Parlor Games (38 page)

Although Philip and Saskia had offered to stay on (for we feared that leaving at the same time would arouse suspicion), I had insisted on their departing first. Why not avail myself of the opportunity to see more of Mexico and enjoy Alonso’s company? So, with Alonso as my guide and companion, I proceeded on a whirlwind tour of Mexico City’s many offerings: the remains of a once-exalted Aztec temple; the city’s European-style plazas brimming with life; such beautiful churches as the Basilica de Santa Maria de Guadalupe; and restaurants—every day a charming new restaurant. We dined with government officials at arranged dinners; with Alonso’s associates at casual, spontaneous gatherings; and twice alone, all the while conversing in the pressed manner of suddenly intimate travelers sharing borrowed time. Night after night, we breezed up and down Avenida Dieciséis de Septiembre, dining, dancing, and stealing kisses in dim doorways.

I was scheduled to board the train for New York one week after Philip and Saskia had departed. But a complication had arisen.
Against my better judgment, contrary even to my will, and despite my married status, I was falling in love with Alonso. And he with me.

“Don’t leave yet.” He leaned across the space between our carriage seats and enfolded my hands in his. “We have just begun to see into each other’s depths.”

“You’re making it hard for me. I must travel to London as soon as possible.”

“Those people in London can wait.” He stroked his thumbs over my fingers. “Stay with me.”

My heart thumped. I could picture my dear Rudolph’s pleading eyes. How anxiously he waited for me, even as I’d repeatedly postponed my return to him. It was just that he’d bored me so the last few years, carping about ridiculous matters: the prudence of my hiring such an “outrageously expensive” dressmaker; why ever I needed to see Sarah Bernhardt play Lady Macbeth a second time; and my “lax management” of the cook’s schedule. Still, I’d pledged myself to him, remade my life around him. He was my Baron, I his Baroness. “No, Alonso, I must leave.”

He clutched my hands tight in his and locked his eyes on mine. “You know I adore you. Tell me you don’t love me.”

My throat constricted against the lump expanding in it. Ah, love—it is so hard to resist: the electricity of the lover’s fingertip touch; the ecstatic embrace that melts one to the core; the utter exhilaration of two-become-one. Under the gaze of his soft, pool-deep eyes, my heart fluttered with joyful anticipation. Alonso—as sure-footed and self-assured as a mountaineer—had braved his way into my heart. I felt at home beside him; he’d freed my soul. I wondered: With him might I regain a glimmer of the happiness I’d known with Johnny? Through my watery eyes, his face blurred to shimmering bronze. “My life is elsewhere, but my heart is here with you.”

He leapt up and came to sit at my side, putting one arm around my shoulder, the other on my thigh. “Then stay. Make a new life here,
mi amor
.”

I leaned on his shoulder and tangled my arm in his. “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

He nuzzled his face to mine and brushed his lips over my cheek, around my earlobe, down my neck. “Come away on a holiday with
me. Let me drink you in some more. And then, if you still wish, I will let you go.”

I dared not tell Philip and Saskia that I planned to spend two weeks in Cuernavaca with Alonso. Instead, I sent them a telegram:
CIRCUMSTANCES REQUIRE ME TO STAY AND KEEP UP APPEARANCES STOP PLEASE ALERT RUDOLPH TO DELAY STOP
.

Both Alonso and I preferred a private and leisurely holiday after our hectic sightseeing and the many hours spent with his associates and companions in Mexico City. Fortunately, his family’s vacation home in central Cuernavaca afforded ample opportunities for relaxed meals for two and romantic strolls around the picturesque city.

A day before the end of our two-week stay, we sat breakfasting on his east-facing veranda. The sun coaxed gold-orange hues from the surrounding adobe walls and warmed the metal of my chair and the iron rail I draped my arm over. As the cathedral bells finished tolling ten o’clock, I reached across the table and cupped my hand over his. “Being here—with you—is like dancing on clouds. I could stay forever.”

Alonso looked down at my hand. “I am supposed to return for work on Monday and be home with my family for Christmas.”

“You see,” I said, wondering if I could ever tear myself away from him, “we can’t hide from the world forever.”

He turned my hand palm-up and wove his fingers in mine. “No, but we can make the world ours.”

At that moment I wished only to shut out the rest of the world, to make this place with Alonso the whole of my world. “Then let’s stay through Christmas. Pretend this paradise will never end.”

He stood and pulled me into his embrace, tightening his muscular arms around my waist and bringing his lips to my ear. “You are my paradise,
mi dulce
.”

The Saturday after Christmas Alonso called to me from the door. “Florence, a message has come for you.”

“Bring it here, please.” I sat before the bedroom vanity, brushing
out my hair. I loved the light in Mexico, the way its warm glow brought out the chestnut and amber tones in my hair.

Alonso walked into the bedroom and handed me an envelope addressed to Florence Walker. “Were you expecting something?”

“Perhaps it’s from the jeweler, though I don’t know why he didn’t address it to you.” (Alonso was having me fitted for an aquamarine ring.) I slipped my finger under the flap and extracted the note.

Alonso picked up the brush and ran it through my hair, looking over my shoulder.

I read the note quickly, aware of Alonso’s eyes on it.

Dear Miss Walker
,

May I see you for a private conversation? I have an important and confidential business matter to discuss with you. Meet me at Morelos Café this morning at 11
.

Most sincerely yours
,

Reed Dougherty

I folded the note. The muscles of my extremities twinged with panic. I never should have assumed I’d be safe from Dougherty, even in Mexico.

Alonso stopped mid-brush, holding a shock of my hair in his hand. “Is there a problem?”

“It’s an old business acquaintance,” I said, not wishing to alarm Alonso. “He wants to see me.”

“How did he find you here?”

“I wish I knew.” I looked at Alonso in the mirror. His expression looked askew—perplexed and perturbed. Or was it merely a distortion of the mirror?

“Should I go with you?”

“No,” I said, fingering my collarbone. “It’s best if I see him myself.”

He released my hair and dropped a hand to my shoulder. “You are upset.”

“I didn’t expect to hear from him. Especially not here.”

“I will not have anyone making trouble for you.”

“You needn’t worry about that. I can handle him.”

Commanding myself to pluck up, I dressed and took a carriage to
the Morelos Café. Reed Dougherty, as lanky as ever, stood beside the front door, leaning against the building as if he owned it. It appeared he’d already spent a week or two under Mexico’s clear skies: A roseate tan flushed his gaunt face. And he wore the regional apparel—a casual beige suit rumpled from wear. Then again, he never had shown any interest in tidiness. He still sported his signature downturned mustache, and had added a beard, perhaps in an attempt to dignify his odd looks and underhanded ways.

Descending from the carriage, I composed my shawl over my shoulders and ambled toward him.

He pushed himself away from the building with his shoulder, as if sloughing off a bothersome hand, and approached, a mischievous gleam overtaking his narrowed eyes. “Miss Walker, is it?”

“Mr. Dougherty,” I said, not offering my hand. “You never change.”

He chuckled. “No, I’ve kept the same name.”

“Well, shall we get this over with?”

“I’ve asked for a quiet table for us.” He motioned to an outdoor table set apart from the others under an awning. “Will this do?”

“As well as any,” I said, leading the way and taking a seat.

Dougherty raised a hand, calling for a waiter. We ordered coffee.

He slung his arm around the back of his chair. “Thanks to you, I’m becoming the most traveled detective in the world.”

“Why do you insist on intervening in my personal affairs?”

“You think I manufacture these affairs just to make your life miserable?”

“It certainly seems that way.” I could see his face all too clearly across our platter-sized table—those penetrating dark-brown eyes, and the long nose that plunged down from his high brow and lent his expression a homely dolor.

“Well, it is rare in my line of work to enjoy such a … shall we say … involved relationship as you and I share.”

“It sounds as if you’ve missed me, you fool.”

“A fool for missing a woman of your many charms? On the contrary, my dear Miss Walker.”

I had no stomach for this ludicrous banter. “Who has sent you this time?”

“The Mexican government.”

“Why ever would they care about me?”

“You know very well. For starters, there’s no Florence Walker in the employ of Iron Mountain Mining.”

“I can’t imagine the Mexican government cares about such a trifle.”

“Perhaps not, but they do care about the mining contract.”

“All that was quite straightforward,” I said with a toss of my hand. “The highest bid won.”

“And it was a relative of yours,” he said, smirking.

“Of what consequence is that?”

“Don’t you think other parties would be interested in how that contract was won?”

“They were obviously outbid.”

Dougherty whipped out a paper and spread it on the table—my notes about the bidding. “You spied,” he said. “And competitors do not consider that a legitimate way to do business.”

Nausea ripped through my belly. But I forced calm into my manner. “We’re in Mexico, Mr. Dougherty, where they do business just as they please.”

He folded the paper and tucked it inside his suit jacket. “And where Mexican interests expect to win domestic contracts.”

“The deal is closed. I can’t see why the government cares in the least about me.”

Dougherty reared his head back, like a horse pulled to an abrupt halt. “Because you’ve been gadding about with the son of the Secretary of Resources, and Secretary Elvira Pérez cannot risk any exposure.”

“I will leave Mexico when I please.”

“You will not only leave Mexico, you will never again see Alonso Elvira Alamo.”

“You can’t have me jailed for spending time with a man. That would only expose the matter.”

Dougherty pressed a finger over his mouth, as if deep in thought. “Hmm, jailing you could be an option.”

“You wouldn’t dare have an American citizen jailed. People know where I am. And my husband wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Neither would your husband be pleased to hear about your Mexican lover.”

I stiffened my spine and raised my chin. “You, sir, pretend to be on the side of righteousness. But your actions were directly responsible for the suicide of Johnny Graham. Have you no conscience?”

“I sleep quite well, thank you.”

“Because you’re a heartless reptile.”

“What happened to John Graham was tragic. It’s unfortunate you exploited the young man.”

Without a word, the waiter placed our coffees before us and breezed away.

“Exploited? How dare you. I loved him.”

Dougherty eased the cup toward his mouth and sipped the steaming brew. “I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t care what you believe.” I shoved my cup aside. “We planned to marry. Because of you and his father, I never had the chance to meet his family, to show them how much in love we were.”

“Instead, you showed it by draining his bank account.”

How this man curdled my blood. “What do you know, you self-righteous cockalorum? Johnny spent as he wished. I did not rob him.”

“You robbed him of his future.”

I sprang up and swung my open hand at him, slapping his cheek with all my might.

His head careened from the blow. He righted himself and drew a hand to his reddened cheek, then looked up at me, the oddest expression of delight twisting his features. My God, I thought, the man fancies me.