Mexican Nights (12 page)

The arrogant author had been replaced by a disarmingly relaxed, sexy-looking man who appeared amazingly at home in a kitchen.

He glanced at her with a smile. "Your timing's perfect. I hope you like omelets. My repertoire of culinary creations is pretty limited, I'm afraid."

"I love omelets." She managed to sound matter-of-fact as, fingers tucked into the pockets of her jeans, she strolled into the kitchen, her eyes taking in the efficient compactness of stainless steel appliances, dark-stained cabinets, and polished black-and-white tiled floor.

"Would you mind pouring the coffee?" Derek inquired as he left the kitchen carrying two plates. She found cups and filled them, then followed Derek to the table in the corner of the sitting room, which had already been set with red straw placemats, silver, and soft cream-colored pottery.

She sat down and tasted her omelet, which was light and seasoned just right. The coffee, too, was brewed to perfection. Derek Storm was full of surprises! She had started to relax a bit when Derek said, "We can still get in several hours' work." He glanced at his watch. "It's just now six."

"We?" Terri asked, swallowing quickly.

"I thought we'd go over those contact sheets you said you brought with you. I want to get some idea of where we stand on the illustrations." He paused and gazed at her across the table from beneath half-lowered lids. "We may find," he went on, in low tones that sounded to Terri disconcertingly intimate, "that you're more competent than I thought."

She had been deceived by appearances. Not only was the arrogant author still with her, he was just as bossy and insulting as ever.

"Of course! Who can better judge photography than a writer?" she inquired sweetly.

He could not fail to understand the implied insult. "I don't pretend to be a judge of photography," he retorted, "only a certain photographer, who seems far too sensitive for someone who is supposedly a professional. Still can't take a few constructive suggestions, eh?"

"Keep your suggestions!"

"Touchy, touchy." He grinned sardonically, almost wearily. "But don't start a fight now, Terri. I'm not in the mood to humor you at the moment. We'll get around to everything—in time."

"We'll get around to nothing—except work!" She hadn't meant it to sound as if she expected anything personal, but she knew too late that it had sounded that way. Flushing, she dropped her gaze to her plate and concentrated on her omelet.

But Derek, who was sipping his coffee with deceptive nonchalance, hadn't missed the hidden jibe. "Isn't work the purpose for this trip? That's what I've been talking about. You haven't been listening, Terri."

Terri stole a glance at him from beneath lowered lashes. He was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, dark eyes watching her, narrowed with a catlike watchfulness that struck Terri as being extremely dangerous.

"Oh, but I have," she retorted, "especially between the lines. With you that's necessary."

"How tiring it must be," he murmured lazily, "to be always filled with distrust."

"Not at all." What was he up to with that indolent look?

"I suppose I'll have to let time prove to you what a waste of energy your suspicions are." Now how did he mean that? That he had no ulterior motives? Or that her suspicions were wasted because he could so easily assuage them?

"I'm not sure we have that much time!" Goodness, why was she arguing? Couldn't he see that she had his number?

"Finish your omelet—and wash the dishes." His tone was growing hard again as he finished flatly: "And don't be all night about it."

"I—I'm tired," she protested rather faintly.

"If you imagine"—his voice gathered momentum as he continued—"that you can get out of your share of the household chores simply by pleading tiredness—" Derek gestured impatiently. "It won't work. We will share the cooking and cleaning up equally."

She couldn't argue with that; and she knew it was useless to try to get out of working on the illustrations this evening, too. Derek's mind was made up, and trying to change it would be like trying to move a house single-handedly.

Relenting, she finished her dinner and cleared the table. There weren't enough dirty dishes to bother with the dishwasher, and Terri washed them by hand, stacking them to dry in a rack found under the sink.

When the kitchen was put to rights, she went back to the sitting room. Derek was standing at the window, hands in his jeans pockets, attention fixed on the darkening courtyard. Sighing, Terri went into her bedroom and took the film packet from her suitcase. Returning to the sitting room, she tossed it on the table as Derek turned around.

He opened the packet and pulled out a thick stack of contact sheets. "Now, let's see what we have here." He shuffled through them slowly, studying them with a frown of concentration. Then he spread them out across the tabletop.

"Some of these might do," he said thoughtfully. "The contrast is good."

Terri bit her bottom lip and did not answer. She watched as he bent over the table, studying the contact sheets. Slowly, his head began to shake as he moved the sheets about, as if something in all of this was missing—some vague and indefinable ingredient—but lacking nevertheless.

Terri put her hands on her hips and braced herself, marshaling her arguments. Still he did not speak, but merely stared at the contact sheets, frowning.

Finally, the silent disapproval became too much for Terri to take, and she drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"Okay, obviously you're not satisfied with what I've done," she exclaimed. "What's
wrong
with those? If you know so much about photography, tell me!" Her blue eyes were blazing.

He straightened slowly, glancing at her in an absent-minded sort of way, almost as if he'd forgotten she was there. Then there was a disdainful tightening of his lips.

"Well, say something!" Terri shouted at him. "Is it the lighting—the wrong f-stop perhaps? Is it the composition? The definition isn't quite right? You don't approve of the film's acuity?" She paused for breath, then rushed on. "What, don't you have anything to say? Of course not! Because there is nothing wrong with most of those shots! I'm
good
and I know it!" Rattled by his steady gaze, she fell abruptly silent and, face flushed, glared at him.

"I am aware that the great majority of readers would find absolutely nothing wrong with these photographs," he began coldly. "Only the few who know something about ancient Mexican civilizations will sense a lack. Even they may not be able to pinpoint the vague dissatisfaction they will feel. The critics would probably give you high praise. But is that enough for you, Terri? Can you really be satisfied with less than the very best work of which you are capable?" He paused, then added tiredly, "Are you going to fight me every step of the way on this?"

Terri made a bitter sound. "Maybe you should have asked for another photographer for this job—whoever did the illustrations for your other books."

He shook his head. "I knew you by reputation. I was convinced your potential is enormous. I wanted to give . you this chance—and it is a tremendous chance for you, Terri."

"Well, it seems I may not be able to live up to your confidence in me. Does anybody ever measure up to your standards?"

"A few." His head held at a stubborn angle, his eyes regarded her coolly. "And I think you will, too. I'm not ready to give up yet. That's why we are here."

"Am I supposed to thank you for those few crumbs?" she inquired sarcastically.

He gestured wearily toward the table. "Let's forget this for now. You were right. It's not a good idea to try to work this evening." He was actually smiling, if a little thinly, and for a second she thought he might be going to apologize. "Let's get out of here for a bit," he said quietly. "We'll go for a walk." His eyebrows were raised questioningly.

Reluctantly, she nodded. Anything would be better than wrangling over photographs. She followed him outside. As they started down a narrow path leading across the north lawn, Derek took her hand. He didn't look at her and his expression did not change; she wondered if he even knew what he had done. How should she react? Pull away? But wouldn't that be making too much of a friendly overture? She left her hand in his and was aware of a jumping along her nerves.

Silently, he led her to the fence that bordered the irrigated lawn. Beyond the fence was a field of agave plants, dark and still in the evening dusk. He let go of her hand and, placing his arms along the top of the fence, gazed across the field.

"How would you like to live here?" he asked suddenly.

Terri leaned against the fence beside him and answered reflectively, "I wouldn't."

"Why?" He hadn't turned to look at her.

"It makes me feel sad—melancholy. I keep thinking of those poor Indians who lived here before the Spanish came. They must have spent all their time just trying to grow enough food in this sterile ground to survive."

"When they weren't making sacrifices to their gods for rain," Derek amended.

"Yes, it's in the air here, isn't it? That constant struggle they had for survival." Something in Terri responded to the intensity of Derek's tone. He did have a wealth of knowledge and experience from which she could draw—but did she want to? Did she dare open herself up to him in even this one area?

"When you think that generations of those people lived and died like that," Terri mused, "it makes you want to cry—or rage against heaven—do something."

Beside her, Derek shrugged. "They didn't know it was possible to live any other way. They didn't expect anything else."

"Maybe that is the secret of whatever contentment they had," Terri said. "If you don't expect anything, then you can't be disappointed when things are bad."

"That's true. It's we twentieth-century Westerners who have high expectations. Because of that, we can be disappointed—and often are. People let us down, and we feel cheated." He sounded sad, but it had grown too dark to distinguish his face clearly. They were silent for a moment, then Derek said, "Shall we go back?" They walked toward the guest house, side by side, but not touching. Yet Terri felt closer to him than at any time since they'd left Mexico City.

Like the Yucatán, Derek Storm was a study in contrasts.

She awoke the next morning feeling rested and determined to try to look upon Derek's criticism of her work as constructive. Perhaps then they could finish the work here and get back to civilization. She dressed in white shorts and a navy blue tank top, slid her feet into flat white heelless sandals, and left her room.

Derek was not up, and she took the opportunity to do a little exploring in the kitchen, finding the pantry and refrigerator well stocked. Their absent host had provided well for them. Humming to herself, she made breakfast—sausage links, hot rice cereal, toast, orange juice, and coffee.

Then, with everything covered and tucked into the warm oven, she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down in the sitting room to listen for sounds of Derek's rising. Five minutes later, when she had heard nothing, she decided she should go and tell Derek that breakfast was ready. If she waited much longer, everything would be ruined. He
had
said that he wanted to work today.