by Anne Mather
‘Declan?’ Alexandra looked puzzled and Clare gave a slow secretive smile.
‘Yes. He makes me—and my husband—welcome here at any time. The conditions where we live are so—primitive! This house is civilisation!’
She stretched her arms encompassingly and Alexandra felt a slight stirring of distaste. Yes, she thought. Clare had entered the house as though sure of her welcome. And how often did she come here without her husband?
Pushing such disruptive thoughts aside, Alexandra reached for the coffee jug and refilled her cup. ‘Mr. O’Rourke lives here then?’ she asked casually.
Clare frowned. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
Alexandra lifted her cup to her lips. ‘It just seems—an odd place for anyone to build a house.’
Clare lay back in her chair. ‘I see. You don’t know anything about him, do you?’
Alexandra flushed. ‘I wasn’t particularly interested.’
‘Weren’t you? Not even when you were obliged to accept his hospitality?’
‘I had no choice.’
‘Agreed. But if Declan hadn’t heard you were at Los Hermanos and gone to fetch you, you’d have been in deep trouble.’ She studied the girl opposite appraisingly. ‘Anyway, Declan didn’t build this house. His father did.’
Alexandra acknowledged this with a brief inclination of her head, determined not to appear curious, but apparently Clare was prepared to go on.
‘His grandfather came here long before the river was opened up to Europeans. Lots of men did. The area has always attracted prospectors.’
‘You mean—gold prospectors?’ Alexandra couldn’t prevent the question.
‘Gold, silver—and most important of all, so far as Declan’s grandfather was concerned, diamonds!’
‘Diamonds!’
‘Yes. Mostly industrial diamonds. When Patrick O’Rourke came here to Paradiablo, that stream down in the gorge was running with them.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Oh, I am,’ Clare shrugged. ‘I’ve told you—it was a prospector’s paradise. The only problem was the Indians. I’m sure you’ve read some of the gory stories brought back by unsuccessful explorers—headhunters, cannibalism, that sort of thing.’
Alexandra shivered. ‘Who hasn’t?’
‘Indeed,’ Clare nodded. ‘Well, Declan’s grandfather had the sure solution—he married the chief’s daughter.’
Alexandra stared at her. ‘You mean—Declan’s grandmother was—an Indian?’
‘That’s right.’ Clare laughed mockingly. ‘Haven’t you run up against that ruthless trait in him yet?’ She poured herself some more coffee. ‘Of course, it’s been watered down—the Indian blood, I mean. Tom O’Rourke, Declan’s father, was much more particular. He is a handsome devil, too. He married the daughter of a Portuguese banker in Sao Paulo and added considerably to the family fortune. Declan is their only son. It was Tom who built this house, but he’s never lived in it. He used to use it as a sort of—retreat.’ Her lips curved sensually. ‘Perhaps he isn’t as immune from his Indian ancestry as he would like to believe.’
Alexandra pushed her cup aside. She very much disliked Clare’s insinuative way of speaking. As if she were personally involved.
‘Of course, Declan’s been somewhat of a disappointment to them,’ she went on thoughtfully. ‘His father had a career in banking mapped out for him, but Declan chose to return to the country of his forebears. Perhaps that savage pride skipped a generation to emerge in him. Whatever the reasons, he feels a strong sense of identification with these people, and works to that end.’
‘Works?’ Alexandra frowned. ‘You mean, he’s still prospecting?’
‘Prospecting? Prospecting? Oh, my God!’ Clare burst out laughing. ‘Prospecting? Oh, that’s beautiful!’ She shook her head helplessly. Then she sobered sufficiently to say: ‘No, my dear. Not prospecting. Didn’t he tell you? He’s a doctor!’
‘A doctor?’ Alexandra was aghast. ‘A—a real doctor?’
‘Well, he’s not a witch doctor, if that’s what you mean.’ gurgled Clare, enjoying the girl’s confusion. ‘Honestly, my dear, I assumed you knew that!’
Alexandra slid off her chair and walked to the edge of the verandah, resting her hands on the wooden rail. He was a doctor—and she felt ridiculously small. No wonder he had been so impatient with her. Did he think she knew? She gripped the rail very tightly. She should have known, she should have guessed from his manner, from his knowledge of her father’s illness—a hundred and one small clues were suddenly staring her in the face.
She moved her shoulders defensively. Well, she hadn’t known. But now that she did, she ought to apologise …
She heard a movement behind her and turned to find Clare lighting a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, she said: ‘What’s that plaster on your midriff? Has Declan been treating you already?’
Alexandra bent her head, her fingers moving automatically to cover the dressing. ‘Oh—well, yes. But it’s nothing really. A—a leech attached itself to me in the night.’
Clare grimaced. ‘Ghastly things, aren’t they? I once heard of a man collapsing with fever in the jungle, and when they eventually found him he was covered in the things, and hadn’t a drop of blood left in his body—’
‘Thank you, Clare, that will do!’
Declan’s deep tones startled both of them. He was standing in the open doorway of the house, lean and handsome in a denim battle jacket over close-fitting denim pants which were thrust into knee-length black boots. He wore no shirt and his chest was damp with sweat.
Alexandra had to drag her eyes away from him. There was something so physically attractive about him that she was almost glad of Clare’s presence to distract his attention while she sought for composure. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers, tautening the cloth across his thighs, and a small smile played about his mouth as he noted the brief shorts and midi-blouse.
Then Clare rose elegantly to her feet and interceded. ‘Now, darling,’ she murmured, ‘I was only telling Miss Tempest a little about the real dangers of the Amazon. Surely you have no objections.’ She moved a little closer, looking up at him appealingly. ‘Besides, you told me you were to be away all day!’
‘I intended to be.’ Declan stretched lazily. ‘But I decided it was too much to expect Alexandra to spend the whole of her first day here alone.’
‘Alone?’ Clare raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s hardly flattering. I’m here.’
‘I wasn’t to know that.’
‘You asked me to come.’ Clare was charmingly petulant.
‘I asked you to call and make sure Alexandra was all right. I didn’t think you’d stay.’
Clare glanced mockingly towards Alexandra. ‘Oh, Alex and I have been getting on like a house on fire, haven’t we, Alex?’
Alexandra shrugged. She hated the diminutive use of her name, and what Clare really meant was that she had been enjoying herself immensely by making a fool of her. But she could hardly say that to Declan, so she made some mumbled assent and was conscious that his gaze lingered on her rather longer than was necessary.
‘Anyway, it’s lunchtime,’ announced Clare, glancing at her watch. ‘Am I invited to stay?’
Declan made a slight bow. ‘Of course, if you would like to do so.’
‘I should.’ Clare smiled contentedly. ‘David’s gone to Timbale and won’t be home until this evening, so I’m quite free.’
Alexandra scuffed her toe against the roughened planks of the verandah floor. If Clare was staying she would have no opportunity to speak to Declan alone and explain that she had been unaware of his status and apologise. And it was quite on the cards that Clare would find some way to ridicule her in front of him. Quite suddenly, she wanted to leave, to get away from them. It was stupid, Clare was the missionary’s wife, after all, but somehow her attitude towards Declan had a certain possessive intimacy about it, and Alexandra felt sickened by it.
However, Declan excused him
self at that moment, saying that he needed to bathe and change his clothes before the meal. Clare reseated herself, evidently pleased with the way things were going, and Alexandra took the opportunity to gather together the coffee cups on to a tray and say that she was just taking them through for Consuelo. She had no real idea where the kitchen was, but there were not too many doors opening off the hall that she found it any difficulty. The little Portuguese woman smiled her thanks.
‘Senhora Forman is staying for lunch,’ she said, tightening her lips. ‘That woman!’ She shook her head.
Alexandra would have liked to have lingered to gossip, but she knew that such a thing was not advisable. So she made some deprecatory rejoinder and left the room.
In the hall, an idea struck her. Declan was alone at the moment. Now was her opportunity to explain. Probably the only opportunity she would have that day.
She looked round. A heavy door stood slightly ajar and with trembling fingers she propelled it far enough open to see into the room beyond. It was Declan’s room, she saw that instantly. His discarded denim suit was lying untidily on the bed, and there was the sound of water running in an adjoining bathroom.
Glancing over her shoulder to assure herself that Clare was nowhere about, Alexandra advanced into the room, closing the door behind her and leaning back against it. She was surprised to find that the palms of her hands were suddenly moist, and that curious weakness was invading her legs again.
An awful awareness of exactly what she was doing splintered her resolve. What would her father think if he could see her hiding in this man’s bedroom? What would Clare Forman think if she suddenly decided to come looking for her?
With a dry throat, she moved a little away from the door preparatory to opening it, concentrating on turning the handle without making the least sound. Then hard fingers were biting into her shoulder and Declan’s voice near her ear was saying: ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Alexandra released the handle and swung round to lean back weakly against the door. Declan was hitching a towel, his only covering, about his lean hips, and was regarding her with impatient blue eyes. ‘I—I—this is the wrong room—’ she faltered.
‘Is it?’
His hair was wet and shiny and clung to his neck. Alexandra’s breathing became hopelessly uneven. ‘I—I did want to speak to you, but then—I changed my mind.’
‘Why?’
She made an involuntary movement of her shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t have come in here.’
His expression was wry. ‘That rather depends what you have to say.’
Alexandra took a deep breath. ‘Mrs. Forman told me you were a doctor!’
Declan raked his hair back from his forehead. ‘Oh, I see.’
‘I didn’t know. You didn’t tell me, and—well, how could I?’
‘Have I said you should?’
‘No, but…’ Alexandra’s voice trailed away. ‘I just wanted to say I was—sorry.’
‘For what?’ His eyes challenged hers.
‘Oh, you know for what! For being rude—for—well, for behaving in that silly way last night.’
Declan’s mouth twisted. ‘I see.’
‘You do believe me, don’t you?’
‘What else did—Mrs. Forman tell you?’
Alexandra felt the hot colour staining her cheeks. ‘This and that.’
‘In other words, you’ve been discussing me pretty thoroughly this morning.’
‘No!’ Alexandra was indignant. ‘I—Mrs. Forman was just telling me about—about the diamonds.’
‘And the fact that my grandmother was an Indian, no doubt,’ he remarked laconically.
‘Well—yes, that did come into it.’
‘I thought it might.’
‘Well, why not? It—it’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘Goddamn you, I know that!’ His eyes were granite-hard. ‘But do you?’
She moved uncomfortably. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Right.’
‘But it wasn’t me who was discussing it, was it? It—it was your friend Mrs. Forman.’
His eyes glinted. ‘Exactly what is that supposed to mean?’
Alexandra swallowed with difficulty. ‘W—what?’
‘The accent upon your friend?’
‘Well, she is your friend, isn’t she?’ retorted Alexandra, trying not to feel intimidated. ‘She’s certainly not mine.’
‘Oh, no?’
‘No.’ She straightened. ‘If you’ll excuse me—’
‘In a moment.’ His hands were suddenly supporting his body pressed against the door somewhere near her ears, successfully imprisoning her. He was much nearer now, and she could see the pores of his brown skin, feel the warmth of his breath. ‘What has Mrs. Forman said to make you assume that she and I are friends?’
Alexandra moved her head helplessly from side to side. ‘Why, nothing.’ She made a dismissing gesture. ‘She didn’t have to say anything.’
‘Why not?’
His eyes narrowed. The long lashes were tipped with gold like the hair on his chest, and a curious pain stirred in the pit of her stomach. Although she had known this man such a comparatively short space of time their relationship had been artificially intensified by the circumstances they had shared and in consequence it had developed with the speed of everything else here. Her tongue came out to wet her lips. She was experiencing an intense desire to reach out and touch his damp skin, but she sensed that if she did so the whole situation could get rapidly out of hand. Her eyes lifted to his and for a moment she glimpsed a similar awareness there. But then he thrust himself away from her and strode swiftly across the room to disappear into the bathroom.
Alexandra’s breathing was ragged. What had happened? Why had he walked away like that? Had she mistaken anger for provocation?
She stood, trying to think coherently, but when he eventually emerged again dressed in cream shirt and pants she was no nearer to a logical assimilation of what had occurred. He seemed annoyed to find that she was still there and his tone was curt as he said:
‘You can go. I guarantee Mrs. Forman won’t say anything to upset you now that I’m here.’
Alexandra felt humiliated. She turned quickly aside, reaching for the door handle, but again he stopped her, moving lithely to her side and allowing his fingers to close round the flesh of her upper arm.
‘You’re too sensitive!’ he exclaimed impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, Alexandra, I realise you’re just beginning to be aware of yourself as a female, but don’t try that kind of experimentation on me!’
‘I don’t know what you mean!’
‘Don’t you?’ He swung her round to face him. ‘I think you do. I think you’re ripe for some kind of sexual experience, but not with me!’
‘How—how dare you?’
Alexandra was affronted. That he should imagine she had calculated what had happened! She would have liked to have slapped his sardonic face had he not looked so grim. As it was, she was too inexperienced to dare such reckless behaviour.
‘Look—’ he heaved a deep sigh. ‘All right. This situation is an unnatural one, I’ll grant you that. You didn’t expect to have to stay here, and I sure as hell didn’t want to bring you. But there seemed no alternative, short of des-patching you back to England. Now I can do that if you’d like me to, but somehow I don’t think you do.’
Alexandra shook her head mutinously and he went on: ‘So—we’re here, and as we do have to spend some time together, I suggest we get a few things straight. I am not a sex-starved prospector, eager for the sight of a white woman! Nor do I get involved with infatuated teenagers, white or otherwise—do I make myself clear?’
Alexandra’s cheeks burned, and he continued: ‘But if some tremulous female creature comes uninvited into my bedroom and finds me practically stark naked and then accuses me of being involved in a not very reputable way with another woman, she is inviting the kind of retribution repayable in kind!’
> ‘I—I didn’t accuse you.’
‘Not in so many words, perhaps, but the implication was there.’
‘May I go now?’ Alexandra was sulky.
Declan released her arm, and she looked down at the white marks the hard pressure of his fingers had made. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You can go. If you like, I’ll invite Mrs. Forman to stay while you’re here. She would make a very adequate chaperon!’
Alexandra’s lips parted in dismay. ‘You—wouldn’t!’
‘Why not?’
Alexandra stared at him impotently for a moment longer and then she wrenched open the door and left the room, trembling as the heavy barrier banged behind her.
CHAPTER SIX
ALEXANDRA would have liked to have missed lunch, but as she had not had any breakfast her stomach was beginning to protest. So she sponged her hot cheeks with cool water in her bathroom and returned to the living room just as Consuelo was wheeling in the food trolley.
There was a fish stew, served with wedges of the starchy bread Alexandra was growing accustomed to, and fresh fruit to follow. Coffee was served at the table, and the younger girl sensed Consuelo’s displeasure when Clare insisted that she placed the coffee pot and cups beside her so that she could serve it herself. It was clear that the old housekeeper liked the missionary’s wife no more than did Alexandra.
It had been a mainly silent meal, with Clare doing most of what talking there was. Declan himself seemed absorbed and thoughtful, answering only when spoken to and then only in monosyllables.
Towards the end of the meal, Clare said: ‘Well, really, darling, I shouldn’t have stayed if I’d known it was going to be such a grim occasion. What is it? Are you beginning to feel the weight of your responsibilities?’
Her glance flickered towards Alexandra, and the girl moved uncomfortably. The memory of that scene in Declan’s bedroom was still very clear in her mind and Clare’s words were a little too accurate for comfort.
Declan looked up from his contemplation of a wine glass. ‘Perhaps I am,’ he conceded, his eyes holding Clare’s. ‘What would you suggest I do about it?’
