Flame of Diablo (3 page)

that the city lay at over eight thousand

feet above sea level.

She'd intended to do some background

reading before setting out, but the days

had slipped past with increasing

acceleration, and the day of her

departure was upon her almost before

she knew it. Apart from packing, and

spending an uncomfortable day reacting

from her injections, she'd visited her

grandfather daily.

On her last visit, she'd received
the

cheering news that he seemed to be out

of immediate danger, and wasn't

altogether surprised as she entered his

room to hear that he'd undergone a

change of heart about her trip.

Sir Giles was all set to make plans to

visit Colombia himself as soon as he

was back on his feet again, and it

required a stern visit from Andrew

Kingston, spelling out to him precisely

how long that might take, to reconcile

him to the fact that Rachel was going in

his place.

Instead he contented himself with

uttering dire warnings about the kinds of

attitude that Rachel might encounter on

her trip.

'They're an old-fashioned society out

there still.' He fixed Rachel with a glare.

'None of your Women's Lib nonsense.

Women have their place and they keep to

it.'

'Haven't I always?' Rachel asked with a

trace of bitter humour in her voice.

Sir Giles' glance was still fierce, but

there was a tinge of discomfort in it.

'You're a good child,' he admitted almost

unwillingly. 'But you're a good-looking

one too, and you'll be mixing with men

with the blood of the
conquistadores
in

their veins. Have you thought about that?'

Rachel lifted an arched eyebrow. 'I

always

thought

they

were

more

interested in gold than in personal

conquests,' she said. 'And I'm perfectly

able to take care of myself, you know.

I've been working in the theatre—

remember?— and they call me the Ice

Maiden.'

'Lot of damned nonsense,' Sir Giles

rumbled. 'And written by that fellow

who was supposed to be keen on you.

What happened? Did you quarrel?'

Rachel was silent for a moment. One

could not tell one's devoted and old-

fashioned grandfather the truth— that

Leigh's article had been prompted by

nothing more than sexual pique, because

he'd suddenly discovered he was not as

irresistible as he'd always thought.

She'd liked Leigh, and frankly enjoyed

the kudos of being seen with one of Fleet

Street's youngest and most attractive

show

business

columnists.

And

eventually, inevitably there had started

to be more to it than that. He'd become

more than attractive. He'd begun .to be

necessary to her. Afterwards when she

could think about it clearly and

rationally, she could see what he had

done—how clever he had been. He'd

always known she wouldn't be a

pushover like most of his girl-friends, so

he'd played the game her way, making

his approach a gentle, almost insidious

one, even making her believe, God help

her, that he was falling in love with her.

She had even invited him down to

Abbots Field for the weekend, although

it had not been a great success, as she

was the first to admit. Leigh's elegant

boutique-bought clothes and slightly

raffish charm had seemed out of place

against the quiet gracious lines of the old

house, and although Sir Giles had

behaved

with

perfect

correctness,

Rachel knew all the same that he was not

impressed with Leigh. It had been a

disappointment, but not, she had told

herself optimistically, an insurmountable

one. Grandfather and Leigh had to be

given a chance to come to terms,

occupying as they did, two very different

worlds.

But there had been no opportunity for

that. The following weekend Leigh had

invited her to go away with him, to meet

his family, he'd said. She'd accepted

gladly, but then the doubts had begun.

His manner had changed subtly, for one

thing, and then for someone travelling

home for the weekend he didn't seem

altogether sure of the route. And when

they arrived at the secluded cottage, and

found ft deserted, she knew, and

dismissed all Leigh's too-fluent excuses

about mistaken dates. The cottage wasn't

his home. He'd simply hired it for the

weekend. He'd admitted as much

eventually, amused at her dismay, but

clearly confident of his ability to win her

over and persuade her to stay there with

him as his mistress.

'But I don't want it to be like this,' she'd

cried at last. 'It's dirty—it's sordid—and

if you loved me, you wouldn't want it

like this either.'

The memory of his laughter still had the

power to make her cringe as if

something slimy had left a trail across

her skin. That, and the things he had said

to her which had killed any feelings

she'd had for him—the first sweet

stirrings of desire that he'd roused in her

—stone dead.

The Ice Maiden article had appeared

two weeks later under his byline. It was

skilful, even humorous, but Rachel

recognised as she'd been meant to do the

sting in .the tail, and knew that, at a time

when female sexuality was being

exploited in the theatre, she was being

written of as shallow, naive and frigid.

Everyone knew of her relationship with

Leigh, and would assume that he knew

what he was talking about.

Only his spite had misfired. A role in a

television play that she'd not expected to

get was suddenly offered to her, and for

the first time in her career she was

almost overwhelmed with work. Her

agent, who had groaned over the Ice

Maiden article, was surprised and

delighted, and her success had helped in

some way to relieve the ache Leigh's

treachery had caused her.

'Yes,' she said quietly at last, aroused

from her painful reverie by the

knowledge that her grandfather was

becoming restive, 'you could say that we

—quarrelled.'

Sir Giles grunted. 'Well, he's no great

loss to you, my dear. I can't say I took to

him. Strange sense of values he seems to

have.'

She nodded silently, a feeling of

desolation striking at her.

In the weeks which followed she had

lived up to the image that Leigh had

bestowed upon her, holding aloof from

all emotional attachments, pretending

that she preferred her own company,

learning to conceal the harsh facts of her

own loneliness. At least, she had tried to

console herself, she had Grandfather and

Mark to rely on. But then had come that

terrible night at Abbots Frields, and it

seemed as if Mark too had deserted her.

Rachel gave herself an impatient little

shake and sat up, studying her

surroundings. The streets the taxi was

passing through seemed to combine a

multitude

of

styles

with

glass

skyscrapers springing up next to

buildings of the old Spanish colonial

tradition, and the elaborate facades of

public buildings and churches. It could

be an intriguing place, she decided,

perched high on its Andean plateau and

it was a pity that she had not more time

at her disposal to explore. Perhaps after

she'd made contact with Mark and

persuaded him to return to England with

her, there might be a brief opportunity

then, she thought hopefully.

The scenery was changing as they left

the more commercial districts behind

and entered the purely residential area.

There was no sign here of any poverty or

decay in these gracious mansions with

their

velvet

lawns

and

fountain-

bedecked gardens. It all spoke of peace

and tranquillity and the solid comfort

that money can bring. And the Arviles

family were part of all this, she realised,

as the taxi turned into one of the smooth

curving drives.

It was a charming house, low and

rambling, a fragrant creeper burgeoning

with pale pink blossoms cascading

down to the ground beside the front door

as Rachel knocked. She had told the taxi

to wait for her. If Mark was there, she

told herself hopefully, he might pack and

come with her straight away. They could

drive to the airport and pick up the next

flight out.

When the door opened she was

confronted by a stout woman in a dark

dress covered by a white apron, who

regarded Rachel with a doubtful frown.

Relying on the Spanish phrase book she

had bought at the airport, Rachel asked if

she might speak to Senor Arviles. For a

moment she was afraid that she had not

made herself understood, for the woman

frowned a little as if puzzled, but she

held the door open for Rachel to enter.

The entrance hall was large with a

coolly tiled floor. Rachel followed the

maid to a large
salon
at the back of the

house, where it was intimated she should

wait. It was beautifully furnished and the

chairs looked comfortable as well as

luxurious, but Rachel felt too restless to

sit down and compose herself. Her

headache was worse too, and she felt an

odd dizziness.

I'm a fool, she thought. I should have

rested and had something to eat before I

came here. But the thought of food,

hungry though she was, was suddenly

and grossly unappealing, and she was

thankful when the door behind her

opened, diverting her mind from her own

physical discomfort.

A small, rather plump woman came in,

followed by a young girl. The physical

resemblance between them was too

pronounced for them to be anything but

mother and daughter, but where the girl

was dressed with a demure and

expensive simplicity, the older woman

had a stunning and moneyed elegance.

She wore black, and there was a

discreet glitter of diamonds on her hands

and at her throat, and she smiled rather

uncertainly at Rachel.

The girl stepped forward. 'You asked for

my father,' she said in heavily accented

English. 'I regret that he is not here. My

mother wishes to be of assistance, but

she speaks no English. How can we help

you,
senorita?'

'My name is Rachel Crichton.' Rachel

paused. 'I was hoping that my brother

might be here—or that you might know

where he was?'

She had to wait while the girl translated

what she had said for the
senora,
and

then Senora Arviles came forward with

both hands outstretched. Rachel only

understood about one word in ten of

what she was saying, but she knew she

was being made welcome, and she

smiled in response.

The girl came forward too, her lips

curving piquantly. 'So you are the sister

of Marcos. I am Isabel. He has

mentioned me, perhaps.'

'He hasn't mentioned anyone,' Rachel

returned rather awkwardly. 'I—we've

rather lost touch over the past month or

two, I'm afraid. That's why I'm here. Our

grandfather is very ill, and he wants to

see Mark.'

Isabel looked bewildered. She spread

her hands prettily.

'But he is not here,
senorita.
He has not

been here since three weeks. We

understood he was returning to Gran

Bretana. Is this not so?'

Rachel's heart sank within her. She had

come all this way for nothing. For all

she knew Mark might be back in England

at this moment. He might even have gone

to Abbots Field.

'You are pale,
senorita.'
Isabel urged

her to sit down, and she was glad to