The Abducted Heart (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (23 page)

She would have to travel light, but that was no hardship. There was very little that she wished to carry with her. She was wearing her own cream-colored suit and that was all she wanted. She did not feel as if any of the other expensive clothes hanging in the wardrobe belonged to her, nor did she need them to hang in her closet at home as unworn reminders.

The turquoise pendant had been a gift from Doña Isabel to Ramón’s fiancée. Since she had been that in name only, it was not hers to keep. She lingered over the statuette of the Virgin of Guadeloupe. The worn, wooden features seemed to reproach her. No, she could not take the Virgin from Mexico, no matter the wrench it cost to leave her behind.

She had almost reached the door on her way out when she remembered her engagement ring. Without the weight of the oval-shaped diamond, her finger felt light and curiously naked. With fingers that trembled, she placed it in plain view on the dressing table beside the pendant. She walked away without looking back.

All her fears of being stopped before she could leave the house were for nothing. It could not have been easier. With her head high and her handbag clutched in her fingers, she walked down the stairs.

In the hallway she paused, wondering where Ramón was. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she heard his voice, mingling with that of his secretary, coming from the study.

Clenching her teeth, she continued along the hall and let herself out the front door. It closed softly, firmly, behind her.

A gardener was on duty at the front gate. She gave him a smile and a pleasant nod as she passed. The gate was closed this morning but not locked. She slipped through it without assistance and turned to face the long sidewalk stretching empty before her.

As she walked bells began to ring, the mellow, silver-toned bells of Mexico, signaling early Sunday morning Mass. Unconsciously she kept time to their doleful chime, allowing the sound to crowd thought from her mind.

She only had to wait a few minutes for a bus heading downtown. She was not choosy; she took the first that came along, stepping off it in the center of the business district.

With a set and purposeful face, she made her way to the nearest large tourist hotel. For a modest tip the doorman flagged a taxi for her and even directed the driver to the International Airport.

The interior of the cab was none too clean and the springs of the back seat were broken down, still Anne leaned back, closing her eyes.

She was satisfied that her actions should make it unlikely that anyone could direct Ramón after her.

No, making her escape had not been hard. In the end, it had been simplicity itself. The difficult part still lay ahead of her — returning home and trying to pretend that nothing had changed, knowing all the time that nothing would ever be the same.

Anne pushed through the glass doors of Metcalf’s Caterers with her hands pushed into her pockets and her chin tucked into the collar of her heavy navy pea jacket. Sliding the strap of her shoulder bag off her shoulder, she slung it onto the rack in the corner.

Iva Metcalf, seated at the reception desk, looked up. An intent look in her eyes, she surveyed Anne without speaking. When at last she ventured a remark, her tone was noncommittal.

“Still cold out?”

“Freezing!” Anne said with a realistic shudder. “And getting colder by the minute. I wouldn’t be surprised if we had snow by morning. The wind is enough to cut you to the bone, straight out of the North.”

“You should have more padding to protect your bones,” Iva told her with a rueful glance down at her own ample proportions.

Anne smiled, then reluctantly slid out of her jacket before passing into the humid warmth of the big kitchen. Within seconds Iva followed her.

“How about a cup of coffee?” she said. “You look like you could use it, and my nerves tell me it’s time for my last transfusion of the day. Some lady forgot to pick up her husband’s birthday cake, too. His loss is our gain. Want a piece?”

“No, thanks,” Anne answered, though she accepted the cup Iva poured from the ever-simmering coffee machine.

Paying no attention, Iva cut two generous slices and placed them on plates. “Afraid of spoiling your dinner that is, if you intend to have any?” Anne’s employer asked, plonking one of the plates down in front of her. “Eat it. We’re going to have to fatten you up before the next northerner blows you away. You’re skinny as rail and getting thinner every day. Your eyes look like somebody drew them in with a charcoal pencil. You are going to have to slow down. You may be making a mint of money working overtime for Metcalf’s, but you’re a terrible advertisement for the food we serve.”

Anne laughed, as she was supposed to, and she tried to eat the cake Iva had cut for her. After one or two bites she put down her fork and pushed the plate away.

Watching her, Iva said seriously, “I mean it, Anne. If you go on like this, you’ll make yourself sick. I’ve tried not to interfere since you came back from Mexico, but these last two weeks I’ve watched you melt away in front of my eyes. You can’t go on like this.”

“I — suppose it will get better eventually,” Anne said with a tremulous movement of the lips.

“Not unless you help yourself.” Iva sipped her coffee then sat swirling the black liquid with an elaborately casual manner. It was quiet in the corner where they sat on stools drawn up to the pastry counter. The chef, Tony, muttered to himself as he stirred something that looked like a cream sauce on the enormous range at the far end of the room. Joe had gone to deliver an order of hors d’ oeuvres for a cocktail party. They were virtually alone.

When Anne made no answer, Iva glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “You never said much about what happened between you and your Mexican millionaire, and I’ve tried to mind my own business. But when you came back from down there anyone could tell you had been knocked for a loop. You can tell me to keep out of it if you want to — and I wouldn’t blame you if you did — but sometimes it helps to talk about these things.”

“There’s really not much to tell,” Anne said, helpless before the other woman’s combination of curiosity, real concern, and something more, something Anne could not quite define.

“Of course, if you don’t want to discuss it...” Iva said, withdrawing at once in the face of Anne’s reluctance.

Suddenly, when it looked as if the opportunity to speak to someone of what had taken place in Mexico was going to be taken away, Anne wanted to talk about it. It might well be the only chance she would have to straighten things out in her own mind, to apportion blame and pain once and for all.

By the time she finished her tale the coffee cups had been emptied, refilled, then emptied again and the dregs left to grow cold.

A frown that was just the least bit prejudiced between her eyes, Iva said, “Well, at least you proved to Ramón Castillo that you weren’t after his money.”

With a wan nod, Anne agreed. “For what consolation that may be to me.”

“You sound almost as if you regret not taking them up on their offer,” Iva commented, her gaze narrowing.

Catching her breath, Anne looked away. Did she? She could not tell. Sometimes it seemed that if she had been less proud, less determined to have everything or nothing, she might have found a measure of happiness. Often at night, lying alone in her bed, she had found herself yearning against all reason for the half a loaf that had been offered to her.

If there had ever been a time when she had nourished a secret hope that Ramón might follow her, it had been of short duration. She had had no communication whatever with the Castillo family.

She lived alone these days. Judy had moved out of the apartment. Fired by Anne’s example, and what Judy thought of as her romantic adventure in a foreign land, she had persuaded her parents to let her go to Iran to work in the oil fields. By the time Anne returned, she was packing to leave. Denied the presence of her roommate, Anne had been thrown back on her own company, forced to live with her own image of what had occurred. It was a relief to have it out in the open, and yet it was disturbing to have her vain regrets put into words.

Oddly persistent, Iva’s voice reached Anne in her absorption. “Do you regret leaving? Do you still feel anything for Ramón?”

“I wonder sometimes what would have happened if I had stayed,” Anne admitted. “As for what I feel, I don’t think I could ever love any other man.”

Iva nodded, a frown pleating her forehead. Absent-mindedly, she began to gather up the cups and saucers and cake plates, stacking them together. She carried them to the sink, then turned, glancing at her wrist watch. She grimaced.

“Anne, dear girl, I hate to impose on you, especially after my mother-hen speech just now. But so long as you are determined to be a slave to Metcalf’s, could I persuade you to set up a small dinner party for me? This man called while you were out this morning and ordered dinner for two to be brought to his hotel suite. It’s an easy menu, nothing elaborate. You don’t have to do anything except leave it in the kitchen on warmers where he can find it. He doesn’t want the meal served, doesn’t want a waitress hanging around in the way — you know the kind of thing?”

Anne had to smile at Iva’s droll expression. She understood perfectly. It was the sort of thing she could do with her eyes shut.

“I would carry it over, but Joe and I have tickets to a symphony this evening, and as soon as he comes in with the delivery van I’ve got to drag him home and get him into his best bib and tucker. You know how that is!”

“I’ll be glad to do it,” Anne said, and meant it. The more she had to do, the less time she would have to think. The more exhausted she was, the more likely she would be to sleep.

The number of the hotel room Iva had given her proved to be a penthouse suite high above the city in one of Dallas’s most luxurious hotels. A uniformed porter rode with her and her wheeled cart laden with covered dishes up in the service elevator to the top floor. He waited politely while she rang the bell. No one answered. Under the disapproving eye of her escort, she used the key that had been provided for just such a contingency. As she wheeled her cart in through the open door, the elevator doors slid silently to behind her, and she was alone in the penthouse.

The kitchen was well equipped, a modern laboratory of stainless steel and chrome, with gleaming yellow surfaces and warm touches of wood paneling. Beside an array of the usual electrical appliances there was a large, glass-topped warming tray and a compact microwave oven. She could either place the food she had brought on the warmer to keep it an even temperature, or leave it to be quickly heated by micro-waves.

Anne unloaded the cart and pushed it into the corner. The food was packed in a series of plastic foam boxes to seal in either heat or cold and prevent spillage.

Her movements were swift but sure. She had to hurry. If the customer objected to a waiter, he would not be at all pleased to find her there when he returned. The first box she opened with perfect precision, and then her fingers grew clumsy and uncoordinated as one by one the others revealed their contents.

Trout Marguery, asparagus in butter, French bread; fresh, ripe pears, chilled white wine...

It was the menu Ramón had requested weeks before, complete to the last detail. The menu she had delivered to his plane on that disastrous day when they had first met.

A stricken look in her eyes, Anne gripped the cabinet, staring at the food spread out before her. She was being foolish, she tried to tell herself. It was only a coincidence. It did not help. The pain within her heart grew boundlessly, spreading like poison throughout her body.

At the sound of a quiet footfall behind her, her ragged nerves jumped uncontrollably. She whirled, her eyes wide, her face pale with dread.

Ramón stood in the doorway.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice level, his gaze pinioning her where she stood. “Could I persuade you to share my dinner, my dearest Anne?”

Weakness flooded over her. If the cabinet had not been behind her she would have fallen. As it was she reached back with both hands, pressing the open palms against it for support. The color receded from her face, leaving it the color of the white chunky sweater she wore over slim-fitting navy pants beneath her pea jacket.

Ramón had had longer to get used to her presence. His face mirrored no surprise at seeing her there. It crossed her mind to wonder, however, if he had been ill. He was thinner and there were lines carved into his face that she did not remember. He too wore a sweater with dark dress pants. Of earthy terra-cotta, it emphasized the lean grace of his tall frame.

“Well?” he queried softly. “Have you nothing to say to my invitation?”

It was an effort to force words through the constriction in her throat. “No, I ... couldn’t think of intruding.”

“Intruding?” He lifted an eyebrow. “On what?”

“You — you did order dinner for two, didn’t you? I’ll be out of your way in a minute.” Unconsciously Anne was listening, straining to hear the shrill sound of Irene’s voice. At any second she expected the woman to appear, smiling in malicious triumph.

“If you go, I will have to eat alone. You are my only guest.”

At the back of Anne’s mind dawned the slow realization that Iva had known that Ramón would be here waiting for her — that Iva had deliberately omitted to give her his name.