Flame of Diablo (14 page)

appreciation like a Victorian orphan

outside a baker's shop. She had no idea

what the smell was, but it was certainly

not tinned stew and rice pudding, which

was an unmixed blessing. She scrambled

out of the tangle of blankets and

cautiously lifted the flap of the little tent.

It was very early, she realised. There

were still little wreaths of mist around

the tops of the trees, and deep shadows

where the sun had not penetrated. The

air smelt cool and damp and incredibly

fresh, a freshness that tingled on her skin

and made her shiver slightly.

A few feet away the fire crackled

merrily, and Vitas de Mendoza was

squatting beside it intent on the fish he

was grilling on wooden skewers. Rachel

would have sworn that it was occupying

the whole of his attention, and she

started when he said without turning his

head, 'Breakfast is almost served,

senorita.'

She climbed out of the tent and stood up,

smoothing the creases from her clothes

with nervous hands. She had slept the

previous night better than she expected

or even hoped to do, and had woken

with a feeling of well-being she was not

at all sure she deserved.

Now, as she stood in the sunshine, she

found herself thinking that her most

justifiable

emotion

would

be

apprehension. He was stripped to the

waist, his black shirt hanging carelessly

over one bronzed shoulder, and his dark

hair gleamed with moisture. Clearly he

had been for an early morning swim,

Rachel realised, resenting her own

tousled dishevelment.

'I suppose you caught those with your

bare hands,' she remarked, her eyes on

the sizzling fish.

'I regret to have to disappoint you, but I

used a hook and a line like everyone

else.' He withdrew one of the fish from

the fire and deposited it on a tin plate,

deftly removing the skewer.

'The coffee's ready too,' he went on,

indicating the steaming pot. 'Take care

not. to burn yourself.'

'You think of everything, don't you?' She

was aware how ungracious she sounded,

but she couldn't help it. Her first delight

in the newborn day had curled away like

the mist from the trees at the sight of him,

dark and lean, the muscles in his

shoulders and arms suggesting a latent

power. For one blinding moment as she

stood there looking at him, she'd known

how his skin would feel under her

fingers, imagined her hands clasping his

back, her breasts crushed against his

torso. She didn't like the images she had

conjured up and she loathed herself and

the way they made her feel. So, he was a

superbly made animal. Well, there had

never been any real doubt of that, but it

did not mean she had to react like an

animal too.

She accepted the plate and poured

herself some coffee. The fish was

wonderful, firm rather pinky flesh, and a

faint flavour of woodsmoke, and for no

logical reason she felt her resentment

grow.

She said flatly, 'Would you mind getting

dressed? Nudity in the early morning

doesn't turn me on, I'm afraid.'

He burst, out laughing, and she glared at

him, feeling she had made herself

ridiculous.

'As the
senorita
commands.' He put his

own plate down and sketched a

burlesque of a bow before thrusting his

arms into the sleeves of his shirt and

tucking it down into the waistband of his

pants. 'If that is how you feel it's just as

well you didn't emerge from your

sanctuary five minutes earlier. Unlike

you, I don't sleep in my clothes, and I

don't swim in them either. As it is, I can

only hope that I have not irrevocably

disturbed your appetite.'

She sent him a suspicious glance under

her lashes, sensing some ambiguity in his

words, but his dark face wore an almost

bland expression and she decided she

would only make a fool of herself if she

pursued the matter as she half suspected

he was waiting for her to do. Besides,

she was too ravenously hungry to want

to argue. After all, she hadn't eaten since

that noontime break yesterday, she

suddenly remembered, and her spirits

faltered as she also remembered how

very different the circumstances of her

waking this morning might have been.

She went on eating, moving her jaws

automatically, but the edge had gone

from her appetite.

After a while she said jerkily, 'I don't

think I—thanked you properly for

arriving when you did yesterday. I want

you to know I am very grateful.''

He finished his last mouthful of fish and

tossed the bones into the fire. His mouth

twisted a little as he looked at her.

'Gratitude,
querida
? That isn't what I

want from you.'

Her heart skipped a beat. 'But that's all

there is,' she said quickly, too quickly.

She put down her plate and leaned

forward, looking into the fire which was

dying now, avoiding looking at him,

letting her pale hair swing like a curtain

between them. 'I know that—last night

was rather fraught, but we've both had

time to think now, and I can't believe you

really meant what you said, or that you

mean to go through with it.'

'Then you had better believe it, Raquel,'

he said softly. 'Because I meant every

word.' He paused as if expecting some

response, but she sat motionless and

silent, her eyes fixed on the fire's

glowing embers as if she was trying to

hypnotise herself. His voice went on

mercilessly, 'I don't share your views on

nudity in the morning,
querida.
You look

very lovely when you have just woken

up, with your hair ruffled and your eyes

large and bright with sleep. The

prospect of waking and finding you

naked in my arms has an almost dazzling

appeal for me.'

'No!' The sound came almost strangled

from her throat. 'Don't!'

He ignored the pitiful appeal in her

voice. 'Yes, I too thought last night,

chica,
but my thoughts didn't run on the

same lines as yours. I thought of that

black velvet mole on your hip and how

much I wanted to press my lips against

it.' His voice roughened. 'Hair like

honey and skin like cream. A man would

have to be a eunuch to look at you and

not wonder how you would feel, how

you would taste.' He gave a harsh laugh.

'Poor Carlos! He must have thought it

was both La Navidad and his birthday

when you agreed to ride off with him.'

'Don't you dare mention Carlos to me,'

she said raggedly. 'I lied when I said I

was grateful to you. You—you're worse

than he is!'

He lifted a mocking eyebrow. 'Surely

your comparison is a little premature,

querida.
And unfair to poor Carlos, who

was hardly given the opportunity to ...'

'You know what I mean!' she shouted.

'And you can just stop making your

damned edged remarks as well. They

may go down well with your—bleached

matrons from Santa Barbara, but to me

they're a pain!'

She wanted her words to sting, to get

under his guard and hurt him, but he only

laughed.

'You're beautiful when you are angry

too,
chica.
That cool, composed facade

cracks a little and one catches a glimpse

of the passion underneath. You will be a

rewarding experience.'

'Thank you,' she said bitingly. 'Please

don't expect me to feel flattered.'

His mouth slanted sardonically. 'I pitch

my expectations of you higher than that.

And now, if you have finished your

breakfast, we had better prepare to

depart. I have saved some warm water

for you if you wish to wash yourself. I

don't recommend the river. The currents

are deep and strong, and there could be

other inhabitants who might find that

white skin of yours an irresistible lure.'

Rachel reached for the pot of warm

water he had indicated and stood up

carefully.

'I'm

obliged

to

you

for

your

consideration, of course,' she said with

glacial sweetness and patent insincerity.

'But if it ever came to a choice between

you and a shoal of piranhas, I'd choose

them every time!'

And she turned on her heel and walked

away.

CHAPTER FIVE

In spite of her brave words, Rachel

decided it would be more prudent to

make use of the warm water for her

ablutions. She was an adequate but not a

strong swimmer, and the swirling brown

river looked curiously uninviting in the

bright sunshine. Besides, she had not the

slightest desire to parade around in front

of her antagonist clad in little more than

a skimpy towel.

The wash freshened her, in spite of the

cramped inconvenience of the tent, and

she brushed and combed her hair,

securing

the

thick

honey-coloured

strands in an elegantly secure knot on top

of her head before cramming on her hat.

She had no idea what she looked like,

and she didn't care either, she assured

herself ferociously. If she looked like a

fright so much the better. At the back of

her mind lurked a fear that Vitas de

Mendoza might choose to exact payment

before they reached Diablo and she

could rely on Mark's protection. In fact

the more she thought about it, the more

likely it seemed, because, arrogant as he

was, Vitas must surely know that her

brother would not idly stand by and

watch her sacrifice herself. She would

have to be on her guard all the time, she

warned herself, buttoning her shirt to the

throat.

Besides, she tried to rally her spirits, if

she made herself look as plain as

possible and behaved as objectionably

as she knew how, she might even

manage to diminish her attraction for him

sufficiently for him to decide the game

wasn't worth the candle and abandon his

pursuit of her. No matter what he might

claim, she thought, a man like Vitas de

Mendoza would not want to share his

bed with a woman who made it clear she

found him repulsive.

The thought made her smile with

satisfaction. She was rolling up her

blankets, however, when a dismaying

thought struck her. At a distance she

could loathe him quite cheerfully, telling

herself he was everything she most

despised in men, sexually arrogant and

monstrously conceited. She wasn't a

declared feminist by any means, but she

had no patience with that brand of

macho
either. But she could not deny

that physically he had the most

disturbing and unwelcome effect on her.

Yesterday a man had tried to rape her,

an experience which might have left her

scarred for life and which had frightened

and humiliated her. But if she was

honest, she knew that Carlos' pathetic

attempt to take possession of her body

had hardly impressed itself on her mind

at all. The really shaming memory which

kept intruding upon her was that of

herself in Vitas de Mendoza's arms back

in Asuncion, her mouth parted for his

kiss, her body straining towards his in

unspoken offering.

She sat back sombrely on her heels, both

thoughts and actions arrested by the

realisation. She had to face facts. If

Vitas began to make love to her, she was

going to find it very hard to hang on to

her moral sense and her self-respect.

Nothing she had shared with Leigh had

prepared her in any way for the flame

which Vitas had lit in her body. It was as

if he had unlocked a forbidden door and

shown her a whole new world crammed