The Abducted Heart (Sweetly Contemporary Collection) (2 page)

“Where are you calling from?” Anne asked, aware of the noise of a car’s engine in the background.

“There was a nice man three or four cars ahead of us with a phone in his car and he patched the call through for me. I don’t know what I would have done without him; it must be miles to the nearest public phone. But never mind about that. It looks like you are going to have to run Señor Castillo’s dinner out to the airport. You do have your roommate’s car, don’t you? Good. I’m going to call ahead and clear the way with the airport officials for you. According to what the secretary said on the phone this morning, there is only one thing to remember, and that’s to be sure everything is put away when you leave; that is, don’t leave anything lying about loose that might slide around or fall during takeoff.”

“Yes, but where—”

“I have no idea,” Iva replied cheerfully before Anne could complete her question. “Joe and I have always put the food in the hands of the señor’s steward, but apparently the man was given the weekend off and couldn’t get back to Dallas in time for this unscheduled flight. Don’t worry about it. You’ll find where everything goes. It can’t be too difficult; an airplane galley is just a small kitchen and you ought to know your way around one of those if anybody does!”

“It can’t be too difficult—” That was Iva’s opinion, Anne thought with something like bitterness. In the first place, Anne had never been on a plane in her life, much less a private jet, and the sight of that great silver monster sitting on the runway in the dusk with its lights blinking and its jets screaming was enough to bring her heart into her throat. She had never walked up to an entrance ramp barred by an armed guard either. She wished that she had thought to keep on her orange jacket with Metcalf’s printed on the pocket. She had left it behind in the kitchen by force of habit, since she did not intend to return there before going on home.

She was half-afraid the guard would demand some form of identification, which could be a problem. She had locked her shoulder bag, a large, cumbersome affair of fringe and burlap, in the car, to leave her hands free. The only thing of value in it was her driver’s license and a gas credit card. Because Joe and Iva had not returned, she had not been paid for this week.

Her fears did not materialize. Seeing the laden tray in her hands, the guard gave her a nod and a smile as she were not unexpected. Touching his cap, he stepped aside, motioning her aboard without attempting to speak over the noise of the jets.

Just inside the plane was a small section fitted with seats much like a commercial jet, but since Iva had said the galley was in the rear, Anne moved along the aisle between the seats past a shelf arranged with the latest magazines and a small alcove where wraps could be put away. Pushing with her tray through a pair of heavy drapes in maroon and black brocade, she stepped into the main body of the plane. For an instant, she stood still, surveying the large cabin that stretched before her. Short drapes of brocade were looped back from the small windows. A carpet of thick, lustrous maroon velvet covered the floor. At intervals down one side of its expanse sat round walnut tables flanked by deep, comfortable chairs of black leather. On the other side was a long walnut desk fitted with a built-in phone and dictating machine, and with a walnut and leather chair behind it. The remaining space was taken up by an extra-wide settee which at that moment was made up as a bed with a pillow and sheets in heavy ivory linen, monogrammed in black.

Lifting an eyebrow in token of her amazement, Anne continued through the cabin to a small metal door half-concealed by more drapes at the far end of the plane.

The noise of the jets warming up for flight was nerve-shattering in this section, especially when the cabin door swung to behind her. Anne would have liked very much to plunk the tray down and leave, but remembering her instructions, she began to look for a place to secure the contents. The wine fitted very nicely into the refrigerator unit with its cooler intact. There was a food container with a snap-down lid that held the hot entree and vegetable, and after a few minutes of searching, she found a bread box that pulled out of the wall. Giving herself a mental pat on the back, she was just turning to go when she noticed several cardboard cases stacked on the floor. Close examination showed them to be small glass bottles of grape juice. What a Mexican millionaire could possibly want with four cases of grape juice posed something of a mystery, but it had obviously been delivered by someone who assumed the steward would be there to put it away. There would be quite a mess to clean up if those bottles were to break in flight. It couldn’t take more than a moment to put them out of harm’s way.

Or could it? Every cabinet she opened seemed to be filled already with china and crystal in neat restraining racks, and with foodstuff in cans and boxes and plastic bags. Those drawers and cabinets that were not being used for normal purposes were filled with papers, bound account books, and boxes of letterhead, pens, and recording tapes. She was just about to give up and let the señor attend to his own grape juice when she found an empty shelf. It was above her head however, and it would take a great deal of effort to lift the cases up onto it, especially with the restraining ledge in place. It would be much easier, she thought, if she had something to stand on. In a cubbyhole between the refrigerator and the bank of cabinets that served as a pantry was a postage stamp of a table with a lightweight straight-backed chair on each side. The chairs, she found, were fastened to the floor, but a moment’s study enabled her to decipher the simple locking mechanism. As she swung the chair where she needed it, she found herself hoping rather grimly that Señor Castillo appreciated the extra trouble that Metcalf’s was willing to go to for his sake. Then she laughed at herself as she realized that the señor would probably never learn of it.

She was just settling the last case of juice when something in the shrieking roar of the jets caught at her attention. The sound had changed, gradually increasing. A vibration ran through the plane, setting the dishes in the cabinets around her to clinking with a soft regularity. And then as she stood in frozen stillness, she felt it. They were moving!

Panic galvanized her muscles. She dropped the juice case into place, slammed the cabinet door, and turned away. If she called out, it was doubtful anyone would hear her. She had to make her way as quickly as possible to the pilot’s cabin. No, wait. If they were taking off, the señor must have boarded the plane. He would be in the main cabin just beyond the door.

Consternation flooded over her as she touched one hand to the cabinet front and started to step down from the chair. In that instant a surge of power gripped the plane and the floor tilted, slanting upward. The movement threw Anne off balance. She clutched wildly at a cabinet door handle as she felt herself falling, but her fingers would not hold. The top of the small table flashed across her vision, and the corner of it caught her squarely on the temple. Blinding pain struck deep into her brain and a soft darkness came up from the floor to catch her.

It might have been only a moment or two, it might have been half an hour, before Anne opened her eyes. For a dazed instant she could not understand why she was lying wedged between a table and refrigerator or why her head was throbbing with a furious pain allied to a steady humming noise. Remembering was not pleasant.

Slowly she levered herself into a sitting position. Nothing seemed to be broken, but there was a huge lump on the side of her head that ached to the touch. The plane had leveled off, and she could get to her feet without too much difficulty. The movement sent a wave of dizziness over her, however, and she subsided quickly into the remaining chair on the opposite side of the table. She would sit there for just a moment, and then she must find some way of letting someone know of her presence.

The opening of the small metal door between the galley and the main cabin did not immediately penetrate her consciousness. Awareness came with a sense of tingling disquiet. Combating a strange reluctance, she raised her head, and stared into the black eyes, lit by tawny flames of rage, of the man standing in the doorway. Her heart increased its beat, giving her a smothering sensation. For long moments she could not move, could not withdraw her gaze. And then, raking her pale face with his dark, feline glance, he drawled, “Airsick already? Too bad, but a fitting punishment for a stowaway.”

Shock rippled through her. Unconsciously she straightened, drawing a deep, reviving breath. “I’m not a stowaway.”

“Don’t trouble to deny it. This plane is definitely-not public transportation; it belongs to me. There is not one of my employees who would dare to smuggle you aboard without my permission, and as I did not extend you an invitation...” he paused suggestively.

The sarcasm overlying the softly dangerous timbre of his voice made little impression on Anne. Her eyes widened a fraction. So this was Señor Ramón Carlos Castillo. She pictured the Mexican millionaire in her mind, for some reason, as short, plump, and graying. Nothing could have been further from the truth. His lithe frame filled the doorway, marking him as above-average height. No trace of gray threaded the blue-blackness of his hair, though from the fine lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes she thought he must be at least a few years over thirty. He had removed the coat of his suit, loosening his tie and opening the collar of his shirt. In contrast to the fine white silk, his skin had the golden swarthiness of an ancient Aztec idol. The planes of his face were rigid with the same impassive contempt she had seen once in a carving of their sun god.

“No more protests?” he queried, one corner of his firm mouth lifting in a mirthless smile as he moved into the galley. “Then perhaps you would like to tell me why you have foisted yourself on me?”

His presence in that tiny compartment was overpowering. Though he came to a stop with the heel of his hand resting on the refrigerator, he seemed to loom over her. She could not meet his fierce eyes, fastening her gaze instead on the signet ring on his little finger, a ring in black enamel on gold featuring the head of a small tiger. She wished she did not feel so disoriented. She could hardly expect him to be as concerned as she was over her predicament; still, his obvious anger and suspicion confused her.

With a supreme effort, she gathered her thoughts. In a voice that sounded weak even to her own ears she said, “I am sorry for the inconvenience to you, but could you please tell your pilot to turn the plane around and go back?”

“A time-consuming operation. Tell me why I should do that?”

She stared at him for a blank moment before answering, “Because ... I have to get off.”

“Why? Hasn’t your welcome been what you expected?” he asked, a soft tone in his voice that she did not like. His accent was very slight, she realized, more an intonation than anything else. Under other circumstances it might have been attractive.

“I — didn’t expect a welcome of any kind,” she faltered.

“Are you certain? Are you quite certain you did not expect ... this?” He leaned toward her with a swift, sure movement, encircling her waist, dragging her to her feet and against his chest. The grim mask of his face hovered above her, an odd, questing light in his black eyes, and then his mouth came down on hers.

Anne had never had much time for romance. She had had a brief flirtation or two, shared a few good-night kisses, but nothing more serious. She had never been kissed like this, never felt the burning force of barely leashed passion, never been held in a crushing embrace from which she could not have escaped, even if she had desired it. More in surprise than response, her lips parted beneath his, and then in the recesses of her mind she recognized the emotion that drove him. It was contempt.

His hold had slackened as he felt her complaisance. Abruptly Anne drew back, tearing herself out of his arms.

Señor Castillo retained his grip on her wrist. “Wasn’t your welcome to your liking?” he asked, sarcasm edging his voice.

Anger erupted inside Anne’s brain, crowding out shock and confusion, subduing for a brief instant the pain that still pulsed there. Her eyes blazing in her pale face, she lifted her free hand and struck out at the hateful, mocking face above her. She never reached her target. Her arm was caught, turned, and once more she found herself held against the silk-clad chest of the señor. Resistance, she discovered, was futile.

Panting with her struggles, she flung back her head, shaking the tawny gold hair out of her face. “Let me go,” she said through gritted teeth.

He surveyed her, an expression in his eyes that made her far too aware of the quick rise and fall of her breasts against him. A muscle in the hard line of his jaw tightened, then suddenly she was free. She stepped back a quick pace, rubbing her wrists where his fingers had bitten into the flesh. A continuous tremor ran through her, and she clenched her hands to keep their trembling from becoming obvious to this man who stared down at her. It was rage, she told herself, only rage.

“Well,” he gibed.

She looked up at him in mute incomprehension.

“Aren’t you going to favor me with the excuse you made up for the occasion? Or didn’t you even intend to try to explain why you are here?”

Anne took a deep breath. “I am here,” she told him as calmly as she could manage, “because your secretary placed an order with Metcalf Caterers. We were to deliver a light dinner to your plane. I brought it.”

“You will forgive me if I point out that you don’t have the look of a caterer?” he said dryly.

“Looks have nothing to do with it—” she began, only to be interrupted.