Hitched!. Ruth Jean Dale
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is missing.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Dammit!”
She looked genuinely distressed. “I hope there wasn’t anything valuable inside.”
“Just my life,” he grumbled.
An exaggeration, but he was in no mood to worry about that. In addition to a few personal letters, a magazine or two, an address book and a bottle of water, all he could remember sticking in that briefcase was a safe-deposit key to a box in a bank in Boston—a nearly empty box, unfortunately. Nobody in Mexico was likely to figure that out.
“You can always contact the police,” she interrupted his thoughts.
“Think so?” He glowered at her. “You may not have noticed, but I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Really? Even a little?” She appeared dubious. “I mean, you grew up in Texas, after all.”
“What makes you think I grew up in Texas?” He looked around and realized everyone else had gone inside. “I spent most of my time at boarding schools or in Boston with my mother’s side of the family.” He lifted his remaining piece of luggage. “Summers I spent in Texas, but I only picked up enough Spanish to order desayuno, comida and antojitos—breakfast, lunch and something to go with the beer.” He headed for the hotel door.
She hurried after him. “I still think—”
“I wish you wouldn’t. I’ve got enough trouble without that.” He strode through the hotel entrance. “The briefcase is spilled milk. There’s no need crying about it.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” Stepping up to an ornately carved desk, he spoke to the grinning clerk. “Wipe that smirk off your face or I’ll do it for you. The young lady and I would each like a single with bath. Tell ’im, Maxine.”
The clerk’s dark eyes flashed and the smile vanished. “Tell the gringo I caught that one,” he replied in accents that could only be learned on the mean streets of Los Angeles. “You say you’d like two singles with bath, huh? Well, I’d like a trip to Europe, which is just about as likely.” The clerk, José, according to his name tag, reached under the counter, pulled out an ornate key and slapped it down in front of Rand. “Room one.”
Embarrassed but too tired and annoyed to apologize, Rand plunged ahead. “Room one—that sounds good. Best in the house, right?” He handed the key to Maxine. “That’ll do for the lady. Now, how about me?”
“I told you, room number one. That’s all we got left. It’s downstairs next to an air conditioner. We don’t usually rent it, but since you ask so damn nice—” José’s mouth curled up. He was really enjoying this.
Rand stared at the key, then at the clerk. “If I apologize and ask real nice, do you think you could find one more room?”
The man’s slowly shaking head ended that line of questioning. “This is all we got. Take it or leave it.”
Rand glanced at Maxine. “Do we take it?”
“Have we got a choice?”
“Apparently not.” His stomach rumbled. “Any chance we can get something to eat?” he asked José.
The clerk seemed to relent a bit. “I guess I could send something to your room. Nothing fancy, though. A couple of burritos, maybe a quesadilla.”
“That sounds great.” Rand’s mouth watered at the mere mention of food. He hadn’t had anything since breakfast, if you didn’t count a couple of cheese cubes and a package of pretzels. He looked around. “There wouldn’t be anybody handy to show us the way?” José’s expression made him add, “No, I suppose not.”
“It’s just me,” the clerk said with a shrug. “I can take you to the room or bring food, your choice.”
It really wasn’t a choice at all.
RAND’S CLOSET in Boston was bigger than this room. His sister’s childhood playhouse behind the Rocking T ranch house was bigger than this room. The desk clerk’s ego was bigger than this room.
Maxine took the high road. “At least it looks reasonably clean,” she said primly, dropping her suitcase at the foot of the bed.
“Reasonably.” Rand sat down cautiously on the double bed. Other than that, the only furniture in the tiny room was a small chest of drawers and a night table with lamp.
“If you hadn’t been such a jerk, this wouldn’t have happened,” she said, abandoning the high road.
“That’s harsh.” He gave her a reproving glance.
“Reality’s harsh,” she countered. “And the reality is, I’m stuck in this cubbyhole with a complete stranger. I don’t deserve this.”
“If it’s any comfort, neither do I.”
“No comfort at all.” She opened the top drawer of the bureau and looked in curiously. “How are you going to explain this to your girlfriend?”
“What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”
“You do, don’t you?”
“I sure as hell don’t.” But he wished he did, because then he wouldn’t have to figure out how to get around his great-grandpa’s will. He could just get married and be done with it. “How about you?” he added.
“How about me what?”
“Got a boyfriend?” As unlikely as that seemed.
Her eyes flashed behind the unattractive glasses. “As a matter of fact—”
A knock on the door interrupted. He pulled a bill from his pocket and handed it to her since she was nearer the door than he and the room wasn’t big enough to get past without major maneuvering. She glanced at the bill and her eyes widened; then she passed it on before accepting a small metal tray from unseen hands.
Sitting on the foot of the bed, she put down the tray and lifted the light cloth covering. “On top of everything else, you’re an overtipper.”
“Hell,” he said, “I can afford it.” Or could once, but that was none of her damn business.
The heady aromas of spicy Mexican food floated up to him, and his mouth watered again in anticipation. “I’m starved.” He reached for a burrito.
“Me, too.” She chose a wedge of quesadilla oozing cheese. They ate in silence for a few moments, then opened the two bottles of water and drank.
Eventually she said out of the clear blue, “I wonder what will become of the hijackers.”
“I hope whoever locks them up throws away the key.” He selected another burrito. He could hardly believe she’d been thinking about those two jerks. “They sure played hell with my life,” he went on. “I should be in Hells Bells, Texas, right about now, trying to—” He shut up, musing that he was probably better off stranded here than trying to fast-talk his father.
“Trying to what?”
“Did anyone ever tell you you’re nosy?”
“Yes.” She gave him that assessing look again. “Does it have anything to do with you giving all the credit for stopping those hijackers to that guy from Dubuque?”
“What if it does? I just don’t want my name in the newspapers. What’s so strange about that?” One thing would lead to another. If anything got printed about his recent business reverses, he wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of convincing his judges that he was a changed man. “Besides,” he added, “I didn’t do all that much.”
“A guy saves an entire plane full of people and dodges credit for it. You don’t consider that a bit peculiar?”
“No