Fallen Angel

by Anne Mather

  Alexandra’s face suffused with colour, and unable to sustain the penetration of his gaze, she dropped her lids to stare in acute embarrassment down at her toes. With the words uttered, she was wondering how she had dared to ask such a thing herself, and she wished the floor would open up and swallow her.

  It didn’t, and when Jason broke the ominous silence between them, there was a controlled tautness to his tones. ‘Don’t imagine what happened between us gives you any right to know where and with whom I spend my nights,’ he told her grimly. ‘If I have slept in Estelita’s bed, that’s only of concern to her—and me. Do I make myself clear?’

  Alexandra’s nod was jerky. ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Good.’ He moved away from her. ‘So—what do you intend to do with yourself today?’

  ‘Oh, honestly…’ She couldn’t prevent the tremor that invaded her voice as she turned on him. ‘You sound exactly like Miss Holland! For God’s sake, why do you persist in behaving as if I was twelve years old?’

  Jason’s mouth turned down. ‘I think we’ve already had this conversation, haven’t we?’ he reminded her. Then he turned to the window, staring out broodingly at the pouring rain. ‘Damned weather! I wanted to—well, I had things to do.’

  He broke off at that point, and Alexandra, waiting for him to continue, realised that yet again she was being discriminated against. But Jason was already reaching for the thick plastic raincape that hung behind the door, and the matching leggings that went with it.

  ‘Are—are you going out?’ she asked unnecessarily, and he gave her an impatient stare.

  ‘Does it look like it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I must be, mustn’t I?’

  ‘Are you going riding? Can I come with you?’

  ‘In this weather? I think not.’

  Alexandra hunched her shoulders. ‘I can get wrapped up.’

  ‘Look…’ Jason was terse. ‘You’re just recovering from a chill. I’d be worse than mad to take you riding in conditions like these.’

  ‘You won’t let me do anything else!’ she retorted sulkily, and he heaved a sigh.

  ‘You make it very hard, Alexandra!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ He straightened after pulling on the leggings and stared resignedly at her. ‘All right, all right,’ he said at last. ‘You can take charge of the house while Estelita’s away. Does that satis—’

  But he didn’t finish what he had begun to say. Alexandra launched herself upon him, hugging him impulsively and bestowing an eager kiss upon his parted lips.

  Maybe because he was more concerned with keeping his balance than controlling his response, Jason didn’t immediately draw back from her warm mouth, and what began as a brief caress lengthened into an urgent assault on his senses. The hands that had moved to hold her back from him were suddenly gripping her closer, sliding beneath her sweater to find the soft skin of her midriff.

  He tore himself away from her only as the back door burst open to admit Ricardo, but the look that accompanied his withdrawal was grim and frustrated. Avoiding his censure, Alexandra pulled her sweater down over her hips and faced the foreman’s speculative gaze with all the composure she could muster.

  Ricardo was followed into the room by two bedraggled girls, each holding a shawl over her head for protection, their full skirts dampened by the dash from the Range-Rover to the house. Their presence prevented him from making any comment about the scene he had interrupted, but his dark eyes were full of roguish conjecture. Alexandra guessed he would say something when he had the opportunity, but she prayed he would not chide Jason about her youth. What did it matter how old she was? When Jason held her in his arms, when he pressed her close against his lean hard body, she felt as old as Eve—and as eager to taste the forbidden fruit.

  ‘This is Luisa and Elena Alberoni,’ Ricardo was saying now, by way of an introduction for Alexandra’s benefit, and she managed a faint smile in their direction. They were very alike, small and plump and dark, with their father’s teak-coloured features, but the furtive glances they cast towards her spoke of shyness, not hostility. They looked at Jason shyly, too, but Alexandra recognised admiration as well as timidity in their dark eyes when they rested on the Englishman.

  Then Ricardo turned to his employer, who was pulling on the heavy cape he had taken down earlier. ‘I told Lucia I’d fetch her if she was needed,’ he explained, flicking a look at Alexandra, and although Jason faced him calmly enough, she sensed the challenge in Ricardo’s words.

  ‘My—er—Señorita Durham will tell you what she wants you to do,’ Jason said now, turning to the two girls, who had taken off their shawls and were presently smoothing their curly dark hair. ‘You understand a little English, don’t you?’

  ‘Hablo un poco español,’ murmured Alexandra cautiously. ‘I speak a little Spanish, too, Jason,’ she added, and this time his stare held only interrogation.

  ‘You—speak—Spanish?’ he echoed. Then: ‘Who taught you?’

  ‘I taught myself,’ she answered defensively, and he shook his head as if he hardly believed her.

  ‘Well…’ He turned to the Alberoni girls. ‘You may be able to work something out.’ Then, as if compelled by a force stronger than himself, he looked back at Alexandra. ‘Have you been reading my books?’

  She nodded. ‘Some of them.’

  ‘So it was you.’ He made an impatient gesture. Then: ‘You think you can cope?’

  ‘I can try,’ she responded, holding his troubled gaze, and saw with trembling delight the kindling of reluctant admiration in his eyes.

  ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ she answered softly.

  But as if he suddenly realised their exchange was being closely monitored by three independent pairs of eyes, Jason walked abruptly towards the door. ‘Okay,’ he said shortly. ‘Coming, Ricardo?’ and the burly foreman paused only long enough to bestow a wicked wink in Alexandra’s direction before accompanying him outside.

  With the departure of the two men, the girls broke into excited whispers, and it took all Alexandra’s composure to remain where she was until they chose to look in her direction again.

  ‘Està bien, shall we begin?’ she suggested. ‘Now, you are Luisa—and you are Elena, si?’

  ‘Si.’ The elder of the two girls, Luisa, spoke. ‘And you are Señorita Derem?’

  ‘Dur-ham, actually,’ amended Alexandra, with a smile. ‘But you can call me Alex, yes?’

  ‘A-lex,’ said the younger girl, who Alexandra guessed was about her own age. ‘Si, Alex.’

  With the matter of identification behind her, Alexandra faced her two employees with some misgivings. Pressing her palms to cheeks grown warm as much from embarrassment as from the heat from the fire, she realised she hadn’t the faintest idea about what wanted doing and what didn’t. In truth, she wasn’t altogether sure where Estelita kept her cooking utensils or cleaning equipment, and she would have welcomed a day on her own to familiarise herself with such things. However, if she could keep the girls busy for the morning, she could spend the afternoon finding out where everything was.

  Luisa and Elena were washing the dirty breakfast dishes when Miss Holland appeared. That lady came into the room like a breath of English air in the overheated kitchen, and her first action was to throw wide the window and let some of the stale air out. That it also allowed the chilly gusts of wind to reverse the drawing power of the chimney was soon apparent, and closing the window again, Alexandra said:

  ‘Estelita’s gone away for a few days, so I’m in charge.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Can I get you some breakfast?’

  Miss Holland regarded the two girls who were eyeing her with scarcely-concealed nervousness, and then said briskly: ‘I’m quite capable of preparing my own breakfast, Alexandra.’ She collected a cup from the dresser and approached the coffee pot. ‘Where has Señora Vargas gone?’

  ‘To Valvedra, actually,’ said Alexandra, pushing up her sl
eeves and then pulling them down again, as nervous in her own way as the other girls. ‘I—er—I persuaded Jason that I was—quite capable of running the hacienda in her absence.’

  ‘I see.’ Miss Holland looked up from her coffee, which she obviously found more palatable than Alexandra had done. ‘And can you?’ she asked.

  Her question took Alexandra by surprise, but she had to admit, with characteristic candour, that she wasn’t absolutely certain. ‘It’s finding things,’ she offered, moving her shoulders in a gesture of uncertainty. ‘Estelita would never show me where anything was kept, and when—when these girls finish the washing up, I don’t know what I’m going to give them to do.’

  ‘They can make the beds,’ declared Miss Holland practically. ‘They must know how to do that. And while they do, we’ll examine the contents of those cupboards over there.’

  Adjoining the kitchen, Alexandra discovered an enormous storeroom, and it was here Estelita kept most of the things they needed. Sacks of rice and grain, cardboard boxes full of tinned food, freezers crammed with meat and vegetables; Alexandra was amazed at the variety of food there was, and she determined that while Estelita was away they would have a more exciting diet than the staple one of stews and casseroles the housekeeper invariably produced. She would speak to Chan, tell him that she intended to cook their meals, and let Jason discover the difference for himself. She pictured them together eating candlelit dinners which she had prepared. It was a tantalising prospect and one which carried her through the exhausting day that followed.

  It turned out that Estelita was not as efficient as she would have people believe. For one thing, she was not methodical, and Miss Holland, garbed in one of the housekeeper’s aprons, expressed her disgust at the way many items of kitchen equipment had been allowed to tarnish. Discovering some polish, she and the Alberoni girls spent the remainder of the morning cleaning pans and cooking utensils, transforming blackened exteriors to gleaming copper and chrome.

  Alexandra, cleaning out cupboards that did not look as if they had been touched for years, soon had to go and change her sweater for a cotton vest, and her face was smudged and streaked with sweat by the time Chan appeared with their lunch.

  ‘Oh, Chan,’ Alexandra exclaimed, as the cook set the dish of chili on the table, ‘I wanted to speak to you. I believe Mr Tarrant asked you to prepare all our meals. Well—’ she cast a defensive look in Miss Holland’s direction, ‘I—er—I shall be making our meals in future, so there’s—er—no need for you to take the trouble…’

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ Chan assured her doubtfully. ‘You mean, you don’t want supper this evening?’

  ‘No.’ Alexandra assumed a confident smile. ‘I’m—er—I’m going to give Mr Tarrant some English cooking for a change. You don’t mind, do you?’

  Chan’s smile was wry. ‘It’s your decision, Señorita. I wish you luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Alexandra closed the door behind him and surveyed her audience with a certain amount of defensive bravado, before she set about serving the undoubtedly expertly-cooked chili.

  The rain stopped in the early afternoon, though it was still very humid, and Miss Holland supervised Luisa and Elena as they shook out rugs from the downstairs rooms, and dusted and polished the furniture. Gathering great bunches of poppies and verbena to fill the vases in the hall, Alexandra really felt as if she was making some progress, though by the time it came to start preparing the evening meal, she realised she was aching with tiredness. Perhaps she should have had Chan prepare the meal just for this one night, she thought with hindsight, but it was too late now, and Miss Holland had retired to take a bath after Andrés had arrived to take his daughters home.

  She had decided to make a traditional English supper of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by baked apples and cream, but her misgivings about the meal were magnified by having to use the wood-burning stove. It was difficult deciding exactly how hot the oven was, the thermostat reading fluctuating rather erratically, but Estelita had managed and so would she.

  Choosing a joint of meat was also a problem, and she wished Miss Holland was around to help her. But beef was beef, she thought, impatient with her own uncertainty, and the piece she chose looked succulent enough.

  With the delicious smell of roasting meat pervading the atmosphere, she relaxed. Everything was under control. The meat was cooking; the batter for the Yorkshire puddings was made, and she had prepared the vegetables ready for boiling. There was nothing left for her to do but lay the table in the dining room, and go and change before the final preparations needed to be completed.

  Miss Holland was still in the bathroom, so Alexandra went into her room and sank down wearily on to the side of her bed. Lord, she was tired! she thought exhaustedly. Even at the convent she had never worked as hard as she had worked today, and her weakness was such that she was forced to acknowledge the truth of Jason’s words when he had said she was still recovering from her illness.

  Flopping back against the coverlet, she allowed the softness of the mattress to mould itself to her aching bones, luxuriating in its yielding comfort. Was it really only eleven hours since she had woken in this bed? she wondered disbelievingly. It seemed much longer than that. Indeed, so much had happened since she got up that morning, it seemed more like days than hours since she had lifted her head from the pillows.

  What a day! She stretched her arms lazily above her head. Starting so disastrously with the rain, and then transformed miraculously by Jason’s presence. Remembering Jason, she allowed her tongue to emerge and moisten her upper lip. Jason, she breathed softly. Those moments in the kitchen had sustained her throughout the day. The searching pressure of his mouth, the hard muscularity of his body…No matter that he grew impatient with her. He couldn’t deny that he enjoyed touching her, and sooner or later he would have to admit it.

  A smile lifted the comers of her lips as her eyes closed, and almost before she was aware of it, sleep overtook her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHE awakened to a darkened room and the awareness of her near-naked body beneath the sheet. A tentative exploration essayed the knowledge that she was naked, apart from the bikini panties she wore, and her brows drew together in a concentrated effort to remember where she was and why she should be sleeping in her underwear.

  The sudden crash of thunder that followed the ragged trail of lightning across the ceiling brought her upright with a start, and she stared bewilderedly towards the uncurtained windows. The storm must have awakened her, she realised uneasily, drawing the sheet about her as the cool air chilled her warm flesh. The rain was lashing against the balcony and running in rivulets down the windows, and the thunder continued to rumble round the valley, trapped by the impenetrable range of mountains.

  Blinking, Alex pushed back the tangled weight of her hair and tried to think. What time was it? What time had the storm started? What time had she come to bed? And why hadn’t she put on her nightgown as usual? Then she remembered…

  Dry-mouthed, she recalled the events of the previous day—her argument with Jason and his subsequent relenting, the energy she had expended cleaning out the cupboards, and her plans for the evening that was to follow. Her supper!

  Uncaring of the cold now, she thrust the sheet aside and put her feet to the floor. The rug was soft beneath her bare toes, and she paused a moment to wonder who had undressed her and put her beneath the covers. She guessed it must have been Miss Holland, although she was surprised she had not attempted to put on her nightgown. Still, she had obviously not wanted to disturb her, and a sound of pure frustration escaped her. If only she had! Surely she had known how eager Alexandra was to prepare her first meal at the hacienda, and now that small triumph had been denied her.

  Groping about in the darkness, she found her cotton dressing gown and pushed her arms into the sleeves. Then, wrapping its folds about her, she reached for the lamp. The switch clicked uselessly, and with a sigh she guessed that the storm ha
d also fused the generating system. Making her way to the window, she peered at her wristwatch. It appeared to be after midnight, which would account for the hollow emptiness inside her, and she hunched her shoulders in despair. The evening was over. Everyone would be in bed by now. And she had not shared any of it!

  Feeling ridiculously near to tears, she opened her door and peered out. Another flash of lightning illuminated the passage outside, but there was no sound other than the thunder. As she suspected, the household had retired, and only the lingering scent of her roast drifted irresistibly to her nostrils. It reminded her again that she was hungry, and with a dejected shrug she went silently along the passage to the landing.

  The storm was almost directly overhead now, but she was not alarmed. Storms had never frightened her, and she was glad of the frequent discharges of electricity to light her way. Nevertheless, the resounding rumble of the thunder seemed to accentuate the isolation of their situation, and it was this that prickled goose-bumps all over her flesh as she entered the kitchen. For the first time she was glad of the log fire and the warming glow that emanated from it, and she held her hands towards the embers before helping herself to some milk from the refrigerator.

  There was no sign of the joint she had roasted, she observed as she drank the milk, and another wave of resentment swept over her. Miss Holland must have made the Yorkshire puddings and served the meal herself. Had she mentioned the fact that it was she, Alexandra, who had prepared everything, who had put the joint in to roast and beaten up the batter? She sniffed. Probably the men had been so eager to eat the food they hadn’t questioned its origins.

  The unmistakable sound of footsteps in the yard outside dispelled all her misgivings about supper and sent a wave of apprehension tingling along her veins. Thank goodness she hadn’t switched on the light, she thought weakly, wondering if it could possibly be one of the men coming home after a night on the town. Surely they didn’t get prowlers out here! Not so far from civilisation.