Thunder in the Night (Crimson Romance) (10 page)

“Sheridan!” I said, typing the name for the third time.

And coming up blank for the third time, too.

Intrigued, I left the school’s homepage and just plugged the name into a search engine. Plenty of Sheridan Ramseys came up, more than I ever would have expected. I groaned. This would take a while. On the fourth or fifth page of hits, I came upon an entry that sounded like the right guy — professor of science, and so on, and so forth — just not at our local university. When I opened the link, I saw a younger version of our professor.

“Hmm, so he did teach at a different school,” I said to myself, “but now he says he teaches here.” Tapping my fingers lightly against the keys, I thought and thought. Could he be new to the university and so not on their webpage yet? Possibly. Did the university even list all the faculty on the site? “I mean, it’s not like someone would lie about something like that,” I said aloud.

Returning to the blog, I modified my sentence to eliminate the need for identifying the professor’s affiliation and hurried on through to the end. After reading it aloud — the only way to find the bumpy bits — I deemed it worthy and posted the entry.

When I dressed for dinner that night, it was with more care than usual. I’d only brought one good evening outfit along — a silky amethyst camisole top and an ankle-length skirt in a pattern of jewel tones, cut in a full circle. Made of chiffon, it danced around me when I moved. I took a test spin in front of the mirror, smiling when it swirled around my legs.

My spirits lifted as I studied my reflection.
When I make an effort, I can look pretty
, I thought with amazement. Usually, my hair is combed straight or pulled back in a twist. Tonight, I’d done a little back combing, so it fluffed full and bouncy around my face. I’d spent some extra time on my makeup, too, adding eyeliner and lip pencil to my usual blush and lipstick routine. I patted on a dusting of loose powder to make it last.

Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed my evening bag and headed to the dining room. With luck, I’d see Mart tonight. And he’d see me, looking my best. Too bad I’d have to make it an early evening, but the
Breeze
was expecting that entire article based on my blog entry and tonight was the night to write it.
Lesson one
, I thought with a giggle.
Don’t fall for your tour guide!

• • •

Despite everyone’s more formal attire, dinner was a casual event. There was plenty of chitchat around the tables as everyone eagerly shared stories of their day’s adventures.

After only two days, the group had divided tidily into predictable groups. Somehow, I knew I’d spend the week with either the career girls or the Underwoods and the Websters. Tonight, Dan Underwood sat at my left and regaled me with stories throughout the meal. I kept pretty quiet, lapsing into my listening mode. At appropriate intervals, I laughed at his jokes and scoffed at his tales. By the time dessert was served, I pitied poor Elaine, listening each day to stories she’d heard a hundred times before.

When I leaned over to pass her the sugar for coffee, she caught my eye and gave me a secretive smile, as if she’d read my mind.

Across the room, Mart sat at a table with other trekkers. He and the Websters were acting like captains on a cruise ship, sharing their attentions with a different group each evening.

Sometime between salad and the main course, I glanced across the room at Mart, admiring the way his sport coat outlined his broad shoulders. With skin tanned by the sun, he looked like a transplanted lifeguard or football hero.

As I watched, the waiter came to his table, refilling water glasses. Mart leaned back out of the way and caught me staring. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as he grinned that lazy grin, raising his glass in salute.

What was I to make of this man? So opinionated and dedicated, he was also caring and amusing. A few hours earlier, he’d gone off with a gorgeous female and yet, now, he was regarding me with anything but casual interest. I hoisted my own glass, bobbed my head at him and sipped.

Mr. Underwood launched into another lengthy tale which demanded everyone’s complete attention. “Allison, Allison! Listen to this! Here’s a story you can use, I’ll bet!”

I turned to Dan, doing my best to look interested.

Later, after our plates had been cleared away and we lingered over coffee, the lights of the dining room dimmed and there was action near the tiny stage against the far wall. Until that moment, I hadn’t taken notice of the stage, set with an electronic keyboard and a microphone, not realizing there’d be entertainment in the dining room. Overhead, a mirrored ball hung, ready to throw spots of circling light around the room. A minuscule dance floor, about twenty feet square, stood in front of the stage, looking empty under the sudden spotlight.

The manager of the hotel stepped up to the mic, straightening his tie and smiling self-consciously. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are pleased to present the fabulous Ishani!” He began the applause and we all joined in.

I was glad the room was dark as the woman came into view. I looked from her to Mart, but he was just a shadow in the dark.

With a delicate nod of her head, Ishani acknowledged our applause. Behind her, a man stood ready at the keyboard and, at her signal, began to play. Tonight, she dazzled in a silver-spangled outfit. Cut slim, the dress fell to the floor and, when she moved, a generous amount of leg was revealed by the thigh-high slit. Her low, sultry voice suited the old standard she crooned with great emotion.

After several numbers, one brave couple took to the floor, dancing, and soon others crowded onto the tiny space. Beside me, Dan rose and extended a hand to Elaine. What an odd couple they made — he so big and she so tiny — circling under the dancing light.

I didn’t even jump when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I knew who was there.

“Would you care to dance, Allison?” Mart asked as my smile spread ear to ear.

“I’d like that.”

He held the chair as I stood, then took my hand as we threaded through tables to the floor.

I stepped easily into his arms, as if I’d done it on many occasions and not just once. Putting one hand on his shoulder, I let him capture the other with his. At first, we moved in silence, our feet matching each other. Humming along to the music, I was too conscious of the way his hand nestled at the small of my back.

“You look beautiful,” he told me, looking down into my eyes. “But you already know that.” He turned me rapidly in a circle, the full folds of my dress wrapping around us before gently falling.

I smiled and tipped my head to one side without acknowledging his remark. “You look quite handsome tonight, I must say. I’d never guess you usually spend your days tramping through jungle mud,” I teased.

“Things are seldom how they appear, Allison,” he said, his expression serious. “If you’re getting back into investigative journalism, you’d better remember that straight away.” Shifting the hand that held me, he drew me nearer.

I snuggled up against his chest, trying to remember the words he’d just spoken, but it was hard to concentrate in this position. As the music rolled on around us, he rested his cheek near mine and my eyes drifted shut. Lost in the moment, I forgot about Ishani and my job and my fading bruises. There was only here and now. Mart and me and the melody.

Too soon, the number ended. We stepped apart to applaud. When I turned to go back to my table, Mart’s hand stopped me.

“Not yet, Allison. Please not yet.” As the next tune began he swept me toward him and I went without hesitation.

This time, I kept my eyes open scanning his features under the twinkling lights. When he smiled at me, the creases deepened in his cheeks. The mirrored light seemed to be caught in his eyes, shining out at me in a way that left me blinking.

What must Ishani think?
I wondered as we spun together.
What should I think?

Nothing, I decided. Think nothing and just enjoy it. I gave another sigh, letting all the air slide out of me, and squirmed a little closer.

Chapter Twelve

“I’ve just posted my first full article for the magazine,” I proudly stated the next morning.

By mutual, but unspoken, agreement, Mart and I had met for breakfast at the tiny table in the corner of the dining room. Soon, we’d be getting into the aging SUVs again for another journey to ancient Mayan ruins. Altun Ha was today’s destination.

“That’s great,” Mart commented, sipping juice and studying the newspaper carefully folded up next to his plate.

“Would you like to read it?”

“Hmm? Oh, sure, sure. Love to. Do you have it with you?” He folded the paper and looked up.

I was already retrieving the five pages, covered in my legible longhand, from my new tote and handed them over with a smile. “Let me know what you think. But remember, this magazine is aimed at your average citizen,” I reminded him.

He took the papers from me and began to read while I ate dry toast and watched him.

Things didn’t look good. First, I noticed a tightness visible around his mouth. Then dimples appeared as he compressed his lips. By the time he’d finished reading, furrows had appeared across his forehead. He set the pages down on the table.

“What?” I asked, puzzled by his too-silent reaction.

“This reminds me of the story about the baby giraffe last summer. It was a good public relations piece. Very … sweet.” He shrugged, handing the article back to me. “I guess I just hoped for something more.”

Whatever I’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. My story was a good one, I knew. The article was lively and informative, telling readers just the things they’d find most interesting. I leaned back in my chair, feeling stunned.

Tucking the article back in my tote, I said, “Did you read the part where I say it will take more than tourism to save the rain forest?”

“That’s the best part,” he said.

“It’s the last paragraph because it’s also the lead-in for my next article,” I explained. “I thought I’d suggest to my editor that the series be continued beyond the four parts already planned. Stretch it out to include some of the things you’ve told me about the zoo. Not just Rochester’s zoo, but all of them.”

“Sounds great.” He reached for his newspaper. “Think you’ll get the go-ahead?”

“It’s all in the angle, as you said,” I told him. “But I’m hopeful.”

Sipping at orange juice, I thought about the pitch I could make once we were home, framing sentences in my mind. Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t a comfortable one. Today, at Altun Ha, Mart could watch me in action from a distance, I decided as we wordlessly finished our meal and joined the tour group out front.

“See you!” I called, walking away from him, toward the vehicle bringing up the rear of the caravan.

“Allison!” Dan Underwood’s robust shout greeted me as I ducked my head to enter the SUV.

I jumped, startled, and cracked my skull soundly against the door frame. Wincing and cursing under my breath, I took a seat beside the professor and rubbed my bruised cranium.

Behind me, the Underwoods made sympathetic noises of concern.

“Oh, Allison, sorry to scare you like that.”

“Are you all right, dear? That looked like it hurt!”

My smile was pained. “It did hurt, thanks.”

“Poor girl,” Elaine clucked. “I’m always telling him to pipe down. ‘Use your inside voice,’ I tell him. As if he were a little child.”

Dan didn’t seem to mind this public scolding and sat with hands folded, looking cherubic and harmless. After several minutes, however, he said, “Oh, Elaine, stop. I think the patient will live.”

“I’m fine,” I assured them, putting more wattage into my smile. “Looking forward to the trip?”

The change of subject was effective. Elaine launched into a lengthy but not uninteresting oratory on the background of Altun Ha which had me reaching for my notebook.

“You’ve really done your homework,” I said as we rumbled along the sandy roads out of town.

“Oh, yes. It seems to me you get so much more out of a visit if you know the history of the place. Like knowing about the author when you read a book,” Elaine explained.

“Oh, but not entirely!” Professor Ramsey spoke for the first time and we all turned our attention to him. He cleared his throat. “I mean, facts and figures have a place and a purpose, to be sure, but I think one needs to immerse oneself in a country. Soak up its culture objectively, using your own senses and your own judgment. No preconceptions. Not all guidebook philosophy.”

“Well, that’s as it may be,” Elaine jumped in and the debate began.

I sat back against the seat, listening. This could provide plenty of flavor in my next article, I figured. I’d have to make sure I quoted lots of the other trekkers in the stories, too. People love to see their name in print.

“Yes, but — ” the professor grabbed hold of the conversational ball, wrestling it away from Elaine with an effort.

I fished around in my tote bag for my notebook. Flipping through the rapidly filling pages for an empty one, I happened upon the piece of hotel notepaper containing the message I’d read on Clark’s phone the other night.

Bending the corner of the paper back and forth, I felt momentarily detached. Half my mind was tuned to the talk going on around me. The other half was pondering Clark’s cryptic text. The words tumbled over and over in my mind’s eye and, like a difficult crossword clue, refused to go away.

Thursday’s shipment — twenty five airborne, thirteen grounded. Delay arrival. Uncle visiting.

In light of what I’d heard from Mart about suspected drug smuggling, the secretive, coded language sort of made sense. At least the part about shipment. Had Clark already made contact with Tommy Mendoza’s associates? Was he communicating with them regularly, as the note implied?

A tiny shiver of fear tingled in the small of my back at the thought of the potential danger. Following on its heels came another unsettling idea. Was Sylvia aware of her husband’s plans? Did she know what Mart suspected — Clark’s search for Mendoza’s killer?