She shook her head, and he saw her turn slightly pink. No! I mean, itsuh, theyre verycolorful. He could see honesty arm-wrestling with politeness. Honesty won. Impatience gave her voice an edge as she added, Its justway too big. The edge wasnt unpleasant, he decided, just sort of like an itch between his shoulder blades he couldnt reach to scratch.
You think so? McCall considered his work in progress, frowning. I try to make em small enough so people can take em home in a shopping bag. Ill ship if I have to, but Id rather not.
No, I mean the conyer-the yellow one, she earnestly explained, seeing his blank look. It should be only half the size of the two macaws.
Oh brother. Everybody was an art critic. Mentally rolling his eyes, McCall snatched the remnants of the cigarette from his mouth in mock amazement. No. Is that right?
I own a pet shop, she explained, and her flush deepened slightly as she shrugged. He wondered why.
Hmm. McCalls fingers rasped on his beard-stubbled chin as he thoughtfully regarded the painting. He looked sideways at his critic. You ever hear of perspective?
She shook her head. The conyers behind the macaws-that would make it even smaller. She gazed steadily at him, not giving an inch.
He could see now that her eyes were hazel, almost golden in this light. And that the sprinkle of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks exactly matched her hair. And that she was wearing a gold wedding band on the appropriate finger of her left hand.
Damn, he muttered for more than one reason, snapping his fingers, and was rewarded with the sudden and unexpected brilliance of her smile.
To his regret, before hed even had time to absorb the wonder of that smile shed moved away from him to stroll among the rest of his stock-a riotous mix of tropical flora and fauna, hung without regard for color compatibility on their racks against the garish backdrop of bougainvillea-with lips slightly parted, as if in awe. Having reached the end of the display, she gave her head a little shake and turned it toward him to inquire in a tone of disbelief, You actually sell these?
He was amused rather than insulted-even, in some remote part of himself, pleased to discover that she seemed to possess both taste and intelligence. But he hid it from her, instead scowling around his cupped hands as he lit a new cigarette. Like hotcakes, sister.
Undaunted, her eyes held his, and he saw laughter in them as she persisted in a cracking voice, Where do you suppose they hang them?
Oh hell. He threw back his head and laughed. How could he help it? When he looked again, shed moved on to the next booth and was idly fingering through a pinwheel of embroidered shawls. He felt a pang of genuine regret at her going, but the laughter stayed with him for a while, quivering just beneath his ribs as he turned his attention to more likely customers.
Ellie was still smiling as she wandered among the stalls in the sun-baked plaza, touching an embroidered blouse here, a painted clay pottery pig there. For some reason the exchange with that scruffy American artist-using that term extremely loosely-had lifted her spirits. She hadnt any idea why-the paintings were almost wonderfully dreadful, and the artist himself the very image of the sort of man conscientious mamas once warned their innocent little girls about. Perhaps shed just so badly needed her spirits lifted.
It took only that thought to make them plummet again. How could Ken No. Firmly, and not for the first time, she squelched the desire to blame her partner for a circumstance that truly was not his fault. Probably it was so tempting-it felt so good to blame Burnside for every little thing that happened to annoy her-simply because he annoyed her so. Which she judiciously admitted wasnt his fault, either. He couldnt help being the kind of overly macho, arrogant know-it-all type of male for whom shed always had zero tolerance. Most likely hed been born that way, and being raised in the male-chauvinist bastions of the Old South hadnt helped his personality development any. Certainly, he was never going to change.
And, in spite of that character flaw-perhaps, she secretly admitted, even because of it-he was a very good agent. He was cautious, a meticulous planner, which Ellie liked and wholeheartedly approved of. Like her, he left nothing to chance. But not even they could have foreseen food poisoning.
Food poisoning! Because of it-or a twenty-four-hour-flu bug or turista or whatever you wanted to call it-at this very moment her erstwhile partner in an undercover operation it had taken two years to lay the groundwork for and countless hours of tricky and dangerous negotiations to set up, was back on the ship, flat on his back in his stateroom, groaning in helpless agony. Now, at the most critical stage of the operation, when the trap had been baited and the quarry was circling, the culmination of all theyd worked for actually in sight!
Food poisoning! Because of it-or a twenty-four-hour-flu bug or turista or whatever you wanted to call it-at this very moment her erstwhile partner in an undercover operation it had taken two years to lay the groundwork for and countless hours of tricky and dangerous negotiations to set up, was back on the ship, flat on his back in his stateroom, groaning in helpless agony. Now, at the most critical stage of the operation, when the trap had been baited and the quarry was circling, the culmination of all theyd worked for actually in sight!
No, it wasnt his fault.
But dammit, how could he have let this happen?
The impotence of her anger penetrated even into her muscles, it seemed, and she drifted to a halt, frowning and lost in thought, amidst the sluggish river of tourists.
Oof! she gasped suddenly, as a small, wiry body collided with hers, hard enough to knock her breathless.
Off-balance, she struggled to stay upright, only to feel the strap of her handbag slipping off her shoulder. She felt a tug and snatched at her purse-and grabbed thin air.
Hey! she yelled in futile outrage, as a child wearing only a pair of ragged jeans darted and squirmed his way beyond her reach with her brand-new straw handbag clutched to his scrawny chest.
Around her, pudgy people with sun visors on their heads and cameras dangling from their necks turned to stare in the dazed and clueless way of those witnessing the unexpected and out-of-the-ordinary.
Come back here! Ellie bellowed, incensed. Knowing it was useless, she took off in pursuit anyway, gasping, Somebody stop him! He took my purse!
My purse. Just that quickly, panic replaced anger. Not that there was so much money in the handbag-this was, after all, a government operation, and she certainly wasnt rich-but the instructions, the procedure for setting up a meeting with their contacts-that was something that could not be replaced.
Oh God, what would she do if she lost it? Compared to this disaster, Agent Burnsides case of food poisoning was a mere blip. A hiccup.
Trying to make headway through the knot of tourists, most of whom had now stopped dead in confusion, was like trying to walk uphill in a mudslide. Still, she was sure shed have had a chance if it hadnt been for the sandals. Ellie wasnt used to sandals, which, like the Hawaiian print shorts and tank top she wore, were part of her tourist disguise. Give her a nice solid pair of Nikes and she could outrun just about anybody; in spite of-maybe because of-her size, she had always been quick. In these cursed hard-soled sandals, though, all she could do was flail her way among the frozen spectators, slipping and stumbling on the uneven adobe brick pavers, while far ahead through a shimmer of frustrated tears she could see the purse-snatcher darting through the crowd, making for the entrance to the plaza. If he got beyond the plaza, Ellie knew, hed vanish into the maze of narrow, dusty streets, the warren of scrap wood and tin shacks, the tangle of fishing boatsthe part of this tourist town the tourists never saw. Shed never see him or her purse again, of that she was certain.
A moment later she wasnt certain of anything, even the evidence of her own eyes.
One second the boy was there, shaggy dark head and narrow sun-bronzed back plainly visible, all but branded on her retinas. The next second hed disappeared-vanished-and her purseher precious purse! was flyingflying in seeming slow motion, tumbling lazy as a butterfly through the shimmering sunlight, shoulder strap like a looping lariat against the sky. And then an arm, lean and tanned as leather, reached up and fingers stained with electric blue snatched the purse right out of the air.
Breath gusted from Ellies lungs as she halted, open-mouthed, rendered speechless by overwhelming relief coupled with wonder. Not that miracles, and the silent, breathless awe that accompany them, were unknown to Ellie; in her lifetime so far shed been privileged to witness quite a few: Orcas breeching in the Alaskan Straits; the birth of a dolphin; a loggerhead turtle struggling up a sandy Georgia beach on an inky-black night. Not to mention a thousand smaller miracles, the kind that happen every single day and so few people even notice. But this was different. This was the first miracle she could recall that involved another human being. And a male human being at that.
The crowd parted almost magically, and even that seemed only part of the miracle. Still stunned, Ellie watched the culprit shuffle toward her, now sniffling piteously, tears making shiny tracks on his dusty cheeks. His skinny ribs were heaving, and there were fresh, quarter-sized abrasions on his knees-a matched set. The paint-smudged hand clamped on the back of his neck looked large against its vulnerability, and strong enough to snap it.
This belong to you? The owner of the hand, only slightly less scruffy than his captive, was holding out her handbag, dangling by its strap from one hooked finger. Under the brim of his Panama hat his eyes were squinted and his teeth were showing, but it didnt look to Ellie like a smile. More like Clint Eastwood in one of those old westerns where he always seemed to be wearing a serape.
It suddenly seemed necessary to lubricate her voicebox before she spoke, although when she tried to swallow it didnt help much. The scratchy sound that came out was just pretty much Ellies normal speaking voice. And she couldnt do much about that, since shed inherited it approximately twenty-eight years ago from her mother.
II dont know how to thank you. It was no more than the truth; having always prided herself on being an uncommonly independent and resourceful person, shed never been in such debt to a man before.