Made For Each Other (7 page)

“Where else would be a better place to
spend a honeymoon during a winter blizzard?” he asked, keeping his
sharp eyes on the darting cars and bicycles that crowded the
streets despite the morning’s early hours.

She caught her lower lip between her
teeth. The thought of a honeymoon and what it entailed could give
her cause to worry. “But I really don’t want a ring,” she began,
talking slowly and smoothly as if to a person who was not fully in
possession of his senses. “And there’s really no use wasting money
when the marriage will soon be ended.”

Nick flicked her a dubious glance. “A
woman worried about saving money? Don’t,” he said shortly. “I have
a sufficient amount—as your colleagues of the press have more than
once intimated.”

“But—but couldn’t we just pick up one
in Santa Fe?”

“What? A senator’s wife would never do
such an ordinary thing. No, we’ll buy one in Cozumel—along with
some beachwear and summer clothing.” And before she could open her
mouth to make another protest, he said in a firm manner that
brooked no further inter-ruption, “Just put it down, Julie, to one
of my whims.”

Chapter 5

N
ick left the car at the El Paso International Airport that
morning and made two telephone calls: one to the hospital, where he
left a message for Pam to drive Julie’s repaired car back to Santa
Fe; the other to Dee Morley. And Julie, standing next to Nick when
he placed the call, could not help but wish she could see Dee’s
shocked face as he gave her the scoop on his marriage, coolly
explaining that some months ago, after reading one of Julie’s
caustic columns about him, he had telephoned her for a meeting . .
. and they had, of 'course, fallen in love.

“You should have been an actor,” she
told him afterward. “You sounded so convincing even I almost
believed you.”

“Let’s hope everyone else does,” he
said tersely. “Now, call your parents and tell them.” Julie’s
eyebrows shot up, and he said, “You don’t want the newsmen to
descend on your parents and have them find out that way, do
you?”

Reluctantly she took the telephone he
handed her and deposited the coins. The fact that she was married
still seemed unreal to her. And the fact that the marriage would
not have to last forever, as Nick had pointed out, made it that
much more difficult for her to tell her parents. Fortunately her
parents were out, but her grandmother seemed delighted by the news.
“I hope you got yourself a rakehell, young lady,” the old woman
chortled.

After she had finished the call, Nick
ushered her aboard the next flight out for the Yucatan peninsula,
quietly ignoring her protest about her appearance. “Take a look
around you,” he said with some exasperation. “Half the passengers
aboard the plane are dressed as casually as you.”

“You call this casual?” she demanded,
holding out the hem of the plaid shirt that draped over the knees
of her jeans. She had barely had time to comb her hair in the
airport’s ladies’ room.

He leaned across her, unbuckled her
seat belt, and quickly tied the shirt’s hem at a knot at her waist.
“There,” he said, refastening her seat belt and tugging it an extra
notch, as if he took pleasure in inflicting even the small amount
of discomfort. “We’ll buy you a complete wardrobe the minute we
arrive,” he said, unperturbed by her continual objections. He took
the plastic glass of Scotch and water the attractive flight
attendant brought him, not even noticing the special smile of
admiration she cast from beneath her long false eyelashes.
“

“But I don’t want a
wardrobe!”

He took a drink of the Scotch and gave
her a studied glance. “Then what is it that you want?”

She looked out the small window at the
rugged brown mixture of field and mountain that passed below the
wings of the 727 like a giant relief map. “I thought I would be
exchanging vows with someone who loved me . . . as much as I loved
him,”she whispered miserably. “I guess I wanted a fairytale
wedding.”

“And instead you got a tale out of the
Brothers Grimm,” he replied and silently finished his drink while
she distractedly leafed through the in-flight magazine.

She first sighted the island from the
small cargo and passenger boat that made one trip daily from the
peninsula. Cozumel's breath-taking beauty was a dream she never
expected to materialize. Turquoise waves tumbled onto the whitest
beaches imaginable. Chicle trees and coconut palms swayed in the
offshore breezes.

Cozumel was an idyllic tropical isle
in every sense, left little unchanged from the time when Spanish
explorers touched there on their voyages of conquest—except for
several first-class resort hotels clustered at the rocky bluffs of
the Caribbean.

It was at a luxury hotel along the
highest bluff that Nick took a suite of rooms. While he ordered
champagne from room service, she stepped through the open terrace
doors onto the balcony that her bedroom shared with Nick’s. The
balcony overlooked beaches washed smooth by white-tipped waves, and
bougainvillea twined around its wrought-iron railing.

Yet she saw none of the tropical
beauty that surrounded her. She was tired— exhausted from the trip,
she told herself, but she knew it was really from the combination
of events ending with her marriage to Nick. The strain was telling
on her. How could she possibly resist the force of Nick’s magnetic
charm, when he chose to beguile her, for six months, much less six
hours ... or six min¬utes?

Nick came up behind, surprising her.
“Sit down,” he said, indicating the lounge chair of woven cane. He
took one of the other chairs at the small round table that was
covered with tanned leather painted lime green and pulled it near
her lounge chair.

His gaze swept over her pale face,
noting the slight shadows beneath her eyes. “After a glass of
champagne,” he said, “we’ll take the customary Mexican
siesta.”

She smiled, “That’s the best
suggestion you’ve made yet.”

“You ought to do that more
often—smile,” Nick said. “Your dimples are fairytale
enchanting.”

“
Thank you,” she answered
somewhat hesitantly, unsure if he was merely plying his customary
charm or if he was sincere. Then, as he leaned forward and picked
up one of her feet, her breath drew in. “What are you
doing?”

“Removing your tennis shoes,
Thumbelina—it’s getting to be a habit with me.” He untied the white
laces. “No one wears shoes in Cozumel.” She shifted uneasily in
the'lounge chair, unused to such attention. “You’ve been here
before?” she asked, trying to seem casual.

Nick dropped her tennis shoes beneath
the table and slipped off his own expensive leather loafers. He
crossed his arms behind his head. “Several times.”

“Oh?” She could well imagine the trips
he made, the glamorous girls he brought with him. Or was it just
Sheila Morrison now—no, not even Sheila Morrison, Julie thought
with surprise. It was herself! Her name could be added to the
growing list of Senator Raffer’s playgirls.

Except she was his wife.

“I come here, or go hunting in
Ruidoso, when the pressure gets too high at the capital,” Nick
said, his eyes slits against the midday sunlight reflected off the
water. “I fish, walk the beaches, remind myself that nothing can be
so serious it’s worth working up an ulcer over.”

She would have liked to ask more, but
room service brought the bucket of iced champagne, wrapped in a
damask napkin, and two chilled glasses. Nick tipped the man and
filled the two glasses. He passed her one and said simply, “To us,
Julie.”

She did not know quite how to respond,
so she merely took a sip in acknowledgment of his toast. The cool
liquid tingled all the way down, and within seconds she felt
better, more relaxed. She even felt brave enough to ask Nick, her
husband, personal questions. “What will your parents think about
this sudden marriage?”

Nick’s laugh was sarcastic. “I doubt
they’ll ever find out. They’re too busy with their own marriages to
wonder about mine.”

“Then they’re not married to each
other?” She saw Nick’s long fingers tighten around the stem of his
glass, the heat from his hand already causing rivulets of sweat to
channel the layer of the glass’s frost. “They’ve each been through
several partners since their marriage to one another. It’s one of
the reasons I’ve avoided the blissful state of
matri¬mony.”

“I see,” she said for lack of anything
else. Nick’s blue eyes, lighter now than the Caribbean switched on
her. “And your parents— what will they say?”

“Why—” She had not really thought
about it. Everything had seemed so unreal. “They’d want me to be
happy. They wouldn’t really care whom I married as long as we loved
each . . . She let her voice trail off, aware of her slip. She
began again. “I mean—Nick, this is so bizarre, I can’t even wrap my
mind around it. So I surely can’t expect my parents to believe
we’re . . . we’re in love.”

Nick rose. “That’s all right,” he said
grimly. “If they come for a visit, I’m sure you’ll manage to look
suitably in love—however much you dislike me.” He held out his
hand. “Ready for a siesta?”

She wanted to tell him that she no
longer disliked him, for she had to acknowledge the truth—that he
had taken care of her, he had married her despite the fact that he
did not love her. But pride—reluctance to join the ranks of women
charmed by the roguish senator—forbade her.

Assured of the locked door that
separated the bedrooms, she went to sleep immediately, only to
awaken what seemed minutes later, though actually an hour had
passed. “Julie,” came Nick’s voice from the other side of the
connecting door.

Barefoot and hair tousled, she padded
to the door and unlocked it, looking sleepily up at him. Nick’s
eyes went to the door lock, and his mouth shifted into an uneven
line that was not exactly a smile.

Once again she was struck by his
rugged good looks. He had donned a fresh shirt of pale blue silk
and brushed back the leather- brown locks that seemed to slip
forward over his right temple.

“Ready to go shopping?” he
asked.

“Where?” She was under the impression
that only a few small pueblos populated the island—nothing like
civilization’s modem shopping centers.

“There’s a shopping arcade below the
hotel’s lobby. Come on; with a ring—and clothes—you can at last
consider yourself married.”

Not fully, she thought. I am not fully
your wife, Nicholas Raffer, until the marriage is consummated—and
that shall never be.

Still she enjoyed herself with him.
Grudgingly, howbeit. She could never imagine a man, especially an
outdoorsman like Nick, going shopping with her. In the two
boutiques they visited Nick helped her pick out three
spaghetti-strap sundresses, a long white cotton huipile—the native
embroidered dress—a pair of huara ches, and a two-piece
lemon-yellow string bikini that picked up the yellow flecks in her
green eyes.

“And now for a ring,” Nick said,
leaning over the jewelry display case. He chose a simple ring of
knotted silver hearts wrought from the mines of the Mexican city of
Taxco.

When she held up her hand to admire
it, he said, “After we return to Santa Fe, I’ll replace it with a
suitable diamond.”

She jerked her hand down. “No! I love
this one—it’s unique. Besides, I’d only have to give the diamond
back when—after we part.”

Nick directed a measured look at her,
and she glanced uneasily back to the ring. She felt as if she were
an insect being studied under a microscope. But after all, it was
Nick’s money.

“May I have this one, please, Nick?”
she asked softly. Perhaps he did not really want to spend the money
on a ring, but it had been his suggestion.

Nick paid the shopkeeper, adding to
the total bill the cost of a delicate white lace rebozo, or shawl,
to wear for the cool evenings.

She chose an apricot-colored sundress
with a matching jacket to wear over the harnace-like brace. The
admiring glances cast by the dark Latin eyes of the Mexican men
they passed told her she was an attractive young lady despite the
unappealing brace she wore.

Self-conscious under the appraising
glances, she pushed back the reddish-brown hair that fell across
her forehead and clouded softly about her shoulders. Since she did
not usually wear a lot of makeup, only a touch of lipstick and
mascara, she was relieved of the burden of asking Nick to buy
cosmetics for her also, but she would have dearly loved to apply a
sheen of pink to her lips for the sake of her feminine
vanity.

Nick suggested an early dinner on the
hotel’s dining terrace. They were one of the first couples to
arrive early, and they had almost the entire terrace to themselves.
Over shrimp cocktail and mango, she sat contentedly, listening to
the strident cries of the seagulls. The late-afternoon breeze
rustled the potted palms and whisked away the salty tang of the
Caribbean on her lips.

Even Nick, sitting across from her,
seemed more relaxed as he smoked a cigarette. The brown hand that
rested near the clay ashtray was just inches from her own, and she
could not help remembering how that same hand had caressed her
intimately a day earlier. And now with their marriage it would only
touch her politely in public—holding her elbow, resting at her
waist or shoulder.