My Love Betrayed (10 page)

I smiled weakly. “He doesn’t like me, does he?” I
asked.

Still angry, Charles snapped, “Can you blame
him? First, you’re accused of smuggling, then you
show up like this. He can hardly expect it to help
business!”

“Senorita,” the inspector said before Charles
could add anything more, “have you ever seen
either of the men before?”

“No,” I said, firmly. Then, remembering, I
added, “He knew my name!”

“What?”

“He knew my name. He called me Senorita
Steffee.”

“Which one?” The inspector’s voice was eager.

“Pepe. No, the other one. But how? I was careful
not to tell Pepe my name.”

Charles and the inspector looked at each other.
Neither said a word for several seconds. Finally, the inspector said quietly, “It is possible that we
will wish you to look at photographs. Or men. You
will be either here or at your office, si?”

“Si.,,

“Then I will say good evening, senor, senorita.”

As the two policemen started for the door,
Charles demanded, “Wait a minute! Aren’t you
going to give her some kind of protection?”

“There is a man very near this hotel. And one
near your office, senor. If the senorita goes
nowhere else, she will surely be safe,” the inspector
said blandly.

“And what if someone tried to kidnap her from
this room?” Charles demanded sarcastically. “A
heck of a lot of good a guy on the street would be!”

The inspector hesitated, then added bluntly,
“That has been considered.” Then he turned to me.
“Senorita, if you think of anything else, you will
call me, si? Good night.”

And the pair left. Charles was angry and turned
that anger on me. “Well? I hope you’re pleased
with yourself! That was a damn stupid thing to do,
walking back here alone. Why didn’t you wait for
me? Or at least take a taxi? Were you looking for
trouble?”

Suddenly I couldn’t take any more. My head
started to spin and tears ran down my face.

“Ellen!” Charles’s voice was full of concern.

I felt the glass being taken from my hand.
Strong arms pulled me forward until my head
rested against a large, comforting shoulder. A
hand kept it there, while an arm circled me,
holding me tightly. A voice crooned, over and over
again, “It’s all right now. It’s all right.”

Charles rocked me slightly back and forth, and
eventually the tears stopped. My head righted
itself and Charles eased me back into the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “And I know you feel
as if you couldn’t eat, but I think you ought to try.
I’m going to order room service, okay?”

I nodded, unable to talk yet. Charles seemed to
understand. After he had made the call, he
disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a
wet towel. “Try this against your face,” he
suggested quietly.

It helped. So did the food when it came. Charles
exerted himself to talk about other matters.
Matters that had nothing to do with Mexico
music, Europe, what it was like to grow up in a
large family. Once, he even made me smile.

Nor did he linger after dinner. As soon as the
waiter had removed everything, Charles said good
night and left. Almost against my will, I fell asleep
quickly that night.

Dawn. And I was awake. The curtains of my
room were pulled back. Smog, or perhaps fog,
rising over the city, obscured everything, including
my own thoughts. When I was a child, I had
always loved the fog closing in over my parents’
house. The thicker, the better. Hiding houses half
a block away. Making the world a strange,
exciting place, where anything might happen. But
now… now it only depressed me, and automatically I turned away from the window to brush my
hair. Then I sat down to try to write the promised
letter to my parents.

It wasn’t the best time, of course, to try writing
home. Certainly not if I wanted to hide what was happening from my parents. But I have never been
sensible about such things, so I tried. And tore up
four successive sheets of hotel stationery. Finally, I
gave up and filled out a postcard, saying Mexico
City was beautiful; Rick and I had broken up; I
couldn’t wait to see them again; I’d probably be
back in Chicago in another week or so.

That wasn’t very satisfactory, of course, but it
would have to do. The last thing I wanted was to
upset my parents and have them to deal with, too.
My mother seemed unaware that I was a grown
woman and would be quite capable of flying down
to “stand by” me.

I glanced at the time. My efforts had taken
longer than I had expected, and the breakfast
room was open. Gratefully, I took the elevator to
the top floor. There were only strangers there and I
felt an odd mixture of relief and disappointment.

Afterwards, I took a short walk in the park.
Perhaps it was foolish, but I was too nervous to
wait in my room until it was time to go to work.
And the police had said they had a man watching
the hotel to protect me.

When I headed for the hotel some time later, I
saw Charles standing just outside, looking up and
down the street, frowning, as though searching for
someone. Me, of course. I hurried the short
distance across the street to the sidewalk where he
waited. As he saw me, the frown faded, wavered,
then returned. I reached his side just as Mr. Iveson
pulled up in front of us. We quickly climbed into
the car as a taxi pulled up behind us and
impatiently honked for us to get out of the way.

As we pulled away from the curb, Mr. Iveson asked cheerfully, “How are both of you, this
morning?”

By unspoken agreement, neither Charles nor I
mentioned the attack. Charles managed an equally
cheerful, “Fine.”

“Good, good. My wife, Edna, asked me to invite
both of you to dinner this evening if you’re not
busy.”

I looked at Charles, frowning. The last thing I
felt like was a dinner party with who knew how
many strangers. But Charles ignored me, saying,
“We’d be delighted, Greg.”

“Good. I’ll drop you off at your hotel after work
and pick you up again about eight. We dine late
here, Miss Steffee.”

Smoothly, the two men slipped into a brief
discussion of business before we reached the
company building. Mr. Iveson dropped us off in
front, then went to park his car. Feeling unreasonably annoyed, I turned on Charles. “You might
have at least asked how I felt about dinner!”

He raised his eyebrows. “You mean you’d rather
eat alone and brood about what’s happening?”

“No, of course not! I-”

He grinned. “Oh, I get it. You wanted a quiet,
romantic, candlelit dinner with me and you’re
angry that Greg spoiled your plans? Well, in that
case-”

I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible!” I
protested.

He smiled back and agreed, “Quite impossible.”
Suddenly, I felt the need to escape and I hurried
up the steps, calling over my shoulder, “See you
later, Charles!”

Normally, I find it easy to separate my work and
personal matters, but not that morning. It wasn’t
until Carlos snapped at me that I realized how
preoccupied I was. “I hope they are pleasant
daydreams!” he said sarcastically.

I started. “Sorry, Carlos. No, they aren’t very
pleasant.”

Instantly, he was sympathetic. “Is something
very wrong?”

I hesitated, then decided to tell him. “Yesterday,
walking back to my hotel, I was attacked.”

“Attacked!” he exclaimed. “But you must be
more careful. You are pretty and”

I shook my head. “That’s not it, Carlos. At least,
I don’t think so. I-I think it may have had
something to do with Rick.”

“Senor Kemmler?” Carlos was clearly skeptical.

“Maybe not. I don’t know. It seems like a crazy
idea, but, Carlos, they knew my name! They called
me `Senorita Steffee.”’

He frowned. “Perhaps they heard someone
speak to you? Senor Whitford?”

“No, he would have called me Ellen,” I
protested, then flushed as I realized how it
sounded. Hastily I said, “Look, you’re probably
right and I should just be more careful. I certainly
intend to be. Meanwhile, let’s get back to work. I
think I know how we could shorten this program.”

My idea worked and by quitting time we had
several satisfactory runs from the computer.
Charles was waiting for me just outside the office
door. I tried to ignore Carlos’s thoughtful
expression as he watched us leave.

Several hours later, we stood on the patio of a
beautiful Mexican home. Edna Iveson had just
handed us martinis. I don’t like martinis, but it had
seemed impossible to refuse one after Edna (“Mrs.
Iveson sounds much too formal, my dear.”) had
explained, “A touch of home!”

But “home” was hardly the word for it. For one
thing, Edna hardly fitted the stereotype of an
executive’s wife exiled in Mexico. As her husband
had told me, she was very interested in archaeology and had visited several nearby digs. At the
same time, she was elegant and graceful. Somehow, the two sides merged perfectly to create a
woman you wanted to know better.

At some point, we moved in to dinner. For a
while, the talk centered around Charles and Mr.
Iveson. Then, over dessert, Edna asked me, “Is it
true that you’re a computer programmer, Ellen?”
When I nodded, she said, emphatically, “Good!
The company needs more women.”

“We meet the government quotas,” Charles said
mildly.

“Yes,” Edna retorted, “by rewriting job descriptions. Not by hiring or promoting them. I know all
about that!”

Charles frowned. “Officially, I deny that.
Unofficially, well, a few of us are trying to do
something about it.”

“Oh, so that’s why you recommended Miss
Steffee for Rick Kemmler’s position?” Mr. Iveson
quizzed.

“I recommended her,” Charles shot back,
“because she’s qualified and here.”

Mr. Iveson nodded. “Nevertheless, I’m afraid
she can’t have the job. I’ve already okayed it with
Chicago. Carlos Zapora is taking over.”

Charles looked startled, but I had no time to
think about his reaction. I was saying, “Carlos?
That’s wonderful!”

“Yes, well, I’m glad you don’t mind,” Mr. Iveson
said dryly. “But it won’t be official for a few days
yet, so I would appreciate it if you would say
nothing to Carlos. And, of course, we’d like you to
remain until it does become official. I understand
you’re doing a very good job.”

I ignored the compliment to say, “But I didn’t
realize you had the auth-”

Too late, I realized how I sounded. They all
laughed as I turned a deep red. Then, gently,
Charles explained, “Greg happens to be one of the
top five men at our Mexico City branch.”

I turned even redder. Edna leaned toward me
with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, dear. Greg understands. Actually, I think he’s flattered. He’s always
saying he doesn’t want to look important.”

After we had all recovered from that gaffe, Mr.
Iveson surprised me again. “By the way, Ellen, I
hope you weren’t hurt last night,” he said.

“Last night?” I echoed foolishly.

“Yes. I heard about the incident from the police.
They wanted permission to place some men near
the building.”

“I-I’m fine,” I managed to stammer.

“Good.” He hesitated. “The police seem to think
it might be tried again.”

“What?” Charles and I demanded in unison.

Mr. Iveson shrugged. It wasn’t his neck. “I suspect the police have some theory they prefer not
to tell us.”

“This is absurd!” Charles said angrily. “Perhaps, Ellen, you ought to go back to the States
immediately.”

“She can’t.” Mr. Iveson’s voice was calm. “The
police asked that I make sure Miss Steffee
understands that she can’t leave yet. I’m sorry, but
the police still believe she’s involved.”

“But–” Charles protested.

“May I ask,” Edna said, “what all this is about?”

For a moment there was silence. Then Charles
began to explain what had happened. Certain
things he glossed over, for which I was grateful. It’s
never pleasant to have one’s stupidity paraded for
others to see. When he had finished, there was
silence again.

Finally, Edna said thoughtfully, “You know,
Greg, perhaps Ellen should come and stay with us.
We have plenty of room and surely she’d be far
safer here than in that hotel.”

As Mr. Iveson hesitated, I said hastily, “Oh, no!
It would be a nuisance for you, and I’m sure I’ll be
safe at the Hotel Bamer.”

It was as if Mr. Iveson hadn’t heard me. “Yes,
Edna, I think you may be right. Ellen probably
would be safer here, and you would enjoy the
company, wouldn’t you, Edna?” She nodded and
he turned to me. “Yes, Miss Steffee, I think that
might be the wisest course. Unless you find us too
disagreeable?”

I glanced at Charles, but he carefully looked
away and I wondered if he was pleased at the idea
of having me off his hands. Feeling helplessly outflanked, I nodded. “That would be very kind of
you, Mr. Iveson, Mrs. Iveson.”