Men of Intrgue A Trilogy (22 page)

“You want to have a rendezvous in the bush?”

“Sure, it’ll be great. I’ll bet you’ve never made love in a sleeping bag under the night sky.”

“Until last night, I’d never made love anywhere.”

He snapped his fingers. “Right. I forgot.”

“Not likely,” she said dryly, and he chuckled.

“Just think of the moonlight, the fragrance of the flowers,” he coaxed, running his hands up and down her back, molding her to him.

“Just think of the bugs,” she replied.

He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the gathering darkness. “You must be used to them by now.”

“I thought I was. Until this afternoon when I found one the size of my grandfather’s Bentley.”

“It’s the climate,” he said. “Everything grows, including the insects.” He planted a kiss on the point of her chin. “Last one there is a spoiled egg,” he concluded, turning away.

“Rotten,” she corrected, and he looked back.

“What?”

“Last one there is a rotten egg. That’s the expression.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” Helen said, loving him more than she’d thought possible.

“Like when you’re kids, and all jumping into a pool or something,” he went on, gesturing.

“I understand the concept,
jefe.
We’re still talking rotten eggs here.”

“I could have sworn that at Longfield we said ‘spoiled’ ones.”

“Maybe at Longfield, but nowhere else.”

“Hmm,” he said, and grabbed her. “Make it five minutes,” he whispered, and took off.

Helen went back to her tent, glancing around at the sparse furnishings, which consisted mainly of crates and boxes, wishing for a hairbrush and a bottle of shampoo. Though she had always found the cosmetic excesses of her mother and Adrienne ridiculous, at the moment she would have paid a king’s ransom for a stick of lip gloss. She was amazed at Matteo’s constant, insatiable desire for her, when she had never felt less attractive in her life. But she hadn’t looked into a mirror since they left the camper behind and couldn’t see the glowing finish of her deepening tan, the sun-kissed, lemony lightening of her naturally blonde hair. All she knew was that her borrowed clothes fit like a cheese box, and she badly missed the absorbent effects of dusting powder. Sighing, she ran Matteo’s comb—three teeth missing— through her wild locks, changed the hand-me-down shirt she was wearing—too big—for another one—too small—and, her heart racing, set off for the appointed spot.

Matteo was waiting, a dark shadow among the trees, and he moved forward to scoop her up in his arms as soon as she stepped into the clearing.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” he said throatily.

“I ask myself that every day,” Helen replied, and he let go suddenly, easing her feet to the ground.

“I’ll bet you do.” He nodded, his tone subdued.

Helen threw her arms around his neck, hanging on until he responded, enfolding her against his chest.

“I was only kidding,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else, except with you.”

“Do you mean that?” he asked huskily, his voice low, uncertain. “You don’t know how I blame myself for bringing you here, keeping you here. And then sleeping with you just made everything worse....”

“It made everything better,” Helen countered, slipping her hand inside his shirt and dragging her nails across his chest. He made a slight sound, half sigh, half moan, and turned his head, seeking her mouth with his.

He had brought along a sleeping bag, but they never actually got in it, too impatient for each other to unzip it and climb inside. Matteo undressed Helen and himself at the same time, tossing their clothes on the ground. He dropped to the surface of the bag, using it like a mat, and pulled Helen with him. She wanted no prolonged preliminaries this time; she was reaching for him eagerly when he pulled back and something rustled in the darkness.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, restless with the delay.

“Protecting you,” he answered. “I wasn’t prepared last night, but I’m not taking any more chances.”

What thoughts she might have had on that subject fled her mind as he rolled flat on his back, lifting her above him. She settled onto him with a grateful sigh, bending forward to waft her hair across his face.

He pulled her head down to kiss her, and she rode him to completion, falling forward onto his chest as he shuddered beneath her.

“You were right,” she murmured, pushing her damp bangs off her forehead and settling into his arms.

“About what?” he replied, sounding tired, but content.

“The moonlight is nice, and I do smell the flowers.”

“And the bugs?”

“What bugs?” She sighed, putting her cheek against his shoulder and hooking her left leg around his right one. “I don’t see any bugs, do you?”

“Just keep your eyes closed and you won’t,” he answered, a smile in his voice.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am at this moment.”

“I hope that years from now, when you look back on this time with me, you’ll still think that,” he answered soberly.

Helen half sat, trying to see his expression in the enclosing darkness.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, a note of fear creeping into her tone.

His answer was lost in a deafening explosion that shook the earth beneath them and consumed the cookhouse in a ball of flame.

Matteo leaped to his feet, almost tumbling Helen to the ground. He caught her and steadied her, reaching for his clothes in the same motion.

“What is it?” Helen gasped, grabbing his arm, craning her neck toward the camp a few hundred feet away. Figures dashed from their tents running, reaching for weapons and ammunition, yelling things she couldn’t hear.

He shook her off, jamming himself into his clothes as another, smaller burst incinerated one of the tents, shooting sparks, like fireworks, into the air.

“They’ve found us,” he shouted over the noise, helping Helen into her blouse and shoving it, unbuttoned, into her jeans.

“The government,” he said, seizing her hand and pulling her after him. “They’ve found us.”

Chapter 8

Helen ran at Matteo’s side, her feet barely touching earth as he pulled her along with him. They had almost reached the command tent when another blast rocked the compound.

Matteo threw Helen to the ground and flung himself on top of her, shielding her with his body. She remained motionless, his weight pinning her down, until the smoke cleared slightly and he raised his head to look around.

Alma was standing not five feet away, watching them. Matteo called to her and she answered in a flood of Spanish, gesturing wildly.

“Stay with Alma in Theresa’s tent,” Matteo instructed Helen, standing and helping her to her feet. “We’ll set up a base for the wounded here.” He glanced toward the hills, squinting, trying to see through the thinning smog surrounding them. “I can’t tell where it’s coming from,” he said, almost to himself.

“Matteo...” Helen began.

“Go,” he said, turning away from her. “You must help me now; you must do as I say.”

Helen watched as he ran to one of his comrades, firing questions, and the two men sprinted off together, leaving her behind. Another barrage started and she ducked into Theresa’s tent where Alma and the older woman awaited her. There were already three injured people there who required attention, and Helen got busy, making bandages for Theresa who was caring for the wounds.

The shelling seemed to go on forever; several times the hits were close by, and the women were forced to take cover under cots and behind boxes until it was safe to come out. Two people were brought into the tent dead, and one died before they could do anything for him. Helen prayed for dawn; Matteo had once told her that such attacks usually took place only in the dark. But the night was endless, and she kept looking for Matteo to arrive on a stretcher, maimed, or past hope. And the bombs kept falling, and the injured kept coming. Helen had never seen so much blood. She might have been sick if she’d had a chance to think about it, but she was so busy that all she could bear in mind was who was next and what needed to be done.

Finally the shelling stopped and they had a chance to catch up. She lifted her head from the last bandage and said, “Who’s next?”

“Nobody,” Theresa said. “Sit down.”

She shoved a folding chair under Helen, who collapsed into it thankfully.

“Do you think it will start up again?” she asked Theresa, who shook her head.

“No. Dawn comes soon. See the light?”

She pointed through the tent flap to the dark rim of the surrounding hills, just beginning to glow with the illumination of the rising sun.

“I have to find Matteo,” Helen said, getting up.

Theresa placed her palm flat against Helen’s shoulder and pushed her back into her seat.

“He’ll find you.”

“But what if he’s hurt? You know he won’t take care of it, he was shot just a short time ago and he...”

“¡Callate!”
Theresa snapped, and Helen shut up.

“Now,” Theresa said, leaning in close to Helen so that only she could hear her voice. “Do you want to set an example for these people, or do you want to behave like the spoiled little gringa
princesa
they suspect you are?”

Helen looked back at Theresa, and then glanced around at the group. All eyes were on her.

“That’s right,” Theresa confirmed, seeing the direction of her glance. “They are all watching you. You are the
jefe’s
woman, and they know it. If you dash all over the camp to find your man and be reassured, forgetting the job he told you to do, what will they think of you? What will they think of Matteo’s choice? We obey orders here, and that goes for you too. He told you to stay, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Helen whispered, settling once more into her chair.

“Then you stay. He will come when he can.”

They both looked up as Alma arrived with tin cups of black coffee. She handed one to each of them, smiling slightly at Helen as she did so. Helen stared back at her, wondering if Theresa was right about her, or if she should follow her own instincts. She decided on the latter and nodded gratefully as she accepted the drink.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Theresa suggested. “We’ll take turns; Alma and I will watch the patients for now.”

“I
would
like to lie down,” Helen replied faintly.

“There’s a cot in the back, on the other side of the curtain,” Theresa said. “You’ll have some privacy. I’ll wake you in a couple of hours, all right?”

“Okay.”

Helen found the cot and stretched out on it, her whole body aching with weariness. She felt as she had when taking care of Matteo in her father’s house. That reminded her of his current peril, and she tried to stay awake to worry about him but she was just too tired. She was asleep within seconds and didn’t hear Matteo come in about twenty minutes later.

“Helen?” he said to Theresa, who nodded to the back of the tent.

“Sleeping,” she said. “She was up all night with the wounded.”

“She’s not hurt?” he persisted.

“She’s fine, just tired,” Theresa replied, indicating that he should sit so that she could change his bandage. He had a superficial wound on his forehead, which he had bound with a handkerchief; she removed it and washed the cut, covering it with clean gauze.

Alma walked up to him as Theresa moved away to work on someone else. Alma handed him a mug of coffee laced with
baciega
, the native rum, and a hunk of dark bread smeared with honey. He took them absently, his mind elsewhere.

“Your girl did well,” she said to him, using
nina,
the word for child, to refer to Helen.

“Alma, I am warning you, don’t start this now,” Matteo said darkly, his expression murderous.

“No, I mean it. She worked as hard as any of us; she was very helpful.”

He stared at her, his eyes narrowing, wondering what was coming.

Alma sighed and pulled up a chair next to him, leaning forward earnestly.

“Look, Matteo, I hated her when she first got here. I admit it. I was jealous. I saw that you had her under your spell. I’ve been there myself and I know what it looks like.”

He started to protest, and she held up her hand to silence him.

“Don’t argue with me. You used her to get back here, which is exactly what you should have done, but now you’ve put her in terrible danger.”

“I’ll protect her!” he said fiercely, the futile cry of a man who knew he could do no such thing.

“From this?” Alma said, making a gesture to encompass the rubble that was once the camp. “You are Matteo Montega, but as far as I know you can’t work miracles. You have to get her out of here.”

“There is no way,” he said despairingly. “I’ve thought of everything.”

“Maybe not everything. My brother has a helicopter.”

“Since when?” Matteo said, sitting up.