Temple Of The Moon. Sara Craven

as her casual gaze fixed and sharpened, that he was no tourist. He was tall and long-legged moving with an easy animal grace in denim shirt and pants with a matching rain-spattered jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. He threaded his way through the chatting groups to the reception desk where a smiling clerk turned to greet him. She couldn’t hear what passed between them, nor could she lip-read, but he was obviously asking a question, and Gabrielle felt a sudden, illogical trickle of apprehension along her spine as the newcomer turned, his eyes flicking almost indifferently over the tables. She sensed rather than saw the clerk reply, and knew with all the certainty of pounding heart and pulses that they were both looking at her.

      She picked up her glass with fingers that shook, and took a hasty sip. Surely this couldn’t be Professor Morgan? Martin had given her the impression of a much older man—a contemporary of James, she had decided in her own mind. For an endless moment, she made herself look down at the table, trying to pretend she was oblivious to his regard.

      ‘Is your name Christow?’ She had not heard his approach and she started violently, spilling a little of her drink. His voice was low and resonant, but held no welcoming warmth.

      Gabrielle looked up reluctantly. He was standing over her, his thumb hooked negligently into his belt. At close quarters, the attraction she had only sensed across the room was quite devastating and she was conscious that they were the cynosure of envious feminine eyes from adjoining tables.

      ‘Yes,’ she said at last, ‘I’m Gabrielle Christow. And you?’

      His face was narrow, the cheekbones and jawline prominent, with dark hair in need of cutting springing aggressively back from his forehead. Against his deep tan, his eyes were as pale as aquamarines. They held incredulity and hostility in almost equal amounts.

      He said slowly, ‘My God, I don’t believe it. The fools! The bloody, incompetent fools!’

      Gabrielle stiffened, aware as he was not of the interested ears surrounding them.

      She said with a hint of ice, ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’

      ‘No?’ One of the slanting dark eyebrows lifted in a sardonic question. ‘Were you naively expecting to be welcomed with open arms? If so, I’m afraid, young woman, you’re in for a sharp disappointment.’

      Gabrielle was very pale. She stammered, ‘But I though—I mean, Vision made all the arrangements—I understood I was expected.’

      ‘We were expecting a photographer from Vision to join us—yes.’

      There was no doubting the implication in his words and she glared at him.

      ‘Are you questioning my professional competence?’ she demanded hotly.

      ‘That’s the least of my concerns.’ He hitched forward a chair, and straddled the seat, his arms folded across the back of the chair. ‘In any case, I shall not be in a position to judge it.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘Meaning that you’ll be on the next flight back to Europe from Mexico City as soon as it can be arranged. We’ll cable Vision and if they care to do a hasty re-think and send us a replacement before we leave, all well and good. If not …’ He shrugged.

      ‘A replacement?’ she echoed dazedly. ‘But why?’

      ‘I should have thought it would have been obvious even to the meanest intelligence.’ The cool blue eyes went over her from the chic sandals to the scooped neckline of the sleeveless white dress. ‘This assignment is not for a woman, Miss Christow.’

      For a stunned moment she looked at him, then she managed a brief, scornful laugh. ‘What kind of absurd prejudice is this, may I ask?’

      ‘Ask away.’ He produced a cheroot from a case and lit it. ‘It has nothing to do with prejudice—just ordinary common sense. The rain forest is no place for an inexperienced girl. I should have thought your editor would have had more sense.’

      Gabrielle shook her head in disbelief. It had been bad enough coming from James, but to come all this way and get the same reception from a complete stranger was almost more than she could bear.

      She said coldly, ‘In Britain now women have equal opportunities with men. Legally we can no longer be discriminated against on the grounds of sex.’

      ‘That’s fine for Britain.’ He drew deeply on the cheroot. ‘But it cuts no ice in the Yucatan—which is where you are, in case you hadn’t noticed. The expedition we’re involved in has dangers and discomforts you’ve never even imagined in your comfortable London office. A man could—just—have made it. But you?’ He spread his hands, his eyes going over her dismissively. ‘No way.’

      Gabrielle stood up angrily, ignoring the speculative looks being directed at them from all over the foyer.

      ‘I should prefer to continue this—discussion somewhere less public,’ she said in a low voice.

      ‘Willingly.’ His smile lifted the corners of his firm-lipped mouth. ‘My place or yours?’

      Gabrielle felt her cheeks redden in spite of herself.

      ‘Professor Morgan …’ she began in angry protest.

      He shook his head. ‘Wrong again, I’m afraid. My name is Lennox—Shaun Lennox. Dennis Morgan is ill—a touch of fever.’

      She stared at him, a glimmer of hope appearing on her bleak horizon. ‘You mean you’re not even the leader of the expedition and yet you presume to come here—to give me my marching orders as if …’

      ‘Yes, I do so presume.’ His brows snapped together. No laughter now. ‘Dennis is not a young man any more and he’s been quite sick. I want to spare him as many minor worries and irritations as possible.’

      Gabrielle lifted her chin. ‘I suppose there’s no need to ask which classification I come under. Well, I don’t want to cause Professor Morgan any anxiety either, and I’m quite prepared to wait until he’s well again for his decision.’

      ‘I can assure you it will be the same as mine.’

      ‘Perhaps.’ Gabrielle suddenly felt as if she gained the advantage and pressed it home eagerly. ‘But I’d prefer to hear it from his own lips—if you don’t mind,’ she added sweetly.

      ‘Please yourself,’ he said shortly. ‘I suppose, having come all this way, you’re entitled to a few days’ holiday at Vision’s expense. They probably owe it to you, anyway, having sent you here under false pretences.’

      ‘We’ll see about that,’ Gabrielle asserted confidently. Then a new and disturbing thought occurred to her. ‘Er—about my accommodation.’

      He leaned forward and stubbed out his cheroot in an ash tray. ‘What about it?’

      She flushed. ‘Well, I’m booked in here for tonight, but I understood—that is, Martin said that I would be staying at the Institute headquarters—as part of the team.’

      She did not add that this assumption had also been based on the fact that she was married to a member of the team as well.

      ‘An excellent idea—if you’d been the accredited representative we were expecting. As things are, maybe you’d do better to stay here.’

      She looked at him, frankly dismayed. ‘But they may not have a vacancy. This is the tourist season, you know.’

      ‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘I know.’

      His eyes were completely impassive as they met the indignation in hers. Gabrielle controlled herself with an effort and marched over to the reception desk. But the clerk met her halting inquiry with a blank face and a regretful shake of the head. There were no reservations available after that night. The hotel was full and he was unable to recommend anywhere else which might have a vacancy. Merida, he explained with much hand-waving, was full for the season—except for certain places where the señorita