Night of the Condor (12 page)

Every sense, every nerve she possessed seemed to be turning inwards, focusing on some sweet central core of physical hunger. It was difficult to breathe, to think of anything but this savage sweetness that his hands and mouth were creating. The current had her, she thought dizzily, was carrying her away for ever…

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. With a violent exclamation Rourke rolled away from her and lay prone, his head turned from her, pillowed on his folded arms.

For a moment Leigh lay still, her quivering body in turmoil, then slowly she lifted herself on one elbow and looked at him. She felt bewildered, totally bereft, unable to find an explanation for this uncompromising rejection.

He had once taunted her about her inexperience, she remembered painfully. Had he recalled this now, and drawn back because of it? Or had she, through ignorance, given him the impression that she was in some way unwilling? Didn't he realise—couldn't he tell how desperately she wanted him? And he wanted her—she was sure of it.

She put out a tentative hand and touched his bare shoulder. 'Rourke?'

He moved convulsively, shaking her hand away. 'What is it?'

'I don't understand.'

He sat up, pushing back his damp hair with a kind of weary impatience. 'What is there to understand?' he asked harshly. 'For a while we both went a little mad, that's all. Now it's over.'

'Just like that?' The enormity of it made her voice falter. How could he so easily dismiss that passionate, yearning intimacy they had shared, however briefly? His hunger had been as deep as hers, she would swear to it. 'Don't I have some say…?'

'There is nothing more to be said,' he interrupted flatly. 'You are, after all, engaged, and the last thing I need is this kind of involvement.' He got to his feet and went over to the mule, peacefully grazing a few yards away, to retrieve his clothing. 'Now, get dressed, and well be on our way.'

In spite of the heat, Leigh was shivering violently, her arms wrapped protectively round her body. Her voice sounded strange and husky in her ears as she said, 'I—I haven't got my clothes. I was carrying them when I slipped. I don't know what's happened to them.'

There was a long and terrible silence. Rourke lifted clenched fists and looked up at the sky. '
Madre de Dios
!' he spat. 'What else can happen?'

He drew a deep, furious breath, then began rummaging through the packs. One by one, a clean khaki shirt, a leather belt, and one of Maria's blankets landed beside Leigh on the grass. 'Have the goodness to manufacture yourself some kind of covering.' His tone was ominous.

The shirt was enough on its own, she thought, when she had scrambled into it. Cinched in at the waist by the belt, it still reached three-quarters of the way down her slender thighs. She carried the blanket back to him. 'I don't need this.'

He gave her a swift, comprehensive glance, his firm mouth thinning. 'That,
seňorita
, is a matter of opinion.'

Leigh, as she turned away, began to wonder if she had dreamed those moments in his arms. Only minutes before, she had been on the brink of surrender as he had explored and caressed every secret of her womanhood. Now, it seemed, he couldn't even bear to look at her. The tears he had kissed away were threatening to overwhelm her again, but this time her pride would not let them fall.

She waited in silence while he made the mule ready, and still without speaking, accepted his assistance back into the saddle.

For a moment he stood looking up at her, the dark brows drawn arrogantly together. Then he said quietly, 'Danger makes us vulnerable, Leigh. We shall take no more risks.' He took the mule's bridle. '
Adelante
.'

The village was small, a narrow main street lined with single-storey adobe houses, opening out into a small square. Greg Mayhew's clinic, indistinguishable from any of the other buildings, lay at the end of an alley leading off the square.

In response to Rourke's jangle of a rusting iron bell hanging beside the front entrance, the door was flung open, and a broad, blond man with a beard stood staring at them. For a moment his eyes widened incredulously, then with a whoop of joy he dealt Rourke a blow on the shoulder which would have felled a lesser man.

'You old son of a gun! Where the hell did you spring from? And what…?' He took another look at Leigh, discreetly muffled, at the approach of sunset, in Maria's blanket. 'I mean—who is this?'

'This is Leigh Frazier,' Rourke said shortly. 'I'm escorting her to Atayahuanco. She has a blistered foot, and some other abrasions I'd like you to take a look at.'

'Anything you say.' Greg Mayhew moved forward and lifted Leigh down from the saddle. 'In you come, honey. You look really bushed!'

The small surgery didn't seem to have much in the way of equipment, but it was spotlessly clean. In response to Greg's shout, an Indian girl in a white overall came running, to help remove the shrouding blanket, her round placid face expressing open astonishment when she saw what Leigh was wearing beneath it.

She saw the same look, fleetingly, on Greg Mayhew's face before he turned away, busying himself with cottonwool and dressings.

She said, 'I nearly drowned today—entirely through my own fault. I was lucky to lose only my clothes.'

'Hm.' He took her pulse and blood pressure, and shone a light into her eyes.

As he examined her, he questioned her about the inoculations she had had back in England, particularly the date of her last anti-tetanus booster, appearing satisfied with what she told him.

He was a big man, but his hands were deft as he cleaned up her grazes and re-dressed her foot.

'I guess you'll live, Miss Frazier,' he commented laconically when he had finished. 'Especially with a square meal inside you. And my housekeeper Carlota has a daughter around your size, so we can fit you up with something to wear too.'

Leigh bit her lip. 'Doctor Mayhew, you must be wondering what I'm doing here…'

'It's none of my business,' he said amiably. 'And the name's Greg. The problem's going to be accommodation. The town's full tonight for the fiesta, and the only space I have left is the storeroom. It's not the kind of five-star Hilton treatment you're accustomed to.'

Leigh looked at him steadily. 'How do you know what I'm accustomed to?'

He shrugged. 'Your hands, your voice—all kinds of things, lady.' He shook his head. 'You survived your river ducking okay, but I'd say you were in culture shock.'

Leigh lifted her chin. 'Perhaps, but I'll survive that too.'

His mouth twisted slightly. 'Whatever you say,' he agreed. 'Now I'll go and see about some supper.'

'Guinea-pig stew?' Leigh began to re-button Rourke's shirt, wincing slightly. The stuff Greg had applied to her grazes had stung sharply.

He gave a shout of laughter. 'Oh, I think we can do better than that.' The glance he sent her as he left the room was slightly more approving than his previous expression had been.

But he was still wary of her, Leigh realised, and wondered why.

Carlota was a stout, stolid-looking woman, but her smile, although revealing broken and discoloured teeth, was as warm as the sun. Over her arm she was carrying a woven skirt, thick with embroidery, and a blouse of unbleached cotton with full sleeves and a drawstring neckline. Her English was limited, but Leigh soon grasped that these garments were the pick of the unknown daughter's wardrobe, and expressed herself with suitable delight and gratitude, to Carlota's obvious gratification.

To Leigh's surprise, she found herself conducted to the rear of the house, and a large verandah already crowded with people, sitting in groups drinking
chi-cha
and smoking, while children played between them. Carlota led Leigh firmly to the end of the verandah, to a ramshackle erection of wooden screens, and urged her into their shelter. Inside, incredulously, Leigh found a bowl of gently steaming water, a cake of fresh soap, and a towel.

'You wash,' Carlota explained laboriously, with a vigorous mime. 'I rinse.'

At any other time, Leigh might have demurred at the dubious privacy of the arrangements, but the thought of being able to take what amounted to her first warm shower since the hotel in Cuzco outweighed every other consideration. Luxuriously she lathered her body, then, as an afterthought, applied some soap to her hair, digging her fingers into her scalp. It was a far cry from the expensive shampoo she normally used, which had vanished with the rest of her gear, but it felt heavenly. And when she was ready, Carlota, puffing a little, mounted a stool outside the little cubicle, and poured a steady torrent of tepid water all over her from a bucket.

When she had towelled off, Carlota's arm appeared holding the blouse and skirt, to which had been added a pair of frilly nylon panties, which spoke far more of Lima then this village. Leigh dressed swiftly, adjusting the neckline of the blouse to a reasonably modest level, wishing, as she did so, that the soft fabric didn't cling to the untrammelled outline of her breasts quite so revealingly.

She felt absurdly self-conscious as Carlota led her back along to the verandah to the house. There was an enticingly savoury smell in the air, and Leigh found her mouth watering involuntarily, as Carlota smilingly indicated a door to her, and vanished. She moved forward slowly. The soft leather slippers which Carlota had also supplied were rather too large, and made no sound on the beaten earth floor.

As she bent to adjust one of them, through the half-open door she heard Greg Mayhew's voice, clear and faintly irascible. 'Are you out of your head, man? What the hell are you doing with this
chica
? Didn't you learn your lesson from Isabella?'

For a moment Leigh stood motionless, her heart thudding. Then, still in silence, she fled back the way she had come.

Leigh was sitting cross-legged on the verandah, looking down at the swaddled baby she had been given to hold, when a footstep sounded beside her, and Rourke was looking down at her.

His face was enigmatic, the topaz eyes hooded as he said, 'Supper's ready. Did Carlota forget to mention it?'

'I must have misunderstood.' She handed the baby back to his mother, and stood up, brushing down her skirt, hoping that the dim light from the verandah's smoky lamps would disguise the rising colour in her face. 'I'm starving as well.' She was aware she was babbling, trying to cover the rawness of heart and mind which was assailing her.

But she wasn't confused any more. She had come halfway across the world to find the love of her life, and contrary to all her beliefs and expectations, she knew now that he was standing in front of her, and the pain was almost more than she could bear.

She knew that what she had felt for Evan was simply a passing fancy, given extra importance by their enforced separation. Her father had been wrong for once, she thought wryly. If he had forced them together, instead of apart, she would probably have realised her mistake much sooner.

As it was, it had taken humiliation, hardship and danger to reveal to her what it was she wanted most in the world—and it was beyond her reach. She, who had never been denied anything in her short life! The irony of it was almost murderous.