“What is that stuff?” she asked Matteo, when she could talk.
“Agua de fuego,” he answered. “Firewater.”
“I’ll say. You could have warned me.”
“I thought you might like to go native,” he teased her, enjoying her discomfiture.
“Haven’t they heard of iced tea around here?” she said, and he laughed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he offered, standing up. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
“How about a bathtub?” she asked.
“I think you’ll have to make do with that basin in the corner,” he said, “but I’m sure Elena can heat the water for you.”
“And a change of clothes?” she went on, raising her eyebrows questioningly. “I’m wearing half the road we traveled to get here.”
“I don’t think you and Elena are the same size, but she has a daughter who might fit the bill. Finish that food and I’ll be right back.”
Helen polished off the meal while she was waiting and was inspecting the sorry state of her shoes when he returned.
“Tea,” he said, handing her a glass. “Sorry, no ice.”
Helen drank it anyway; it was wet, and at least tasted familiar.
“And,” Matteo said, holding out his other arm, “for my lady’s toilette.”
Helen took the bar of crude yellow soap, the pair of rough, ribbed gray towels and the square of fleecy material to be used for a washcloth.
“I seem to remember getting these things for you,” she said to him, piling the items on the bed.
“The supplies you provided were a little more refined,” he replied ruefully.
Helen lifted one shoulder negligently. “Soap is soap.”
She was pinning up her hair with barrettes from her purse when he stilled her hands with his and said gently, “You’re something else, lady. This must have been the worst day of your life and I haven’t heard one word of complaint.”
Her hair fell over his fingers as she replied softly, “It wasn’t the worst day of my life, Matt. I spent it with you.”
Matteo twisted a bunch of the silken strands around his fist and said quietly, “I’m sorry I got you into such a mess, majita.”
“What does that word mean?”
“Little maja, little lady.”
“Is that what I seem to you?”
“Yes. A perfect lady: warm, generous, loyal. Look what you’ve done for me. I don’t understand how anyone can give so much and take so little.”
Helen was too moved to speak. She had never been paid such an extravagant compliment.
Matteo dropped his hands to her shoulders and said, “What’s wrong with that family of yours? How can they ignore you? Don’t they see what a treasure you are?”
There was a knock at the door and Matteo went to answer it. He returned carrying a steaming kettle by its wooden handle.
“Here’s your hot water,” he said to Helen. “Let me pour it into the basin for you, and then I’ll see if Elena found those clothes.”
He left Helen preparing for her bath and went below to collect fresh clothing from his friend’s wife. When he returned, the door to Helen’s room was ajar, and as he was about to leave the things in the hall he was stopped by a sight that took his breath away.
Helen was standing in a pool of light from the table lamp, washing. Her skirt and blouse were off, dark shadows on the bed, and her one piece teddy was folded down to the waist, leaving her torso bare. Her back was to him, but she was turned slightly sideways, so he could see her three-quarter profile. His lips parted as she lathered her upper arms, rubbing the creamy soap over her ivory skin. The fine muscles of her slender back tensed and relaxed as she moved, tilting her head back and stroking the snowy column of her throat.
Matteo’s gaze traveled lower, taking in the long, slender legs and narrow hips exposed by the high cut of the teddy. He looked up again to find her hands traveling to her breasts, and he almost groaned aloud. He watched as the dusky nipples rose to her touch, as they would surely rise to his. She picked up the washcloth and glided it over her abdomen, then moved it upward to stroke the valley between her breasts before she lifted her hair with one hand and washed the nape of her neck. Her breasts, free of the confinement of clothing, were more ample than he would have suspected, full and high.
Matteo could not seem to get enough air into his lungs. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. Look away, he told himself. Turn around and go downstairs; wait until she’s finished. Voyeurism is pathetic, an invasion of her privacy.
But he discovered that he couldn’t move. He had imagined her naked so many times, wondered how she would look, and the reality did not disappoint him. Just a few more seconds, he thought, and then I’ll go quietly and she’ll never know I was here.
Helen bent and splashed clear water over her skin, and Matteo watched as the sparkling rivulets caressed her like crystalline fingers. She raised each of her arms in turn, rinsing, and her breasts rose, taut and firm, the nipples stiffening even more in reaction to the cooling water. He leaned against the wall, his stomach knotting with desire. This was too much, more than any mortal man could bear. Sweat was trickling down his sides under his shirt as he stared helplessly, spellbound, caught in the same net that had once held David as he coveted Bathsheba.
Helen dipped her cloth in the basin and rinsed her back. Matteo’s eye traveled her spine, taking in the beautiful arch from straight shoulders to slim waist, and he longed to trace with his hands the path the water took. When she began to dry herself, he saw a rosy hue invade her skin, saw the imprint of her fingers on her flesh as she cupped each breast and then released it.
Matteo’s hand went to his hardening sex and he shifted his weight, easing the stricture of his jeans. He tried once more to leave, but instead found himself pushing open the door and walking toward her. He dropped the clothes Elena had given him on the chair and said, “Helen.”
He didn’t recognize his own voice. It was low and hoarse, filled with longing.
She half turned before he touched her, sliding his hands under her arms and enclosing her breasts from behind. She gasped at the intimate contact, but then relaxed as he pressed his lips to the base of her neck.
“Oh, Helen, what a picture you make,” he moaned, as she lay back in his embrace, closing her eyes as his fingers stroked her nipples, teasing them to new sensitivity. He drew his mouth along the satiny line of her shoulder, and Helen whimpered when he lowered his hands to her hips and forced her back against him.
“Feel what you do to me,” he said into her ear. He grasped her waist and turned her to face him, kissing her wildly, the pretense of control he had maintained so carefully for so long gone in an instant.
Helen’s mouth opened under his, welcoming the invasion of his tongue. She had never been kissed like this, with such primitive urgency, and she responded in kind, running her palms over the hard surface of his back, reveling in the coiled power she felt there, tension she had created and which sought her for its release. She had touched him often while he was sick, seen to his every need, but this was different; it was almost like discovering him anew. The first time he had held her the day he got out of bed he’d changed their relationship forever, and now she associated this hunger with him, the only man who had ever made her feel it.
Matteo picked her up and set her on the bed, falling with her into a prone position and nuzzling her neck. His lips moved lower, tasting the soft skin, redolent of soap and her own unique scent. They settled on the pink bud of her nipple, and Helen arched her back, sinking her fingers into his hair and holding his head steady as he laved her, then sucked gently. She made a small sound, not of protest, but of pleasure, and he increased the pressure until she was stimulated to a point just below pain. When he moved back to sit up, she tried to hold him, but he slipped out of her grasp and unbuttoned his shirt, stripping it off quickly and dropping it to the floor. Then he lowered himself to her again and she wound her arms around his
neck, sighing with the satisfaction of feeling his naked skin against her own.
Matteo twined his limbs with hers on the bed, and Helen’s thighs loosened to allow him closer. She felt him, ready, and he grunted when she unconsciously lifted her hips to meet him. She was acting on blind instinct, but her eager innocence inflamed him, urging him onward. He rolled her on her back and laid his flushed cheek against the smooth flesh of her belly, placing a kiss there before peeling back the rest of her chemise and pulling it off her legs.
Helen stiffened, but did not resist; she had already made the commitment to him in her mind. There was only one small concern, and she voiced it as he stood to remove his pants.
“Will it hurt?” she asked, her quiet voice coming at him out of the semidarkness.
Matteo’s hand froze on his belt buckle, and he didn’t reply for several long seconds. Then he thrust trembling fingers through his tousled hair and sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, moving like a man recently awakened from a dream.
“No, Helen, it won’t hurt, because nothing is going to happen,” he answered evenly. He retrieved the folded sheet from the foot of the bed and flung it open, drawing it over her from feet to neck.
“What is it?” Helen said, sitting up and clutching the sheet to her breasts. “Did I do something wrong?”
He shook his head. His hands were braced on his knees, and she could see the decreasing motion of his chest as his breathing returned to normal.
Helen reached for him with her free hand, touching his smooth shoulder, slick now with perspiration.
“It’s all right, Matteo.”
“No, it’s not,” he replied huskily.
“I’m ready,” she insisted. “I love...”
He whirled suddenly and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t, Helen. Don’t say it.”
“Why not? I feel it,” she answered, when he relaxed his grip.
“You don’t know what you feel!” he said fiercely, standing and shrugging back into his shirt. “It’s just the circumstances, and everything’s new, and we’ve been thrown together so much. You’ve been waiting all your life to attach your pent up feelings to somebody, and I’m here, that’s all.”
“I’m not twelve, Matteo. I know what I want.”
“I have nothing to offer you, Helen.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” she replied heatedly, trying to read his expression in the gloom.
“That’s the whole problem,” he countered, throwing up his hands. “You should. You deserve better than this tacky room and a one night stand with a guy who might be dead next week.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” she said, closing her eyes.
He sat down again and took her hand, holding on when she tried to draw it back. Finally she stopped resisting him and he held it to his lips.
“Helen, your crazy family has been abusing you for twenty-five years. I’m not going to get in line.”
“You’re not abusing me,” she said confusedly. “What are you talking about?”
His shoulders slumped with resignation and he said, “Listen to me. I know I’ve been a louse, dragging you into all of this, but I’m not that big a louse. There are some things even I won’t do, and this—” he pointed at the bed “—is one of them.”
Helen withdrew her fingers from his grasp and curled them on the sheet. “I see,” she said dully.
“When you get back home,” he said firmly, “you’ll have a different perspective on everything, and you’ll be glad I prevented you from making a mistake.”
“Stop lecturing me,” she said, turning her head away. “You sound like my father.”
His mouth curved in a smile. “I don’t feel like your father.” He touched her cheek gently. “Save yourself for one of those nice boys back in America, Helen.”
“I don’t know any nice boys,” she replied despondently. “I don’t want any nice boys.” She rose up quickly and flung herself on his chest, the sheet falling to the bed. “I want you.”
He embraced her reflexively, and the instant he felt her, nude and supple in his arms, his resolution began to fade. He stiffened and said, “Don’t make this any harder than it already is, Helen.”
“I want to make it hard,” she whispered, kissing his shoulder, trailing her lips inside the collar of his open shirt until she found the newly healed scar of the wound she had tended. “This is my mark on you,” she added, tracing it with her tongue. “Every time you see it you’ll think of me.”
Matteo sucked in his breath and pulled her back by the hair, looking into her eyes. She was learning very fast.
“No, Helen,” he said flatly. “I’m going to take care of you while you have to stay in Puerta Linda, and then I’m going to make sure you get back to the States safely. And that’s it.” He released her and stood up. “I’m going back downstairs for a while. I suggest you get to sleep. If you need me later, I’ll be in the room across the hall.”
She watched him button his shirt and head for the door, then slumped down on the bed when he went through it.
He wants me, she thought. Maybe he doesn’t love me yet, the way I love him, but he wants me, and that’s a step in the right direction.
Helen turned on her side and snapped off the small lamp, which hadn’t given much illumination in the first place, and now she was in total darkness.
There was hope yet. She would work on it tomorrow.
* * *
Matteo ran down the rickety wooden steps and stopped at the bottom, wiping his face with the tail of shirt. It was cooler now, at night, but the humidity was high, and Puerta Linda’s trademark rains still threatened, lending a further touch of heaviness to the air.
He walked through the reception area and out the back to the kitchen, where he opened the rear door, lifting his face to the breeze. That had been a close one. If she hadn’t made that remark, it would all be over by now, plunging him deeper into the abyss of guilt he already inhabited.
He left the door open and went back inside, looking in the ancient refrigerator for a can of the brew Helen had earlier refused. He found one and popped the top, swigging it down in huge, grateful gulps.
She was a kid, he had to remind himself, in more ways than one. The years separating them were not so many, but the gulf of experience between them was a chasm. He felt uncomfortably close to using her, and he was not going to compound that by robbing her of her innocence.
But God, she was sweet. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to walk away from her. He didn’t consider himself particularly noble, and the effort of denying himself what he desperately wanted had left him parched and drained.
He shook his head, taking another drink. He had really done it this time. All right, maybe she had agreed to come with him of her own free will, but he didn’t take much comfort from that. He had done his best to talk her into it, after all. And maybe his plans had gone awry. If things had worked out the way they were supposed to she’d be on her way home right now. But the fact remained that she was stuck in Puerta Linda because of him, in danger because of him, and he was not going to leave her seduced and discarded because of him too.
He looked up as Esteban, Elena’s husband, entered the kitchen and greeted him. The two men sat at the table and began to plan Matteo’s route for the next day. He had to avoid the roads and travel through the bush to dodge the police, who, according to Esteban’s latest information, were beefing up their efforts to find him.
Matteo gave brief consideration to leaving Helen with Elena and Esteban, then realized she would never stay. She would probably just come after him on her own, which would be far more dangerous for her than if he took her with him.
He put down his drink and leaned over the table to listen to Esteban, concentrating on the older man’s directions.
One thing at a time.
He would deal with Helen in the morning.
* * *
When Helen awoke she was naked, and she was startled until she reme
mbered the events of the previous evening with a clarity that made her blush.
She got up and washed quickly with the tepid water left over from the bath Matteo had interrupted. She recalled the feel of his mouth and his hands on her body, and when she noticed a small pink mark on the inside of one breast she felt a thrill, as if it were confirmation that she had not imagined the passionate interlude in his arms.
She dressed in the clothes Matteo had procured for her, a loose cotton blouse and capri pants of the type teenagers in the States were currently wearing. The garments were a little big, but a definite improvement over the bedraggled items she had worn in the rain. She bundled those up and resolved to wash them when she got the chance, which might not be soon.
She was brushing out her hair when Elena knocked at her door.
“Comida, senorita de Matteo,” she called.
Helen assumed that was breakfast and opened the door. Elena bustled in with a tray, grinning when she saw Helen dressed in her daughter’s clothes.
“I’m glad you find me amusing,” Helen said, glancing at the tray. It held a cup of something dark, which Helen fervently hoped was coffee, a flat corn cake and a piece of coral melon.
“¿Cafe?” Helen said, pointing to the cup, using up another item in her less than immense vocabulary.
“Si, si, cafe con chicore,” Elena replied, nodding vigorously.
Helen picked it up and took a sip, wondering, with ominous foreboding, what chicore was. But it tasted all right, a little bitter, but recognizable as coffee.
“¿Leche?” she asked, encouraged.
Elena pointed to the little pitcher on the tray, which indeed turned out to contain milk. Helen added it to the coffee as Elena, evidently convinced by this conversational success that they were now going to get along famously, set the tray on the bed and sat next to it, folding her arms.
Helen understood that they were about to have a talk. That should prove to be interesting, since she knew about ten words of Spanish and Elena knew no English at all.
Helen bit into the piece of melon, waiting. She refused to launch into another “donde esta Matteo” routine, although she was beginning to wonder where he’d gone.
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