Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Theresa waved her hand. “I just wondered if he could be as good as he looks.”

  Helen busied herself with a stack of plates, wishing for something to deliver her from this conversation. “He is,” she finally said, and Theresa burst out laughing.

  “The gringa is convinced,” Theresa caroled, pinching Helen’s cheek, which made Helen feel even more juvenile than she already did. Theresa was a widow with four grown children and remarkably blase´ about such matters.

  “I think he is,” Helen added defensively. “Though I have no basis of comparison.”

  “Eh?” Theresa said, her English not equal to the phrase.

  “I’ve never been with anyone else,” Helen clarified.

  “It was your first time?” Theresa said seriously, catching on.

  “Yes.” Helen studied her face, past embarrassment now, wondering about Theresa’s change of attitude. Her expression was no longer congratulatory, but concerned.

  “Did Matteo know this when he came to you?” she asked.

  Helen nodded.

  Theresa considered that a long moment before she said, half to herself, “You must be more important to him than I thought.”

  Helen didn’t know quite how to take that remark and said nothing. Theresa was sharp enough to drop the subject, realizing that this relationship was vastly different from Matteo’s affair with Alma, which had been treated lightly, the subject of snickering anecdotes throughout the camp. Theresa had a pragmatic attitude about sex and felt that a man like Matteo, who had so much responsibility, was entitled to his relaxation, his little dalliances. But this thing with Helen was another matter. Matteo was highly sexed but not without a conscience; he would never take a virgin like this little American without realizing, and accepting, the consequences. For the first time Theresa saw that he might really be in love with the “gringa blanca,” as Helen was called in the camp, and she began to worry.

  Helen spent the day looking for Matteo, wondering when she would see him again. He didn’t come in for his meals, but sent one of the men for food in the late afternoon. She didn’t think he was actually avoiding her, just that he was preoccupied. So she went about her tasks cheerfully, remembering the previous night, certain that the coming evening would bring them together once more.

  Toward dusk, as she and Theresa were packing up, Alma appeared, and Helen’s stomach began to flutter. Alma was sure to have heard the gossip, and Helen didn’t want an ugly scene to mar her newfound happiness. She felt no sense of triumph over the other woman, merely an empathy for her. Helen could well imagine the pain of wanting Matteo and not being able to have him.

  Alma paused before her, selected a piece of fruit, newly arrived that day, and raised her brown eyes to meet Helen’s. Here it comes, Helen thought, and braced herself.

  Alma made a comment, looking from Helen to Theresa, waiting for the older woman to translate.

  Theresa looked back at Alma, surprised, and Helen said quickly, “What is it? What did she say?”

  Theresa turned to Helen, her eyes wide. “She says to tell you that she heard you didn’t have anything to wear, and she has some extra clothes if you would like to borrow them.”

  Helen was rendered speechless. It was an overture of friendship that she would not have expected if she was running around the camp in gunny sacks.

  “Please tell her that I appreciate the offer and I’ll let her know if I need anything,” Helen said to Theresa. After Theresa had spoken Helen added, directly to Alma, “Muchas gracias.”

  Alma nodded and went on her way. When she had left Helen said to Theresa in an undertone, “What do you think that was about?”

  “¿Quien sabe?” Theresa replied, looking at the ceiling. “Who knows?”

  “It was a very generous thing to do,” Helen said thoughtfully.

  “I’m not so sure,” Theresa said, her expression calculating.

  “What do you mean? She’s trying to be nice, mend the fences; what else could it be?”

  “More likely she senses which way the wind is blowing and wants to get on your good side to keep in with Matteo. She knows she’s lost the battle and is trying to make sure she doesn’t pay the consequences. You could use your influence, turn Matteo against her. That’s what she would do in your place, get rid of the old flame so she’s not around to provide comfort if things go wrong between you and the jefe in the future.”

  “I wouldn’t try to oust her,” Helen said quietly.

  “Oust?”

  “Get rid of her.”

  “Maybe not, but remember, Olmos is gone now. She must be feeling alone, and she knows how to play the game, believe me.”

  “I prefer to think she wants to be friends,” Helen said.

  “You must have been raised in a church,” Theresa observed, shaking her head. “That one would cut your throat in a minute if she didn’t know Matteo would slit hers in return, inmediatamente.” She slashed her forefinger across her neck.

  “Please,” Helen said, sickened by the analogy, even though she knew Theresa was exaggerating.

  Theresa threw up her hands.

  “Matteo hates vindictiveness in personal relationships. He would never listen to me if I tried to do what you’re suggesting,” Helen told her.

  “‘Vindictiveness is getting back, getting even?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know he feels that way. Maybe that’s why she lost him,” Theresa said. “All I’m telling you is to be careful. You’re a child in these matters and she is an old woman.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Helen assured her, trying to get off the topic. “Should I put away this bread?” she asked, and as Theresa answered she wondered how much of what the other woman said could be true.

  It was almost dark by the time she walked back to her tent. Helen nodded to several of the people she passed, who inclined their heads in return. She sensed that she was no longer disliked, but tolerated as an eccentricity of Matteo’s, like his fondness for books and beisbol and Americana in general. They were disposed to forgive their leader anything, and it was obvious that they were forgiving him her presence in their midst. Helen slowed near the entrance to an alley created by the proximity of two tents, and an arm snaked out to pull her into it.

  “Hey, lady, you got ten bucks?” Matteo rasped in her ear.

  “What is that supposed to be,” she said, laughing, “the Bronx?”

  “Brooklyn,” he replied, offended. “Can’t you tell?”

  “Matteo, all your American accents are done with a Spanish accent. It spoils the effect, if you get my meaning.”

  “Ah, what do you know?” he said, nuzzling her neck. “You rich girls never go to Brooklyn.”

  “I beg your pardon; I went to the Academy of Music all the time.”

  “Exactly my point. The Academy of Music isn’t Brooklyn, just like Lincoln Center isn’t Manhattan. Did you miss me today?”

  “I did.”

  “Good. We’ll make up for it tonight.” He kissed her deeply, lifting her into the cradle of his hips so she could feel him pressed against her.

  “Damn,” he moaned. “I wish I could take you right here, right now.”

  She wished he could, too. She clung to him with her eyes closed, shutting out the world.

  “Let’s go to your tent,” he said urgently, taking her arm.

  She held back. “Matteo, everybody knows. They’ll be watching us. I don’t want to be on display like that.”

  He fell silent, thinking. Then he said, “You’re right. Those bodyguards are always hanging around, and I can’t wait till the middle of the night to get rid of them.” He glanced over her head into the dusk and added, “There’s a spot on the other side of the stream, under a big jacaranda tree. You’ll find it easily. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”

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

  “Sure, it’ll be great. I’ll bet you’ve never made love in a sleeping bag under the night sky.”r />
  “Until last night, I’d never made love anywhere.”

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

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

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

  “Just think of the bugs,” she replied.

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

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

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

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

  “What?”

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

  “Are you sure?”

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

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

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

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

  “Maybe at Longfield, but nowhere else.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “And the bugs?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter 8

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

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

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

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

  “Matteo...” Helen began.

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

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

  The shelling seemed to go on forever; several times the hits were close by, and the women were forced to take cover under cots and behind boxes until it was safe to come out. Two people were brought into the tent dead, and one died before they could do anything for him. Helen prayed for dawn; Matteo had once told her that such attacks usually took place only in the dark. But the night was endless, and she kept looking for Matteo to arrive on a stretcher, maimed, or past hope. And the bombs kept falling, and the injured kept coming. Helen had nev
er seen so much blood. She might have been sick if she’d had a chance to think about it, but she was so busy that all she could bear in mind was who was next and what needed to be done.

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

  “Nobody,” Theresa said. “Sit down.”

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

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

  “No. Dawn comes soon. See the light?”

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

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

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

  “He’ll find you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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