Accidentally…Evil? (Accidentally Yours #3.5)(2)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

But as impressive as his raw, abundantly masculine features were, it was his height that most bewildered her. People from these parts were not known for stature. In fact, at five-foot-six, she had a good six inches on the tallest men in the village, and her father, Dr. O’Hare, an entire foot. No. This giant man most certainly wasn’t from the sleepy little pueblo of Bacalar or anywhere in the Yucatan, for that matter. But then, from where? His exotic, ethnically ambiguous features didn’t provide any clues. He could be a Moroccan Greek Spaniard or a Nordic Himalayan Kazak. Hmmm….

“Yes, rake, as in cad? Or if you prefer, savage,” she said.

“Hardly. Savages don’t save women in distress. They create them.”

True. They also don’t have wildly seductive, exotic accents. Like one of her parents’ Hollywood friends.

Light bulb.

“Oh my God. You’re a picture film actor, aren’t you?”

Yes. Yes. It all made sense now. The locals in the village had been talking about a film crew for weeks. Word on the street—errr, word on pueblo corner next to the stinky burro—was that a famous Russian director was making a movie about Chichen Itza and filming historical reenactments in the area.

“An… actor.” His icy, unsettling expression turned into a charming smile inspired by the devil himself. “Yes.”

She sighed. “That explains the trained cat. Where’s the crew?” She glanced over her shoulders.

“Crew. Errr.” He raised his index finger as if to point somewhere, then dropped it. “My crew will be here in a few days.”

“Getting into character! Right.” Maggie had heard firsthand how actors prepared for their roles. Fascinating business. Of course, acting had never really interested her. Nothing that required work ever had, which was why she’d taken up painting when her parents pestered her to do something productive. Going to parties and dating famous, good-looking men apparently weren’t worthy pursuits.

They were right. If only her mother had lived long enough for Maggie to tell her so.

“Now,” he said, “will you tell me who you are?”

She held out her hand. “Miss Margaret O’Hare of Los Angeles.”

“You are a very long way from home.”

No. Really? “I’m here working with my father. He’s a professor doing… ummm… research.”

A teeny fib. Or two. Who’s gonna know? Truthfully, her father wasn’t researching doodly-squat; he was secretly excavating. And the “work” she was doing? It didn’t amount to a hill of pinto beans; her father wouldn’t let her anywhere near the sacred structure. “No place for a young lady,” he’d said. Well, neither was this slightly lawless, revolution-ravaged Mexican village, where electricity was considered a luxury—as were beds, curling irons, and those blessed ice cubes.

And chicken coops. Don’t forget the chicken coops. The village was plagued with wretched little packs of villainous roaming chickens. Like tiny feathered banditos who leave their little caca-bombs all over the damned place.

You’ll survive. Some things are more important.

“Well, Miss Margaret O’Hare from Los Angeles, very pleased to meet you.” The man bent his imposing frame, slid his remarkably-rough-for-an-actor palm into hers, and placed a lingering kiss atop her hand.

An exquisite jolt crashed through her, causing her to buck. She snapped the tingling appendage away. Wow. That kiss could combust a lady’s drawers like gunpowder. Poof! Flames. No drawers. Just like that.

The residual heat continued spreading. Please don’t reach my drawers. Please don’t reach my drawers…

He frowned and dropped his hand. “So tell me, what were you doing in the jungle, Margaret?”

“Jungle?”

“Yes, you know that place where I found you unconscious. Barefoot. All alone. It has many trees and dangerous animals.” He pointed over her shoulder at the lush forest filled with vine-covered trees that chirped and clicked with abundant life. “It’s right behind you, if you’ve forgotten what it looks like.”

“Yes. That.” Thinking, thinking, thinking. She wiggled her bare toes in the mushy grass and looked out across the hypnotic turquoise waves of the lake. Funny how the man’s eyes were the exact same color right down to their flecks of shimmering green.

An early afternoon breeze pushed a few dark locks of hair across her face. Still thinking, thinking, thinking. She brushed them away and then focused on the grass stains on the front of her white cotton dress. Darn it. She loved this dress, with its tiny hand-stitched red flowers along the hem. Her father had had it specially made along with a beautiful black stone pendant the week they’d arrived. He’d said the gifts were in celebration of his find; everything was exactly where he’d thought, including some mysterious, priceless treasure that would “change their lives.” He’d said he couldn’t wait to show her when the time came.

“I’m waiting,” the man said with unfiltered impatience.

“Waiting. Oh, yes. I was in the jungle because…” Still thinking…

Fear. Yes, fear was the reason she’d been capering about. Her mother’s recent death had left her plagued with the corrosive emotion. She feared she would never make right with her past. She feared opening her eyes to the present. She feared the future would bring only pain and suffering because eventually anyone she cared for would leave. Fear was like an irrational cancer that ate away at her rational soul.

It was why, when her father began acting peculiar back home—disappearing for weeks at a time, mumbling incoherently, obsessing over that tablet—she came to Mexico. She feared he might simply disappear in this untamed land, evaporate into nothing more than a collection of memories—just as her mother had.

And now she feared that she had failed; her father had not been seen for three days. But she didn’t dare articulate this distressing, gloomy thought aloud.

“Because… I am a painter!” she said. “I went exploring for new scenery. I got turned around, and then that giant cat of yours appeared out of nowhere and chased me.” She rubbed the gigantic lump on her forehead. “I fell and hit my head. You didn’t happen to find my sandals, did you?”

One glorious turquoise eye ticked for the briefest moment. “Searching for scenery?”

“You don’t believe me?”

He shook his head and grinned with a well-polished arrogance only found on the face of a Hollywood actor. She quickly wondered if he’d ever met her mother but then dismissed the thought. She didn’t want to think about her mother; the pain was simply too fresh.