Mystery Man. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ hoping that she hadn’t forgotten to set her own. It would be an hour behind Kurt’s, because her apartment in Chicago was in a different time zone from Kurt and her parents’ in Indiana.

      He was in a foreign country and he didn’t speak any more Spanish than she did. Their parents’ facility for languages had escaped them, for the most part. Janine spoke German with some fluency, but not much Spanish. And while English was widely spoken here in the hotels and tourist spots, on the street it was a different story. Many of the local people in Cancñaun still spoke Mayan and considered Spanish, not English, a second language.

      She turned off her computer—it was useless trying to work when she was worried, anyway—and went out to the beach. She found the distinctive tread of Kurt’s sneakers and followed them in the damp sand where the tide hadn’t yet reached. The sun was low on the horizon and the wind was up. There were dark clouds all around. She never forgot the danger of hurricanes here, and even if it was late September, that didn’t mean a hurricane was no longer a possibility.

      She shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun, because she was walking west across the beach, stopping when Kurt’s sneakers were joined by another, smaller pair, with no discernible tread. She knelt down, scowling as she studied the track. She’d worked as a private eye for a couple of years, but any novice would figure out that these were the footprints of a girl, she thought. The girl Kurt had mentioned, perhaps, the one who lived next door. In fact, she was almost in front of that beach house now.

      The roar of the waves had muffled the sound of approaching footsteps. One minute, she was staring down at the tracks. The next, she was looking at a large and highly polished pair of black dress shoes. Tapered neatly around them were the hem of expensive slacks. The legs seemed to go up forever. Far above them, glaring down at her, were pale blue eyes under a jutting brow in a long, lean face. The lips were thin. The top one was long and narrow, the lower one had only a hint of fullness. The cheekbones were high and the nose was long and straight. The hairline was just slightly receding around straight brown hair.

      Two enormous lean hands were balled into fists, resting on the hips of the newcomer.

      “May I ask what you’re doing on my beach?” he asked in a voice like raspy velvet.

      She stood up, a little clumsy. How odd, that a total stranger should make her knees weak.

      “I’m tracking my…” she began.

      “Tracking?” he scoffed, as if he thought she were lying. His blue eyes narrowed. He looked oddly dangerous, as if he never smiled, as if he could move like lightning and would at the least provocation.

      Her heart was racing. “His name is Kurt and he’s only twelve,” she said. “He’s redheaded and so high.” She made a mark in the air with her flat hand.

      “That one,” he murmured coolly. “Yes, I’ve seen him prowling around. Where’s my daughter?”

      Her eyebrows rose. “You have a daughter? Imagine that! Is she carved out of stone, too?”

      His firm, square chin lifted and he looked even more threatening. “She’s missing. I told her not to leave the house.”

      “If she’s with Kurt, she’s perfectly safe,” she began, about to mention that he’d been stranded once in the middle of Paris by their forgetful parents, and had found his way home to their hotel on the west bank. Not only had he maneuvered around a foreign city, but he’d also sold some of the science fiction cards he always carried with him to earn cab fare, and he’d arrived with twenty dollars in his pocket. Kurt was resourceful.

      But long before she could manage any of that, the man moved a step closer and cocked his head. “Do you know where they are?”

      “No, but I’m sure…”

      “You may let your son run loose like a delinquent, but my daughter knows better,” he said contemptuously. His eyes ran over her working attire with something less than admiration. She had on torn, raveled cutoffs that came almost to her knee. With them she was wearing old, worn-out sandals and a torn shirt that didn’t even hint at the lovely curves beneath it. Her short hair was windblown. She wasn’t even wearing makeup. She could imagine how she looked. What had he said—her son?

      “Now, just wait a minute here,” she began.

      “Where’s your husband?” he demanded.

      Her eyes blazed. “I’m not married!”

      Those eyebrows were really expressive now.

      She flushed. “My private life is none of your business,” she said haughtily. His assumptions, added to his obvious contempt, made her furious. An idea flashed into her mind and, inwardly, she chuckled. She struck a pose, prepared to live right down to his image of her. “But just for the record,” she added in purring tones, “my son was born in a commune. I’m not really sure who his father is, of course…”

      The expression on his face was unforgettable. She wished with all her heart for a camera, so that she could relive the moment again and again.

      “A commune? Is that where you learned to track?” he asked pointedly.

      “Oh, no.” She searched for other outlandish things to tell him. He was obviously anxious to learn any dreadful aspect of her past. “I learned that from a Frenchman that I lived with up in the northern stretches of Canada. He taught me how to track and make coats from the fur of animals.” She smiled helpfully. “I can shoot, too.”

      “Wonderful news for the ammunition industry, no doubt,” he said with a mocking smile.

      She put her own hands on her hips and glared back. It was a long way up, although she was medium height. “It’s getting dark.”

      “Better track fast, hadn’t you?” he added. He lifted a hand and motioned to a man coming down toward the beach. “¿Sabe donde estñaan?” he shot at the man in fluent Spanish.

      “No, lo siento, señtnor. ¡Nadie los han visto!” the smaller man called back.

       “Llame a la policñaia.”

       “Sñai, señtnor!”

      Police sounded the same in any language and her pulse jumped. “You said police. You’re going to call the police?” she groaned. That was all she needed, to have to explain to a police officer that she’d forgotten the time and let her little brother get lost.

      “You speak Spanish?” he asked with some disbelief.

      “No, but police sounds the same in most languages, I guess.”

      “Have you got a better idea?”

      She sighed. “No, I guess not. It’s just that…”

      “Dad!”

      They both whirled as Karie and Kurt came running along the beach with an armload of souvenirs between them, wearing sombreros.

      “Gosh, Dad, I’m sorry, we forgot the time!” Karie warbled to her father. “We went to the mercado in town and bought all this neat stuff. Look at my hat! It’s called a sombrero, and I got it for a dollar!”

      “Yeah, СКАЧАТЬ