Night of the Condor (10 page)

'What is it?' Rourke had woken instantly too.

'There's a noise.' Leigh was ashamed to hear her own panic-stricken croak.

'It's thunder,' he said, after a pause. 'And a long way off.'

She hated the sound of thunder in the night, and always had.

'Is—is there going to be a storm?'

'Perhaps.'

She ran her tongue round dry lips. 'I—I don't like them very much.'

There was a silence, then Rourke said drily, 'I imagine you've been sheltered from most of the storms in your life so far.'

'Oh, please.' She was rigid again, sweat pouring off her. 'I can't bear it!'

'You won't have to.' In the darkness his hand reached for hers, and held it. 'Is this any comfort?'

It was the most prosaic contact, yet somehow her arm—her whole body was tingling—electric with a strange, inexplicable excitement.

It was fear, she told herself. Fear, and weakness from her illness, and tension. That was the only explanation for this sudden tremulousness at the clasp of his fingers round her own. And that wasn't all. She knew a wild ridiculous urge to turn to him, to cancel the brief space which separated them, and curl into the circle of his arms.

It must be some lingering delusion left over from the
soroche
, she told herself numbly. That was all it could be. He despised her and she detested him, and that was what she had to remember instead of letting herself be thrown by the first act of kindness and consideration he had ever shown her.

She managed a small, choked, 'Thank you,' and buried her face in the blankets. In the morning, she would probably die of shame when she remembered how her own ridiculous cowardice had lowered her defences against him. But now, in the hot and humid darkness, while the distant thunder muttered and threatened, it seemed right to let her hand cling to his. In fact, in some odd, drowsy way that simple gesture seemed to encompass all the security she had ever known. Which is madness, she told herself, and slept.

Leigh came awake slowly, aware of daylight, and at the same time, an odd feeling of restriction. She thought, Where am I? as she opened reluctant eyes— then stopped, her whole body stiffening in shock as her memory returned, and, with it, the unwelcome realisation that the chaste distance between Rourke and herself no longer existed. That at some time in the night one or the other of them had moved, so that now she was lying against him, tucked into the curve of his body, while his arm lay heavily and protectively across her breasts.

He was still asleep, his breath disturbingly warm on her neck, and as Leigh attempted to extricate herself quietly and discreetly from his embrace, his arm tightened, drawing her closer to him, while he murmured a drowsy protest against her skin.

It wasn't just shock that held her half paralysed this time, but indignation. He had spoken in Spanish, but one of the words had been unmistakable in any language. A woman's name. Isabella.

This time, Leigh had no compunction about disrupting his rest. She pushed vigorously at his encircling arm, trying to slide out beneath it, but it was as if she had been clamped into some kind of iron bar, and as she struggled he woke too, and lay watching her, a faint smile curving his mouth.

'
Buenos d
í
as
,' he said, after a pause. 'Did you sleep well?'

'I suppose I must have,' snapped Leigh. 'Will you let go of me, please?'

'In a minute.' He sounded amused. 'Why the hurry? You seemed happy enough to be in my arms last night, while I was keeping the storm at bay for you.'

She twisted round to glare at him. 'I'm quite aware you think you're God,' she said icily. 'But I doubt whether even you have any direct control over the weather. Now, let me up.'

'So we're back to the autocrat,' he said pensively. 'I think I preferred the clinging vine.'

'No doubt,' Leigh muttered sourly. She had stopped trying to wriggle free. It was totally useless, and just seemed to entertain him. She tried another tack. 'You said something last night about an early start.'

His grin widened. 'But I didn't specify for what,' he pointed out dulcetly. His free hand lifted and touched her face gently, his fingers brushing her cheekbones, her small straight nose, and her parted, startled lips. The topaz eyes looked deeply into hers. 'And when a woman's slept in my arms all night, I expect at least a kiss when morning comes.'

At least a kiss
. She tried frantically to analyse the words, and found nothing to comfort her at all.

She tried to sound dignified and casual at the same time.

'Doctor Martinez, I'm really not interested in any more of these games. We have a journey to complete, and so…'

'Thanks for reminding me,' he intervened sardonically. 'So let's start adding up the cost of this little package tour of yours. How do you intend to pay for your share of the food and accommodation, not to mention my services as guide?'

'I have money,' she began, and he laughed.

'That's your answer to everything, isn't it,
querida
?' He shook his head. 'Perhaps I prefer to be paid in kind—with the pleasure of your company.'

There was a note in his voice that sent her heart fluttering in panic against her rib-cage, but she managed a little scornful laugh. 'Pleasure? That's the last word to use in such a context!'

'Don't denigrate yourself,
querida
—or your capacity for enjoyment.' His dark head bent, and for a startled moment she was aware of his mouth grazing the smooth curve of her bare shoulder.

Leigh tried to pull away. 'Don't!' Her voice sounded high and breathless, and she wrenched at her self-control. 'That—that isn't what I meant, and you know it. You—you seem to have forgotten I'm engaged to be married.'

'On the contrary,' he said silkily. 'But at the moment, I have more pressing matters on my mind.'

He turned her rigidly resistant body effortlessly, so that she was lying on her side, facing him. 'Like this.' His hand stroked down the sensitive curve of her spine, and Leigh gasped involuntarily, her body arching towards him. At the same moment, she felt him release the clip of her bra. With a little shocked cry, she tried to snatch at the slipping garment, but he was too quick for her, tossing the flimsy thing to some oblivion at the back of the tent. Then for a long moment, he looked at her. '
Dios
, Leigh,' he said huskily, 'I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are.' He pulled her against him, so that she could feel the slight roughness of his body hair grazing her nakedness. 'Now we're on equal terms.' he murmured, smiling into her eyes.

She tried to say, 'No,' but no sound came. All she could hear was the rasp of hurried breathing—hers, she wondered insanely, or his?

But Rourke wasn't in any hurry at all. His mouth found hers slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, and with a magical gentleness that left her devastated, the battle to resist him over almost before it begun. She found she wanted to respond, to re-create the warm, languorous movement of his lips as they caressed hers apart.

Now, they didn't seem to be breathing at all as his kiss deepened into subtle exploration, his tongue flickering against hers. Nothing, she thought with growing wonderment, nothing in her admittedly limited experience had prepared her for this slow, sweet sensuality. '

After a long time Rourke lifted his head and looked down at her. She stared back, lips parted, eyes dilated, unable to speak or even think coherently.

His hands lifted and cupped her breasts, already aching deliciously from the pressure of the hard wall of his chest, and her stomach lurched dizzily in excitement. A deep throb of need was beginning to evince itself deep within her, and as his fingertips delicately brushed her erect, rosy nipples, a small greedy moan was torn from her throat.

The sound of it shocked her back to a kind of sanity.

'Oh, God—stop…' Her throat muscles felt taut, and her whole body seemed to be on fire. Desperately, she twisted free, rolling away from him in the cramped space. 'You—mustn't!'

'Why not?' He was still close. Those strange brilliant eyes of his—tiger's eyes—were looking into her own, as if in some way he was seeking her soul.

'For all kinds of reasons.' Leigh was babbling, and she knew it. Knew, too, that in spite of her protests, she wanted him to go on touching her. She wanted to clasp his head between her hands, her fingers tangling in his hair, and bring his mouth down on hers again. She wanted him to teach her everything there was to know between a woman and her man.

Only he wasn't her man—that was what she had to remember, if she was to retain even a shred of self-respect. She was of no importance to him, as he had made clear over and over again. She was just a convenient female body for his enjoyment, and the sudden unexpected pain of that realisation tore at her like claws.

'Tell me one.' He was smiling again, face and body relaxed in the certainty that she was his for the taking.

She said in a voice she hardly recognised, 'Because I'm not Isabella.'

She saw the smile wiped away, his face hardening into a bronze mask. He looked her over, and the bleak bitterness in his eyes seemed to flay the skin from her body. She snatched up her shirt, forcing her arms clumsily through the sleeves, her shaking fingers making a nonsense of the buttons.

She had to say something to fill the silence, the appalling gulf which now stretched between them. 'Besides, I love Evan. I'm going to belong to him and no one else.'

He said expressionlessly, 'And are you quite sure he feels the same?'

Leigh wasn't sure of anything any more, but the implied slur on Evan fuelled her anger.

She needed to be angry; it was a safer emotion than any of the others he had made her experience.

'You're despicable!' Her voice trembled. 'There's no dirty trick you won't descend to, is there, to make trouble between us.'

Rourke shook his head contemptuously. 'You're wrong. Gilchrist is already in all the trouble he can cope with in a lifetime.'

'Because he's stolen a mule?' she came back at him. 'Because—maybe—he's found some hidden treasure, and kept it? How does that measure on the moral scale, Doctor Martinez, with your behaviour? Or is attempting to rape another man's woman perfectly acceptable as far as you're concerned?'

'You're beginning to sound repetitive,
querida
? he drawled. 'Why don't you exercise a little honesty yourself, and admit that you wanted what was happening between us as much as I did.'

'Because it's not true.' Leigh grabbed up her jeans, and began to wriggle desperately into them. 'And you're vile—vile to suggest…'

'The truth?' he interrupted brutally. 'Well, have it your own way,
querida
. I hope your talent for self-deception survives your reunion with Gilchrist—if that happy moment ever comes.' He paused. 'And now, if you want hot coffee, I suggest you get the fire going.' He reached for his own clothes.

Outside, the clear pale sunlight struck her like a blow. She crouched beside the fire, trying to coax life back into the embers with dry twigs, telling herself that it was the acrid scent of woodsmoke which was making her throat ache, and filling her eyes with tears.

It must be the aftermath of the
soroche
which was making her behave in a way so completely out of character, she thought miserably. Or perhaps it was loneliness for Evan which had betrayed her.

She looked at the tiny tongue of flame creeping round her twigs, and sighed. That was how it began, of course, and if you weren't careful it could turn into a conflagration that could destroy your whole life.

Shivering, she sat back on her heels. And found herself wondering, not for the first time, just who Isabella had been.