Flame of Diablo (8 page)

damned!'

She supposed he thought he'd been very

clever, waiting until she was out of the

way in her room to do his vanishing

trick. It was his way of saying 'No'

without further argument.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Well, to hell with him! He might be the

best, but he couldn't be the only guide in

Asuncion. She wouldn't let this one

setback defeat her, and if Vitas de

Mendoza was going to feature so

prominently in her dreams on such short

acquaintance, she told herself defiantly

that she was glad to see the back of him.

She turned on her heel, and went out into

the evening sunshine. The market

appeared to be still going strong, and a

group of musicians had even started up

in one corner of the square, attracting a

small but laughing crowd.

She began to wander round the stalls. As

well as the handwoven blankets and

ruanas,
there were also piles of the

round-crowned hats the Indians seemed

to wear. She would need a hat herself

for the trip ahead, she supposed vaguely,

but something with a wider brim and

shallower crown than those on offer

here. There were fruit and vegetable

stalls too, where flies swarmed busily,

and Rachel averted her gaze with a faint

shudder. There was little point in feeling

squeamish, she told herself firmly.

Conditions would be even more

primitive on the way to Diablo.

She was hungry too. Presumably the

hotel served meals, but Senor Ramirez

had said nothing about their times, which

further underlined the fact that he was

not expecting her to stay. She could

smell cooking somewhere, or was it just

her optimistic imagination? A few

moments later she had her answer. One

corner of the market seemed entirely

given over to a gigantic open-air kitchen.

Open fires had been kindled and great

cooking pots of meat and Vegetables

suspended over them, while nearby

chickens turned slowly on spits.

It all looked appallingly unhygienic, and

it smelt mouthwatering. Rachel could

resist no longer. She continued her stroll

nibbling at a chicken leg. ,Every second

person she met seemed to be doing the

same, and surely they couldn't all be

going to die of salmonella poisoning, she

comforted herself.

She had paused by a stall selling

ponchos and was examining a beauty in

a wild zigzag pattern of grey and black

and red, when a voice behind her said

urgently, 'Senorita!'

She turned and saw a small man dressed

in a tight-fitting white suit. He had a

sallow face and a drooping black

moustache, and he was mopping

furiously at his forehead with a violently

coloured handkerchief.

He said, 'The
senorita
needs a guide,

yes? I am a good guide. I will take the

senorita
anywhere she wishes to go.'

Rachel stared at him in bewilderment.

For an answer to a prayer, he was not

particularly prepossessing, she thought.

He was plump and rather shiny and a

greater contrast to Vitas de Mendoza

could not be visualised.

She said slowly, 'I do need a guide, yes,

but how did you know?'

The man made an awkward gesture. 'The

Senor Ramirez at the hotel,
senorita.
He

said so and ...'

'Oh, I see,' said Rachel, although

actually she didn't. She seemed to have

done the disapproving Senor Ramirez an

injustice. Or perhaps he just wanted to

get her off the premises, she thought

cheerfully. 'I want to go to a place called

Diablo,' she went on, watching him

closely through her lashes for signs of

dismay and censure. But there were

none.

He merely said,
'Si, senorita.
As the

senorita
wishes. And when does she

desire to set out?'

'I'd hoped tomorrow,' she said, frankly

taken aback.

He nodded. 'I will arrange everything.

The
senorita
can ride a horse?'

'Yes,' she said. 'But I thought I could

probably hire a Land Rover and...'

He interrupted, shaking his head. 'A

Land Rover no good,
senorita.
The

tracks are bad, and sometimes there are

no tracks. Horses are better. I, Carlos

Arnaldez, tell you this.'

'Very well, Carlos.' She wasn't going to

argue with him. He knew the terrain

better than she did. She was glad she had

included some denim jeans in the

luggage she had brought with her. And

she had seen some soft leather boots on

a stall which would be ideal for riding.

She was well pleased when she returned

to the hotel an hour later, her new boots

tucked

under

her

arm.

Carlos'

appearance might not be in his favour,

but she had to admit that he was

efficient. He had taken her to one of the

local store-cum-cafes, where they had

agreed on his fee for the trip, and also

how much he was to spend on the hire of

the horses and other equipment. She had

been a little suspicious at the mention of

money, wondering if he thought she was

naive enough to simply hand over a

handful of
pesos
and watch him vanish

with it, never to be seen again. But he

had no such intention, it seemed. He

would buy everything necessary, he

assured her, and obtain receipts for his

purchases, and the
senorita
could

reimburse him before they set off, if that

was satisfactory.

Then he had drunk her health and to the

success of the trip in
aguardiente,
while

Rachel had responded more decorously

in Coca-Cola.

She had not told him the purpose of her

journey. Let him think she was just a

foolhardy tourist, she thought. There

would be plenty of time for the truth

once they were on their way, and she

knew she could trust him.

The reception desk was deserted again

when she entered the hotel, and although

she banged on the counter and called, no

one came.

'The perfect host,' she muttered, ducking

under the counter flap to retrieve her key

from the board at the back.

It was amazing how dark it had become

so quickly, she thought as she made her

way upstairs. Outside in the square

lamps had been lit beside the stalls, and

the sound of music drifted faintly on the

evening air, the clear tones of a
flauta

predominating. The sky looked like

velvet, and in the space around the band

people had begun to dance. Rachel had

stood and watched them for a few

minutes, but she had found it suddenly-

disturbing to be alone and an alien in

this crowd, where everyone seemed to

be with someone else.

Also, her blonde hair and white skin

were once again attracting attention, and

she was reminded perforce of the

warnings she had received at the hotel in

Bogota

about

pickpockets

who

concentrated on unwary
turistas.

She unlocked her bedroom door and

went in, closing the door behind her.

She knew immediately that there was

something wrong, and the hairs rose on

the nape of her neck. There was

someone else in the room—the stealth of

a movement in the darkness, a faint smell

of cigar smoke. Her hands tightened

around the boors she carried. They

weren't much of a weapon against an

intruder, but they were all she had, and if

she screamed there was no guarantee

that anyone would hear her.

She heard the movement again, and

following it another sound—the creak of

a bed-spring.

Dear God, was she the one at fault? Had

she blundered by mistake in the dark

passage into someone else's room? If so,

she could only hope they were asleep

and she could leave before her mistake

was

discovered.

She

remembered

Ramirez' remarks about unescorted

women. Would anyone believe she had

made a genuine error?

Her hand reached behind her, fumbling

for the door handle, and then a voice

spoke mockingly out of the darkness,

freezing her into the immobility of

disbelief.

'Are you going to stand there in the dark

all night,
querida?'

There was a click as the bedside lamp

was switched on, and Rachel found

herself staring at Vitas de Mendoza.

CHAPTER THREE

He was lying outstretched on her bed,

very much at his ease, the half-smoked

cigar she had smelt smouldering in the

ash-tray beside him. Rachel demanded,

'What the hell do you think you're doing

in here?'

He tutted. 'Such language,
chica
! What

happened to the cool lady I met

downstairs?'

She flung the door open and held it

wide. 'Get out!'

'Your countrymen say, don't they, that it's

a woman's privilege to change her mind.

But do you have to be quite so contrary?

A little while ago you couldn't wait to

talk to me alone. Now that we are alone

and I am prepared to talk, you want to be

rid of me.' A smile twisted the corner of

his mouth. 'Now that is hardly friendly.'

'How did you get in here anyway?' she

demanded. 'I locked my door.'

'Ramirez has a pass-key—naturally.'

'Oh,

naturally,'

she

echoed

with

elaborate sarcasm. 'And naturally he

saw nothing strange in loaning it to you

so that you could get into one of his

guests' bedrooms.'

His

grin

widened.

'Under

the

circumstances,
chica,
nothing strange at

all.'

Rachel felt an angry flush rising in her

face. Normally, she could hold her own

in any interchange of repartee. She could

flirt, and she could counter the more

pointed

sexual

teasing

that

was

sometimes levelled at her, but there was

something about this man which seemed

to paralyse her thought processes and

allowed him to get under her guard.

Hot words trembled on her lips, but she

bit them back. Not yet, she thought,

because she had seen a way in which she

could get her own back. If he thought he

could treat her completely casually, then

he was making a grave mistake. He

probably thought she was so desperate

to obtain his services as a guide that she

would stand for anything. Well, he was

going to find out just how wrong he was

— but not yet. It might be fun to string

him along for a little while—flatter his

ego, build him up slowly for the big

letdown when she calmly informed him

that she wouldn't go to the end of the

street with him.

She said, 'Perhaps I owe you an apology,

senor
.' And perhaps I don't, she added

silently. 'It was just that I was —thrown

by finding someone in my room. I know

you said you'd talk to me later, but I

wasn't expecting it to be quite as—late.'

She spread out her hands and gave a

slight laugh, and was pleased to see a

look of faint surprise cross his dark

features.

And this isn't the only surprise you're

going to get, she assured him under her

breath. Not by a long chalk!

'That disturbs you?' He reached for his

cigar.

'Why should it?' she lied calmly. She

fetched the chair from the dressing table

and sat down at a safe distance from the

bed.

He

acknowledged

her

considered

placing of the chair with a mocking

inclination of his head.

'Which answers my question,' he

murmured. 'And yet,
querida,
you have

nothing to fear. I told you downstairs that

I was not for sale. Well, I don't buy

either—or take by force.'

'How good of you to be so reassuring,'