A Candle in the Dark (20 page)

She wished her mind would relax as well. It had been a day and a half since she’d tried to steal the tickets from D’Alessandro, but she could not forget the look in his eyes. All during the long, silent boat trip from Gatún to Gorgona, she remembered.

She glanced across the large, crowded room of the Hotel Française, involuntarily searching for him. He was easy to find. He’d been in the same spot since they arrived, sitting with a group of men in a pose that was becoming all too familiar—cards in one hand,
aguardiente
in the other. He laughed at something someone had said, his white teeth flashing in his face, and gulped at the bottle. He was very, very drunk.

It was hardly new, though he was drunker now than he’d been since the night she met him. He’d at least been in control of himself before. But since the
curanderos
had cured Jiméne, that control had slipped, and it had only grown worse since Gatún. That morning he’d nearly put a hole in the bungo by falling into the canopy poles, and he’d fallen into the river when they left the boat. It wasn’t like him.

She couldn’t help but think it had something to do with her attempt to steal the tickets.

Ana watched the brandy course over his jaw, down the tanned skin of his throat to disappear into the curls of chest hair peeking through his open collar. Long ago, he had taken off his frock coat and wadded it into a ball, jamming it into one of the bags along with his medical case. Now he wore only the mud-streaked, limp white shirt and his brocaded vest, which was so stained with dirt and blood she couldn’t remember what color it had been. He was a mess.

The men around him were cramming food into their mouths as they played, while D’Alessandro steadily drank. He never ate, she realized suddenly. She didn’t think she had ever seen him chew a thing. No, there was that one time on the ship, she remembered. One of their last meals, he’d eaten so much she thought he would be sick. But she hadn’t seen him eat much of anything before or since. No wonder he was so lean, with that haunted, undernourished look in his face. Why hadn’t she ever noticed it before?

“What do you stare at?” Jiméne walked back to their table with a jug of wine. He sat down, a knowing glance lighting his eyes as he looked in the direction she’d been staring. “Ah.
Su esposo
.”

“What did you say?”

“D’Alessandro.” Jiméne poured wine into her cup and then his. He nodded toward her plate. “Do you like the iguana pie?”

“I was not staring at him.”

“Of course not,” Jiméne said soothingly.

“I wasn’t.” Ana took a biteful of food, chewing angrily for a moment until Jiméne’s question registered. She swallowed quickly, nearly choking. “Iguana pie?”

“It is a specialty,” he said, a smile curving his lips. “It is delicious, no?”

“No.” Ana put down her fork firmly and gulped the rough, vinegary wine. “I’m not hungry, really.”

“Of course you are not. You are worried, as I am.”

“Worried about what?”

“About your husband, of course. You do not listen,
cariña
,” he admonished. “We were speaking of D’Alessandro.”

“I see.” Ana watched Jiméne take an enthusiastic bite of the iguana pie. Her stomach flipped, and she looked away. Her gaze touched on her partner just as he took a huge gulp from the bottle. She clenched her fists in her lap. “Unfortunately, this time you’re wrong, Jiméne. I’m not worried about him. He can do as he likes.”

“But the drinking—”

“—isn’t going to change.”

“You do not try.”

“I don’t have to.” Ana said, forcing away her guilt.

“It’s his choice to drink. If he wanted to stop, he could.”

“Ah.” Jiméne leaned his elbow on the table. “
La vista del amo engorde el caballo
.”

“I don’t speak Spanish.”

“It is an old saying: The sight of the master fattens the horse.”

“How beautiful.” Sarcasm made her voice harsh. Ana tried to curb her impatience. “I don’t like puzzles, Jiméne. What are you trying to say?”

“Only that he would stop for you, if you tried to help him.”

Ana stared at him in disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a drunkard, and he likes being that way. Why would he stop for me?”

Jiméne shrugged. “He loves you.”

Ana exhaled in exasperation. “You’re the one who’s been drinking too much wine. He is not my husband, Jiméne. He cares nothing for me. Just as I care nothing for him.”

“As you say.” Jiméne leaned back in his chair, smiling enigmatically. “But his drinking, it must be hard for you,
si
? Even if it is as you say, and he is not
su esposo
, then he is no good to you drunk.”

Ana looked at him warily. A slow trickle of dread crept up her spine. Jiméne was building up to something, and she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t like what he was going to say. Especially if it had something to do with D’Alessandro being sober.

The very thought made her shudder. D’Alessandro sober. D’Alessandro knowing what he was doing. D’Alessandro without the handicap of too much liquor.

Who knew what he would be capable of then? She had the distinct feeling that once he was sober, that veil over his eyes would float away, and she would see—really see—what was inside of him. She would know what he felt and she would be incapable of keeping him at bay with a glance of disgust or a derisive comment.

Sober, she would not be able to control him at all.

Ana dug her nails into the palm of her hand to stop her sudden trembling. No, a sober D’Alessandro was something she had to prevent at all costs. It was already hard enough to resist his determination to get to know her. She was too tired, too vulnerable to fight him the way she should, the way she would have in New York. Here, in the draining, primitive jungle, she was terribly afraid she wouldn’t be able to fight him at all.

“He’s fine the way he is,” she told Jiméne defensively, wincing at the tremulousness in her voice. “He saved our lives drunk.”

“He could do more sober.” Jiméne leaned forward, his expression oddly intense. “He would be a good doctor.”

His earnestness made her nervous. Ana licked her lips. “It doesn’t matter, Jiméne, he won’t stop.”

“Many years ago, the man who lived next door to
mi madre
drank too much
aguardiente
. He beat his wife every night. She grew tired of it. One day she tied him to a tree.”

Dread grew, filling her heart, her throat. Ana’s voice was a whisper. “A tree?”

Jiméne nodded somberly. “She left him there for three days. Then she let him go. After that, no
aguardiente
.”

Ana struggled for an excuse. “But that—that’s cruel.”

Jiméne shrugged. “It worked. It will work for D’Alessandro too.”

“I can’t—I can’t allow it. No. I—forbid it.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, and Ana had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw her fear and condemned her for it. But all he said was “As you wish, Ana. I will not do it then, until you agree. But I will ask you to think on it.”

“I will.” Ana rose from the table so quickly she nearly tipped over her stool. Anxiously she snatched her skirts out of the way. “I will, I promise.”

She turned on her heel, fleeing the dirty, flea-bitten hotel before he could call her back.

The colors swirled and danced before his eyes, dipping and blending together in one long swash of pink and white and black. Bemused, Cain leaned back on the adobe wall of the
alcalde’s
ballroom, trying to focus while the entire world tilted around him. Under the haze of drink, everyone looked beautiful and elegant. The flowers in the women’s dark hair flashed in bright spots of color before his eyes, and the men in their white shirts and somber colored frock coats were a stark, graceful contrast.

Music swelled around him, filling his mind, encompassing his whole body in a cocoon of the rich, woody tones of guitars and violins. And all the time, in the fields outside the house, the drums vibrated. He felt their heavy booming in his bones; it sang through his blood like wine, heating him until he had only one thought.

Ana. He searched for her, letting the need to see her well up inside him uncontrollably. He couldn’t find her. In fact, couldn’t really focus on anyone. They were all shifting colors and high, laughing voices. It took all his concentration to keep the ceiling and the floor in the right place.

He was as drunk as he could remember being in a long time. It felt as if someone had laid a heavy, warm blanket over his senses—soothing and stifling at the same time. Everything was in a fog. Motion, sound, touch… Except for those drums. The constant
boom boom boom
was a pinpoint of sobriety; it sent a flush of heat coursing through his body. He concentrated on it, letting it pound in his brain. Christ, it felt as if his very skin were pulsing in rhythm.

Where was Ana? He had to tell her about this, show her… Cain pushed away from the wall. The world swayed. He struggled to maintain his balance and failed. His shoulder thudded back against the wall, hard enough that he thought he should feel something, though he didn’t. He frowned, trying to catch hold of a thought that was just beyond his reach. Oh, yes. Ana. He needed to find her—

Though exactly why he needed to find her, he couldn’t remember. Maybe just to look at her. To watch her when she didn’t know he was watching her. To see the shimmering of her hair in the moonlight and the soft smile that touched her lips when Jiméne told an amusing story. To hear, once again, that soft gasp of surprise when he touched her skin.

She was on his mind constantly. He couldn’t drink enough to forget about her. Nothing erased the memory of her scorn when she stopped him from tending to Jiméne’s wound. Nothing took away that calculating look on her face as she’d squirmed beneath him, bartering her body for freedom.

Cain closed his eyes, groaning softly at the memory. He wanted to let her go, he really did. He wanted her to walk away and leave him alone, leave him if not exactly whole, then at least the way he’d been before she walked into his life. But it was too late for that, and he knew it. She would haunt him forever with her cold eyes and heart, with the knowledge that beneath her icy shell, waiting for him to break through, was something they both needed.

Ah, but he didn’t have the strength, had never had the strength. She would walk away in San Francisco, if she didn’t before then, and he would be left alone with the knowledge that they could have saved each other if only he’d been strong enough.

No, he couldn’t drink enough to forget that, though he’d forgotten other things. Like leaving Gatún. The last thing he remembered was fleeing Ana and the hut for the party next door. From then on, everything was blank, filled with cold black terror. But he couldn’t concentrate long enough to remember how he’d gotten here to Gorgona, and actually, he didn’t really want to try. Didn’t want to find out that no amount of effort would bring the memory back.

The music stopped. Cain opened his eyes, wishing he had the balance to make it over to the refreshment table on the far side of the room, feeling a tiny edge on his drunkenness and needing to blur it again. Badly. Before he could do anything about it, he caught a movement beside him, a flash of deep pink. No, not pink. Rose. Rose wool.

Ana.

He turned, meaning to say something to her, but then he saw her back was to him. She was talking to someone, someone who was in fuzzy blocks of black and white and peach. A man. Cain heard a deep chuckle, her answering laughter, and his heart sank into his stomach. For a moment, he wanted to hear that laughter again so badly he almost cried. Christ, why had she never laughed like that with him?

“—then I will leave you to your husband,
Señora
D’Alessandro.” The man bowed deeply before her. “It was a pleasure dancing with you.”

She inclined her head. “And with you, sir.”

Those soft, cultured tones startled Cain. Each time he heard her politeness, her well-bred courtesy, it shocked him. He wondered again where she’d learned it. Wondered how a whore had become a whore. Wished she trusted him enough to tell him.

She turned to face him. Cain struggled to focus, concentrating on her golden eyes until they settled into clarity. Then he noticed that she had done her best to look respectable for the party. Though the wool dress was stained and filthy, she had sewn shut the tear beneath her breast. The collar was buttoned up to her throat, where it hadn’t been since they’d started the trip, hiding the soft apricot skin he knew was beneath. The severity of the fashion was in direct contrast to the other women there, whose smooth olive shoulders flashed bare and unadorned above their low-necked dresses, but it made her look elegant and refined.

Or maybe it was just the way she held herself. Straight backed, head high. She’d piled all that beautiful mahogany hair in a knot at the back of her head and fastened a bright pink orchid at one ear. Like a duchess, he thought, smiling.

“What are you laughing at?” she asked sharply, all the softness gone from her voice.

The music started again, the drums shortly after, thrumming through his blood, making him so hungry all he could do was stare at her.

She turned away in disgust. “God, you’re drunk.”

” ‘Fraid so.”

She moved as if to walk away, and he reached out to grab her, suddenly panicked. She stopped, looking at him with a question in her eyes.

“Ana, don’t go,” he said, ashamed at how hoarse his voice sounded. His control was gone. The liquor had taken it all away, and somehow that gave him more freedom than he ever thought he had. “Dance with me.”

She looked surprised. And afraid. “You’re too drunk to dance.”

“No. I’m not.”

Her eyes met his, her jaw clenched. He heard her uncertain breathing even through the music. Knowing he was asking to be hurt, but unable to stop himself, Cain held out his hand.

“I’m not,” he said again.

She looked around the room, and then she sighed in resignation. “Very well,” she said, in tight, sharp tones. “One dance.”

Cain stared at her in disbelief. He hadn’t expected her acquiescence, hadn’t even known how much he wanted it until she agreed. But in spite of her agreement, she didn’t take his outstretched hand, and finally Cain dropped it.