Captive Heart (2 page)

"That good, seňor." He rattled off a polite greeting to JoNell in rapid-fire Spanish, flashing a white-toothed smile, but then returned to thickly accented English. "For you, seňor, I speak the English, which I do with much good. You Americans, no?"

"Yes," replied JoNell a bit impatiently. "May we go inside? It's awfully cold out here in the rain."

"Rain, seňorita? But it never rains in Peru," he chuckled. "This is only a little mist. Come. I take you to dry place. You be more
comodo
."

"Thanks," JoNell answered gratefully.

"
De nada
," said the man as he led them through the hangar door, past airplanes of all sizes and colors, and into a small, well-lighted office.

"First, we check you through customs," said the man. "Then…"

"Customs?" JoNell asked with surprise. "But don't we have to go through customs in the main terminal with everybody else?"

"Oh, but you see, seňor Del Toro instruct customs officer to come here. More—con—con—easy," said the man with a broad smile. "Please, be sit. Everything taken care of for you."

JoNell and her uncle sat on a small green vinyl sofa near the door where they had entered. "Looks like money talks," JoNell said under her breath.

"You're right," Uncle Edgar murmured. "It got you here."

"And how. I certainly wouldn't be here for any other reason!"

JoNell settled back against the sofa and glanced around the room. To her right was the door they had entered. To her left was a worn and battered wooden desk with a bare top. Behind it stood a metal file cabinet. The wall was covered with sectional maps used in airplane navigation. There were two uncomfortable looking straight-back chairs and another sofa, a twin of the one she was sitting on.

With a sudden homesick pang, JoNell envisioned the little airport office her parents owned back home. She sorely wished she were back there now, taking phone calls, filling in the Link trainer when her parents were busy, giving a few flying lessons.

"Uncle Edgar, do you think I did the right thing?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, do you think I did right by insisting on coming here?"

He gave her a long, slow look. She had long ago given up any hope of prodding Uncle Edgar into fast action or fast talking. She had learned to wait patiently, or sometimes impatiently, while he turned over even the simplest question in his mind before he drawled out his slow, thoughtful answer. "Course you did the right thing, Pet," he said with finality. "What other choice did you have?"

"Yeah, I guess you're right." She had already known she'd had no other choice, but it made her feel better to hear someone else back her up.

Just then a door opposite them burst open. In strode the most handsome man JoNell had ever seen in her entire life. She caught her breath at the magnificent sight of him. Latins are fantastic looking, she thought, and her skin tingled with unexpected electrified excitement.

A fierce, commanding countenance gazed down at her. JoNell saw flared nostrils, a neatly trimmed black mustache, dark green eyes, light olive skin and wavy black hair. This man had to know he was good looking, she thought. His self-confident stride announced to the world that he knew what he wanted, and he was used to getting it.

"
Aqui
," he called over his muscular shoulder to a much smaller man who followed him into the room. He waved his arm authoritatively.

"I am so sorry for the delay," he apologized in impeccable English. His almost imperceptible bow told JoNell that here was a polished man who knew all the courtesies of high society, but refused to give them more than grudging acknowledgement.

"I am Jorge Del Toro."

Nerves jangled in remote recesses of JoNell's body. Of course. She should have recognized him from his pictures in the gossip magazines. But she hadn't expected Del Toro to meet them at the airport—and in real life he was even more dashing and handsome than in the pictures. She felt her knees turn to jelly, and for a moment she didn't think her legs had the strength to stand up.

No wonder women fell under his spell!

His smartly styled Italian suit hugged his tall, muscular body with just a hint of suggestiveness. His steely, cold green eyes evoked a challenge to turn his impenetrable gaze into smoldering desire. The woman who could create a look of passion in those haughty eyes must surely think herself a goddess. But that woman would be asking for heartbreak, JoNell knew. From what she'd read and heard about the man, he'd allow a woman to awaken the fires that burned under his cool exterior, sweep her to heights of romance most women only dream about, and then, when the fires cooled, dispose of her without a twinge of compassion. At least, that was what the gossips said about him.

"Welcome to my country," he said.

Uncle Edgar arose from the sofa slowly and pulled JoNell by the hand after him. "Why, thank you," he replied.

"The customs man will take care of getting you checked into the country." Then, without really looking at JoNell, Del Toro said, "What a beautiful daughter you have."

JoNell suppressed a smile. How typical of the Latin macho code. Here I stand in my jump suit, my hair in braids, no makeup, and he says I am beautiful. But Latins, she knew, judged their manhood by how smoothly they could flatter a woman and by how many conquests of the heart they could make. The truth, she thought, is not in him.

"Oh—this is my niece, not my daughter," Uncle Edgar said after a typically long pause in which his slow thinking processes lurched into gear.

Del Toro looked puzzled. "Aren't you Mr. Carpenter. And is this not Miss Carpenter?"

"Well, yes and no," Uncle Edgar replied slowly.

"Maybe you'd better explain. Why don't we all sit down?"

"Well," Uncle Edgar drawled, "Mr. Carpenter took sick."

The tale would be long in the telling. Uncle Edgar just couldn't be hurried. But JoNell didn't have the composure to shorten the tale by interrupting. She was too tired and too upset by the whole situation. Her father had suffered a heart attack brought on by business pressures. Airplane sales had fallen off, there hadn't been as many flying students, and expenses were going through the roof. With one year left in college before she earned her teaching degree, JoNell was still dependent on her parents for financial support. When she found out that this airplane sale to the wealthy South American industrialist, Jorge Del Toro, would pull them out of the woods, at least temporarily, she had insisted on ferrying the plane to Peru herself. She had met all of her father's objections. First, her mother couldn't deliver the plane because she had to take care of JoNell's father. Second, JoNell wouldn't be going alone. She would take Uncle Edgar with her. He could return home by commercial plane after the plane was delivered. And she would be well taken care of in Peru. Del Toro had already made arrangements to house JoNell and her father. Part of the deal in selling the plane to Del Toro was that he would be given some preliminary flying lessons. After the lessons were completed, JoNell could fly home by commercial plane. And finally, JoNell spoke excellent Spanish, having played as a child with Cuban refugee children and having been partly raised by a Cuban housekeeper while her parents were busy with their airplane company.

Uncle Edgar was laboriously explaining the part of the story about why he was here in his brother's place when Del Toro interrupted impatiently. "Then you, seňor, are to give me the flight instructions instead of your brother?"

There was a long pause. "No," said Uncle Edgar slowly, "I just fix planes. I don't fly them."

Del Toro looked baffled. "But part of the agreement was that I was to be given flight instructions when the airplane was delivered."

JoNell struggled to hold back her laughter. Wait until he heard about the new arrangement!

"Oh, you're goin' to have the flight lessons, just like we promised," Uncle Edgar assured him. "JoNell, here, is going to be your instructor."

For a moment Del Toro was speechless. "What?" he asked incredulously. His penetrating green eyes swung in her direction and impaled her.

JoNell threw her head back with a haughty smirk. She wasn't surprised at his reaction. Of course a Latin man with his macho self-image would be shocked at the prospect of taking flight instructions from a woman. But she stood her ground and met his gaze with cool self-composure. She was not about to become apologetic, just because this man was rich, handsome, conceited and used to ordering men around and having his way with women. His reputation and his overwhelming personality did not intimidate her. When she made up her mind about something, she was as stubborn as they came. She had delivered the plane and she would give the instructions.

"I'm a very good flight instructor," JoNell said calmly.

"But you're a mere girl!" Del Toro laughed. A wave of his hand dismissed her as inconsequential.

JoNell's brown eyes flashed with rage. She had expected him to resist being taught by a woman. But to dismiss her as a "mere girl" was infuriating.

"Look, Mr. Del Toro," she snapped, rising to her full five feet, five inches. "I don't like this any better than you do. I didn't want to come here. My father took sick, and I came in his place. There's nothing in the sales agreement that says your instructor has to be a man."

"Just what qualifications do you have, seňorita?" demanded Del Toro, an angry flush rising from his collar.

"Well, I've logged over a thousand hours in the air and I hold an instructor's rating for one thing," JoNell retorted. "As a matter of fact, I learned to fly an airplane before I learned to drive a car. I grew up around airplanes. I can fly them, gas them up, and even make some repairs. I may look young to you, seňor, but I know what I'm doing."

Del Toro was frowning darkly, his eyes unrelenting. "Flying is serious business," he snapped.

"I know that," she retorted.

He shook his head, "You're a mere child, my dear," he insisted.

"I happen to be of legal age—twenty-one," she said angrily, "hardly a child. I'm a senior in college—"

He interrupted, "No—no. It's out of the question. I didn't bargain for this when I bought the plane. Other arrangements have to be made. I cannot accept delivery of the airplane under these circumstances—"

JoNell looked hopelessly at Uncle Edgar, but realized she wasn't going to get a whole lot of help from him. He was laboriously trying to sort out the rapid-fire dialogue.

This was a serious situation. Her parents needed to make this sale. And Del Toro was entitled to flight instruction with delivery of the airplane; that was in the contract. Possibly some arrangement could be worked out with a local flying instructor—but JoNell felt too stubbornly angry to settle for a compromise like that. First he had angered her by his infuriating manner of treating her as a "mere child." Then he was insulting her by inferring that she wasn't a competent pilot.

Impulsively, JoNell exclaimed, "If you doubt my qualifications to fly, I'll give you a sample ride right now. Then you can judge for yourself!"

Del Toro stiffened. Her suggestion obviously took him by surprise. For the first time since he'd walked so self-assuredly into the room, he appeared to be at a loss for words. She glimpsed a strange conflict in his eyes.

JoNell pursed her lips, and tilted her head slightly to one side, as her brown eyes studied him challengingly. "What's the matter, seňor?" she asked softly. "Are you afraid?"

For a long moment, a dropped pin would have rattled loudly in the deathly silence.

Del Toro's gaze flicked in the direction of the other two Latin men in the room, the customs inspector and the hangar manager who had greeted JoNell and her uncle. They were watching and listening avidly.

Del Toro looked at JoNell again. His demeanor was haughty. "Afraid, seňorita? Don't be ridiculous!"

JoNell suppressed a giggle.
Ah, seňor, but don't I detect a slight paleness in your cheeks? If you ask me, you're scared but you'd die before your Latin macho ego would admit it in front of these other men
…

JoNell felt a moment of heady triumph. "Then, come on. I'll give you a sample of how well a woman can fly."

She led the way out the door, through the hangar and angrily jerked open the door of the Cessna. The customs man helped her remove the luggage. He promised to process it while they were in the air. Fine, she thought grimly. No flying projectiles sailing around the cabin when she proved her skill to Del Toro.

He climbed silently in beside her. A quick jerk of her head tossed her long, blond braids over her shoulders. "Better buckle your seat belt," she warned, enjoying a situation where she could give
him
orders.

She stretched out a slender hand to the ignition key. Two white tennis shoes pressed firmly on the brakes.

Her strong, determined voice called "Clear!" out the side window. The Cessna's engine sprang into life, and with its roar, the propeller became a spinning circle.

JoNell completely ignored Del Toro as she called the tower and received permission to taxi.

With a deft touch, JoNell inched the plane forward. It rolled smoothly. She eyed the ground traffic and headed toward the designated runway. Fortunately, the drizzle had dissipated and the sun had come out. The ground was beginning to dry. Stopping short of the runway, JoNell pushed hard on the brakes and revved the plane up to cruising speed, checking both magnetos, making sure all instruments were operating, while working up her nerve to give the haughty Del Toro the surprise ride of his life.

"Hold on," she warned through clenched teeth. She rolled out on the runway, lined the nose of the plane up with the white stripe running down the center of the pavement, and shoved in the throttle. The plane sprang forward eagerly. JoNell pushed forward on the stick, operated the rudders back and forth to steady the plane, and waited for that special feeling that always gave her a giddy shiver, the moment when the plane reached flying speed and she could sense that it wanted to make its leap into the air. At that precise moment, JoNell felt so exhilarated, she could almost have forgiven Del Toro his rudeness. She pulled back on the stick and the plane pulled away from the runway.