Montega's Mistress
Read Montega's Mistress Online
Authors: Doreen Owens Malek
Montega’s Mistress
Doreen Owens Malek
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Published by
Gypsy Autumn Publications
P.O. Box 383 • Yardley, PA I9067
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Copyright 1986 and 2012
by Doreen Owens Malek
The Author asserts the moral right to
be identified as author of this work
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the author or publisher.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
“Hop on.”
“Matt!” Helen said, shocked. “You aren’t going to steal this!”
He met her gaze, deadpan. “No, Helen, I’m going to find the owner and tell him I’m taking it, so he can call the police.”
She looked around furtively. “What if the owner comes back?” she said.
“Well, maybe if we stand here debating about it long enough, he will,” Matteo said impatiently, pointing to the space behind him. “Get on. The idiot left the keys in the ignition. He deserves to walk.”
Helen hesitated, looking unhappy.
“Look, Miss Abe Lincoln, you just defrauded the Puerta Lindan government by entering the country under false pretenses and you’re on the lam with a wanted man. If I were you, I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”
Table of Contents
New Releases by Doreen Owens Malek
Chapter 1
An opalescent moon hung over the Atlantic, dappling the shoreline and streaking the frothing waves with a silver path, as a wounded man stumbled up from the beach. Half crawling, trying to run, he was gasping for breath and glancing nervously over his shoulder at the flashing blue lights of the police cars gathering on the sand. Scrub grass and sea oats littered the slope, impeding his progress, and he staggered, almost falling several times. He clutched his injured arm with his other hand, the fingers slippery with his own blood. A small revolver dangled loosely from his forefinger and thumb, and he stuck it in the waistband of his pants so that he could wipe the sweat and seawater from his eyes. His vision thus cleared, he saw a light at the top of the embankment, and he headed for it, feeling a surge of hope. According to his information, this area of the beach was supposed to be deserted during the off season, the vacation homes empty, and he hoped to find refuge in one of them. He dropped to the ground suddenly as the beam of a searchlight passed over him and then he stood unsteadily, reaching for his gun again and scrambling for the ridge. He had to make it before he passed out; he had been shot before and could feel the remembered weakness flooding his limbs.
The light blurred and danced in the distance, coming closer by inches as he dragged himself toward it. When he drew near he saw that it was an arc lamp above a patio, probably left on for security reasons when the owners departed. He paused for a moment, surveying the landscape. The house stood alone, surrounded by artfully placed trees and bushes that provided privacy as well as a beautiful setting. Satisfied, he lurched onto the cement deck, supporting himself with one hand flat against the redwood siding of the house as he peered through sliding glass doors. They were covered by heavy woven drapes that effectively concealed the interior from view. He looked back at the beach, at the distant figures of uniformed men swimming dizzily before his eyes, and then down at his arm. In the dim light his sleeve seemed covered with a substance the color and consistency of spring mud. Making his decision, he lifted a folded tarpaulin from the railing behind him and wrapped it around a small deck chair. Gathering the last vestiges of his vanishing strength, he raised the chair above his head and crashed it into the right hand panel of the doors.
The glass cracked and he kicked it loose from its frame, taking care to do so quietly. When he had created an opening large enough to admit his body, he slipped through it. He slumped against the inner wall with relief, then shot bolt upright as a switch was thrown and the room filled with light.
A woman faced him—young, pretty, terrified. She was dressed in a floor length flowered nightgown, pale hair cascading over her shoulders, and it was obvious that she’d been reading at the dining table with a small study lamp whose glow was not visible outside. Her hand went to her throat as her blue eyes widened in alarm, and his heart sank. Oh, no. Not a woman. A man he could have knocked out, or tied up, but this was impossible…
Her eyes moved toward the telephone, and he stepped forward before she could act on her thought. She went white, staring at the gun in his hand. Her fright was palpable, flowing in waves across the distance separating them. He had to reassure her, fast, or panic might cause her to do something reckless.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said hoarsely, weaving on his feet as he spoke. “I’m not a criminal. Just do what I say, and everything will be all right.”
Helen Demarest looked back at him, trying to accept the reality of his alien presence in her father’s house. Her trancelike gaze moved over his form, registering that he was tall and slim, wet and very disheveled, with longish dark hair and tattered, filthy clothes. His features were handsome, or would have been under normal circumstances, without the sickly pallor that underlay his olive skin and made his brown eyes too large for his face. As she hesitated, unsure whether she should listen to him or run for the door, he shivered violently and several drops of blood sprayed from his fingertips, spattering the beige carpeting with carmine stains. Helen lifted her hand, as if to aid him, and he acted reflexively, raising his gun.
She flinched visibly, and he knew he had made a mistake. He had to convince her that she was safe, not act like the thug she thought he was.
“Sit down,” he rasped, gesturing with the barrel of the gun toward one of the Breuer chairs surrounding the table. She sat stiffly, her body rigid with apprehension, and he sank gratefully into a deep leather lounge chair. His dizziness subsided, and he studied her more closely. Barefoot, her face washed clean of makeup for the night, she was a slight, porcelain blonde who looked back at him without expression, her hands clasped tensely in her lap.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, meaning it, aware of how empty it sounded after his intimidating entrance, but trying anyway. In his debilitated condition he might not be able to control her without harming her if she decided to make a break for it.
He couldn’t tell if she believed him. She kept looking at his arm, and finally he did also, realizing what a gory mess it must seem to her. She didn’t look the type to be familiar with gunshot wounds.
“Can you get me a rag?” he asked. She rose slowly, went to the space age kitchenette on the other side of the oak bar and returned with a dish towel. She handed it to him, and he bound it clumsily around the wound, watching her all the while. She stood unmoving in front of him, obviously afraid to take a step except on his command.
“And a glass of water,” he added. She got it for him and he drank eagerly, feeling a delicious slaking of his fierce thirst.
“Juice would be better,” she said in a light, steady voice, and it was a moment before he realized she had spoken. He blinked, startled.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood; you should have some orange juice. Would you like me to get it?”
He nodded, amazed, hoping that this was not some kind of trick that would force him to take action against her. But she appeared to be in earnest, going to the shiny, stainless steel refrigerator and removing a quart carton of juice. He noticed that the whole place was done up like a designer’s dream: coordinated neutrals, recessed lighting, rich fabrics and heavy, polished woods. Whoever this girl was, she was not poor.
When she gave him the carton he refused the glass and drank straight from the container, wiping his mouth with the back of his good arm. Their eyes met over his sodden sleeve and he said, “What’s your name?”
“Helen. Helen Demarest. What’s yours?”
It almost struck him as funny, the way she sounded so American, like one of the coeds he had gone to school with making chitchat at a frat party. “Matteo,” he answered truthfully, playing along, buying time.
“Did the police shoot you, Matteo?” she inquired evenly.
She was nothing if not direct. He decided to answer her in kind.
“Yes.”
“What you were doing is illegal,” she said. It was not a question.
“It is illegal, but it is not wrong.”
Their attention was distracted by the wail of a siren in the distance, moving closer. Helen’s head turned toward it automatically, and he stood abruptly, the room spinning around him. He rocked back on his heels and his eyes closed as he fought for equilibrium. The threat implicit in the sound seemed to defeat him, and when he opened his eyes again he extended the gun to Helen, butt first.
“No police,” he said huskily, falling heavily against the wall, sliding along it, his lashes fluttering. He was losing consciousness, the gun slipping from his fingers. As he passed out Helen ran to his side, grabbing the gun and easing his descent to the floor. He rolled bonelessly onto his back as she stood up uncertainly, the gun like a living thing in her hand.
Her first impulse was to throw it out the window, but she feared it might be needed later. She tried to think of an unlikely place to hide it and she saw the door of the refrigerator standing slightly ajar. She ran to the kitchen and tossed the gun into the crisper drawer, glad to be rid of it. Then she hurried back to the man sprawled on the rug, knelt next to him and lifted his wrist. His pulse was rapid and thready, his heart working overtime to make up for decreased blood volume. Helen wondered how badly he was hurt; the wound looked awful, but she was no judge of such things. Perhaps he was going into shock. She tried to remember long ago first aid classes and could only recall something about keeping victims warm. She was going for a blanket when she was halted by the echo of screeching tires at the end of the lane. This was followed by the sound of doors slamming. It had to be a squad car; nothing else would be abroad at this time of the night. The people in it were searching for the fugitive at her feet. She glanced at the door; help was just beyond it, a hundred yards away. She looked back at Matteo and, as if in response to her examination, his eyes opened. The lashes stirred, then lifted to reveal onyx eyes that locked with hers.
“No police,” he whispered, then faded out again.
Helen swallowed. There was something pathetic, even touching, about his insistence in the face of his failing strength, and she found she couldn’t deny his request. Making an impulsive and possibly foolish decision, she ran to the wall and snapped off the overhead light. With her heart pounding she listened to the activity outside, waiting until the sounds indicated that the search was over and the police had left. Then, after making sure all the drapes were closed, she picked up the study lamp, extended the cord to its full length and examined her nocturnal intruder more closely.
He was still unconscious but breathing regularly. His face was beaded with sweat, his clothes already drying in the air- conditioned room. The bleeding from his wound seemed to be slowing, but his color was alarming, making his tan seem like a coat of greasepaint. Helen got up to fill a basin with water and then bathed his face, stroking his brow and temples until he revived. When he saw her he tried to sit up, but collapsed.
