Master Of El Corazon. Sandra Marton
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asked, his husky voice and little smile adding a twist to the simple words so that she knew he was asking more than the reason she hadn’t yet stepped into the lift. The knowledge made her hazel eyes turn cool.
Did he really think she could possibly be interested in someone like him? Yes, she thought, her mouth tightening with distaste, he probably did. He had to know there were women—lots of women—who’d look at such a man and like what they saw. He was tall, wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hips, with a classically handsome Spanish face that was made even more attractive by a nose that seemed to have been broken some time in the past. A canvas backpack leaned against his leg, its age and condition matched by his dusty leather boots. He wore jeans and a denim work shirt with the sleeves rolled back to show tanned, muscular forearms.
But any woman with half a brain would see beyond the blatantly macho good looks. Arden had seen others like him several times since she’d arrived in San José, the sort of man who’d come to Central America from any of a dozen other places with nothing but a passport and a handful of colones in his pocket. Some people called them adventurers, but what was the sense in using romantic euphemisms to cover the truth? He was a tramp and a drifter, a man who never planned beyond tomorrow and earned what money he needed by signing on for a day’s manual labour here and there in his travels. Heaven only knew how he’d scraped together enough to rent a room here for the night.
‘Que pasa, señorita?’
‘No me interesa,’ she said, her voice cutting sharply across his.
His smile tilted. ‘Ah,’ he said in unaccented English, ‘you are North American, not a Tica.’
‘That’s right, I’m not Costa Rican.’ Why did it irk her that her accent had given her away, despite her excellent command of the language? ‘And I’m not—’
‘Interested. Yes, so you said.’ His gaze moved over her in frank appraisal and he smiled lazily. ‘But you misunderstood me, señorita. It’s not that I mind waiting. You’re worth it. A pretty woman always is. It’s just that a lift’s whole purpose is to go up, and this one hasn’t moved for the past five minutes.’
It took her a moment before she understood that he’d somehow turned the tables on her. Of course he’d been coming on to her; you didn’t have to be interested in such ridiculous games in order to know when you’d been invited to play. But she’d made him feel foolish by putting him down and now he was repaying her in kind.
Arden’s eyes narrowed. She wanted to tell him that as far as she was concerned, he could have the damned lift all to himself for the rest of the evening, if he wanted it, but she knew it was more important to show no reaction.
‘Sorry,’ she said with a cool smile.
She stepped into the car and turned her back to him. The door slid shut and the lift jerked to a start. It rose slowly, as it always did, although this evening it seemed to be taking forever to make the journey to the third floor. She could feel the man’s eyes on her, burning a hole in her back. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
‘Are you new to Costa Rica?’ he said pleasantly.
Arden rolled her eyes to the ceiling. He was going to try again! Well, she wasn’t going to be drawn in this time. Her chin lifted; she stared at the door as if she expected to see a message flash on the dark wood.
‘Because, if you are,’ he said, ‘I’d be more than happy to—’
Lord, he was persistent! ‘Thank you,’ she said in a voice that would have turned warm water to ice, ‘but I’m busy.’
‘—buy you a drink and tell you a bit about—’
She swung towards him, and her voice grew even more frigid. ‘I said I’m busy.’
‘There’s a cocktail party this evening, beside the pool. Just give me half an hour to shower and change,’ he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. His hand lifted, went to his face, and he rubbed his knuckles lightly over the dark stubble that covered his chin. ‘And to shave, of course,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve been in the back country for days, and—’
How would the faint roughness of his beard feel against her skin? The question sprang into her mind with no warning at all. A flush rose in her cheeks and she swung away and jabbed her finger at the floor button, trying futilely to speed the lift’s sloth-like progress.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said, her anger at herself and at him making her voice hard-edged and brittle. ‘I’m sure this town’s full of women who’ll be delighted by your story, but I’m not one of them.’
He chuckled softly, as if she’d said something amusing instead of insulting. ‘Tales of the jungle don’t turn you on?’
‘If you mean,’ she said, giving him a look of absolute distaste, ‘do I think there’s charm to being a bum, the answer is no, I do not.’
Her sharp words had the desired effect this time. His eyes narrowed, and the smiling, handsome face took on a look of coldness.
‘Your honesty does you credit, señorita.’
‘Yes,’ Arden said, just as coldly, ‘I’ve been told that before.’
The lift jogged to a stop. Finally! she thought, and she stepped briskly into the hall. After a second or two, the man’s footsteps followed after her. Arden gritted her teeth. He wasn’t just persistent, he was impossible! She took a deep breath and spun around to face him. ‘Listen here,’ she said fiercely, ‘if you think—’
Her words sputtered to silence. The stranger wasn’t following her, he was unlocking the door to what was obviously his room. He looked up, and his eyes, as green and cold as those of a jungle cat, met hers.
‘Adios, señorita. Don’t think it’s been charming, because it hasn’t.’
Arden’s mouth dropped open. She wanted to make a sharp, clever rejoinder, but her mind was a blank. Instead, she tossed her head, turned on her heel, and strode down the corridor to her room. She stabbed her key into the lock, shoved the door open, then slammed it after her.
Before you knew it, this hotel would be renting rooms to just about anybody!
She marched stiffly through her small sitting-room to the bedroom and tossed her key on the table. After a moment, she sighed and sank into a chair. There was no reason to let such a silly encounter upset her. She’d had a long, hard day, she’d been looking forward to a relaxing evening, and she certainly wasn’t going to let a run-in with an arrogant fool snatch that away from her!
She kicked off her beige pumps, stretched out her legs, and began leafing through the remaining messages still clutched in her hand.
There was one from Julie Squires, the newest New York transfer. Would Arden like to take the train ride to Limon on Saturday? Arden sighed again. Sure, she would, even though she’d already made the near obligatory trip to the coastal town. Julie was feeling displaced, something Arden understood all too well. Costa Rica was beautiful and the people were warm and friendly, but it was hard not to feel at a loose end your first few weeks.
The second message was from the hotel, a gaily coloured flyer reminding guests of tonight’s poolside party. Arden rose to her feet, stripped off her suit jacket, and tossed it across a chair. The Lift Lothario would certainly be in attendance, but she would not.
Not that she’d ever had any intention of attending, she thought as she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it. She’d never liked parties, always felt shelf-conscious at them, half waiting for another guest to point a finger at her and ask people who had invited her?
Arden smiled a bit grimly as she peeled off her blouse and underwear and dropped them on the chair. And it didn’t take a psychologist to figure out that little scenario, she thought as she padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When you spent your teenage years passing hors-d’oeuvres and drinks to people you saw every day, you could easily end up with a very different