Night of the Condor (14 page)

'How long can they keep it up?' she asked, half under her breath.

'Until it's over,' he said. 'Each time I've seen it danced, it's been different.'

Time, Leigh found, became irrelevant. The drama, the mystery of the occasion had her in thrall completely. It was unreal, she thought, that she should be here watching what amounted to a duel between two primeval forces. The smoke from the bonfires was making her eyes water, the breath was thick in her chest as if she was the condor dancer, evading the fierce rushes of the opponent, those lethal, seeking horns.

They were getting tired, she thought feverishly. They had to be. And as if in confirmation, suddenly one of the bull's horns struck a glancing blow against one of the taunting, swirling wings, catching the condor man off balance, and flinging him down into the dust, bringing a concerted groan from the watching crowd which Leigh found herself echoing.

No dance, however it turned out, could guarantee a successful harvest, especially in this kind of climate, and she knew it with Western rationality. But she also knew the power of positive and negative thought—knew the watching
campesinos
needed a sign that there was hope—that nature's forces were on their side.

The bull-man was gathering himself for the final charge, head tossing in triumph.

Leigh's hands were balled into fists, her nails digging into her soft palms.

'Oh, get up,' she thought. 'For God's sake get up!'

It was only when she felt Rourke's hands tighten on her shoulders that she realised she had spoken aloud.

The condor-man was motionless, the proud wings tossed and dusty, the harp music barely whispering now, the drum throbbing victoriously.

But as the bull-man ran, the condor moved, rolling sideways with an incredible burst of new energy, and now it was the other dancer's turn to be in trouble, stumbling under the impetus of his headlong charge at his elusive opponent. As he fell forward, the condor was upon him, both feet planted on his back, as he lay spreadeagled and helpless in the middle of the square.

The villagers were on their feet, the atmosphere was electric. As the great wings lifted slowly and ceremoniously above the dancer's head in victory, Leigh found there were tears on her face.

Rourke turned her slowly to look at him. 'No more tears,
mi coraz
ó
n
.' There was an odd note in his voice. 'Now the celebration can begin.'

The music had changed, the slow ritualised beat giving way to something infinitely more lighthearted, a jogging, foot-tapping melody. And the villagers were responding to its invitation. The square was full of movement and colour, men in brightly coloured ponchos, women in spectacular shawls and embroidered skirts, many of them carrying babies strapped to their backs as they danced.

Rourke took Leigh's hands, drawing her forward into the throng. His smile was teasing, but the expression in the topaz eyes was serious, and Leigh's breath caught in her throat as she encountered his gaze. For a moment she was tempted to pull herself free, and run to whatever form of safety offered, because there was nothing ahead of her but heartbreak if she went into Rourke's arms.

Perhaps the primitive form of magic they had just witnessed had worked some kind of spell on him too, she thought, as they began to move together to the music, their hands clasping each other's waists.

Rourke wanted her—his eyes had told her that— but it was a transitory desire. If she gave herself to him on this strange magical night of the condor, might he not turn away from her again when morning came? And could she bear it if he did?

But the argument was already lost, and she knew it. The spell of this night was too strong, catching them together in an inescapable dream. A dream from which she would wake when she had to. Not before, she thought recklessly as he drew her closer, his hands warm and compelling through the thin material of her blouse. She touched him in turn, flattening her palms on the strong, muscular planes of his back, a smile tilting the corners of her mouth as she felt his hips grind against hers in involuntary response.

His brows lifted in mock reproof, and he began to drop tiny, tantalising kisses on her face, his lips caressing her temples, her eyelids, her cheekbones, and the tip of her nose, but deliberately avoiding her eagerly parted lips.

She wanted his mouth on hers more than she had ever wanted anything in the world. This teasing denial was driving her crazy, and he knew it, and the shared knowledge was in some strange way a delight, and a promise. Leigh twined her arms round his neck, letting her fingers tangle in the thick dark hair that grew down on his nape. On this night, for the first and last time, she could touch him in any way she wanted, let her fingertips express the love and need she dared not utter.

His own hands were stroking down her spine, tracing the delicate divide between her shoulder blades, making her body arch towards him so that the points of her uptilted breasts grazed the hard wall of his chest. She was dry-mouthed with excitement, her hands sliding down over his shoulders to discover the swift race of his heart. They were in the centre of the crowd now, hardly able to move for the press of laughing, jigging people around them, but they could have been alone, the shared dream enclosing them.

Rourke lifted his head, and looked down at her, gravely, questioningly. He saw the answer in her eyes, and, holding her clamped possessively to his side, began to fight his way through the throng of dancers to the dark opening of the street which led back to Greg's house.

The lamp was out, and now there was only the pale glimmer of moonlight in the small room, mingling with the muted sound of music from the square.

She was trembling as she watched him close the door. Trembling when he came to her.

He said quietly, 'Are you afraid of me?'

'No.' It was the truth. It was her own inexperience she feared, the possibility that she might disappoint him. 'But, Rourke, I don't… I've never…'

His fingers stroked her hair, lifting the dark tawny strands away from the nape of her neck so that he could caress the sensitive skin beneath. 'I know. Trust me,
querida
.'

'With my life,' she whispered. She wrapped her arms round him, burying her face almost fiercely in his chest, breathing in the warm male scent of him. He held her close, and she felt his lips on her hair, then he lifted her gently and put her down on one of the thick straw mats, coming down to lie beside her, his arms cradling her against him.

Gradually, as he held her, Leigh found the shaking, inner tension draining out of her. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek, running her fingertips over the faint stubble on his jaw.

There was a faint note of laughter in his voice. 'I shaved—with Greg's apology for a razor.'

'Yes,' she acknowledged shyly. Her eyes were fixed on his mouth, her finger tracing its firm outline. He bit the errant finger very gently, and she felt a tiny shock of pleasure transfix her.

He began to caress her slowly, his hand smoothing the line of her throat, and the curve of her shoulder, and she moved restlessly, wanting more, her lips parting in a silent plea to be kissed.

His arms were fierce suddenly, gathering her to him, as his lips took possession of hers. She responded mindlessly, her urgency matching his as they explored each other's moist inner sweetness.

His hand was warm and heavy against her breast, his fingers strumming the aroused, hardening peak. Leigh made a little sound in her throat, and he lifted his head, staring down at her for an endless moment, while he untied the drawstring which fastened her blouse, and pushed the encumbering fabric from her shoulders.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Rourke began to kiss her bared breasts, his tongue languorously circling each heated, taut pink nipple in turn. Leigh gasped at the sensation, her head turning wildly from side to side.

'Leigh, my beautiful one, my honey-flower,' His voice was unsteady as he whispered against her skin. 'I need to taste all your sweetness.'

She felt him dispense with the fastenings at the waistband of her skirt, then lift her slightly so that he could rid her completely of its heavy folds, the loosened blouse following it into oblivion.

His lips trailed fire between her breasts, down over her abdomen to the final lace-trimmed barrier. Her whole body shivered with anticipation and longing as, gently, he began to free her from this final restriction, but some of her former apprehension was flooding back too. She wasn't ashamed of her body, but she had never been completely naked with a man before and—well, she just hadn't, that was all.

Rourke's lips touched hers with infinite gentleness. 'Why have you closed your eyes?'

'I don't know.' She could feel the colour burning up into her face, and hoped the moonlight would conceal the fact.

There was a smile in his voice. 'So, the beautiful sophisticate I met in Lima was all a sham.
Ay de mi
!'

Leigh turned her face into his shoulder. 'But you knew that already.' Her voice was muffled.

'
Si
.' He took her hand and carried it to his lips, then gently tipped her head back, making her look at him. Then he took the heavy gold signet ring he wore on his little finger and slid it gently on to her left hand. 'Is this enough covering for you?'

She stared at him, unable to speak, a deep wellspring of joy bubbling up inside her, and he smiled into her eyes. Then, slowly and gently, his hand moved, making an unhurried sweep of her nude body from shoulder to thigh, and lingering, making the breath catch in her throat.

He kissed her sensuously, his tongue exploring the contours of her mouth, his hands paying homage to the silken core of her womanhood, until her whole body was quivering in abandonment. Her entire being seemed to be drawn into some trembling spiral of need that she had never dreamed could exist, and she buried her face in his throat, her teeth grazing his skin as she tried to stifle her little imploring moans for release.

The caressing fingers altered their rhythm, slightly, subtly, tightening the spiral inside her so unbearably that she cried out sharply, half in fear, half in exultation. Then, incredibly, the tension snapped into a thousand ripples of sensation, spreading through her, reaching a pulsating climax, then receding slowly, leaving her boneless and pliant in his arms.

Huskily, slumbrously, she said at last, 'I—do not believe that.'

'Yet it happened,' Rourke told her softly. 'And that is only the beginning.' He captured her hands and carried them to the fastenings of his own clothes. 'Now, help me,
querida
.'

All inhibitions flown, she did as he asked, letting her fingers explore every inch of his lean, hard-muscled body with the same intimacy that he had shown her, savouring the soft groans of pleasure that her caresses drew from him.

'
Dios
, Leigh,' he muttered at last, his voice hoarse and ragged. 'I need to be gentle with you, but my control isn't endless.'

'Nor is mine,' she admitted shakily, as his hands shaped her breasts, teasing the hard peaks between thumb and forefinger, making her body clench in violent sensation.

Gently, he pressed her back on the straw mat, parting her slim legs so he could kneel between them. The caressing hands were urgent now, passionately demanding, so that she cried out, her body arching towards him, inviting his possession. She saw him poised above her, and gasped, because for a moment his face was a stranger's, sensual and ruthless.

Then as he entered her, all coherent thought faded in the sheer wonderment of this joining of bodies. There was no pain, only a sense of total completion as if she had been created for this moment alone.

He began to move inside her, slowly at first, then more forcefully, and she mirrored his thrusts, their mouths and bodies locked together in heated delight.

Suddenly she heard him call her name as if it had been dredged up from the bottom of his soul, and as he shuddered wildly against her, her own body convulsed into spasms of pleasure so intense she thought she would be torn apart.

Afterwards, they lay drained, totally languid in each other's arms, while he murmured to her softly in Spanish.

'I wish I knew what you were saying.' Leigh kissed his shoulder.

'I'll translate for you one day.' He stroked the sweat-dampened hair back from her face. 'When you don't blush quite so easily.'

'Perhaps I'll never blush again.'

'I think I can promise that you will.'

'How can you be so sure?' she asked, then, hastily, 'No, don't answer that.' She was silent for a moment. 'They're still dancing in the square.'

'They'll dance until they drop.' He kissed her. 'Do you, perhaps, wish to join them?'

Leigh stretched, boneless as a cat. 'Oh, I'm quite content where I am,' she assured him. 'But don't let me spoil your plans for the rest of the night.'

He gathered her closer. 'Oh, I'm occasionally prepared to sacrifice my own pleasures.'

'A born martyr!' She had imagined herself satisfied, sated even, but now, as his hand began to stroke her skin again, she felt a swift stir of response.

She thought, I don't believe this either. Then she ceased to think at all.