sources of tourism.” His dark eyes measured her body in a way that made her want to cover herself up even more. “You’d look better in the curtains,” he added carelessly. “Your taste in clothes is juvenile.”
She was gaping at him, openmouthed, when the elevator arrived, with three passengers speaking rapid Spanish among themselves.
The big man stood aside for her, insinuating himself next to the panel to press the ground floor button.
Nikki wanted to say something cutting back to him, but for the second time that day she was rendered speechless by her own fury.
“Do you always sulk?” he asked with a curled dark eyebrow.
Pale green flames bounced back at him in a face rigid with dislike. “Only,” she replied deliberately, “when I’m verbally attacked by strangers with delusions of grandeur!”
“A kitten with claws?” he murmured, and something resembling amusement made ripples in his dark, deep-set eyes.
“Gatita,” one of the Spanish group, a young man, murmured with a wide grin.
The big, dark man threw a look over his shoulder, followed by a rapid-fire exchange of perfectly accented Spanish. Nikki, with only two dim years of the language to go by, understood little more than her companion’s “buenas noches,” as the elevator doors slid open.
With what she hoped was urbane poise, Nikki moved toward the front entrance of the hotel.
“May I ask where you’re going?” the big man asked from behind her.
She stopped as she passed the desk. “To the restaurant on the arcade,” she replied involuntarily.
“You’re going the long way around,” he remarked, indicating a mysterious door across from the elevator, always locked when she’d tried it, which led down a flight of stairs.
“It’s locked,” she informed him haughtily.
He sighed impatiently. “Didn’t the desk clerk give you two keys when you registered?” he asked.
She swallowed. “Yes,” she managed weakly, and it suddenly dawned on her which lock that mysterious key was meant for.
“You didn’t bother to ask why, obviously,” he remarked as she turned and went past him, key in hand, and fitted it into the lock. It opened on the first try.
“I was too busy stealing towels,” she muttered.
He followed her down the stairs. “Do you ever read signs or ask questions?” he asked.
She almost laughed out loud. No, she didn’t read signs. Most of them only said NO ADMITTANCE, and a reporter’s first duty was to get the story, no matter what barriers got in the way. And as for asking questions, boy, was that one for the books!
“Oh, almost never,” she replied with her most Southern drawl.
His eyes narrowed as he followed her to the bottom of the steps. “Where are you from?”
“Southern Spain,” she replied. “Buenas noches, you all.”
She doubled her pace onto the arcade as she passed the ice cream shop. It, like most of the others, had already closed for the day. There was a sultry, floral breeze, and the arcade took on a fairyland quality after dark. The stone benches in front of the coffee shop were deserted, and tourists wandered to and fro around the entrance to the restaurant and lounge on the bay.
The shawl Nikki was wearing did little more than dress up the outfit that arrogant businessman had dismissed as being “juvenile.” She didn’t need it to protect her from the chill. There wasn’t one.
“Do you make a habit of running off in the middle of a conversation?” her elevator companion asked suddenly, moving alongside her without rushing at all. His long, smooth strides made two of hers.
She glared at him. “Were we having a conversation? I hardly think constant criticism qualifies.”
He lifted his cigarette to his mouth, and she noticed that the breeze was ruffling his thick, slightly wavy hair, giving him a casual air.
“I don’t pull my punches, honey. Do you?” he shot back.
She drew the shawl closer while he ground out his cigarette underfoot. “I very rarely get into brawls,” she replied conversationally. “My uncle doesn’t think it’s ladylike to break people’s jaws.”
She heard a faint, deep sound that could have been anything. “Doesn’t he? How about your parents, young lady. Are they mad to let you wander halfway across the ocean alone?”
She drew herself up straight and stared unblinkingly into his dark eyes. “I’m twenty-five years old,” she told him. “And I am allowed to cross the street when I want to.”
“Hell of a street,” he murmured.
“My parents are dead,” she added quietly. “I live with my aunt and uncle—it’s not uncommon for women to stay at home until they marry where I come from.”
She felt