Jacintha Point Read online

  Jacintha Point by Elizabeth Graham

  Laurel was in a state of shock!

  Her father, taken on a mere suspicion that wasn't true, was languishing in a Mexican prison. Diego Ramirez was insisting she marry him so that he might use his influence to have her father released. "As his son-in-law I can help him." It was a situation requiring drastic action and Laurel should have been grateful for Diego's help. But Laurel couldn't help wondering—what did he expect in return?

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  OTHER Harlequin Romances by ELIZABETH GRAHAM

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  2223—NEW MAN AT CEDAR HILLS 2237—RETURN TO SILVERCREEK 2263—MAN FROM DOWN UNDER 2320—DEVIL ON HORSEBACK 2326—COME NEXT SPRING.

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  HARLEQUIN READER SERVICE, M.P.O. Box 707, Niagara Falls, N.Y. 14302 Canadian address: Stratford, Ontario N5A 6W2

  Original hardcover edition published in 1980 by Mills & Boon Limited

  ISBN 0-373-02374-X

  Harlequin edition published December 1980

  Copyright © 1980 by Elizabeth Graham.

  Philippine copyright 1980. Australian copyright 1980.

  All lights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopyinandrecording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M38 1Z3.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. The Harlequin trademark, consisting of the word HARLEQUIN and the portrayal of a Harlequin, is registered in the United States Patent Office and in the Canada Trade Marks Office.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ladies and gentlemen—senores y senoras—Madeleine Fashions welcomes you to this our first Acapulco showing. Taking our cue from the glorious warmth of sun and sea surrounding us, we are using "Elegance in the Sun" as our theme.

  'Many of you will be wondering if, or why, elegance is necessary in beach wear. We at Madeleine believe that elegance is every woman's prerogative, whether at the beach or in a sophisticated spot where she dances the night away.'

  Laurel Trent's eyes, an unusual shade of green, swept round the audience seated at individual tables on either side of the long apron upon which the models would soon be displaying Madeleine creations. Most were American tourists—a sprinkling of younger groups there because a fashion show provided a contrast to the usual daytime amenities; the rest middle-aged men who mopped receding brows despite the air-conditioning, their wives obviously relishing the chance to sit down out of the sun and wiggle their toes in expensive sandals.

  One couple caught and held her gaze, mostly because of the man's dark-eyed stare in her direction. No American this, with his high-bridged nose and stormy mouth, smoothly contoured jaw covered with the olive skin of his ancestors. The woman beside him was young and with a matching darkness of hair and eyes, her

  rounded figure lent drama by the black fully-sleeved dress she wore.

  Laurel's gaze shifted back to the man and, finding his stare still as boldly penetrating, she pulled her eyes sharply back to the typed sheets before her.

  'Mariella is going to begin today's showing in a sun and surf eye catcher swimsuit and beach cover-up....'

  As the willowy dark girl, as slender as herself, walked on to the small stage, her nervous inexperience was apparent only to Laurel's practised eye. With a little more experience of this kind, the young Mexican girl would make an effective model. Laurel talked constantly in a soothingly confident tone as the girl paraded along the apron, using her hands to draw attention to the salient points of fit and design as Laurel mentioned them. The only real drop in Mariella's composure came as she neared the spot where the bold-eyed Mexican and his wife sat.

  Puzzled as the girl retraced her steps tremblingly along the carpeted strip, Laurel glanced at the dark couple and saw that the man's brows were drawn down in an expression of severe disapproval. Obviously he hadn't taken kindly to the sight of one of his countrywomen exposing so much of her body to the interested gaze of the male spectators. With a faint shrug of dismissal at his Latin prejudice, Laurel went back to comparing the show, proud on the whole that her teaching over the past weeks had not been in vain. As soon as the Mexican staff could handle things on their own, she would return to Los Angeles—and Brent.

  But thoughts of her fiancé had to be put in abeyance while the show went on and finally reached its conclusion. Many of the American women in the audience,

  beguiled by the fashions that had looked so well on the slim models, were eagerly enquiring about placing orders. Elena, the girl who would be taking over as manager of the branch when Laurel returned to the States, directed them to the boutique located in the same hotel as that in which the fashion show had been held.

  Backstage, Laurel warmly congratulated the four models on their maiden effort. All except Mariella smiled a shy acknowledgment, then drifted away to the dressing area.

  'Is something wrong, Mariella?' Laurel adopted a casual stance against the utility table by the wall, crossing her arms over the waist of her sleeveless dress. The black background, overlaid by white-patterned scrolls, contrasted attractively with the silver-gilt of her hair, which was drawn back from her face in a smoothly sophisticated style. 'You were doing fine until you got down to the far end of the strip. What bothered you there?'

  The dark girl hesitated, her eyes clouded. 'It was—Senor Ramirez. He does not like to see a woman dressed so, except perhaps on the beach.'

  'Then he shouldn't come to a fashion show of beach wear ! ' Laurel responded tartly, then wrinkled her brow at the other girl. 'Who is he anyway, this Senor —Ramirez? Is he a relative of yours?'

  'No—oh, no!' Mariella stared at her, horrified. 'He is Senor Diego Ramirez, one of the most important men in Mexico. Always his family has been powerful in the affairs of our country. Senor Diego is—'

  'That doesn't give him the right to dictate where or when a woman can wear a swimsuit,' Laurel interrupted crisply, irritated anew that women living in the last

  half of the twentieth century still obeyed the autocratic rules and traditions of a bygone age. 'The lady with him might have to accept his orders, but you certainly don't.' She had noticed that several times, when the dark girl by his side had turned to him excitedly about one of the modelled swimsuits or figure-clinging dresses, he had shaken his head impatiently.

  `Ah, the poor Senora Ramirez,' Mariella-mourned, her brown eyes sympathetic. 'She has had much unhappiness, although she is so young.'

  'That I can believe,' Laurel returned with heartfelt certainty, remembering the effect those dark appraising eyes had forced on her. Senor Ramirez was evidently one of those Latins who had one set of rules for women, particularly his wife, and another completely opposite code for his own behaviour.

  Mariella scuttled away when the 'hotel's assistant manager came to ask Laurel if the staff could begin to clear the ballroom for that evening's buffet dance. Giving her assent, Laurel cursorily checked the rack of dresses and swim wear used for the afternoon show, then made her way across the spacious yet intimate ballroom to the wide glass doo
rs giving on to the hotel's huge lobby.

  Live trees and shrubs in massive tubs were arranged in seemingly haphazard manner across the immense hall, and it was from behind one of these that the man who had caused Mariella's fright stepped.

  'Senorita Trent, may I speak with you for a moment?'

  There was scarcely a trace of accent to his English — a tribute to the expensive education he had no doubt received in the best of American or European schools, Laurel thought sourly. Beside the casually dressed

  tourists, his off-white tropical suit and sober tie set a note of formal elegance. He was even taller than his seated position had indicated, and despite her own five foot six she had to tilt her head to look into the frank admiration in his dark eyes. From a distance they had appeared to be wholly black, but now she saw that they were a dark velvety brown and expressed precisely his emotions of the moment.

  'I can't think of one thing we could possibly have in common to talk about, Senor Ramirez,' she said coolly, 'unless you have in mind an apology for scaring one of my young models out of her mind this afternoon.'

  'Such was not my intention, Miss Trent,' he returned blandly, giving no inkling of whether he referred to an apology or to the fact of his unnerving Mariella.

  'Then if you'll excuse me, Senor Ramirez,' Laurel attempted to sidestep him, but found her arm enfolded by a supple olive-skinned hand.

  'You have learned my identity, Miss Trent,' he smiled, displaying a flash of white teeth and a deep ridge that ran down from cheek to mouth and did nothing to detract from his aristocratic good looks. 'Surely that is a hopeful sign for my intentions.'

  'That depends on what your intentions are,' she snapped, drawing her arm away in irritation from the warm touch of his hand on her bare flesh. 'If my guess is correct, no proposition you have to make could possibly interest me.'

  'You regard an invitation to dinner as a—proposition?'

  'Dinner?' She stared at him blankly.

  'Even a goddess of light and beauty must eat sometime,' he mocked softly. 'Can it be wrong for her to enjoy company while she does so?'

  'You insult me, senor!.

  Bewilderment that seemed genuine clouded his eyes. 'Insult? I do not understand. Why should a beautiful woman feel insulted because a man asks her to dine with him?'

  As she swept away, Laurel tossed frigidly over her shoulder: 'Why don't you ask Senora Ramirez?'

  There was a slight sense of satisfaction in the fleeting glimpse she caught of his quick frown, but anger pumped adrenalin through her veins as she walked quickly in the direction of the boutique.

  How dared he exercise with her his male Latin assumption that, despite his married state, any woman was fair game for his pursuit! No wonder Mariella had described his wife as 'the poor Senora Ramirez' in that doleful way!

  Her opinion remained unchanged the next day, which was the second and last showing, when Diego Ramirez appeared—alone. Mariella had failed to put in an appearance owing, she reported, to a stomach ailment. A sceptical Laurel, being closest in size to the absent Mariella, was forced to relinquish the microphone to Elena while she herself modelled the swim-wear in place of the Mexican girl.

  The first outfit, consisting of a black lacy cover jacket and provocatively revealing swimsuit, drew admiring glances from the audience, particularly from the perspiring American males accompanying their wives. Her long slender figure and silvery fair hair seemed made to mould the contours of the suit, and she was well used to the lascivious stares of the male element in an audience. What threw her on this occasion was the fury in Diego Ramirez's burning eyes. It was almost, she thought haughtily, swinging on her heel before his

  incensed eyes, as if her person belonged to him.

  'It is unusual for a man like Senor Ramirez to attend a showing of fashions without the senora,' Elena remarked with an arch glance in Laurel's direction as they re-hung the garments on racks after the show. 'Perhaps he had some other motivo for coming, do you think?'

  'Whatever his motive was, it doesn't concern me.' Laurel, feeling compunction because of her snappish reply, added to the crestfallen Elena: 'In my country, Elena, most men are not so obvious about their admiration for one woman while they are married to another.'

  Elena's dark-toned face registered amazement. 'But Senor Ramirez is—'

  'Excuse me, Senorita Trent,' the soft voice of the office derk, Marta, interrupted. 'There is a telephone call for you, from Los Angeles.'

  'Thank you, Marta, I'll come right away.'

  Thoughts of Diego Ramirez were stripped from her mind as Laurel hurried across the hotel's sumptuous hall to the boutique. Tim Calder, the titular head of Madeleine Fashions in Los Angeles, no doubt wanted to know how the first showings of the house had gone in the Mexican Riviera resort of Acapulco. Her enthusiastic words of satisfaction with the business done died away in a gasp, however, when she recognised the male voice at the other end of the line.

  'Brent! I thought it must be Tim calling to find out how things went with the shows.'

  'Disappointed it's your fiancé instead?' he quipped, and she immediately conjured up a picture of his solid, fair good looks and attractively crooked smile.

  'Of course not,' she returned breathlessly into the receiver. 'In fact, I—I wish you were here right now.'

  `Sounds promising,' he chuckled, 'and I'd sure like to follow it up, but this Melson case is brewing up to something pretty big now.'

  Brent was a rising young lawyer, and the case he referred to was a complicated one involving company law, his specialty.

  Laurel, who for some reason would rather have heard foolishly romantic nothings from him, listened patiently as he detailed that day's court appearance, particularly his own. Why did her mind keep slipping away from his pleasantly self-congratulatory voice to dwell on a vision of a violently angry Mexican man who looked capable of leaping up on the apron and hustling her away to his thick-walled castle in the forest? As his conquistador ancestors would no doubt have done. If it were he on the phone now, would he be telling her the dull details of his day?—or would he be whispering huskily of his longing for her?

  `Wh-what did you say?' Realising suddenly that Brent had asked a question and left silence on the line for her answer, Laurel cleared her throat.

  `I don't believe you've listened to a word I've said,' he accused, sounding vaguely hurt and positively angry.

  `Of course I have. It's just—well, I've had a couple of heavy days myself, and—maybe the heat's getting to me.'

  'It's been raining here for three days,' Brent sent back starkly, 'so don't knock the sun!'

  Laurel stared fully at the new filing cabinet beyond the desk. No enquiry about her busy days, how the shows had gone. Just—'don't knock the sun.'

  `Laurel? Are you okay?'

  'I'm fine,' she sighed.

  'You're not falling for some Latin Romeo down there, are you? I've heard women can't resist them.'

  Stung by his obvious amusement at that possibility, she retorted: 'As a matter of fact, there is one. He's very rich, influential, and he asked me to have dinner with him last night.'

  'And did you?'

  At last a note of personal interest! 'No, I'm engaged to you, remember?'

  'Don't you forget it! '

  'I'm not likely to, but—when, Brent? We don't have to wait. I can work for a while after we're married, so—'

  'My wife is going to stay right at home and take care of me and the kids, in that order,' be said firmly. 'But we can't talk about this over the phone, for Pete's sake! And that reminds me, this call's costing an arm and a leg. I just wanted to call and explain why I haven't written lately. I'm even working nights on this case. How long will it be before you can leave things there?'

  'I don't know yet.'

  'Keep me posted.' His voice dropped a notch. 'I miss you, sweetie.'

  'Yes. 'Bye, Brent.'

  For a long time after replacing the receiver, Laurel sat pensively at the desk. Then with
a long-drawn sigh she rose and made her way through the deserted salon, locking up as she went.

  The small but efficient apartment leased for her for the duration of her stay in Acapulco was situated on the fourth floor of the Panorama Hotel where Madeleine Fashions was located.

  Overlooking the tranquil vista of Acapulco Bay, with its sudden transitions from jewel toned sea to the velvet darkness of night, the apartment had been a constant source of interest and joy to Laurel. From her balcony she had watched para-sailors take off from the fine gold sand beach to soar over the blue-green waters of the Bay, all of the resort city at their feet. At night there was the booming resonance of the nearby Aztec Flyers' Show where, to the accompaniment of deeply rhythmic Mexican music, smooth-muscled men gyrated in ever-increasing circles round a staunch centre pole reaching high into the night sky. From the volume of their applause, the tourists loved this attraction.

  Tonight, however, when the blood-quickening music began for the first show, Laurel restlessly snapped the glass balcony doors shut. The harsh notes of trumpets, evocative of the primitive aspects of this vast and alien land, tonight made her feel uncomfortable. Strangely, the brash notes conjured up a sense of isolation, melancholy ... and a mental vision of Diego Ramirez. Though why the supremely self-assured Mexican should enter her mind for those reasons was completely beyond her. No man of her acquaintance had ever displayed more confident certainty of his supremacy in the scheme of things.

  Deciding, After a cursory look into the interior of the apartment's refrigerator, to eat in the hotel's restaurant, Laurel showered quickly and dressed as hastily in a long dress of green floral cotton. The honey-gold tan she had acquired at the hotel's pool and sun-streaked beach was a perfect foil for the cool Off-the shoulder dress. Make-up was minimal—a touch of green eyeshadow to highlight her eyes, a smear of coral

  lipstick to outline a mouth made vulnerable by the fullness of its lower lip, a dusting of powder to give a matt appearance to small straight nose and unfreckled brow.