Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Fallen Angel

Fallen Angel
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release.An unexpected complication!Jason Tarrant doesn’t want a teenage boy foisted upon him. And he wants it even less when the boy turns out to be artless – and decidedly female – Alex Durham. His estancia in South America is definitely no place for someone as naïve and beautiful as Alex. And when an irresistible attraction develops between them, the situation is soon completely out of hand!Could it be anything other than sheer infatuation? And was there any way they could avoid real disaster?!










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Fallen Angel

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u1191bf6d-f5ae-564e-868b-81dad83121df)

About the Author (#u9b4a82fa-ace9-579f-80ed-e780ae83fe97)

Title Page (#u68270a59-df9b-51e6-a537-7d2698ae7628)

CHAPTER ONE (#u4c0c7bf0-e029-5484-82a7-0dd1164bc6c2)

CHAPTER TWO (#uf136ed43-6802-586f-abe9-3054bc241bfd)

CHAPTER THREE (#u1a1b48ef-d815-5660-8b90-1310d7690660)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_b7ebab34-6c90-503d-a878-902b930f9606)


JASON did not like London. He had not liked it when he was a student, and he liked it even less now. The crowded thoroughfares, all confusingly one way, the noise of the traffic, the sickly smell of diesel; all these things combined to make him yearn for the open spaces of his estancia; though it must be added that anyone observing his tall, immaculately-suited figure and darkly cynical features would never have suspected he felt more at home on the pampa.

It was strange, he reflected, when he had been born and brought up in England, albeit in the care of the local council, that he should feel more at ease in the South American republic where he had his home. The well-trammelled spaces of his fatherland held no interest for him, and as soon as he had obtained the engineering degree he had worked for, he left for more adventurous climes. But building bridges in Australia or pipelines in the Middle East soon began to pall, however, and because the money was good he joined a mercenary force fighting in Central Africa. But even money would not compensate for the lack of self-respect he felt facing a barefoot enemy, equipped with only the meanest kind of ammunition, with weaponry of the most sophisticated kind. He left for America with funds to pay the deposit on some land of his own, and succeeded only in blowing it all in on a speculative land deal that left him broke and jobless.

And that was how he met Charles Durham …

Jason moved to the window of his hotel suite now and surveyed the busy street several floors below without enthusiasm. Was it really fifteen years since that bar-room brawl? He could hardly credit it. And yet so much had happened in the years since, he should not find it so difficult to believe.

Durham was an archaeologist, taking a break from a dig he was working on in Mexico. He was holidaying in New Orleans at the time, and his initial encounter with Jason took place in the street outside one of the many bars and taverns. He, Jason, had been rolling drunk at the time, he remembered wryly, and was losing the fight he was having with the burly bartender when Durham recognised a fellow Englishman and intervened. He had settled the bill, which had been the cause of the fight, and the bartender, recognising the fact that sober Jason would have little difficulty in laying him out, had been more than willing to accept the settlement. Durham had taken Jason to his lodgings, sobered him up, and eventually persuaded him to admit to his abortive foray into the real estate business. Subsequently, he had offered him a job working with him in Mexico, and although Jason had known little about archaeology, he had been willing to learn.

He worked with Durham for almost two years before they discovered the ruins of the Mayan pyramid, and beneath, untouched for hundreds of years, the burial chamber. Even now, so many years on, Jason could remember the thrill they had felt upon discovering the necklaces and rings and bracelets that decked the crumbling skeleton the chamber had contained, and the jade mask that hid the hollow eye-sockets and gaping mouth.

With his share of what was left after the government had taken their dues, Durham intended to create a research institute in England, but Jason had decided to spend some time in South America. He lived in Brazil for a year, and then twelve years ago he had bought some land in Santa Vittoria, a tiny country sandwiched between Brazil and Uruguay. Although he and Durham had intended to keep in touch, England was a long way from his home at San Gabriel, and somehow he had never found the time to write letters. He had had much to learn—about growing maize and flax, planting orchards of fruit trees, so that he could harvest his own oranges and lemons, peaches and grapes, but mostly about breeding the horses and cattle which were his real love. It was almost as if he had spent his whole life searching for that one reality, and once he found it, he held it fast. And then, six weeks ago, he got the letter …

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his train of thought, and moving lithely across the room, he lifted the receiver.

‘Tarrant,’ he supplied tersely, and then relaxed when the hotel operator said: ‘There’s a young lady here to see you, Mr Tarrant. She says you’re expecting——’

‘That’s right,’ Jason interrupted the flow. ‘You can send her right up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh——’ Jason chewed on his lower lip for a moment, ‘I’m—er—I’m also expecting someone else. A boy. When he arrives, let me know at once, will you?’

‘Yes, Mr Tarrant.’

Jason replaced the receiver on its rest thoughtfully, flexing his shoulder muscles as he contemplated the interview ahead. This wasn’t quite his line—interviewing a prospective tutor for the boy, particularly a female one, but there seemed few male tutors willing to abandon the bright lights of London for a remote ranch house in the Sierra Grande. He hoped the woman wasn’t too young, although these days appearances could be deceptive, and Estelita wouldn’t approve of him taking any female under the age of thirty-five into his home.

As he waited he crossed the room again, catching a glimpse of himself in the long Chinese mirrors that flanked the marble fireplace, an anachronism now in the centrally heated hotel. A wry smile crossed his lips at the image of the dark-suited businessman they reflected, his lean frame encased in the mohair jacket, pants and waistcoat which the tailor in Valvedra had assured him was the latest fashion. Certainly his attire gave the illusion of a man accustomed to city ways, but Jason couldn’t wait to don the mud-coloured shirts and Levis which were his usual garb back home. Instead of fine suede, he would wear leather gaucho boots, and his dark hair, so smoothly combed, would be rough beneath the wide brim of his slouch hat. His lips twisted as he wondered what Charles Durham would think if he could see him now. The older man would no doubt have been proud of his success, and he regretted the carelessness which had lengthened the distance between them all these years. Still, it was too late now to feel remorse. Instead, he would do everything in his power to give the boy the home he himself had lacked.

He surveyed the luxurious hotel suite with critical eyes. Was this the most suitable place to conduct an interview of this kind? he wondered. Ought he to have had another woman present? But who? He knew few people in London. The hotel receptionist perhaps. She had certainly shown sufficient interest in him when he arrived, but without false modesty he admitted that the kind of interest she had shown was hardly appropriate to the occasion. No, this was something he was going to have to do alone, and trust his own judgment in assessing the woman’s capabilities.

He paced a trifle restlessly across to the fireplace. The two men he had interviewed for the post had both laboured under the misapprehension that because he was a wealthy man he must needs live in Puerto Novo or Valvedra. When they learned that his estancia was over a hundred miles from the coast, they quickly lost interest in working in such remote surroundings. So why should a woman feel any differently? His eyes narrowed. Unless she was some dried-up old spinster, who saw this post as a golden opportunity to ingratiate herself with the master of the household. He grimaced. He was cynical, he admitted it. But years of hard living and fending for himself had taught him never to trust anyone’s motives at face value. Only Charles Durham had ever helped him, and now he was dead Jason was determined to do what he could for his son—but not at the cost of his own freedom. He had had one taste of so-called connubial bliss, and like the use of methadone in drug addiction, it had cured him of the craving. He liked women, he couldn’t deny it. He was like any normal healthy male in that respect. But marriage no longer figured in his plans—a circumstance that fired Estelita’s hot Latin blood.

A knock at the outer door of the suite brought him upright with a certain tightening of his flat stomach muscles. Stretching the long brown fingers at his sides, he strode purposefully across the room and swung open the door. Then he stood back aghast as a smiling girl of perhaps sixteen years of age stepped forward and, reaching up, bestowed a kiss on each of his taut brown cheeks. A little above medium height and slender, she was only slightly boyish in her fringed suede pants suit, the long curtains of silvery fair hair which fell from a centre parting easily decrying such a supposition. Silky gold-tipped lashes framed wide eyes of a smoky shade of violet, while the smiling mouth was full and generous.

‘Jason!’ she said, and her voice was low and husky. ‘Yes, it has to be. You’re exactly as Daddy described you.’

‘Daddy!’

Jason was feeling distinctly confused now, particularly when the girl passed him to enter the suite uninvited, looking about her with evident fascination.

‘Look—who are you?’ he exclaimed, but even as he asked the question he knew, and a sinking feeling invaded the lower regions of his abdomen. ‘You … can’t be …’

‘Alex Durham, yes.’ The girl turned, unconsciously graceful in all her movements. ‘Weren’t you expecting me?’

Jason’s mouth opened and closed on an ominously thin scowl. ‘Alex Durham?’ he repeated tersely, and her smile gave way to a grimace of uncertainty.

‘Alexandra, actually,’ she admitted. Then, adopting a defiant stance, she added: ‘Everyone calls me Alex.’

‘Do they?’ Realising the door was still standing open, Jason closed it, albeit reluctantly, with a definite click. ‘But you knew I thought you were a boy, didn’t you?’

‘Did you?’ She lifted her shoulders in an offhand gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would make that much difference.’

Jason moved away from the door, annoyed to find that it was he who was disconcerted here. The correspondence he had had with Durham’s solicitors had not been explicit. Obviously, in the circumstances, they had assumed that he would know the age and sex of the child. Child? His lips tightened. Even after so short an acquaintance, Jason could see that Alexandra Durham was not a child. How old was she? Charles had never mentioned a wife in all the time he had known him, and consequently Jason had assumed he had married after returning to England. That would make the boy—girl!—twelve at most, whereas this girl was obviously fifteen or sixteen at least. A shorter guardianship than he had expected perhaps, but what a complication!

‘Do you live here?’ the girl was asking now, and Jason forced himself to concentrate on what she was saying.

‘No, of course not,’ he retorted, rather snappishly. ‘You know my home is in Santa Vittoria.’

‘I meant while you were in England,’ she explained politely, her reasonableness irritating Jason even more. ‘I’ve never stayed in an hotel. The nuns didn’t approve of that sort of thing. Some of the girls used to spend holidays with their parents, you know, at places like St Moritz and Chamonix in the winter, or Nice or St Tropez or Cap d’Antibes in the summer, but I’ve never been to those places. Daddy was always on some dig or other——’

‘Just a minute.’ Jason halted this monologue with a curt intervention. ‘Don’t you think you ought to explain why you chose to leave me in ignorance of the fact that you’re female, and what the hell you expect me to do about it as you are?’

She frowned then, a furrow appearing on the smooth brow. ‘What I expect you to do about it?’ she repeated softly. ‘What do you mean? You’re my guardian, aren’t you? Whatever sex I happen to be.’

Jason expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. ‘I can’t believe you’re that naïve, Miss Durham. You know as well as I do that I expected a boy!’

‘So you keep telling me, but I don’t see what I can do about that,’ she retorted, half laughingly, and her amusement was the last straw as far as Jason was concerned.

‘Then I’ll tell you,’ he snapped angrily. ‘Your father was a good friend to me when I needed one, and I’ve never forgotten it. When I heard that he’d died leaving his—child—in my care, I was prepared to do everything in my power to give the boy a decent start in life——’

‘I know,’ she exclaimed, covering the space between them and laying a hand on the sleeve of his mohair jacket, but he brushed her away, continuing:

‘My correspondence with you was addressed to Master Alex Durham, and you know it. All my arrangements, all my plans, have been for a boy of perhaps twelve, thirteen years of age——’

‘Well, I can’t help that,’ she protested now, the movement of her head spilling the swathe of silky hair across the dark green suede of her jacket. ‘I didn’t ask to be willed to you. I couldn’t choose what sex I was. If I could, believe me I’d have satisfied you in every detail!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only that my father never wanted a daughter, any more than you want me now,’ she retorted, and Jason felt a twinge of remorse for the pained anguish in her eyes. ‘I’d have been a boy all right. Then perhaps Daddy might have taken me with him on his trips to Greece and South America, instead of leaving me in the convent until I thought I should die of boredom!’

Jason’s eyes narrowed. ‘Exactly how old are you?’

‘Seventeen!’

‘Seventeen?’ He stared at her disbelievingly. ‘But—but——’

‘Daddy never mentioned me?’ She shrugged, but he could tell she was fighting her emotions. ‘That doesn’t surprise me. He never wanted to get married, you know. He never should have. Then—then when my mother died when I was born—well …’ She shrugged again. ‘He put me in the care of the nuns at Sainte Sœur.’

Jason shook his head. ‘You speak very good English. But the convent was in France, I gather.’

‘Yes. Just outside Paris, actually. My mother was French, you see. But many of the nuns at the convent were English, and my father insisted that as he spoke little French, I should be educated in his language.’

‘I see.’ Jason ran an impatient hand round the back of his neck, trying to restrain the sense of injustice that was threatening to erupt once more. How could Durham have ignored his child’s existence to the extent that never once in the two years he had known him had he mentioned the fact that he had a daughter? It was cold and callous; and totally out of keeping with the man he had thought he had known. But perhaps that was exactly why Durham had helped him, out of a sense of guilt towards this—girl, this child, who could have been little more than an infant when Durham was excavating at Los Lobos. Then: ‘You say—your father mentioned me?’

‘Yes!’ Animation entered the girl’s features again. ‘I don’t know whether he wrote you about his expeditions, but towards the end, when he was confined …’ she faltered, ‘… confined to his bed, he spoke about you a lot.’

Jason drew a deep breath and gestured towards one of the low comfortable couches that faced one another across the width of the hearth. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better sit down. We have to talk, and I guess—I guess it would be easier if we at least tried to understand one another.’

‘Of course.’ The girl’s smile reappeared, and she subsided obediently on to cushions of dark blue brocade. As she did so, the lapels of her jacket parted to reveal the dusky hollow between her breasts, and their rounded fullness pressing against the soft suede was an added indication of her burgeoning maturity. Jason hesitated a moment, and then, with some reluctance, took the couch opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him, his fingers curving loosely over the cushions on either side of him.

‘Now,’ he said, when she raised inquisitive eyebrows, ‘tell me a little about what happened to your father—after he returned from Mexico.’

‘Oh …’ Alexandra frowned. ‘Well, that isn’t too easy. I didn’t always know where he was or what he was doing. I think he financed an expedition to Egypt, but I’m not sure.’

‘But the institute,’ said Jason patiently. ‘What about the research institute?’ The girl looked puzzled now, and his own frown returned. ‘Your father intended to use the money he gained from our successful excavation at Los Lobos to create a research institute,’ he explained, but Alexandra clearly had no knowledge of this.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘If—if you think my father died a wealthy man——’

‘I didn’t say that!’ retorted Jason shortly, stung by the implication, and she went on:

‘Every penny he had went to finance his last expedition. It was to Turkey—a remote valley in the Taurus mountains. That was where he was taken ill, you see. A chill, followed by a lung infection. They’d been living in tents at the dig, and by the time they got him down to the hospital in Maras it had developed into pneumonia. He recovered, of course, but he wasn’t strong enough to go on, and he was flown back to London. That was when he sent for me.’

‘And how long ago was that?’ asked Jason, watching the play of emotions across her expressive features.

‘Six months, I guess,’ she answered at once. ‘Perhaps he realised the lung infection had weakened the muscles of his heart, and that he hadn’t long to live. Or maybe he just wanted to get to know his daughter …’ The words trailed away as a trace of emotion brought a slightly higher note to her voice, but she controlled it. ‘I didn’t know he’d written to the solicitor—until after—after he was dead. He knew I wouldn’t have wanted him to. I mean—I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, you know.’

‘Are you?’ Jason’s tone was dry, but inwardly he admired her spirit. It could not have been an easy six months, whatever way you looked at it.

‘Yes.’ She squared her shoulders now and looked at him. ‘Well? Are you going to disown me?’

‘No!’ Jason’s denial was abrupt, and pushing himself up with his hands, he stood over her, tall and dark and slightly menacing, although he was unaware of it. ‘I just need some time to—to revise my plans.’

She rose too, then, and the scent of some perfume she was wearing rose disturbingly to his nostrils. It was fresh and slightly heady, like the lemon groves back home, and for a moment he looked down at her, his dark eyes mirroring the gentler shade of hers. Unwillingly, his senses stirred at the unconscious allure of those gold-fringed irises, pansy-soft as she gazed up at him.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and quite unselfconsciously pressed two fingers against her lips before transferring them to his mouth. ‘Daddy was right about you. You are a good man.’

What Jason would have replied to this totally unexpected provocation he hardly knew, but a sudden knocking at the door to the suite provided a welcome distraction. Of course, he thought abstractedly, it would be the governess, the woman he had been waiting to interview when this frustrating creature erupted into his life. At least the interruption would give him a breathing space, he thought savagely, furious with himself for allowing a girl—little more than a schoolgirl—to disrupt his normally controlled emotions.

‘This is going to be awkward,’ he said, putting some space between them as he spoke. ‘I imagine this is the woman I intended interviewing for the post of—of governess.’

‘Governess!’ Alexandra echoed, the violet eyes dancing now. ‘For me?’ She gurgled with laughter. ‘Oh, Jason, did you really think I would need a governess?’

Jason’s thinning mouth sobered her however. ‘It may surprise you to know that as your father never mentioned your existence, I assumed he had married since our expedition to Los Lobos. Naturally, therefore, I expected a younger child.’

‘I’m not a child,’ she pointed out, unable to let that go, but he had already turned away to open the door.

The woman who was waiting outside was reassuringly middle-aged. Jason guessed her age to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty, and her dress and appearance were in keeping with her profession. If only she had arrived first, he found himself thinking impatiently. Then perhaps he would have been more prepared to deal with his unexpectedly female ward.

‘Mr Tarrant?’ the woman was asking politely, and Jason nodded shortly, offering his hand in greeting and gesturing for the woman to come in.

‘You are Miss Holland, I take it?’ he enquired brusquely, and that lady agreed with his admission.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she apologised, as he closed the door behind them, and her eyes alighted questioningly on Alexandra. ‘I—er—I couldn’t get a cab, and then the traffic …’

‘That’s quite all right, Miss Holland,’ Jason assured her curtly, his eyes flickering briefly over the slender figure by the hearth. ‘As it happens, your being late has precipitated a situation which I’m afraid alters matters considerably.’

‘Oh?’ Miss Holland’s glance lingered once more on Alexandra’s slim youthfulness, and a rather worried look crossed her homely features. It occurred to Jason that perhaps getting the job had meant a lot to this rather anxious-looking woman, and his deepening interest observed the faintly worn sleeves of her navy-blue uniform coat, and the neat but unmistakable dams in her woollen gloves.

Now he offered her a chair and after she was seated, he explained: ‘I’m afraid the post I advertised no longer exists. The—er—the boy turns out to be a girl, and she——’ he turned abruptly and indicated Alexandra, ‘as you can see, is too old to require a governess.’

Miss Holland’s worn features mirrored her disappointment. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I see.’

‘I’m sorry …’ And he was. Jason cast another impatient glance in Alexandra’s direction. Why couldn’t she have been the child he expected? Why hadn’t Durham told him the truth? He knew instinctively that Miss Holland would have taken the post, wherever it was. She had that sort of defeated air about her that smacked of too many interviews and too many disappointments. Nowadays, people wanted modern young governessess for their children, not middle-aged women, however well qualified. Miss Holland just wanted to work, and he wondered how long it was since she had done so. Still, he reflected wryly, he had enough problems of his own right now. He couldn’t be blamed for what was indisputably evident.

The woman rose to her feet again now and faced him with a touching air of confidence. ‘I’ll be going then, Mr Tarrant. Thank you for seeing me. And I’m sorry things haven’t worked out as—as you expected.’ Faint colour ran up her cheeks as she realised what she was implying, and she added hastily: ‘I mean, of course, I’m sorry. You—er—you may not be. I’m sure you’re not. That is——’

‘That’s quite all right, Miss Holland,’ Jason intervened smoothly, halting her embarrassed flow, and smiling to remove any sharpness from his words. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

Miss Holland nodded, compressed her lips, offered a half smile of apology to Alexandra, and moved towards the door. Jason strode ahead of her, swinging open the door as she approached, and taking the hand she tentatively offered him in farewell.

‘Good luck,’ he said, as she pulled on her shabby glove, and her smile was more eloquent than any words.

With the door closed behind her, Jason leant against it almost wearily. What now? What was he going to do with the girl? One thing was certain, he could not take her back to San Gabriel with him. Apart from Estelita, his was a masculine household, and there was no place in it for a provocative teenager just waiting to try her claws. Besides, there was nothing for a girl at his estancia. The life he led was almost spartan in its simplicity, and remote from any kind of social gathering. With a boy, it would have been different. He could have shown him the ranch, taught him to ride and rope a steer, taught him to break horses and sleep out under the stars when the yearly round-up was made; treated him like a son, in fact, the son he was never likely to have now. But a girl … In God’s name, what could he do for her?

As if aware of the turmoil inside him, Alexandra left her place by the hearth to approach him, and he stiffened as she halted some few feet away from him.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, and her eyes were guarded now. ‘What are you thinking? Do you want to change your mind about me?’

‘Change my mind?’ Jason frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Alexandra’s long lashes swept her cheeks. ‘I think you do. You’re wishing I was a boy, too, aren’t you? Just like Daddy.’ Her chin lifted, and her eyes were defiant as they sought his. ‘What is it with you two? What’s wrong with being a woman? Don’t they have their uses, too?’

Jason straightened away from the door. ‘All right,’ he admitted abruptly. ‘I don’t deny it. I was thinking along those lines. But only because your being a girl makes everything that much more complicated.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ A faintly mocking gleam invaded his eyes. ‘Oh, come on, Miss Durham, I don’t believe you’re that unsophisticated.’

‘Will you please stop calling me Miss Durham! My name’s Alex—Alexandra, if you like, or perhaps not, as you seem to prefer the masculine gender!’

Jason’s mouth tightened at the deliberately insolent intonation, but he let it go, saying quietly: ‘I was merely going to explain that had you been a boy, you could have accompanied me back to Santa Vittoria, and made your home with me at San Gabriel.’

‘San Gabriel?’ For a moment, she was diverted. ‘What’s that? Your house?’

‘My ranch, yes.’

‘How super!’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Oh, yes, Jason, I’d like to do that.’

‘Now wait a minute …’ Jason was finding it increasingly difficult to control this conversation. ‘I said—had you been a boy——’

‘But what does it matter?’ she exclaimed. ‘So long as I want to go?’

‘So long as you want to go!’ Jason raised his eyes heavenward for a moment in a gesture of frustration. ‘My dear Miss—Alexandra! You know perfectly well I can’t take you to San Gabriel.’

Her dark brows arched. ‘Your wife would object?’

‘I don’t have a wife.’

‘Ah, no …’ She rubbed her nose thoughtfully with her finger. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘What the hell do you mean?’

Jason spoke angrily, and her lips twitched. ‘Why, nothing. Only that—you’re a misogynist, aren’t you?’

‘No, damn you, I’m not!’ Jason found he was unaccountably furious. ‘I enjoy a woman’s company as well as the next man. I just don’t intend taking a promiscuous schoolgirl back to a ranch where the men don’t see a white woman from one year’s end to the next!’

A gurgle of laughter escaped her at this. ‘Make up your mind,’ she taunted him. ‘Either I’m a schoolgirl or a woman—which?’

‘You know what I mean,’ he grated severely. ‘Now, I suggest we discuss what it is you want to do with your life.’

‘I want to stay with you. Either here or at San Gabriel.’ She sighed. ‘Hmm, that’s a beautiful name, isn’t it? Is the ranch as beautiful as its name? Or is it an estancia? Isn’t that what they call ranches in South America?’

‘Alexandra!’

The warning note in his voice went unheeded as she smiled impishly up at him. ‘That’s better,’ she approved. ‘I like the way you say my name. What sort of accent would you say you have? I think it’s a sort of mid-Atlantic accent, isn’t it? Neither one thing nor the other.’

Jason turned from her to pace tensely towards the window. This was hopeless. He was getting absolutely nowhere. He half wished he had asked Miss Holland to remain during the course of this interview. Maybe she would have been able to make some constructive suggestion, explain to the girl that what she was asking was impossible. God, why had Charles done this to him? Surely he must have known the complications it would bring. What had been his intention? What had he expected Jason to do with her? Surely he could not have wanted him to take her back with him to South America. Hadn’t he cared about the dangers—the obvious temptation a girl like her would present to men starved of the company of women? And what of his erstwhile colleague? What had he really known of him, that he should feel able to entrust his daughter to his care?

‘Jason …’ Alexandra’s husky voice right behind him made him aware she had moved to join him by the window. ‘Jason, please—can’t we talk about this? I know I must have been a great shock to you, and I admit, I did leave you in ignorance deliberately, but only because—well, because I was afraid you might—you might not come …’

‘And what kind of a swine would I have been if I hadn’t?’ Jason demanded, glancing at her broodingly. ‘My God, whatever his reasons, your father has left you in my care, at least until you’re eighteen, and I should not have shirked that responsibility.’

‘Oh, responsibility …’ She scuffed her toe against the expensive rug with ill grace. ‘I don’t want to be a responsibility! I’m a person, a human being; a living entity in my own right. I don’t want to be anyone’s responsibility. I just want to be—to be a part of your life, part of someone’s life anyway,’ she finished a trifle wistfully.

Jason’s teeth grated. ‘You won’t try and understand, will you?’

‘What’s to understand?’ She held his gaze deliberately. ‘Are you afraid of me, Mr Tarrant? Are you afraid you might be as—tempted as the next man——’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ Jason’s rejection of her taunting statement was violent, but she stood her ground. ‘I’m simply trying to explain to you that my gauchos are not the fanciful gallants you’ve probably seen on the screen. They’re rough men, mestizos and Indians for the most part, for whom an unattached white girl is fair game. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ she conceded, without flinching. ‘But surely as your—ward, I would merit some respect.’

‘Perhaps. But I don’t feel like being nursemaid!’

‘And that’s the truth, isn’t it?’ she declared bitterly. ‘Oh, you’re just like my father!’

She presented her back to him then, groping in the bag that hung from one shoulder for the handkerchief she couldn’t find. Jason watched her helpless fumblings for several minutes, and then extracted his own handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

But instead of thanking him, as he had expected, she snatched the pristine square of white linen and threw it on the floor, deliberately grinding the heel of her boot upon it. Jason’ stared, bleak-eyed, as she kicked the now soiled handkerchief aside, and rubbed her nose unhygienically on the back of her hand.

‘Why, you——’

‘Go on!’ she encouraged him, chancing a look at him over her shoulder. ‘Say it! Call me names. Better that than ignoring my existence!’

Jason allowed his breath to escape on a suppressed oath, then bent and lifted the grubby handkerchief. He regarded it solemnly for several seconds, then he stuffed it back into the pocket of his jacket. Alexandra was sniffing now, her head bent, but he made no attempt to comfort her. Instead, he drew a case of the long narrow cigars he liked from his pocket, and placing one between his teeth, applied the flame of his lighter to it.

The aromatic flavour was soothing, and he attempted to remain calm. Arguing with the girl was doing no good, he could see that. But somehow he had to make her see reason. A sudden idea occurred to him. What she needed was someone to take care of her, some woman, and almost instantaneously the image of Miss Holland sprang to his mind. If that lady could be persuaded to accept a position as housekeeper-cum-guardian, he could lease a house here in London, and Alexandra could choose whether she wanted to continue with her studies or alternatively find some suitable occupation. He might even permit her to visit him in Santa Vittoria on occasion. If she stayed at the hotel in Valvedra, there was no reason why she shouldn’t travel if she wanted to.

‘Alexandra …’ His own voice was almost persuasive now, and instinctively she responded to the gentler tone.

‘Yes?’ She half turned, and he glimpsed the tear-washed brilliance of her eyes, tiny globules glistening like raindrops on her lashes. Unaccountably, he was stirred, and the knowledge brought an impatient hardening in his voice.

‘I’ve come to a decision,’ he said, thrusting his balled fists into the pockets of his pants, unaware that the action drew her attention to the powerful muscles of his thighs. ‘I shall lease a house here in London, for you—and for Miss Holland——’

‘Miss Holland?’

‘That’s right. The woman who was here a few minutes ago. If I’m not mistaken, she needs a job badly. Maybe she will be prepared to act as your guardian in my absence——’

‘No!’

‘What do you mean—no?’ he demanded ominously. ‘Alexandra, might I remind you that until your eighteenth birthday, I am your guardian. You will do as I say.’

‘You can’t make me,’ she retorted, swinging round to face him. ‘Oh, I admit, while you’re here, you can force me to stay with Miss—Miss Holland, but after you’re gone, do you honestly believe she’ll be able to make me do as she says? She can’t lock me in my room, you know. I shall have to go out sometimes. And who says I’ll have to come back?’

His face was steely hard by the time she had finished. ‘Are you threatening me?’ he demanded, and she sensed the tautening of his body.

‘I—why, no. Not—threatening,’ she muttered, resorting to looking for her handkerchief again. ‘But …’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up at him again, and this time there was only appeal in those drowned violet depths. ‘Oh, Jason, please! Don’t do this. Let me come with you. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t go near any of your farmhands—gauchos, whatever. I’ll do exactly as you say. I can cook—and clean—and make beds——’

‘No, Alexandra!’

‘Why not? Why not?’ Instead of spitting at him again as he had half expected, she closed the gap between them and he tore his hands out of his pockets to prevent her from getting too close for comfort. ‘Jason, Daddy respected you so much. He wanted us to be friends. Won’t you at least try to like me?’

Jason’s hands had descended on her shoulders, and the fragile vulnerability of the bones beneath his fingers caused him to hesitate before saying, ‘It’s not a question of—liking, Alexandra.’

‘Then why——’

He found he was not immune to those eyes after all. Hurting her was like hurting a wounded deer, a trite observation, but true nevertheless. What the hell, her father had abandoned her, hadn’t he? Was he about to do the same? What would happen to her if he did? Who knew what dangers she might encounter in London, particularly in her desire to prove to him that she needed his protection? His fingers tightened so that he felt the bones might crack beneath his hold, but she didn’t wince, and with a feeling compounded of sympathy and compassion, and a curious kind of self-disgust, he said:

‘All right, all right, I give in. You can come with me to Santa Vittoria. You and Miss Holland both.’

‘You really mean it?’

Tears overspilled her eyes as she stared disbelievingly up at him, and almost with revulsion he thrust her away from him. But that didn’t alter the fact that by allowing her to accompany him, he sensed he was inviting trouble. What form that trouble would take, he could not foresee, but almost immediately he wished he could retract his words.

It was too late, of course. Much too late. The misty relief that shone in her eyes could not be doused, and far from regretting his submission, she was positively incoherent with delight.

‘Oh, Jason!’ she breathed, brushing away her tears with a careless hand, and before he could anticipate what she was about to do, she had flung her arms around his neck and was bestowing kisses all over his face. ‘Darling, darling Jason!’ she was crying exuberantly, while he tried rather unsuccessfully to free himself, uncomfortably aware of those firm breasts pressing against the material of his waistcoat and of the warm scent of her arms wound so closely round his neck. If she was to accompany him to San Gabriel, they would have to talk about her impulsive methods of expressing herself, he thought dryly. He wondered how she saw him. As some kind of Dutch uncle, perhaps, or the father figure she had never known. Whatever, she would have to learn that young women, however enthusiastic, did not throw themselves into the arms of a virtual stranger just because he had agreed to her wishes, albeit against his better judgment.

Having extracted himself, and with her wrists pressed firmly against her sides, Jason felt more able to speak seriously to her, although the dancing violet eyes were a continual distraction.

‘Miss Holland,’ he said, ‘Miss Holland must agree to come with us, do you understand? If she refuses——’

‘She won’t,’ Alexandra interrupted certainly. ‘She liked you, I’m sure.’

‘It’s you she has to deal with,’ retorted Jason repressively, wondering with some misgivings how Estelita would react to two such females in his house. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you must not be so—so demonstrative.’

‘Demonstrative?’ Alexandra’s brows arched. ‘Towards you, you mean?’

‘Towards anyone,’ amended Jason dryly, but she only smiled.

‘Why?’ she persisted. ‘Don’t you like it? Don’t you like me to touch you?’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ he began, but she shook her head.

‘I think it has.’ She tried to free her wrists, but he knew better than to let her go. ‘I think it has everything to do with it. At the convent—you know, when I was living with the nuns—nobody ever touched one another. We were like—separate species.’ She sighed. ‘We used to talk together—and smile together—even pray together. But we never touched.’ She moved her slim shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘I think people should touch one another. That’s what caring is all about.’ She lifted her head. ‘I like touching people. I like touching you …’

‘That’s enough!’

Abruptly, she was free, but she knew better than to touch him just then. After a moment’s laboured breathing, he turned and crossed to the telephone, and while she watched, he asked the operator to get him the number of the agency where he had engaged to interview the governess. It was a brief call, but it served a dual purpose—on the one hand, it accomplished the need to contact Miss Holland as quickly as possible, and on the other it gave him time to realise the enormity of the task he was taking upon himself.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_98c84f16-d767-55fc-8f17-fdf912c67d81)


ALEXANDRA had never experienced such a sense of space and freedom, miles and miles of long pampas grass stretching as far as the eye could see. Acres and acres of land, grazed by herds of shorthorned cattle, that turned wicked eyes in their direction as they passed, making Alexandra, at least, aware of the thin sheet of metal which separated them from those ugly pointed projections. Cattle in France and England never had such beady little eyes, or moved with the arrogance of the beast, untamed and magnificent.

Ever since the powerful Range-Rover passed beneath the crossed strips of wood which had marked the boundary of Jason’s land, she had been expecting to see the ranch-house, but mile followed mile and there was nothing in sight but the untrammelled grasslands of the Santa Vittorian plateau. The road, which from Valvedra had been passably smooth, was now little more than a beaten track, and she was regretting her impulse to offer Miss Holland the seat beside Jason in front. As she sat in the back of the Range-Rover, the base of her spine was in constant opposition to the springs of the vehicle, and her back ached from being thrown from side to side.

From time to time, her eyes encountered Jason’s through the rear-view mirror, and then she made a determined effort to appear unconcerned, aware that occasionally a trace of amusement lightened their umber depths. But she was here, that was the main thing, she thought with satisfaction, and the awareness of Jason’s lean body in the seat in front of her was all the compensation she needed.

It had not been easy, she acknowledged it now, and until the moment she and Miss Holland had boarded the plane she had been terrified in case he should send some message forbidding her to join him. But from the minute her father had spoken of Jason Tarrant, describing the kind of man he was, telling her about their adventures in Mexico, the rough absorbing outdoor life they had led, she had wanted to meet him. All her life she had wanted to do the things her father did, meet the people he worked with, and share in the thrill of his excavations. She would have followed him to the ends of the earth if he had asked her, but he never had. So far as he was concerned, she was a girl, and girls were not welcome in what he considered to be a male province. Her own mother had died in childbirth confirming his belief that females were weak, defenceless creatures, and he had only sent for Alexandra at the end because he had known he was dying, too.

Even then, he had not known what to do with her. Her assurances that she would make out on her own had not convinced him, but his suggestion of returning her to the nuns of Sainte Sœur had filled her with alarm. It was then she had coined the idea of writing to Jason Tarrant, of telling him her father was dying, and putting her future into his hands. She knew her father had helped him when he was in trouble, but Charles Durham would not even consider such a proposition. Instead, he had dictated a letter to his solicitors, giving them the address of the convent, and asking that if—when—anything happened to him, Alexandra should return there, at least until she was eighteen.

To her shame, Alexandra had never written that letter. Because his eyesight was failing, she had written all her father’s letters for him, and it wasn’t difficult to substitute a letter of her own for him to sign. It was possible that given time, the solicitors might have questioned that particular missive, but Charles Durham suffered a massive heart attack the following day from which he never recovered. Alexandra was left, pale and distraught, at the mercy of her own machinations.

Her first meeting with Jason, at his hotel, had not been exactly as she had expected. Of course, she had expected him to protest about the fact of her being a girl—didn’t everyone?—but she had not imagined he would be so young. She had been prepared to meet a contemporary of her father’s, a man in his fifties, at least, instead of someone perhaps twenty years younger. But that initial hazard had been swiftly superseded by her immediate attraction to the man himself, whose lean hard body and dark-skinned features reminded her vividly of the painting of an Indian the nuns had kept at the convent. Those gentle women would have been shocked by Alexandra’s reactions to that particular picture, the baptism to Christianity of a tall bronzed pagan, which had taken on a different aspect in Alexandra’s maturing eyes.

Jason himself had been as confounded as her father by his new responsibilities, but in the event it proved providential that he had imagined her to be a boy. Without Miss Holland’s intervention, he might never have been persuaded to allow her to go to Santa Vittoria, but she felt now that whatever he had decreed, she would have followed him. It was fate, she decided, which had prompted her to write that letter, and for now, just being with him was enough.

Miss Holland was another matter. That lady had taken her responsibilities very seriously, and seemed to regard her situation as that of a nursemaid, rather than a companion. There were times when she made Alexandra feel like a child in the company of an adult, and those occasions were galling. She was seventeen; granted she had led a comparatively sheltered life, but she had read a lot, much of it books the nuns would have been horrified to discover in the hands of one of their charges. The only thing her father had not kept her short of was money and she had spent it lavishly on literature of all kinds. All her experience of the relationship between a man and a woman had come from books, but she felt adequate to cope should the situation arise. She was a mature and intelligent young woman, or so she believed, and Miss Holland’s behaviour was a source of irritation to her. The fact that since their arrival in Valvedra, it was a source of amusement to Jason, too, only added to her frustration.

Miss Holland had proved useful when it came to providing her with a wardrobe suitable to the climate in which she was to be living. Her knowledge of London was extensive, she having tutored the children of a titled family for more years than she cared to admit, and maybe because she regarded Alexandra as little more than a child, she chose those shops where teenage clothes were sold. Once inside those shops however, Alexandra soon made her own wishes felt, and the sales assistants added their encouragement. The fashions of the day—jeans and sweaters, pants suits, and long flowing skirts and dresses—looked good on Alexandra’s slender figure, and although Miss Holland looked askance at revealing smocks and skin-tight jumpers, her opinion was overruled. Besides, the ear-splitting music which was an accompaniment to the service in these establishments gave her a headache, and she was obliged to wait outside.

Although Charles Durham had not died a poor man, he had not died a rich one either. He had used most of his capital to finance the expeditions which had become the cornerstone of his life, and sacrificed his dream of creating an institute in the tireless search for knowledge. Even so, the sale of the small house he had owned, though seldom occupied, in Ealing did provide Alexandra with a comfortable nest-egg, but her plans of bestowing it on her benefactor were doomed to disappointment. Before departing for South America, Jason had made it very clear that until her majority, he intended to make himself responsible for her maintenance, and the knowledge that she had tricked him into supporting her occasionally gave her a sleepless night. She consoled herself with the belief, however, that once she was living in his house, she would make herself useful to him in every way possible, and somehow she would repay him.

The days following Jason’s departure had dragged. She and the middle-aged lady who was to accompany her were obliged to have jabs for various tropical diseases before their departure, and because Jason could not spare the time away from his estancia, he had left within a week of their first meeting. From then on, Alexandra had lived in a fever of anxiety, as much from the knowledge of her own duplicity as from the after-effects of the vaccination serum.

But eventually the day of departure had arrived, and they had left a cold, grey England, recovering from the chills of January, to fly south into the sun. Their overnight stay in Rio de Janeiro had given Alexandra no thrill, although Miss Holland had marvelled at the twin peaks overlooking Guanabara Bay, and the magnificent statue of Christ whose shadow embraced the city. The thrill for Alexandra had come when they landed the next morning at Valvedra’s much smaller airport, and found Jason awaiting them in the arrivals lounge. In mud-coloured Levis and a matching shirt, half open down the muscled darkness of his chest, he appeared relaxed and casual, only the guarded narrowing of his eyes revealing the doubts he still possessed about bringing her here. But Alexandra had determinedly ignored his restraint, and much to both his, and Miss Holland’s, disapproval she had flung her arms about his neck and greeted him in her usual impulsive fashion. This time, however, Jason had quickly disengaged himself, and the kiss meant for his mouth had slid harmlessly along his jawline. Alexandra had been sad, but unrepentant, despite the effort of Miss Holland to behave as if she was some kind of annoying child who refused to behave with decorum.

Beyond the windows of the Range-Rover, the ground was steadily rising, and she saw to her surprise that they were in rolling hill country now, granite-like ridges casting shadows across the land. In the distance, the purple peaks of the Sierra Grande looked rugged and mysterious, and the whole aspect of the country had changed. It was late afternoon and already the shadows were lengthening, elongating the branches of the wind-torn cypresses that clung to the ridges, and shedding a rippling wave of ghostlike fingers across the land.

Their emergence into a sunlit valley was almost startling, the escarpment dropping away below them where a stream tumbled recklessly down the cliff face. It was then that Alexandra saw him, outlined against the golden rays of the sinking sun on the ridge opposite them, a magnificent black stallion silhouetted by the purplish gold backdrop of earth and sky. Just for a second he was there and then he was gone, plunging into the gully behind him, so that she thought for a moment she had imagined him.

‘Oh!’ she gasped, the sound escaping from her on a soft sigh, and Jason’s response was one of wry satisfaction.

‘You saw him.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miss Holland, unaware of the tableau, gave an exclamation of surprise.

‘I beg your par——’ she was beginning, when Alexandra leant forward to rest her arms along the backs of their seats, saying eagerly: ‘Yes. Yes, I saw him! Whose is he? Is he yours? Oh, Jason, he’s beautiful!’

Jason gave her a half mocking glance over his shoulder. ‘I doubt that brute will ever belong to anybody,’ he remarked flatly. ‘I suppose technically, yes, you could say that as he runs on my land, he belongs to me, but no one’s ever succeeded in breaking him.’

‘You have caught him, then?’

‘Yes.’ Jason nodded, and Miss Holland’s expression grew even more confused. ‘But he’s a proud bastard—excuse me!’ This as that lady’s brows ascended. ‘He considers running my range with my mares and keeping them happy his prime objective!’

Alexandra’s low laugh was intimate, and as if realising her bare arm was resting comfortably against the broad expanse of his shoulder, Jason’s expression hardened and he moved so that she was not touching him. Fortunately, perhaps, Miss Holland chose that moment to ask a question of her own, and Alexandra sank back against the upholstery as Jason explained what they had seen.

‘You breed horses, Mr. Tarrant?’ she enquired, her lips twitching a little as if at a rather distasteful subject, and Jason’s hard features softened a little.

‘Horses are my passion,’ he admitted, his eyes meeting Alexandra’s for a brief compelling moment. Then, braking as the road took a sharp curve, he added: ‘But the production of beef is my primary concern.’

‘But this animal—the one Alexandra has just seen—is a wild creature?’ Miss Holland persisted.

‘I suppose he is,’ Jason nodded, frowning as the wheels of the Range-Rover slid across a shingly patch of pebbles dangerously close to the edge of the track. ‘But sometimes I wonder if he’s not more civilised than we are.’ His lips twisted at the older woman’s apparent astonishment. ‘There’s little that goes on at the estancia that he doesn’t know about. Some of the Indians think he’s the reincarnation of one of their gods. To them, he’s sacred. To me, he has less saintly qualities.’

Miss Holland shook her head, obviously disturbed by her first introduction to life at San Gabriel, but Alexandra was filled with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. This was what she had always wanted, she thought with satisfaction; travel and adventure, and a chance to live her life instead of just existing. Jason’s disapproval did not disturb her, it was a challenge, and something told her he was not as indifferent to her femininity as he pretended to be.

Then her breath caught in her throat as she suddenly glimpsed a building ahead of them. As yet, it was below them in the valley, but the painted tiles of its roof, leaved across a wide verandah, gave her her first sight of Jason’s hacienda.

Uncaring of his hostility, Alexandra leant forward again, deliberately allowing her slim fingers to stroke the nape of his neck, hidden beneath the over-long straightness of his hair. ‘Is that your house?’ she breathed, and the scent of her breath mingled with the perfume of wild verbena that drifted irresistibly through the open windows of the Range-Rover.

Jason’s hand came up, ostensibly to smooth his hair, but he pushed her fingers determinedly away, as he answered: ‘Yes, that’s San Gabriel,’ and her delight in her surroundings obliterated the coldness of his tones.

‘It’s rather a large house, isn’t it, Mr Tarrant?’

Miss Holland had her own opinion, and Jason chose to tell her that the sprawling outbuildings she could see were the lodgings of the gauchos who worked for him. He pointed out the long bunkhouse and the cookhouse where their meals were served.

‘I have twenty men who work for me on a permanent basis, and at least twice that number who are employed if and when we need them. Then there’s Ricardo Goya, and Andrés Alberoni, who has his own home at the other end of the valley. Ricardo is my foreman, and Andrés is the best herdsman this side of the Andes.’

‘Quite a large establishment.’ Miss Holland was impressed, although Alexandra guessed she still had misgivings about coming out here. It could only be all too different from what she was used to, and unlike Alexandra she was old to change her ways. But pride, and necessity, had taken the choice of working conditions out of her hands, and she had been prepared to sacrifice her desire to remain in England for the very adequate salary Jason had offered her.

The road widened as they reached the grassy lower slopes of the valley, and now they could see the river that meandered beside banks bright with golden rod and curiously yellow poppies. There were cows grazing beside the river, not the wild-eyed beasts they had seen on their journey, but fat, placid-looking creatures that were more interested in cropping the grass than watching their passage. As they neared the homestead, Alexandra saw the corrals where they kept the mares and their foals, and nearer at hand, shaggy-haired goats and chickens that scuttled out of their path.

But the hacienda itself riveted her gaze. Now, she could see that the low-hanging tiles were a deep red in colour, shading a balcony above the verandah, where rattan chairs suggested a shady retreat on hot afternoons. Right now, with the sun sinking lower every minute, the air was comparatively cool, unlike earlier in the day when Alexandra had had to discard the jerkin that matched her blue cotton pants. Beyond the verandah, she could see a shadowy hallway, framed by the sprawling cluster of vines and honeysuckle which had made their home around the pillars that supported the balcony. At the side of the building, a wrought-iron staircase wound, Spanish-fashion, to the upper floor, and along the balcony Alexandra could see long curtains moving in the breeze from open shutters. The shutters were all folded back at present, green slats against a pale-washed wall, as distinctive in their way as the riot of exotic blossoms that tumbled carelessly from urns beside the verandah steps.

Unable to suppress her delight, Alexandra bounced forward again, but Jason was already stopping the vehicle, and as he began to open his door a woman appeared round the corner of the building. She was young, that much Alexandra registered at a glance, tall, with full swelling breasts, and hair as dark as Jason’s own. It was long, like Alexandra’s, but whereas hers was inclined to curl in the heat, this woman’s was perfectly straight, and fell smoothly over one shoulder. Her features were those of the Madonna, calm and impassive, but as Alexandra alighted from the vehicle, too, she felt a wave of hostility emanating from her that had none of the Virgin’s compassion about it.

Jason greeted the woman with a faintly wry expression, turning first to help his other passenger to climb down, before saying: ‘This is my housekeeper, Miss Holland. Señora Vargas. Estelita, this is my ward—and her companion.’

‘Hello.’

Alexandra stepped forward, holding out her hand, determined not to be daunted by this sloe-eyed female. Close at hand, she was not half as young as she had at first imagined, but she was not mistaken that the faintly contemptuous stare Estelita conferred upon her sleeveless vest and creased cotton pants was intended to intimidate. The woman’s attire of long black skirt and loose-fitting blouse was common to women she had seen in Valvedra, but Estelita bestowed a certain grace upon them which was not typical.

Now, she allowed Alexandra to take her limp hand before saying: ‘Bienvenida, señorita!’ in tones which said just the opposite.

‘Inglés, Estelita,’ Jason warned in an undertone, and the housekeeper greeted Miss Holland in her own language, showing more enthusiasm towards the older woman than she had done to the younger one.

‘Come inside …’ Jason was already mounting the steps, and Alexandra quickly followed him meeting his gaze deliberately as he looked back at them. But he refused to answer the question in hers, and strode ahead into the cool, tiled hall of the hacienda.

The walls were plain and adorned with small plaques of saints. There were flowers in a copper bowl, huge lilies with thick creamy petals, and orchids, fragile and exotic. There were jewel-bright rugs and a hand-carved chest, and wind-chimes that whispered in the draught of their passing. No one would have taken it for the home of an Englishman, and yet Alexandra felt a sense of homecoming she had never experienced before.

Gazing at the circular window above the gallery of the first floor landing, whose prismatic light slanted down to the hall below, she hardly realised Jason had left her, or that Miss Holland and the woman, Estelita, had come to join her. Until the housekeeper spoke.

‘You would like to see your rooms?’ she suggested politely. ‘I will show them to you while Pepe prepares some tea.’ She addressed herself to Miss Holland. ‘You would like some tea, señora, I am sure.’

‘Tea!’

Miss Holland made an obeisance of the word, but Alexandra suddenly realised that Jason was not with them, and looked about her in faint annoyance. Several doors opened from the wide hallway, and through open doors she could see an inner courtyard, but she had no way of knowing where he had gone. Estelita, taking her silence for acquiescence, was already beginning to mount the wrought iron staircase that circled the hall, and Miss Holland was eagerly following.

It was irritating to have to go with them. Alexandra wasn’t tired. On the contrary, she was exhilarated, and all too eager to explore her new domain. Jason! she thought impatiently. He must have known how she would feel, and yet he had left her to Estelita’s less than friendly overtures.

Her room temporarily overcame her annoyance. Large, and high-ceilinged, it overlooked the whole sweep of the valley, and although the furnishings were not luxurious, their very spareness was attractive. Long woven beige curtains matched the woven bedspread, and the dressing table and long clothes closet left plenty of room for the velvet-cushioned prie-dieu in the corner. Two candles could be lighted on either side of the carved wooden cross, and Alexandra was enchanted to discover that the candles were hand-made, too. Miss Holland’s room was next door, very little different from that of her charge, and Estelita explained that there was only one bathroom, unfortunately.

‘The men use the showers down at the bunkhouse,’ she said, when Miss Holland revealed her dismay, and Alexandra asked who she meant.

‘Why—Jason, sin duda,’ she explained with a slight curl to her lip, ‘and Ricardo.’

‘Ricardo?’ Alexandra frowned, noticing the familiar way Estelita spoke of her employer. ‘That would be—Mr Tarrant’s foreman?’

‘That is correct.’ Estelita’s black eyes were insolent. ‘You will meet him at supper, no doubt. Now …’ She turned once more to Miss Holland. ‘If you will excuse me, I will see about your tea.’

‘Of course, of course.’

Miss Holland was only too willing to agree, but she followed Alexandra into her room when the woman had gone, and sank down rather wearily onto the bed.

‘Do you think you’re going to be happy here?’ she asked, as the girl walked rather thoughtfully towards the open balcony doors, and Alexandra looked back at her with some misgivings.

‘Why do you ask that?’ she exclaimed, trying to subdue the irritating feeling of anti-climax she herself was feeling, and her companion gave a somewhat helpless shrug of her shoulders.

‘I get the feeling we’re not altogether welcome,’ she confessed, taking out her handkerchief and wiping the grime of the journey from her rather anxious features. ‘Oh, not from Mr Tarrant, of course. He’s been charming. But Señora Vargas …’

‘Estelita,’ said Alexandra firmly, more firmly than she was actually feeling, ‘Estelita is the housekeeper, that’s all. I don’t intend to let a housekeeper intimidate me!’

‘Do you think that’s all she is?’ asked Miss Holland doubtfully, unexpectedly voicing those fears which Alexandra had succeeded in keeping hidden until that moment. ‘She seems—very much in command to me.’

Alexandra determinedly squared her shoulders. ‘Well, maybe she is, at that. But she’s not in command of us, Miss Holland, and that’s what matters.’

The older woman gave a rueful smile. ‘Oh, for the arrogance of youth!’ she murmured, a trifle anxiously, and then started when a male voice spoke brusquely behind them.

‘Is everything all right?’

It was Jason, and Alexandra turned to him mutinously, wondering how much of their conversation he had overheard. ‘Must you creep up on us like that?’ she snapped, thrusting back the weight of her hair with a nervous hand, aware that it must be uncombed and unruly after the journey, and his mouth took a downward curve.

‘I did not creep up on you!’ he declared coldly. ‘I was merely attempting to assure myself that you had everything you needed.’

‘Well, we haven’t!’ said Alexandra childishly, facing him in defiance of her emotions. ‘We’re short on a host, for one thing, and for another—where did you disappear to?’

Jason’s mouth relaxed a little. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is not a holiday hotel. It’s a working ranch, with any number of things waiting to be done. I’m sorry if you think I neglect my duties——’

‘Oh, I’m sure we didn’t think any such thing.’ Miss Holland rose now and after a reproving look in Alexandra’s direction moved uncomfortably towards the door where Jason was standing. ‘I expect we’re all tired. I know I am.’

‘I’m not,’ declared Alexandra shortly, tipping her head on one side and daring Jason to argue with her, but he was already standing aside to allow her companion to leave the room.

‘I suggest you rest for a while, Miss Holland,’ he was saying with quiet assurance. ‘Supper isn’t served much before eight, and there’s time for you to take a bath, if you’d like to.’

‘Thank you. I may take you up on that,’ she agreed, moving along the landing, and presently Alexandra heard the door of her room close behind her.

Only then did Jason step into her room, his face eloquent with disapproval. ‘Do you think you could refrain from embarrassing me in front of Miss Holland?’ he demanded, in low angry tones, and her momentary joy that he had chosen to remain was quickly doused.

‘Yes,’ she declared now, holding up her chin, ‘if you can guarantee that—that Estelita won’t embarrass me in front of her!’

‘Oh, God!’ He raked back his hair with impatient fingers. ‘Now what has she been saying?’

‘Saying?’ Alexandra’s shrug was offhand. ‘She hasn’t exactly—said anything. It’s just—her attitude,’ she finished lamely.

‘I see.’ His lips thinned. ‘Is that all?’

‘No, it’s not all.’ Her chin jutted defensively. ‘I like my room. It’s very nice.’ She paused. ‘But I don’t want to rest. I’m not tired. I want to see the ranch. I want to be with you!’

Jason’s features took on the guarded expression she was coming to know so well. ‘The estancia,’ he said, stressing the Spanish derivative, ‘comprises some twenty thousand acres. How much do you suppose you could see before it gets dark?’ He gestured towards the open windows, where already shadows were falling. ‘Tomorrow—or the next day—if you can sit a horse, I’ll have Ricardo show you the home paddocks——’

‘Ricardo!’ Alexandra’s chest heaved. ‘I don’t know Ricardo. I don’t want Ricardo to show me the—the estancia. I want you——’

‘Alexandra!’ His use of her name cut her off in full spate. ‘The sooner you realise your every wish is not my command, the better. All right, so I allowed you to come here as you wanted, but so long as you are living under my roof, there are certain things you will have to learn, and the first is that I cannot devote all my time to your entertainment!’

There was silence for a moment after that while they viewed one another with wary speculation. Then Alexandra spoke, but it was so quietly that he could barely hear the words.

‘You want me to hate it here, don’t you?’ she accused him, in low choking tones. ‘You want me to find it so awful that I’ll pack my bags and go away again, don’t you? Then you won’t have to be bothered with me any longer!’

‘Alexandra!’ With a driven kind of anguish, he crossed the room between them with long easy strides, and grasping her by the shoulders, he shook her until her head felt too heavy for the slender column of her throat. ‘Stop it!’ he ordered savagely. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Of course I want you here. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have allowed you to come, whatever you said.’

‘Is that true?’ The long silky lashes swept upward, and the smouldering torment of his gaze was achingly reassuring. ‘Oh, Jason,’ she whispered, lifting her hand to his face and touching his cheek. ‘Jason, you do care about me, don’t you?’

‘I’ve said so, haven’t I?’ he muttered gruffly, but he held himself away from her, and almost instinctively she moved nearer to him.

Immediately she was aware of the tautness of his body, of the moist male smell of him that no written word had ever warned her about. She could feel the hard muscles of his legs where hers were touching him, and longed, with an incomprehensible yearning, for something she hardly understood; for some contact between them that was not compounded of sympathy and comfort.

‘Jason …’

His name on her lips was a plea for understanding, but when he turned his head and parted his lips against her palm, she fairly snatched her hand away and pressed it tightly to her. Her startled eyes were mesmerised by the probing force of his, her whole body tingling with emotions she was not equipped to handle. She felt her breasts taut against the thinness of her vest, shameless in their eagerness, her head was swimming, and her legs, weak and trembling, scarcely had the strength to support her. Then she glimpsed the dawning cynicism in his gaze, the mocking curve of his mouth—and guessed his intention had been to achieve just this result. With a shudder of reaction, she pulled herself away from him, and his hands fell loosely to his sides.

‘Yes,’ he said, and his voice was low and angry, ‘you are just a child, aren’t you, Alexandra? So don’t try to play the femme fatale. It doesn’t satisfy.’

‘I—I suppose you think I’m afraid of you!’ she burst out jerkily, her arms folding about herself, as if for protection, and he nodded.

‘Aren’t you?’ he demanded, and then, as if his patience had spent itself, he brushed past her and left the room.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_fc1c6894-8283-5877-9788-3f3251e11e95)


THE mare was a solid little creature, with the gentlest eyes Alexandra had ever seen. Her colouring was not distinctive, a kind of rusty grey with spots of white splashed over her hindquarters, but compared to the horse they had had at the convent, she was a veritable thoroughbred. Alexandra was glad now she had spent so much time with the old shire horse at Sainte Sœur, grooming him and riding him, most times with only a blanket for a saddle.

Not that Ricardo had been convinced of her ability. He had had her ride the mare round and round the paddock until he assured himself that she was able to handle the animal, and her spine, still tender from the previous day’s journey, ached from the unaccustomed exercise.

It was the morning after her arrival at San Gabriel, and Alexandra had awakened with a distinct feeling of discouragement. It was unusual for her, she was normally of an optimistic disposition, but she had lain for a few minutes recalling the events of the previous evening with depressing clarity.

After her confrontation with Jason she had felt little like eating supper, but a hasty bath, after Miss Holland had vacated the bathroom, and a change of clothes, had lightened her mood. It was too soon to jump to any conclusions, she had told herself firmly, flicking the skirt of an embroidered caftan down over her hips. Just because she and Jason had had their first row it did not mean that he was regretting bringing her here. They had had a difference of opinion, that was all—but deep inside her she had known it was more than that. At the first sign of his responding to the curious emotions he aroused inside her, she had bolted like a scared rabbit, and she was left with the disturbing evidence of her own immaturity.

Rummaging through her case—which had been brought by the same dark-skinned man who had provided Miss Holland’s tray of tea—she had brought out the tattered copy of Desert Rhapsody, from which she had gleaned much of her knowledge of the man-woman relationship. It was most explicit in its descriptions of the torrid affair between a fragile English girl and a hawk-eyed Arab sheik, but although the girl shrank from the Arab’s passions, the book never actually explained why. Indeed, the passions themselves were described in such a way that Alexandra scarcely understood what was going on. She only knew her imagination ran riot when Tarik ‘tore the shimmering gauze from her slender body, and threw himself upon her’, and there was an odd sensation in her lower limbs when she contemplated that intimate scene. It was strange, because the girl always gave in to the man, despite constant assertions that she hated him. Yet, as soon as he touched her, ‘she was aflame’. Alexandra sighed and put the book away, and went down to supper with a rather thoughtful expression in her shadowed eyes.

They ate in what she assumed to be the dining room. It was a bare room, with a long low dresser set with plates, and an equally long table, covered by a linen cloth. Darkness had fallen, and the shutters had been drawn against the night insects, but their wings were still audible. They fought to reach the lamps that were standing at either end of the dresser, golden globes, that reminded Alexandra of the old oil lamps they used to use in the cellar at the convent. The lighting in the house was electric, however, and she had been surprised at this modern innovation in what was essentially a traditional dwelling.

As well as taking part in the serving of the meal, Estelita also ate with them, along with Ricardo Goya, and Pepe, the manservant who had brought their cases. Meeting Ricardo for the first time, Alexandra was rather intimidated by his enormous frame and grizzled dark hair, an extension of which grew down his cheeks and curled beneath his strong nose in exuberant mostachos. But his hearty laughter rang often in the high-ceilinged room, and his teasing baiting of Estelita made Alexandra his friend for life.

Pepe was a different proposition. A rather morose Jason had introduced the thin young man as Estelita’s brother, and watching them together, Alexandra could see the resemblance. Both were very dark-skinned, although their features were predominantly Spanish, but Pepe’s features were not quite so refined as his sister’s. She was the older, too, possibly twenty-nine or thirty, Alexandra estimated, while Pepe was hardly more than her own age. He spoke little throughout the meal, and it was left to Estelita to question Jason about his journey, and Ricardo to make jokes at the housekeeper’s expense.

All in all supper had not been a comfortable meal. Miss Holland had not joined them, after all, and Alexandra was very conscious of her own alienation among these people. She spent her time studying the relationships between them, avoiding the most obvious one between the man who persistently parried all questions, and the woman he called his housekeeper. Although from time to time, she sensed Pepe’s eyes upon her, they dropped as soon as she lifted her head, and she came to the conclusion that he was intrigued by her pale skin. She had seen few pale-skinned people since coming to South America, but contrarily she admired the brown skins she had seen, envying them their immunity to the sun’s rays.

Ricardo spoke to her once or twice, asking her about her father, and revealing that he, too, had known Charles Durham. It was reassuring to hear that her father was not forgotten by these men, but although she would have liked to have asked him questions, she was all too conscious of Estelita’s cold dark eyes upon her.

The meal itself was rather too rich for her palate. A casserole of meat and vegetables, very highly spiced and hot with peppers, was an assault to a stomach still not attuned to the change of latitude, and Alexandra contented herself with crumbling the bread which accompanied it, and spreading it thinly with butter that tasted slightly rancid.

‘You are not eating, señorita,’ Estelita remarked once, her lips twisting contemptuously. ‘She will never lose that boyish figure if she does not put some flesh on her bones, eh, Jason?’

Ricardo made a comment to this which seemed to amuse him greatly, and which caused the housekeeper’s eyes to flash angrily. Her response was a vituperative tirade in their own language, which Jason silenced with a curt admonishment. But Ricardo was unrepentant, and turning to Alexandra, he explained:

‘I tell Estelita she does not need any more flesh on her bones, no? I think perhaps she could afford to spare you some, hmm?’

‘Ricardo!’ Jason’s impatient interjection gave Alexandra the chance to avoid an embarrassing answer, but Estelita was not appeased. She spent the remainder of the meal in sullen silence, only responding when Jason suggested she should serve the coffee.

Alexandra, apprehensive of Jason’s censure, was glad when, after the meal was over, he disappeared, and making the excuse of seeing how Miss Holland was faring, she left the room. The hall was a silent cavern, and the lamp standing on the chest cast pools of darkness in shadowy corners. The remoteness of their situation was suddenly a tangible presence, and shivering slightly she crossed the tiled floor to the stairs. A shaft of light from an open doorway caught her gaze as she ascended the stairs and dipping slightly to peer into the room, she saw Jason standing behind a square desk. The desk was strewn with papers, and he was presently engrossed in the sheet he held in his hand, a brooding expression marring his lean features. His indifference to the isolation was reassuring somehow, but she went on her way, aware that for tonight at least, Jason’s company was barred to her.

In her room, she turned out the light and stepped out on to the balcony. The scent from the passion-flower vine below her windows rose tantalisingly to her nostrils, and she tried to relax. But the starlit darkness was like a wall between her and the life she had known, and succumbing to a ridiculous sense of unease, she closed the shutters and went to find Miss Holland.

Morning had displaced the shadows of the night, and although it was early, even for her, Alexandra was up soon after six. Her system was still adjusting to the time change, and besides, she was eager to dispel her first impressions. She was sure her anxieties of the previous evening had been exaggerated, and the prospect of seeing more of the estancia lifted her spirits. She was even prepared to believe that that scene with Jason had never happened, that it had been some figment of her imagination, and she determined to show him that her feelings towards him had not changed. Exactly what those feelings were, she was not quite sure. She felt a sense of gratitude towards him, of course, but it was more than that that made her senses tingle when he was near her. He was much older than she was, even if he was much younger than her father had been, but not old enough to regard in that light. She only knew she liked being with him, better than with anyone she had ever known before, except perhaps her father, but even in her innocence she sensed that the relationship she wanted with Jason was much different from the relationship she had wanted with her father. It was all most disturbing. She had sent herself to sleep trying to imagine how she would feel if Jason treated her as the sheik had treated his fair prisoner, but her inexperienced imagination had been unable to provide any satisfactory answer.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/anne-mather/fallen-angel/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.