Heart of Fire (24 page)

They dried off as much as possible by wiping their hands down their bodies. He held his handkerchief under a dripping bush until it was wet, and Jillian used that to clean herself. In the rapidly increasing heat, their skin was only slightly damp when they began dressing.

She was almost finished when Ben suddenly stiffened beside her. "Don't be scared," he said softly.

Her hands froze on the buttons of her shirt, and she lifted her head in alarm. Standing not ten feet away, barely visible in the concealing undergrowth, were several Indians, their faces inscrutable as they watched her and Ben. They were naked except for loincloths, and all were armed with bows and arrows. Their straight black hair had been hacked off in a brief bowl shape. They stood motionless, black eyes missing nothing.

"They're Yanomami," Ben said, still in that low voice.

"Are they hostile?"

"Depends on how much contact they've had with white people, and what kind of contact it's been. Normally they aren't actively hostile."

"What do we do?"

"We see what they want." He carefully kept his hand away from the pistol. This was a band of hunters; the six-foot arrows they carried were tipped with poison, probably cyanide, not a substance he cared to screw around with. He spoke with them in their language. The oldest of the Yanomami, a dignified man with graying hair, replied.

After a few moments of conversation she could see the Indians relax, the stern cast of their features easing into smiles. The gray-haired man said something as he slapped his hands together several times, and they all laughed.

Ben was chuckling too.

"What's funny?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing."

He couldn't have said anything that would have made her more suspicious, or more curious. "What? You'd better tell me."

"He just wondered why we were making slap-slap in the rain, instead of in our funny little moloca—that's 'house' to them, 'tent' to you."

Jillian could feel her face heat up as she realized there had been several very interested but puzzled witnesses to their lovemaking, but at the same time she had an almost overwhelming urge to laugh. "Slap-slap?" she asked faintly.

Ben's eyes were alive with merriment. "Yeah, you know." He lightly clapped his hands together, re-creating with devilish accuracy the sound of wet bodies moving together in hard rhythm. "Slap-slap."

Quickly she put her hands over her mouth, but the laughter gurgled out anyway. The Yanomami began laughing again, genially joining her mirth.

He looked smug. "I gather they were also impressed by both my… shall we say
presence
, and my technique."

"Shut up," she gasped, trying to gulp back the giggles. "Or I'll slap-slap your face-face."

His expression changed to one of pure ecstasy. "Oh, God," he said. "Would you?"

The band of Yanomami were pleased to offer their hospitality, and Ben decided it would be more dangerous to risk insulting them by refusing than it would be to go with them and risk Dutra and Kates reaching the boats before they did. The Indians escorted them to the moloca, the communal house where all the people in the band lived. It was a huge, round, thatched structure, undetectable from the air. The band was fairly small, Ben explained, only about fifty people, though the groups seldom numbered more than two hundred.

All of the villagers poured out to greet the two newcomers, the naked brown children shy and giggling, the women deftly separating Jillian from Ben, whom the men urged in a different direction.

"What do I do?" Jillian called, curious yet a little a-larmed.

Ben looked over his shoulder and grinned at her. "Smile and look pretty."

"Thanks so much," she muttered, then took his advice and smiled at the women. They varied in age from a toothless, wizened matriarch to lissome young girls with budding breasts. The women were bare-breasted; indeed, none of the villagers wore anything resembling a shirt. The men wore a sort of rolled breechcloth that tied in the back over their buttocks, while the women wore girdles, fashioned of many strings, that left their buttocks bare.

She didn't speak a word of their language but was relieved to find that a couple of them spoke a little Portuguese, so communication on a basic level was possible. Evidently they were in the midst of preparing the communal meal, and were happy simply to have her company while they worked. She was soon sitting on the ground with a baby in her arms and two toddlers crawling back and forth over her legs.

The men returned with Ben, all of them seeming in good humor. He winked at her but remained with the men while they ate. She continued to play with the baby while she ate the simple meal of fish, manioc, and fresh fruit. She knew about manioc. It was a tuber, an excellent source of carbohydrate and the staple of their diet. It was also an excellent source of cyanide, which they used to tip their weapons. Like the blowfish, one had to know how to prepare the manioc or eating it could be one's last experience. Since no one keeled over, she felt safe in assuming that it had been correctly prepared.

After the meal, Ben came over and squatted down beside her. "Hey, you look pretty natural doing that," he said, tickling the baby's foot.

She gave him her sweetest smile. "I'm so glad you think so, since I had to leave my birth control pills at the Stone City." She didn't bother telling him that she had been nearing the end of a cycle and thus the chance of conceiving was very small. She expected to start her menses any day, and only hoped they reached the boat before she did.

To her surprise, Ben only gave her a long, considering look rather than panicking as she had expected. "Would you mind having my kid?"

Her smile faded, and unknowingly changed to something much softer as she looked down at the squirming, cooing baby in her lap, then back up at him. "We'll talk about that if it happens," she finally said.

He gave a short nod, and changed the subject. "We're going to stay here tonight. I don't like losing the time, but they seem inclined to be friendly right now and I'd sure hate for that to change. We're safe enough while we're with them, anyway."

"But what if Kates and Dutra get to the boats ahead of us?"

"The headman said he and some of the men will take us to the river tomorrow. We're a little closer than I thought we were. They seem to think they can find where we left the boats; hell, they were probably watching when we came ashore. I told them what happened, and that we may be followed by men trying to kill us. Datta Dasa, the headman, said they would protect us until we leave. After that, we're on our own."

"Again," she said.

"Yeah. Staying here is a risk we have to take, though, so we might as well go with the flow. While we're here, we'll have a chance to clean up with the soap they make, and really wash our clothes."

"What are we going to wear while the clothes are drying?" she asked politely.

That wicked grin flashed. "Exactly what the Yanomami are wearing."

If he thought she would be discomfited, she showed him. Her profession had taught her to be at ease with other cultures, so she didn't protest. Instead she happily went with the women to their well-hidden forest pool where they swam daily, stripped off for the second time that day, and plunged into the water. They hadn't been in the pool for five minutes when a child ran up carrying a very recognizable bundle: Ben's clothes. Jillian was amused at how neatly he had outmaneuvered her, knowing that she wouldn't refuse to wash his clothes when he requested it in front of the entire village. These people would be shocked if she did so, for in their culture each sex, each person, had assigned duties and there was no argument about performing them. That was simply the way it was.

Before tackling the laundry, however, she indulged in personal use of the gelatinous soap the women provided, fresh smelling and pale green in color. It lathered without effort, and she scrubbed herself with it from head to toe. It felt wonderful to be really clean again.

She used the same soap on their clothes, and after they climbed out of the pool, a friendly young woman—whose name, Alcida, revealed contact with the outside world— gave her a kind of detangler and conditioner to work into her hair. The smell was sweet and delicate, like fresh flowers.

After she'd used it, the wooden comb the women produced almost glided through her hair.

She put on a string girdle, which left her entirely bare behind, as it consisted of a small band around her waist and a series of braided strings in front. With all of the other women wearing the same minimal covering, however, she didn't feel as naked and uncomfortable as she would have thought. Maybe she liked nudity more than she'd suspected before, but she thought it rather more likely that the faint glee she felt at being so attired—or unattired, depending on how one looked at it—was caused by the smug knowledge that she was going to cause Ben Lewis some uncomfortable moments. Served him right for the sneaky way he had forced her to wash his clothes for him.

The Yanomami men wouldn't pay any particular attention to her nudity, except perhaps to show an initial interest in the paleness of her skin, but Ben's reactions would be entirely different. Though he had been careful not to ogle any of the Yanomami women, not wanting to offend their newfound friends,
her
nakedness would be different.

Walking back to the moloca, she discovered that she rather liked the freedom of wearing just that string girdle. She felt the heat and humidity less with so much of her skin exposed to the air, she hadn't been aware of the barely stirring breezes until now, but she was exquisitely sensitive to their subtle brush against her skin. Her nipples rose in proud response.

That was the way she looked when Ben first saw her, when the genial group of women walked into the clearing surrounding the moloca. He felt as if an invisible fist had been driven hard into his gut, almost doubling him over. He was consumed by two equally fierce desires, the first to throw a blanket around her and conceal her from all these other male eyes, and the second to throw himself on her.

The second impulse was distinctly uncomfortable, for the snug loincloth he wore, rolled and tucked as it was, didn't allow much room for growth.

He couldn't stop looking at her. Her pale skin had a creamy golden hue, and she glowed like a cameo among the brown-skinned Indians. The smooth, strong muscles in her marvelously fit body moved like poetry. She was slim but not thin; her figure wasn't as sleek as those of models or starlets, whom Ben mentally categorized as "bony." Rather she was neat and taut, with enough flesh under her skin to give her the womanly softness that he adored. Her breasts, round and upright, delicious little nipples puckered—damn it, what had caused that?—made his mouth water. The sway of her bottom was powerfully enticing, and the female flare of her hips drew his gaze. He stared hard at the braided string flap in front, trying to see beneath, hungry for just a glimpse of that soft cleft.

He felt an irrational surge of anger at the naturalness of her manner. How could she be so unconcerned at being naked in front of so many men? Not once had she even glanced in his direction; he might as well not have been there for all the attention she paid him, and that made him angry too. He'd never been possessive of any other woman, so the force of his primitive reaction took him by surprise. She was his, exclusively his. No other man had the right to see her like this.

Finally she looked at him, and gave him a smile so angelic that he almost jumped out of his skin. The only time Jillian looked sweet was when she was being perverse, and a smile that glowing meant he was in serious trouble. With a flash of intuition, he knew it was the laundry that had done it. She had probably shredded his clothes or doused them with something that would make him itch. No, that would have been too easy, because he didn't much care if he wore clothes or not. This loincloth would do him just fine. No, she would come up with something more diabolical, something that would truly make him miserable—damn it, she had probably cut him off!

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. He sat there silently fuming. Why had nature made women so damn irresistible to men, but neglected to build a reciprocal response in women? No matter what a guy did, no matter how small the transgression—bingo! women immediately brought out the big guns. Their noses would go up in the air, they would turn a delicate cold shoulder, and a man immediately got the message: no sex for you until you've properly groveled and apologized. Ben felt distinctly put upon, but panic was building in his chest. He thought about throwing himself at her feet and getting the groveling over with before night. Maybe she would relent.

Maybe pigs would fly, too. He wouldn't get away with it that easily. He mentally cursed himself for ever having had the bright idea of sending his clothes to her to be washed, in such a public manner that she couldn't, wouldn't, refuse, being too smart and too sensitive to the culture of their hosts. She would ignore him for at least one night, no matter how he groveled.

Datta elbowed him, and Ben turned to meet amused dark eyes. "Your woman is new?" Datta asked, indicating the uncomfortable bulge in Ben's loincloth, for of course he wouldn't have had such a violent reaction if he and Jillian had been together a long time.

Ben swallowed. "Yes, she is new."

"Perhaps she will walk with you."

I doubt it, Ben thought mournfully.

When he didn't move, Datta nudged him again. "Speak with her," he said. "How can she know, unless you tell her?"

Oh, she knew, the little witch, just as he knew his effort was doomed even as he obediently walked over to her. It didn't help that every woman there cast a discreet glance at his loincloth, then politely looked away.

Jillian looked up at him, still with that sweet expression on her face.

"Let's go for a walk," he suggested, hoping against hope.

She too let her eyes drift downward. If anything, she looked even sweeter. "We've been walking for five days," she murmured. "I'm glad of the chance to rest for a while, now that I have
our
laundry done." She nodded toward where their garments had been spread out to dry.

He felt like groaning aloud. "Don't hold that against me."

Her eyes were limpid green pools. "I don't plan to hold
anything
against you."

"I knew it," he said under his breath. "Damn it, Jillian, don't you think you're overreacting here? I know I was a little sneaky, the way I sent my clothes to you, but I couldn't wash them. The men here do
not
do laundry. It would have been a serious breach of conduct if I'd washed my own clothes."

"I know," she replied.

"You do?"

"Of course I do."

He drew a deep breath. "But you won't go walking with me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She was still smiling, the sweetest smile on earth. "Because while
you
may be right,
I'm
the guardian of the gates to paradise."

He thrust an agitated hand through his hair. "You mean you'd do this to me even though I'm right?"

"Yes."

"For God's sake,
why
?" He thought he would explode with frustration.

"Because."

He thought about tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her off anyway; he'd have her wrapped around him and begging for it within five minutes. He was actually reaching out for her before he stopped himself. He could do it, but it would hurt her feelings. He had transgressed, not in what he had done but in how he had done it, and the score had to be evened up before she would feel comfortable with him again as an equal. This couple stuff sure could get complicated.

He made several abortive attempts to speak, all of which were cut short because he couldn't think of an argument that would make any difference to her. Finally he returned to sit by Datta, who seemed to find his frustration very funny.

"Your woman did not want to walk?" he asked gleefully.

"She said that she could not, so soon after the last time," Ben lied. No point in losing face.

"Ah." Datta nodded. "A man must take care not to hurt his woman."

From that, Ben understood that Datta thought he had been too rough with Jillian when they had made love in the jungle, therefore it served him right that she now refused to walk with him. He felt pretty glum about the entire situation.

Hammocks were slung for them in the moloca, where the entire village slept. Jillian gladly settled into hers, surprised at how tired she felt even though she'd spent half the day with the villagers rather than walking. The intense physical exertion was almost over; they would reach the river tomorrow. She thought of the long, monotonous days on the boat with a wistful longing she couldn't have imagined on the trip upriver. She would hang a hammock and spend the days gently swaying, more indolent than a slow-moving sloth. By the time they reached Manaus, she would be completely rested.

Ben swung into the hammock next to her. He had been moping around with such a hangdog expression that it was all she could do to keep from giggling. She had been thinking of putting something bitter in his food, knowing good manners and common sense would prevent him from spitting it out and insulting their hosts, but when he had approached earlier, he had so obviously expected her to withhold sex because of his maneuver with the laundry that the temptation to go along with it had been irresistible. It was the worst revenge he could think of, so of course he had jumped to the conclusion that it was the worst revenge
she
could think of. Actually, she hadn't thought of it at all, because she didn't believe in cutting off her nose to spite her face, but the amusement value of the situation more than made up for her sacrifice.

It was getting even funnier, because a mild, very familiar cramping had started a few hours ago. Sometime tomorrow, she was sure, Mother Nature would step in to further frustrate Ben.

"That guy you had sex with in a hammock," Ben muttered in the darkness, his tone low. "Do you still see him?"

She yawned, feeling content. "I've never had sex in a hammock."

There was a full ten seconds of silence; then his wrathful response seared her, although he kept his voice down. "What do you mean, you've never had sex in a hammock? You told me specifically that you had. We've discussed it at least twice. Are you saying you've been
lying
to me all along, just to make me jealous?"

"I never told you I'd had sex in a hammock."

"Yes, you did. On our first night aboard the boat."

"You asked if I'd ever 'done it' in a hammock. Since we had just settled down to go to sleep and you didn't specify what you meant by 'it,' I put my own interpretation on it and assumed you meant 'sleep.' Then you asked where I 'did it' in a hammock, and I said on my balcony. End of discussion."

"Damn it, you knew what I meant. You knew I wasn't interested in
naps
. And when we were at the waterfall, I asked if you'd been screwing on the balcony with some guy you barely knew, because you said—"

"I know what I said. I also know that it isn't my fault if you seldom think of anything except sex. That time I told you that I've never had sex on a balcony with a stranger, which is perfectly true, because I've never had sex on a balcony with anyone. Now will you hush and let me go to sleep?"

"No," he said. "I'm going to strangle you."

"Temper, temper," she chided, smiling in the darkness.

Ben wasn't smiling, he was positively fuming. She'd done it on purpose, tormented him all that time with nothing but lies, knowing that he was so jealous he could barely stand it No doubt about it, men were at a severe disadvantage when it came to dealing with the so-called gentler sex. Women held all the aces. Of course, most women weren't as diabolical as Jillian Sherwood. She knew just which buttons to push with him.

He reached over and shook her hammock. "Okay, no slick answers this time, just the plain truth. Are you romantically, sexually, or otherwise involved with anyone back in the States?"

"The absolute, plain truth?" she asked.

"Yeah. The truth." He braced himself.

"It's been at least six months since I've even dated anyone."

"Good God, why?" He sounded shocked to the soles of his feet.

"Because I'd rather be alone than have to be polite when I'm really bored out of my skull. And I've never been much interested in sex."