Free The Bride Tamer by Ann Major Page A

relax, and he would too. Maybe then he could quit obsessing about her and get on with his life. With Isabela.
    Maybe…
    But first he had to find Vivian.

Six
    C ash’s taxi careened through the narrow streets like a fighter jet. For a second or two he was so worried about crashing he forgot his quandary about Vivian.
    He didn’t need this. Without taking his eyes off the road, Cash tossed his jacket onto the seat. When the driver nearly hit a burro and cursed, Cash forced a tight smile and then tapped the driver on the shoulder.
    â€œDespacio,” he said. “Más despacio.”
    The driver ignored his suggestion to slow down. Instead of arguing, Cash rolled his long-sleeved shirt up and stuck his left elbow out the cab’s window. Some things were bigger than he was.
    Like what you feel about Aphrodite.
    Suppressing the ridiculous thought, he grinned again. If these were his last few minutes alive, he might as well try to enjoy them.
    Not that he could. He kept remembering Vivian as colonial buildings and the pandemonium of bulldozers and powerdrills rushed past him in a blur. Normally, he paid attention to old buildings and new construction sites.
    Not possible with the cab jouncing over ruts and holes. Not possible when the exhaust fumes were so dense he could barely breathe.
    Isabela? Vivian? He felt ensnared between the two. Isabela had clung to him for an eternity before letting him get in this suicidal cab, begging him to take her with him.
    Cash had peeled her hands loose from his forearms and tried to calm her, promising he’d be back in an hour.
    â€œWhat about my beach house?”
    â€œWe’ll go the second I get back.”
    â€œIt will be too hot,” she’d pouted.
    â€œPatience, my love.”
    â€œAm I your love?”
    He hadn’t answered her.
    It was hot and getting hotter fast. His shirt stuck to his body and his thick hair felt damp against his scalp. Still, despite the heat and the stench of the thick fumes of diesel that belched from the exhaust pipe of the truck in front of his cab, he couldn’t help noting that Mérida was more appealing than most cities in Mexico. Maybe it was the colonial architecture painted in pale pastel shades that made the city look so clean.
    Not that Cash was thinking all that fondly of Mérida. The poverty in Mexico always got to him. The bleak hopelessness he saw in so many people’s eyes was the same even in this sparkling city.
    When Cash spied the twin spires of the yellow cathedral, he tapped the driver’s thick shoulder again and told him he’d walk the rest of the way. No sooner was he on the street then he regretted his decision. If the cab had been hot, the sidewalk was broiling.
    He slung his jacket over his wide shoulder. Even so, he soon felt like an egg frying on a preheated griddle.
    Motionless campesinos, their backs plastered against the windowless facade of the cathedral, drooped low on theirhaunches, their dark, dead-looking gazes following him. No doubt their bodies were boiled. Cash felt even sorrier for the Indian women seated on the sidewalk near the church’s massive Corinthian doors of solid wood and brass nails. They extended their hands toward him even while they suckled their babies. He passed out coins and dollar bills until his pockets were empty.
    When he spotted the House of Montejo on the opposite side of the square, he paused. A bank now, the wonderful old colonial building was the oldest in Mérida, having been completed in 1549 by Francisco de Montejo, a city founder.
    A glance at his watch and he moved on. The sidewalk became more crowded the nearer he got to the market, which was located behind the Palacio Municipal.
    â€œPermiso,” he droned, avoiding the beggars’ eyes because he had no more money to hand out.
    â€œPasale,” they replied.
    Against his better judgment, he plunged into the bowels of the cavernous market, which was made up of shops