Made For Each Other (8 page)

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.

He had promised her before the wedding
that he would not force himself on her, but she was well aware that
it was extremely difficult for her to resist his insistent
attentions when he chose to turn on his seductive charm. When they
reached their suite, she paused only briefly enough at her bedroom
door to say goodnight, but he had other plans. One hand braced on
the doorframe, he said, “Not so fast.”

Her heart did a trip-beat. “What?” she
breathed.

His hand reached out to caress the
column of her neck, and she inhaled audbly. Her lids fluttered
closed at the sensuous sensation rippling through her.

He grinned wickedly, letting his
fingers slip lower to her clavicle. Remember, we need to tighten
your brace.”

“I think I can manage that,” she
murmured.

“Oh, but don’t deny me a husband’s
pleasure in helping his wife.”

He backed her into her bedroom and
deftly stripped her of her jacket. Looking helpless up at his
mocking expression, she saw his eyes suddenly smoulder. She took a
step back, but got no farther, blocked by the bed. A hungry smile
curled only slightly the ends of his mouth. His fingers fastened on
the buckles of each brace and he pulled her toward him only a
fraction. “I’m not going to ravish you, Julie.”

When a little breath escaped her lips,
whether it was relief of disappointment, she wasn’t sure, he jerked
harshly on each buckle. Then, his fingertips at her breasts, he
gave her the briefest little shove, and she fell backwards onto the
mattress.”

“Ohhh!” she gasped.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Raffer,” he said
turning and shutting the door behind him.

“Go to hell, Mr. Raffer!” she shouted
after him. She struggled off the mattress and locked the door
behind him. Stripping to her panties, she crawled immediately into
the king-size bed, feeling very small. She thought she would go to
sleep immediately, but frustration kept her wide awake at first.
Then, every so often, above the distant pounding of the surf
against the beaches, she could hear Nick walking about his room.
Once she thought he opened his terrace doors, but she was not sure.
And she tried to remember if she had locked her own doors to the
terrace.

She was too sleepy by then to check.
The last thing she remembered was the unaccustomed feel of the ring
on her third finger; then dawn’s pink shafts of light awoke
her.

Stretching, she made her way out onto
the terrace, thinking she would watch the sunrise alone. But Nick
was already out there with a cup of coffee. “Throw on your clothes
and have some coffee,” he said, laughing when she quickly shielded
her breasts and drew back within the shadow of the room.

He was pouring her a cup when she
emerged, this time fully clad in her tight jeans and his shirt, the
tails of which she had tied in a knot at her waist as he had done
to her aboard the plane. “You continue to amaze me, Mrs. Raffer,”
he said with a rueful smile. “I didn’t think many women got up
early if they didn’t have to.”

“You have a poor opinion of women, Mr.
Raffer” She took the cup of thick black coffee he passed
her.

The half-closed eyes scrutinized her
with amusement. “Perhaps my limited experience has unjustly
influenced me.”

She wanted to tell him she would not
call his experience limited, but he continued, saying, “Now, if you
tell me you like fishing, I’ll begin to suspect—”

“But I do,” she said with a laugh.
“Really! My father and I fish along Hickory Creek every time I go
back home.”

Nick’s dark brows arched in genuine
surprise. He stood up and said, “I’m making reservations for a boat
at nine, and we’ll test your mettle at sailfishing.”

Less than three hours later she found
herself out in a three-ton boat manned by two young Mexicans and
piloted by an old man whose skin was as brown as his beard and hair
were white. Sitting next to Nick in an anchored chair that
swiveled, she lazily fished through the morning as the boat rode
the Caribbean’s gentle waves. Though the sun warmed her skin, the
sea breeze played with her hair so that it kept getting in her
face.

“Here,” Nick said, wheeling around in
his chair to catch her head between his hands. “Hold still for a
moment.” Deftly he began to fashion pig-tails out of her
wind-whipped hair, securing each handful of hair with a strip of
fishing string.

When he had finished she returned to
her fishing, though somewhat awkwardly with her brace limiting her
range of motion. She was more confused than ever about the man to
whom she was married. Some moments he could be brusque and
exacting, and at others he was incredibly tender and gentle, so
that if she had not known better she would have thought he cared
for her.

The morning passed into noon without
either of them getting a bite. They broke for a lunch of tuna
sandwiches and a wicker- covered flask of sangria. she found she
liked the mixture of wine and fruit juices much better than the
hard liquor she had occasionally tasted at Santa Fe’s soirees. Just
as the boat was putting about to head back for port, her line
snapped outward, almost jerking her from the chair.

“You’ve got one!” Nick shouted. “Hang
in there, Julie!”

A gigantic fish with a spotted sail
three times as large as its blue body soared out of the water in a
graceful arc. Her muscles felt as if they would be torn from her
body. Without the full use of her left arm, her back was forced to
strain with the effort to control the rod. At once Nick was behind
her, his arms about her own. “Reel in,” he coaxed her as he
steadied the rod.

She did not know which battled more,
the fish or her own emotions; for the sight of Nick’s bronzed arms,
the corded muscles straining with the pull of the fish, the hard
warmth of his body molding hers from behind, caused her insides to
flood with the want of him while her heart warned her of the danger
of becoming involved with him.

But it was too late. She already was
involved. She was his wife for six months . . . but in name
only.

When the sailiish was finally landed
and iced down, she was exuberant. “We’ll have it mounted above the
fireplace,” Nick told her, and she noted that there was a mixture
of amusement and pride in the usually guarded eyes.

That evening, after a siesta and
dinner on the terrace, Nick took her dancing. But the pleasant man
of the afternoon was gone. She did not know what she had done to
incur his moodiness. She realized she was not as beautiful as the
women he was accustomed to escorting, but she had tried to look her
best that last evening on Cozumel.

She did know that Nick slipped into
these uncommunicative moods each time she was forced to knock on
their connecting bedroom door and ask for his help in taking her
brace off and putting it back on before and after her baths. She
suspected he resented her displaying so tantalizingly what she had
expressly denied him; what he did not know was that it was just as
difficult for her to stand before him clad only in a towel, to feel
his warm fingers against her flesh, and not surrender.

That evening she had spent a long hour
soaking in the tiled tub. Then she arranged her freshly washed hair
in a cluster of curls anchored at the nape of her neck with a red
oleander picked from the potted shrubs on the terrace. Lastly, she
slipped into the long white huipile with its border of green
embroidery at hem and sleeves. She only wished the brace were not
so visible above the scooped neckline.

But the long mirror on the bathroom
door assured her that, considering the day spent in the sun and
wind, she was extraordinarily pretty that evening, especially with
the pink glow the afternoon sun had left on her full
cheekbones.

Yet Nick wore a distant look of cool
politeness and made little conversation in between the dances when
they returned to their bamboo booth that coordinated with the rest
of the nightclub’s jungle motif. If his arms did not embrace her so
firmly, pressing her small body against the length of his when they
danced to romantic songs like “Noche de Ronda” and “Maria
Bonita”—if his fingers did not linger at her side where her breasts
swelled—she would have thought he was completely indifferent to her
feminine charms.

However, when they returned to their
suite after midnight, Nick clearly demonstrated otherwise when she
would have closed the connecting door. Perhaps it was the effects
of the one glass of salted margarita she had drunk, but she
unwisely did not pull away when Nick’s hand cupped the back of her
neck, slowly tightening, as he drew her to him. she stood on
tiptoe, swaying against his broad chest for support.

It was only supposed to be a light
thank- you kiss for the marvelous days at Cozumel, but the touch of
Nick’s warm mouth against her own, parting her lips in a demanding
insistence, caused her to forget her resolve not to become
emotionally involved with him.

After a long moment he released her
passion-bruised lips, but his hand, entangled in the cinnamon curls
at the nape of her neck, still held her captive. He pulled her head
back firmly, tilting her face to his searching gaze. “Changing your
mind?”

Infuriated—not only at Nick but at her
easy submission—she shoved away from him. Her carefully arranged
curls came loose to fall in wild disorder over her shoulders. “And
you—you gave your word you wouldn’t—”

“It was only a husbandly kiss, Mrs.
Raffer,” he taunted.

“Goodnight, Mr. Raffer!” She slammed
the door and bolted it, trying hard to ignore the soft laughter on
the other side. Sleep was difficult that night, for a pair of bold
blue eyes invaded her dreams, watching her with derision lurking in
their drowning depths.

The next morning she sat stonily
opposite Nick while they ate a breakfast of papaya and pineapple on
their balcony. He seemed indifferent to her mood as he casually
glanced over the English edition of one of Mexico’s leading
newspapers, which had been shoved beneath the door. Finished with
her fruit, she stood. “I’m going to pack,” she told the back of the
New York Stock Exchange listings.

Nick folded the newspaper and laid it
aside. “Not yet. The boat doesn’t leave for Yucatan until this
afternoon. We’ll spend the morning sunbathing.”

She resented this imperious attitude
even more than the passionate kiss he had extracted from her the
night before. “I got too much sun yesterday. I think I’ll stay in
my room and read.”

She turned to go, and Nick’s hand shot
out to grab her small-boned wrist. “You’re my bride, Julie. And my
bride doesn’t spend her honeymoon‘reading in her room.”

She wanted to protest but knew it
would do little good. Nick was not the sort of man to put up with a
temper tantrum. She had no doubt that he would shake her within an
inch of her life if she went against his will.

Her lips a tight, thin line, she
removed her wrist from his grasp. “I’ll be ready in a moment,” she
said disdainfully as she rubbed where his fingers had bit into her
skin.

It was the first time Nick would see
her in the new bathing suit he had bought for her, for she had not
come out of the boutique’s changing room when she had tried the
bikini on. Now, looking at herself in the mirror, she felt almost
naked. She wished she were taller, with longer legs and breasts
like melons instead of ta-tas. And why did she have to wear that
unbecoming brace about her shoulders!