Flame of Diablo by Sara Craven Read Free Book Online Page B

a
    small, rather reluctant shower, and she
    stripped and washed the dust and some
    of her aches away. It was bliss to come
    back to her room and put on fresh
    underwear from her small stock, and
    lock the door and close the shutters, so
    'that the noise from the square became a
    muted and not intolerable hum, and then
    stretch out on the bed.
    Yet in spite of her bone-weariness,
    sleep seemed oddly elusive. Strange
    unconnected images kept coming into her
    mind—trees by a river with the darkness
    of a mountain rising behind them—a man
    wearing black clothes riding a black
    horse so that he seemed part of it like a
    pagan centaur—and a fair-haired woman
    who stood among the trees with her arms
    outstretched, so that the man bent out of
    the saddle and lifted her up into his
    arms, her hair falling like a pale wound
    across the darkness of his sleeve. Rachel
    twisted uneasily, trying to banish the
    image from her mind, but the horse came
    on until it was close enough for her to
    see the rider's face with a black patch
    set rakishly over one eye. As she
    watched, the blonde woman moved in
    his arms, lifting her hands to clasp
    around his neck, drawing him down to
    her.
    Rachel put out a hand to ward them off.
    She didn't want to see this. She didn't
    want to know, but her gesture seemed to
    catch the rider's eye and he turned to
    look at her, and so did the woman he
    was holding, and Rachel saw that the
    face that stared at her from beneath the
    curtain of blonde hair was her own.
    She cried out, and suddenly the images
    had gone and she was sitting up on the
    narrow bed in the now-shadowed room,
    her clenched fist pressed against her
    thudding heart. She could see herself in
    the mirror across the room, the gleam of
    her hair, and the smooth pallor of her
    skin, interrupted only by the deeper
    white of her flimsy lace bra and briefs.
    She thought, 'So I was asleep after all.' It
    was a comfort in a way to know that
    what she had seen had been a nightmare
    rather than a deliberate conjuration of
    her imagination. And she was thankful
    that she had woken when she did. She
    picked up her gold wristwatch from the
    side of the bed and studied it. To her
    surprise, she had been asleep for over
    two hours.
    She slid off the bed, and put on the beige
    linen trousers she had worn earlier, with
    a shirt of chocolate brown silk under the
    loose hip-length jacket. Her hair was
    wrong, she thought, waving loosely on to
    her
    shoulders.
    She
    unearthed
    a
    tortoiseshell clip from her case and
    swept
    the
    honey-coloured
    waves
    severely back from her face into a
    French pleat, anchoring it with the clip.
    It made her look older, she decided, and
    more businesslike.
    She swung her dark brown leather
    shoulder bag over her arm, and went
    downstairs. It was very quiet—too quiet,
    she thought. She went to the room where
    the card game had been in progress and
    opened the door. It was deserted, and the
    table had been cleared, the chairs put
    back against the wall.
    Rachel said furiously, 'Well, I'm
    damned!'
    She supposed he thought he'd been very
    clever, waiting until she was out of the
    way in her room to do his vanishing
    trick. It was his way of saying 'No'
    without further argument.
    She bit her lip until she tasted blood.
    Well, to hell with him! He might be the
    best, but he couldn't be the only guide in
    Asuncion. She wouldn't let this one
    setback defeat her, and if Vitas de
    Mendoza was going to feature so
    prominently in her dreams on such short
    acquaintance, she told herself defiantly
    that she was glad to see the back of him.
    She turned on her heel, and went out into
    the evening sunshine. The market
    appeared to be still going strong, and a
    group of musicians had even started up
    in one corner of the square, attracting a
    small but laughing crowd.
    She began to wander round the stalls. As
    well as the handwoven blankets and
    ruanas, there were also piles of the
    round-crowned hats the Indians seemed
    to wear. She would