Heart of Fire (27 page)

The next day began in the same fashion. It was as if she had wiped him from her thoughts, as if he no longer existed, or at least was no longer noticeable unless he spoke to her and gained her brief attention—
very
brief attention. It lasted only as long as it took her to reply, in as few words as possible. Her manner made it plain that she bothered to reply only because it was polite to do so.

He found himself holding the raft to a slower speed, to stretch out the time she was forced to spend with him. It would give her common sense more time to take over. He only hoped he could hold out that long, because he hadn't realized how hard it would be for him to restrain himself. Her deliberate aloofness outraged him. She was his; he would never let her go. He would do whatever was necessary to keep her with him, including the kidnapping she had so sarcastically suggested. If she thought he would stop short of that, then she didn't know her man at all.

That was the bottom line. She was his and he was hers. How dare she ignore that? How dare she deliberately try to destroy the bonds between them? He'd be damned if he'd let that happen.

There was still plenty of daylight left when they reached the first settlement. It was a ramshackle affair, though it had electricity, courtesy of a generator. Kids came running when he nosed the raft up against the dilapidated docks. There were about fifteen shacks and one larger building, big enough to qualify as a house, though it wasn't in much better shape than the shacks. There wasn't a glassed window in the settlement; all of the roofs, even that of the "big house," were thatched.

"Why are we stopping?" Jillian asked, for the first time breaking her rule about not speaking unless he spoke first.

"If they have a place for us to sleep, we'll be safer here. Too many smugglers in this part of the river for us to take any risks we don't have to." His own voice was curt. He was as angry at her as she was at him.

Some of the kids were chattering, some standing back a little shyly. The older inhabitants were also curious, but less friendly, watching from the doorways and open windows of their mean little dwellings. A tall, gaunt old woman came out of the big house and strode down to the docks. She was dressed in trousers and a sleeveless shirt that hung free of the waistband. A ragged straw hat protected her head from the heat, and a thin cigar resided in the corner of her mouth.

"Who are you?" she demanded in a gruff voice as deep as a man's.

"Ben Lewis. This is Jillian Sherwood. Our boat sank yesterday and we had to take the raft."

The old woman shrugged. "You were fortunate to have a boat
and
a raft. What do you want here?"

"A place to sleep, nothing else. This settlement is safer than the riverbank. We have our own food; we wouldn't be taking from you."

The old woman looked him over from head to toe. He was shirtless, because that was how he had been when the boat sank. Evidently his powerful torso found favor with her, for she smiled. It was disconcerting, like watching an act against nature. "I am Maria Sayad. This is my trading post. There is no extra room, but there are extra hammocks. You are welcome to sleep on my veranda."

"Thank you, Senhora Sayad."

Evidently she hadn't finished being gracious. "You will eat with me. No one has passed by this week, and I like to see different faces."

"Thank you, senhora," he said again.

The senhora kept what Jillian thought of as Latin hours; the evening meal didn't begin until nine or ten and lasted for a couple of hours even though there were only three simple courses. The big house had electricity, though the light bulbs were of such low wattage that oil lamps would have done as well. A big ceiling fan circled lazily overhead.

Jillian had difficulty staying awake. She made polite conversation and smothered her yawns, but as the clock edged toward midnight it became more difficult for her to follow the conversation. Ben seemed perfectly normal, talking with the senhora as easily as if he had known her for years. Jillian doubted that he often had trouble charming a woman.

All day Jillian had been sunk in thought. The hurt that Ben would so callously destroy her dreams like that, and expect her to go along with his plan, was so great that she'd had to force it to the back of her consciousness. If she had dwelt on it, it would have destroyed her. Instead, she forced herself to face reality. She had always known that this adventure could end only one way, with her return to the States. Whether they parted on good terms or bad terms wouldn't affect the outcome.

The only detail still undecided was what would happen to the Empress. Ben had his plans, but she didn't have to agree with them and she didn't have to stand by and let him go through with those plans. She had been racking her brain all day, trying to figure out how she could get the diamond, slip away from Ben, and return to Manaus with the Empress. No definite plan had presented itself. He kept the pack beside him and never left her alone with it. She would just have to stay alert and seize any opportunity that presented itself. She might fail, but not without trying.

It was after midnight when the senhora rose and bid them good night. Gratefully, Jillian went with Ben out to the open veranda, where two hammocks had been slung. She sank into one with a tired sigh, her eyes closing.

Ben arranged himself in the other, but he lay awake for a while, staring into the darkness. He wanted her. He knew better than even to suggest that they make love; there had been none of the teasing banter that he so enjoyed, no hint that she had relented so much as an inch. But even anger couldn't dull the ache, the need to hold her in his arms and know that she belonged to him.

He finally did sleep. A storm woke him a couple of hours later, thunder rumbling and lightning flashing in the depths of the clouds. The senhora had loaned him a shirt to wear, so the cool wind was comfortable to him. Jillian moved restlessly, hugging her arms in her sleep as she became chilled. Rain washed across the settlement in great silver sheets, illuminated by the frequent lightning.

Down at the river's edge a massive figure moved silently onto the docks. He had seen the raft and swiftly continued on down the river, slumping low in his stolen boat to make himself appear smaller. He had also stolen a broad-brimmed straw hat, and it had helped disguise him. No one had paid him any attention.

In the silent hours after midnight he had made his way back up to the settlement. The rain had started, further masking any noise he might have made. First he searched the raft, but there was nothing in it except a couple of boxes of supplies. He hadn't expected the diamond to be there, but he had searched anyway, not wanting to overlook anything. He would take the supplies with him; after tonight, Lewis wouldn't need them anymore.

Lewis and the woman would be up at the house. The machete in his hand glittered wetly as Dutra made his way through the rain, silently circling the house, looking for his targets.

Jillian shivered in the cool, damp air, and Ben swung out of the hammock. He began unbuttoning his shirt, intending to place it over her. Some faint noise, or maybe it was instinct, made him look up as the bull-like figure rushed out of the shadows of the veranda, eerily silent, machete raised high. Jillian was caught between him and Dutra. Ben screamed, a primal sound of fear and rage, and violently pulled her out of the hammock even as he threw himself back, scrabbling for the pistol.

He managed to grab it but he was off-balance; he fell sideways across his own hammock. Ignoring Jillian, Dutra leaped over the wildly swaying hammock and her sprawled body and grinned with evil delight as he slashed down at Ben. Ben rolled to the side and the blade ripped through the hammock, cutting it in half and dumping him to the floor. As he fell he used his legs in a whipping motion, catching Dutra at the knees and sending him reeling sideways, but not taking him down.

The fall jarred Ben's shoulder, making him drop the gun. He grabbed it up, knowing precious seconds had been lost. Dutra recovered and rushed again, blade raised high.

Ben got up on one knee. Jillian was struggling to her feet beside him. "Run!" he yelled as he pushed her. Then he didn't have any more time. Dutra swung the blade, and Ben launched himself, driving inside the shining arc, ramming his shoulder hard into the man's gut and simultaneously clamping his left hand around Dutra's blade hand, locking his arm so he couldn't swing the machete again. Dutra grunted explosively from the impact, but he had the strength of a bull. The smell of him was sharp and foul. Ben tried to bring the pistol around, but Dutra saw it and grabbed Ben's hand, holding it away.

They were locked together in mortal combat. The winner would be the one who could get his weapon free first.

Dutra was a seasoned alley fighter. He knew better than to roll backwards, throwing Lewis over his head, for unless he could manage to wrest the pistol from Lewis's grip at the same time, that maneuver would give the bastard the time and space to use it.

He slammed Ben into one of the wood posts that held up the thatched roof of the veranda. The sharp, unfinished edge of the post dug into Ben's back. Dutra's little bullethead slammed forward, trying to smash Ben in the face. Ben jerked his head back and braced himself against the post, using the leverage as he hooked his foot around Dutra's ankle and jerked. Dutra didn't release him, and they both rolled out into the rain.

Jillian had scrambled to her feet again. Seeing Dutra, hearing another man she loved shout "Run!" as he drew the danger to himself in order to protect
her
, had been so nightmarish that for a few seconds she stood frozen, her gaze locked on the two men rolling in the mud and slashing rain, illuminated only by the flashes of lightning. Thunder was rolling around them.

Behind her a light came on, spilling weakly across the veranda. The noise had disturbed the senhora.

The switch that turned on the light also released something in Jillian, as if the two were connected. Fury filled her that this should happen
again
, such an incandescent rage that she felt herself swelling with it, an incredible force demanding release. She wasn't aware of making a sound, but a low, inhuman howl vibrated in her throat. All she could see was Dutra, his ugly little head filling her vision, everything around him blacked out. Without thought, without effort, she was moving, plunging into the rain after them.

She leaped on Dutra's back, both hands clutching his wet, greasy hair and twisting savagely, hauling back with all her might. He howled with pain, his thick neck cording as he tried to resist the force jerking his head back.

She heard Ben yelling, breathless bursts of sound, but she couldn't tell what he was saying. She braced her feet against Dutra's back and lunged backwards, her fists still twisted in Dutra's hair. Great clumps tore loose from his scalp, and she tumbled to the mud, black strands hanging between her fingers.

Dutra was shrieking with pain, maddened with it. He was astride Ben, his heavy weight grinding him into the mud. On his back, unable to get any leverage, it was all Ben could do to hold his own against the enraged bull. He couldn't throw him off. Frenzied, Dutra began slamming Ben's gun hand against the ground, trying to dislodge the weapon. Desperately Ben hung on, all of his willpower focused on holding on to the pistol, because it was his only hope.

Jillian leaped to her feet. Behind her the senhora was shouting. The people in the shacks had awoken and were gathering around in the rain, silently watching.

Dutra was on his knees astride Ben, positioned too high for Ben to use his knee. Jillian's thought was very clear as she stepped forward with all the precision of a field goal kicker, her eyes focused on the target. She never paused, just moved in with her leg swinging at precisely the right point. Her boot crashed into Dutra's groin with all of her strength behind it, aided by the whipping motion of her leg.

Dutra screamed, the sound rising to an unholy shriek, his entire body arching back and to the side. Ben surged upward, bringing the pistol around. He shot once, the bullet hitting Dutra in the temple. The big man toppled to the ground.

Wearily Ben dragged himself free of Dutra's body and staggered to his feet. Jillian was standing a few feet away, rain dripping down her face, hair and clothes plastered to her. She hadn't taken her eyes off Dutra; her fists were clenched, her chest heaving, as if she waited for him to move again.

"Jillian?" He approached her cautiously. "He's dead."

She didn't reply. He remembered the low, chilling sound she had been making when she leaped onto Dutra's back like a small Fury, like an animal's snarl. Very gently he touched her arm, bringing her out of it. "He's dead, sweetheart. I shot him."

She hesitated, then gave a small jerky nod.

"You saved my life," he continued in a low, calm voice. "What did you hit him with? It sure got his attention."

She didn't speak for a moment, and then she turned to him, her eyes glassy. She met Ben's gaze and said, "I smashed his balls," in the polite little voice of someone in shock.

Ben controlled his automatic flinch. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get out of the rain." He slipped his arm around her waist.

She slid right out of his grasp, sitting down in the mud and leaving him holding air. He started to lift her in his arms, but something in her expression stopped him. He knew what she was feeling, having been through it himself. She had been in a killing rage; she had to get herself back. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone right now.