable thing to do. He wished Nick much happiness and bent to plant a kiss on her cheeks, his great mustache tickling her skin. “Vaya con Dios,” he told them, ushering the newlyweds on their way.

  When Nick switched on the car’s engine, she turned to him with disbelief. “Were you serious about flying to Cozumel just to buy a wedding ring?”

  “Where else would be a better place to spend a honeymoon during a winter blizzard?” he asked, keeping his sharp eyes on the darting cars and bicycles that crowded the streets despite the morning’s early hours.

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. The thought of a honeymoon and what it entailed could give her cause to worry. “But I really don’t want a ring,” she began, talking slowly and smoothly as if to a person who was not fully in possession of his senses. “And there’s really no use wasting money when the marriage will soon be ended.”

  Nick flicked her a dubious glance. “A woman worried about saving money? Don’t,” he said shortly. “I have a sufficient amount—as your colleagues of the press have more than once intimated.”

  “But—but couldn’t we just pick up one in Santa Fe?”

  “What? A senator’s wife would never do such an ordinary thing. No, we’ll buy one in Cozumel—along with some beachwear and summer clothing.” And before she could open her mouth to make another protest, he said in a firm manner that brooked no further inter-ruption, “Just put it down, Julie, to one of my whims.”

  Chapter 5

  Nick left the car at the El Paso International Airport that morning and made two telephone calls: one to the hospital, where he left a message for Pam to drive Julie’s repaired car back to Santa Fe; the other to Dee Morley. And Julie, standing next to Nick when he placed the call, could not help but wish she could see Dee’s shocked face as he gave her the scoop on his marriage, coolly explaining that some months ago, after reading one of Julie’s caustic columns about him, he had telephoned her for a meeting . . . and they had, of 'course, fallen in love.

  “You should have been an actor,” she told him afterward. “You sounded so convincing even I almost believed you.”

  “Let’s hope everyone else does,” he said tersely. “Now, call your parents and tell them.” Julie’s eyebrows shot up, and he said, “You don’t want the newsmen to descend on your parents and have them find out that way, do you?”

  Reluctantly she took the telephone he handed her and deposited the coins. The fact that she was married still seemed unreal to her. And the fact that the marriage would not have to last forever, as Nick had pointed out, made it that much more difficult for her to tell her parents. Fortunately her parents were out, but her grandmother seemed delighted by the news. “I hope you got yourself a rakehell, young lady,” the old woman chortled.

  After she had finished the call, Nick ushered her aboard the next flight out for the Yucatan peninsula, quietly ignoring her protest about her appearance. “Take a look around you,” he said with some exasperation. “Half the passengers aboard the plane are dressed as casually as you.”

  “You call this casual?” she demanded, holding out the hem of the plaid shirt that draped over the knees of her jeans. She had barely had time to comb her hair in the airport’s ladies’ room.

  He leaned across her, unbuckled her seat belt, and quickly tied the shirt’s hem at a knot at her waist. “There,” he said, refastening her seat belt and tugging it an extra notch, as if he took pleasure in inflicting even the small amount of discomfort. “We’ll buy you a complete wardrobe the minute we arrive,” he said, unperturbed by her continual objections. He took the plastic glass of Scotch and water the attractive flight attendant brought him, not even noticing the special smile of admiration she cast from beneath her long false eyelashes. “

  “But I don’t want a wardrobe!”

  He took a drink of the Scotch and gave her a studied glance. “Then what is it that you want?”

  She looked out the small window at the rugged brown mixture of field and mountain that passed below the wings of the 727 like a giant relief map. “I thought I would be exchanging vows with someone who loved me . . . as much as I loved him,”she whispered miserably. “I guess I wanted a fairytale wedding.”

  “And instead you got a tale out of the Brothers Grimm,” he replied and silently finished his drink while she distractedly leafed through the in-flight magazine.

  She first sighted the island from the small cargo and passenger boat that made one trip daily from the peninsula. Cozumel's breath-taking beauty was a dream she never expected to materialize. Turquoise waves tumbled onto the whitest beaches imaginable. Chicle trees and coconut palms swayed in the offshore breezes.

  Cozumel was an idyllic tropical isle in every sense, left little unchanged from the time when Spanish explorers touched there on their voyages of conquest—except for several first-class resort hotels clustered at the rocky bluffs of the Caribbean.

  It was at a luxury hotel along the highest bluff that Nick took a suite of rooms. While he ordered champagne from room service
, she stepped through the open terrace doors onto the balcony that her bedroom shared with Nick’s. The balcony overlooked beaches washed smooth by white-tipped waves, and bougainvillea twined around its wrought-iron railing.

  Yet she saw none of the tropical beauty that surrounded her. She was tired— exhausted from the trip, she told herself, but she knew it was really from the combination of events ending with her marriage to Nick. The strain was telling on her. How could she possibly resist the force of Nick’s magnetic charm, when he chose to beguile her, for six months, much less six hours ... or six min¬utes?

  Nick came up behind, surprising her. “Sit down,” he said, indicating the lounge chair of woven cane. He took one of the other chairs at the small round table that was covered with tanned leather painted lime green and pulled it near her lounge chair.

  His gaze swept over her pale face, noting the slight shadows beneath her eyes. “After a glass of champagne,” he said, “we’ll take the customary Mexican siesta.”

  She smiled, “That’s the best suggestion you’ve made yet.”

  “You ought to do that more often—smile,” Nick said. “Your dimples are fairytale enchanting.”

  “Thank you,” she answered somewhat hesitantly, unsure if he was merely plying his customary charm or if he was sincere. Then, as he leaned forward and picked up one of her feet, her breath drew in. “What are you doing?”

  “Removing your tennis shoes, Thumbelina—it’s getting to be a habit with me.” He untied the white laces. “No one wears shoes in Cozumel.” She shifted uneasily in the'lounge chair, unused to such attention. “You’ve been here before?” she asked, trying to seem casual.

  Nick dropped her tennis shoes beneath the table and slipped off his own expensive leather loafers. He crossed his arms behind his head. “Several times.”

  “Oh?” She could well imagine the trips he made, the glamorous girls he brought with him. Or was it just Sheila Morrison now—no, not even Sheila Morrison, Julie thought with surprise. It was herself! Her name could be added to the growing list of Senator Raffer’s playgirls.

  Except she was his wife.

  “I come here, or go hunting in Ruidoso, when the pressure gets too high at the capital,” Nick said, his eyes slits against the midday sunlight reflected off the water. “I fish, walk the beaches, remind myself that nothing can be so serious it’s worth working up an ulcer over.”

  She would have liked to ask more, but room service brought the bucket of iced champagne, wrapped in a damask napkin, and two chilled glasses. Nick tipped the man and filled the two glasses. He passed her one and said simply, “To us, Julie.”

  She did not know quite how to respond, so she merely took a sip in acknowledgment of his toast. The cool liquid tingled all the way down, and within seconds she felt better, more relaxed. She even felt brave enough to ask Nick, her husband, personal questions. “What will your parents think about this sudden marriage?”

  Nick’s laugh was sarcastic. “I doubt they’ll ever find out. They’re too busy with their own marriages to wonder about mine.”

  “Then they’re not married to each other?” She saw Nick’s long fingers tighten around the stem of his glass, the heat from his hand already causing rivulets of sweat to channel the layer of the glass’s frost. “They’ve each been through several partners since their marriage to one another. It’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided the blissful state of matri¬mony.”

  “I see,” she said for lack of anything else. Nick’s blue eyes, lighter now than the Caribbean switched on her. “And your parents— what will they say?”

  “Why—” She had not really thought about it. Everything had seemed so unreal. “They’d want me to be happy. They wouldn’t really care whom I married as long as we loved each . . . She let her voice trail off, aware of her slip. She began again. “I mean—Nick, this is so bizarre, I can’t even wrap my mind around it. So I surely can’t expect my parents to believe we’re . . . we’re in love.”

  Nick rose. “That’s all right,” he said grimly. “If they come for a visit, I’m sure you’ll manage to look suitably in love—however much you dislike me.” He held out his hand. “Ready for a siesta?”

  She wanted to tell him that she no longer disliked him, for she had to acknowledge the truth—that he had taken care of her, he had married her despite the fact that he did not love her. But pride—reluctance to join the ranks of women charmed by the roguish senator—forbade her.

  Assured of the locked door that separated the bedrooms, she went to sleep immediately, only to awaken what seemed minutes later, though actually an hour had passed. “Julie,” came Nick’s voice from the other side of the connecting door.

  Barefoot and hair tousled, she padded to the door and unlocked it, looking sleepily up at him. Nick’s eyes went to the door lock, and his mouth shifted into an uneven line that was not exactly a smile.

  Once again she was struck by his rugged good looks. He had donned a fresh shirt of pale blue silk and brushed back the leather- brown locks that seemed to slip forward over his right temple.

  “Ready to go shopping?” he asked.

  “Where?” She was under the impression that only a few small pueblos populated the island—nothing like civilization’s modem shopping centers.

  “There’s a shopping arcade below the hotel’s lobby. Come on; with a ring—and clothes—you can at last consider yourself married.”

  Not fully, she thought. I am not fully your wife, Nicholas Raffer, until the marriage is consummated—and that shall never be.

  Still she enjoyed herself with him. Grudgingly, howbeit. She could never imagine a man, especially an outdoorsman like Nick, going shopping with her. In the two boutiques they visited Nick helped her pick out three spaghetti-strap sundresses, a long white cotton huipile—the native embroidered dress—a pair of huara ches, and a two-piece lemon-yellow string bikini that picked up the yellow flecks in her green eyes.

  “And now for a ring,” Nick said, leaning over the jewelry display case. He chose a simple ring of knotted silver hearts wrought from the mines of the Mexican city of Taxco.

  When she held up her hand to admire it, he said, “After we return to Santa Fe, I’ll replace it with a suitable diamond.”

  She jerked her hand down. “No! I love this one—it’s unique. Besides, I’d only have to give the diamond back when—after we part.”

  Nick directed a measured look at her, and she glanced uneasily back to the ring. She felt as if she were an insect being studied under a microscope. But after all, it was Nick’s money.

  “May I have this one, please, Nick?” she asked softly. Perhaps he did not really want to spend the money on a ring, but it had been his suggestion.

  Nick paid the shopkeeper, adding to the total bill the cost of a delicate white lace rebozo, or shawl, to wear for the cool evenings.

  She chose an apricot-colored sundress with a matching jacket to wear over the harnace-like brace. The admiring glances cast by the dark Latin eyes of the Mexican men they passed told her she was an attractive young lady despite the unappealing brace she wore.

  Self-conscious under the appraising glances, she pushed back the reddish-brown hair that fell across her forehead and clouded softly about her shoulders. Since she did not usually wear a lot of makeup, only a touch of lipstick and mascara, she was relieved of the burden of asking Nick to buy cosmetics for her also, but she would have dearly loved to apply a sheen of pink to her lips for the sake of her feminine vanity.

  Nick suggested an early dinner on the hotel’s dining terrace. They were one of the first couples to arrive early, and they had almost the entire terrace to themselves. Over shrimp cocktail and mango, she sat contentedly, listening to the strident cries of the seagulls. The late-afternoon breeze rustled the potted palms and whisked away the salty tang of the Caribbean on her lips.

  Even Nick, sitting across from her, seemed more relaxed as he smoked a cigarette. The brown hand that rested near the clay ashtray was just inches
from her own, and she could not help remembering how that same hand had caressed her intimately a day earlier. And now with their marriage it would only touch her politely in public—holding her elbow, resting at her waist or shoulder.

  A waiter brought a basket of hot bodillos, Mexican hard rolls, and Nick broke off a piece of one. He tossed it over the stone balustrade to the fish suspended in the Caribbean’s crystal waters that lapped against the rocks below the terrace. Laughing, she and Nick leaned over to watch the fish bob for the bread. When the two of them straightened, their gazes locked. Their smiles faded in surprise at their shared moment of pleasure.

  The waiter brought their dinner, and Nick cut up her fish for her, since she was in some sense still handcuff by the clavicle brace. They ate, talking only now and then about small things. Nick told her about the Mayan city of Chichen Itza on the Yucatan peninsula that had been constructed by a masterful race of people far ahead of its time, and she told him about the small town in which she had been raised.

  She was amazed that he listened so intently to the tales of her home life, even stopping her to ask questions. Once, when she said her parents were just like parents everywhere, he commented wryly, that the fact that they were still in love after twenty-six years was a novelty. she was not sure if he was making fun of her sheltered home life or was truly interested.

  “I told you that you need to smile more,” he said, and then proceeded to tell her dirty jokes until she started laughing.

  “Beside you, is there anyone else crazy in your family?” she asked, grinning easily now.

  He paused, as if considering, then grinned back, “I’m trying to think if there is anyone sane in my family.”

  She started laughing again, and, he added, “Yes, really, we’re all quite crazy, except for my grandmother.”

  After that, an easy, companionable presence alighted around them. With shoes in hand they strolled the sea’s edge, letting the warm sand coat their bare feet until the next ripple of water washed them clean. A glorious sunset of oranges and reds completed her first day as Mrs. Nick Raffer, and it was with dragging feet that she let Nick guide her back to the hotel.