Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (18 page)

But there was someone who was very concerned with her state of mind, concerned with everything about her, and that was Vicente Olmos. He watched Helen constantly—with an insinuating smile when Matteo was not around and with a carefully blank expression when he was. Helen felt his eyes on her and sensed the threat implicit in his stare the way a gazelle senses the presence of a leopard: subliminally, with primordial instincts untouched by thousands of years of civilization. But she said nothing to Matteo, thinking that Olmos’ deliberate intimidation of her was really aimed at his superior, and if she ignored it his ploy would fail.

Alma proved to be another matter. Helen could tell that Theresa had spoken to her, because her attitude toward Helen had changed from outright antagonism to puzzlement, as if she couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between the pretty gringa and her former lover. When Helen and Matteo were together she observed them, saw the suppressed passion that flared between them, and wondered if Matteo had lost his mind. He wanted the American and she wanted him, but it was clear that they weren’t doing anything about it. This was so uncharacteristic of the Matteo she knew that her attention shifted to Helen, seeking answers there. But she found none, seeing only a quiet, reserved young woman who was trying her best to fit into an alien world until such time as she could leave it.

On a sticky, moonless night several days after the move to the new camp, Helen was trying to sleep while Matteo held a meeting with his top soldiers at the other end of the grounds. Their voices carried in the stillness after everyone else had retired, and the low murmur disturbed her, contributing to her restlessness. Finally she put aside the netting surrounding her cot and stood up, lifting her gown away from her perspiring flesh. She walked to the tent exit and lifted the flap, looking out at the few stars visible in the cloudy, overcast sky.

The humidity was thick, choking, threatening the rain that never fell but hung in the air like a pall. Heat lightning streaked the horizon and thunder rumbled distantly but ineffectively, tantalizing with the promise of the storm that might bring relief. Lifting her hair from the back of her neck, Helen remembered with amusement a teacher she’d had, a Regency buff who loved to quote Jane Austen. On the subject of a heat wave, Austen had once written that it kept her in a “continual state of inelegance.” On this evening of pitiless heat, the phrase took on a new meaning for Helen.
Inelegance
was the word to describe her scattered, ragtag state. She had never felt less elegant in her life. Their precipitous departure from the San Jacinta airport had caused her to leave her luggage on the plane, and she’d been making do with whatever Matteo and Theresa could scrounge up for her. On this occasion it was a thin cotton shift that became translucent when wet and was now clinging in damp patches to her body. She was glad there was no one around to see her, because at that moment she would rather have gone naked than add another ounce of clothing to the skimpy ensemble she wore. Exhibitionism was preferable to heat prostration, she thought, giggling to herself.

Then her attention was diverted by the voices from Matteo’s tent. They were getting louder and, as she turned her head to look, two men emerged. She recognized them as the bodyguards who had kidnapped her from the supermarket parking lot. They were followed by Matteo and Olmos, who were engaged in heated discussion. Matteo said something, Olmos made an obviously sarcastic reply, and they began shouting. Helen stepped back into the folds of the tent as she continued to watch. Olmos lunged for Matteo, and the other men moved in immediately to restrain him. Matteo said something derisive in a low tone, heavy with finality, and turned his back on Olmos, returning to the meeting inside the tent. Olmos stormed off, and the bodyguards took up their position near the entrance, glancing at one another uncertainly.

Helen returned to her bed, mulling over what she had seen. The situation between Matteo and Olmos was a ticking bomb on the verge of blowing sky high. It didn’t matter what they were arguing about; Olmos sought every opportunity to challenge Matteo’s authority, and soon Matteo would have to deal with him once and for all.

She lay down, drawing the netting around her and turning away from the glow of the oil lamp in the corner. She listened to the far off grumbling of the thunder for a while and finally drifted into a fitful, dream troubled sleep.

When she awoke about an hour later she thought she was still dreaming, because she heard a noise in the tent but knew that she was alone. Then she realized suddenly that she was
not
alone, and she sat up, watching a moving shadow out
of the corner
of her eye.

“Matteo?” she said hopefully. Who else could it be, but why was he sneaking around like that? Was he trying not to wake her?

She lost sight of the shadow and was swinging her legs over the edge of the cot to get up when she was seized roughly from behind and hauled bodily into a kneeling position. A large hand was clamped over her mouth to silence her, and as she struggled she twisted around and looked into Olmos’ amber eyes.

Helen couldn’t scream and she couldn’t move. He was terribly strong. Holding her fast with one arm, he grabbed the top of her gown with his other hand and ripped it from neck to hem, exposing her body.

Terrified and humiliated, Helen cowered as he held her immobilized, fumbling at his belt with his other hand.

So this was to be his final answer to Matteo, the ultimate blow that would end the battle and give him victory: violate the precious little gringa that Matteo kept so close and valued so highly. Helen squirmed as he shifted position to crawl onto the cot, and his hand slipped from her mouth. She saw her opportunity and bit him with all the force she could muster.

He bellowed and she dived off the cot, screaming as loud as she could. Olmos spun around, holding his injured arm, and his expression was curiously triumphant. Helen realized with horror that he had
wanted
her to scream and knew in an instant that the whole incident was a trap. Olmos was using her as bait to provoke a confrontation with Matteo, and he would be ready for it, while Matteo would not. Helen had played right into his hands.

She could hear stirring from the other tents as the people, roused from sleep, got up to see what had happened. Olmos confronted Helen, breathing heavily, his golden eyes narrowed to slits as she huddled on the ground, trying to cover herself with her arms.

Matteo burst into the tent and took in the scene at a glance. He rounded on the other man, a vein throbbing in his temple, and Helen saw the end of Olmos’ life in his face.

“Matteo, no!” she shouted. “I’m all right, he didn’t hurt me.”

Matteo ignored her, advancing on his former comrade, who circled away from him, a half smile on his face. Come on, he seemed to say, we’ve known from the beginning that it would come to this.

Matteo threw the first punch, hitting Olmos so hard that Helen could hear the blow like a pistol shot. Olmos responded in kind, and they were soon locked in mortal combat, evenly matched. Matteo was faster, but Olmos was bigger, heavier, and as they rolled over and over on the dirt floor Helen prayed that they would both emerge from the contest alive.

She looked up and saw a gathering of the other men in the entrance, looking on with solemn faces.

“Stop it!” she yelled at them. “Can’t you do something to stop it?”

They glanced at her, and then turned their attention back to the fight, their attitude one of resignation. They didn’t have to understand English to know what she was saying, but they had seen this coming for a long time and knew that it had to run to its logical conclusion. That she had been the catalyst was unimportant.

Helen remembered that she was naked except for the fluttering remnants of her gown, and she crawled to the cot, pulling off the khaki muslin sheet and wrapping it around her like a sari. The two men struggled upright and then tumbled headlong, almost at her feet, and she saw Olmos reach for something shiny at his belt.

“Matteo, be careful!” she shouted, gasping. “He has a knife!”

Matteo grabbed the hand that held it and shook it loose, pounding Olmos’ clenched fingers on the ground until they relaxed and gave up the weapon. It skittered away as Matteo climbed on top of Olmos’ prone body and punched him repeatedly about the head and face, until his nose was streaming blood and the flesh around his eyes began to swell and discolor.

Matteo didn’t look much better. His lower lip was cut and puffing up like a dinner pastry, and two vivid scratches on his left cheek were oozing blood and serum. Both men were drenched with sweat, their hair soaking, their faces glistening and their clothes clinging to their bodies with dampness. As Helen watched, Olmos, who was down but far from out, reached up and throttled Matteo, who pried his hands loose with an effort that left him spent and weakened. Olmos threw him off and dived for the knife, picking it up and waving it menacingly, a glitter in his catlike eyes.

Both of Helen’s hands went to her mouth as she stared at the scene in silent revulsion. She wanted to look away but remained transfixed, like a witness to a tragic fire who can’t tear his eyes from the flames.

Both men were on their feet now, and Olmos toyed with Matteo, lunging for him with the knife and forcing him to dance away. Olmos had the clear advantage and was prolonging it, enjoying the upper hand and taking the offensive with a cavalier attitude. He was going to win and could afford to make Matteo sweat before he stabbed him.

But his confidence undid him. Matteo dodged and weaved, looking for an opening, and when he saw one he leaped on Olmos and felled him, putting his knee to his chest and ripping the knife from his hand.

Matteo raised the knife above his head, and images of Olmos putting his hands on Helen filled his fevered mind. Olmos stared up at him, saw his death in Matteo’s eyes, and surrendered. His whole body went limp as he waited for the blow to fall.

Helen’s scream cleared the red mist obscuring Matteo’s vision. His whole being cried out for him to follow through, to drive the knife into Olmos’ hated flesh, but if he did so he would lose Helen forever, and he knew it. She could never watch him kill a vanquished, defenseless man and forgive him. Or forget. His fingers opened slowly and the knife fell from his hand.

He could hear Helen sobbing behind him as he grabbed Olmos’ shirt and raised his bloodied face until it was inches from his.

“Get out,” he said to him in Spanish. “Now, tonight. I don’t want to see you ever again. I’m warning you, if I do, I
will
kill you.”

He flung Olmos aside and crawled off him, hanging his head as he tried to catch his breath. Olmos, reprieved, didn’t wait for Matteo to change his mind. He scrambled to his feet and plunged through the group of onlookers, who parted to let him pass.

Matteo looked up and said to the people assembled at the entrance to the tent, “Go back to your beds. It’s all over.”

A couple of them looked toward Helen, and Matteo added, “I will take care of the
senorita.”
He turned his head and met her eyes, adding softly, “She is my affair.”

They left the tent and dispersed slowly, glancing at one another but unwilling to discuss what they had just seen until they were away from their leader. Matteo waited until they were gone and then got up, stripping off his shirt and holding it out for Helen, who slipped into it, letting the sheet fall as she did so.

“Are you all right?” he asked as she turned toward him and he enfolded her in his arms. “He didn’t...”

Helen shook her head, letting him take her weight as she relaxed against him. “No, I told you that. He just wanted to drive you to fight him, and he did. Oh, Matteo, when I thought you were going to stab him...”

“Shh,” he said, stroking her hair with one hand as he pulled his shirt closer around her with the other. “It’s finished. Don’t think about it. He’s gone; you won’t ever see him again.” He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the cot, saying, “Let me help you back to bed.”

“I should clean those cuts you have,” she protested.

“Forget them. Come on, your legs are giving way. You need to rest.”

Helen froze, clutching at his hands, burying her face on his naked chest. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

He swung her up into his arms, sweeping her feet off the floor.

“Don’t worry,” he answered, pressing his lips to her ear. “I won’t leave you alone tonight.”

Helen closed her eyes and sighed gratefully. Her head fell back and her long hair trailed across his shoulder as he carried her, her bare legs draped over his lower arm.

Chapter 7

Matteo carried Helen to the cot and knelt to put her on it, then joined her, wedging in next to her in the narrow space. Helen curled up against his side, putting her head on his chest and slipping one hand under his broad back. The other drifted to his flat middle and stayed there, as if to reassure her of his presence.

“My fault,” he murmured, his fingers combing through her hair.

“What?” Helen sighed, too happy to care much about anything. It was like a miracle to have him so close after their estrangement.

“What happened tonight was my fault,” he clarified.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Matt,” Helen responded. “How could it be?”

“I know Olmos, how he thinks, how his mind works. I should have anticipated what he would do. He never confronts anything directly, but steps around it craftily, like a cat moving in on a mouse. It was just like him to use you the way he did to get to me. You wound up being the victim of my stupidity.”