Montega's Mistress (18 page)

He bellowed and she dived off the cot, screaming as loud as she could. Olmos spun around, holding his injured arm, and his expression was curiously triumphant. Helen realized with horror that he had
wanted
her to scream and knew in an instant that the whole incident was a trap. Olmos was using her as bait to provoke a confrontation with Matteo, and he would be ready for it, while Matteo would not. Helen had played right into his hands.

She could hear stirring from the other tents as the people, roused from sleep, got up to see what had happened. Olmos confronted Helen, breathing heavily, his golden eyes narrowed to slits as she huddled on the ground, trying to cover herself with her arms.

Matteo burst into the tent and took in the scene at a glance. He rounded on the other man, a vein throbbing in his temple, and Helen saw the end of Olmos’ life in his face.

“Matteo, no!” she shouted. “I’m all right, he didn’t hurt me.”

Matteo ignored her, advancing on his former comrade, who circled away from him, a half smile on his face. Come on, he seemed to say, we’ve known from the beginning that it would come to this.

Matteo threw the first punch, hitting Olmos so hard that Helen could hear the blow like a pistol shot. Olmos responded in kind, and they were soon locked in mortal combat, evenly matched. Matteo was faster, but Olmos was bigger, heavier, and as they rolled over and over on the dirt floor Helen prayed that they would both emerge from the contest alive.

She looked up and saw a gathering of the other men in the entrance, looking on with solemn faces.

“Stop it!” she yelled at them. “Can’t you do something to stop it?”

They glanced at her, and then turned their attention back to the fight, their attitude one of resignation. They didn’t have to understand English to know what she was saying, but they had seen this coming for a long time and knew that it had to run to its logical conclusion. That she had been the catalyst was unimportant.

Helen remembered that she was naked except for the fluttering remnants of her gown, and she crawled to the cot, pulling off the khaki muslin sheet and wrapping it around her like a sari. The two men struggled upright and then tumbled headlong, almost at her feet, and she saw Olmos reach for something shiny at his belt.

“Matteo, be careful!” she shouted, gasping. “He has a knife!”

Matteo grabbed the hand that held it and shook it loose, pounding Olmos’ clenched fingers on the ground until they relaxed and gave up the weapon. It skittered away as Matteo climbed on top of Olmos’ prone body and punched him repeatedly about the head and face, until his nose was streaming blood and the flesh around his eyes began to swell and discolor.

Matteo didn’t look much better. His lower lip was cut and puffing up like a dinner pastry, and two vivid scratches on his left cheek were oozing blood and serum. Both men were drenched with sweat, their hair soaking, their faces glistening and their clothes clinging to their bodies with dampness. As Helen watched, Olmos, who was down but far from out, reached up and throttled Matteo, who pried his hands loose with an effort that left him spent and weakened. Olmos threw him off and dived for the knife, picking it up and waving it menacingly, a glitter in his catlike eyes.

Both of Helen’s hands went to her mouth as she stared at the scene in silent revulsion. She wanted to look away but remained transfixed, like a witness to a tragic fire who can’t tear his eyes from the flames.

Both men were on their feet now, and Olmos toyed with Matteo, lunging for him with the knife and forcing him to dance away. Olmos had the clear advantage and was prolonging it, enjoying the upper hand and taking the offensive with a cavalier attitude. He was going to win and could afford to make Matteo sweat before he stabbed him.

But his confidence undid him. Matteo dodged and weaved, looking for an opening, and when he saw one he leaped on Olmos and felled him, putting his knee to his chest and ripping the knife from his hand.

Matteo raised the knife above his head, and images of Olmos putting his hands on Helen filled his fevered mind. Olmos stared up at him, saw his death in Matteo’s eyes, and surrendered. His whole body went limp as he waited for the blow to fall.

Helen’s scream cleared the red mist obscuring Matteo’s vision. His whole being cried out for him to follow through, to drive the knife into Olmos’ hated flesh, but if he did so he would lose Helen forever, and he knew it. She could never watch him kill a vanquished, defenseless man and forgive him. Or forget. His fingers opened slowly and the knife fell from his hand.

He could hear Helen sobbing behind him as he grabbed Olmos’ shirt and raised his bloodied face until it was inches from his.

“Get out,” he said to him in Spanish. “Now, tonight. I don’t want to see you ever again. I’m warning you, if I do, I
will
kill you.”

He flung Olmos aside and crawled off him, hanging his head as he tried to catch his breath. Olmos, reprieved, didn’t wait for Matteo to change his mind. He scrambled to his feet and plunged through the group of onlookers, who parted to let him pass.

Matteo looked up and said to the people assembled at the entrance to the tent, “Go back to your beds. It’s all over.”

A couple of them looked toward Helen, and Matteo added, “I will take care of the
senorita.”
He turned his head and met her eyes, adding softly, “She is my affair.”

They left the tent and dispersed slowly, glancing at one another but unwilling to discuss what they had just seen until they were away from their leader. Matteo waited until they were gone and then got up, stripping off his shirt and holding it out for Helen, who slipped into it, letting the sheet fall as she did so.

“Are you all right?” he asked as she turned toward him and he enfolded her in his arms. “He didn’t...”

Helen shook her head, letting him take her weight as she relaxed against him. “No, I told you that. He just wanted to drive you to fight him, and he did. Oh, Matteo, when I thought you were going to stab him...”

“Shh,” he said, stroking her hair with one hand as he pulled his shirt closer around her with the other. “It’s finished. Don’t think about it. He’s gone; you won’t ever see him again.” He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the cot, saying, “Let me help you back to bed.”

“I should clean those cuts you have,” she protested.

“Forget them. Come on, your legs are giving way. You need to rest.”

Helen froze, clutching at his hands, burying her face on his naked chest. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”

He swung her up into his arms, sweeping her feet off the floor.

“Don’t worry,” he answered, pressing his lips to her ear. “I won’t leave you alone tonight.”

Helen closed her eyes and sighed gratefully. Her head fell back and her long hair trailed across his shoulder as he carried her, her bare legs draped over his lower arm.

Chapter 7

Matteo carried Helen to the cot and knelt to put her on it, then joined her, wedging in next to her in the narrow space. Helen curled up against his side, putting her head on his chest and slipping one hand under his broad back. The other drifted to his flat middle and stayed there, as if to reassure her of his presence.

“My fault,” he murmured, his fingers combing through her hair.

“What?” Helen sighed, too happy to care much about anything. It was like a miracle to have him so close after their estrangement.

“What happened tonight was my fault,” he clarified.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Matt,” Helen responded. “How could it be?”

“I know Olmos, how he thinks, how his mind works. I should have anticipated what he would do. He never confronts anything directly, but steps around it craftily, like a cat moving in on a mouse. It was just like him to use you the way he did to get to me. You wound up being the victim of my stupidity.”

“I’m all right, really,” Helen said. “I
was
scared when it happened, but I’m over it now.”

“Then go to sleep,” Matteo directed her. “You must be exhausted.”

“It’s too hot to sleep,” she answered dreamily, rubbing her cheek on his breast. She felt his muscles tense and planted a kiss just above his left pectoral. His skin tasted salty from his exertions and she licked her lips.

“Go to sleep,” he said again, through clenched teeth. “It’s almost two in the morning.” His words seemed to be coming with difficulty.

“If I go to sleep, you’ll leave me.”

“I promise I won’t,” he said, thinking that if she didn’t stop moving against him he would soon be unable to conceal his aroused state.

“Do you think it will rain?” she asked drowsily, already drifting off.

“I hope so,” he said softly, “we could sure use the relief from this heat.”

He waited for her to answer, but her breathing had already deepened, become regular and peaceful. He calmed down himself, certain that if he just held her quietly and didn’t think about what she was wearing—or not wearing—he would be able to get through the night.

Matteo stared into the half-lit gloom, watching the oil lamp’s flame cast its dancing shadows on the canvas walls of the tent. He heard the first tentative raindrops fall, hitting the roof with individual splats, and then listened gratefully as they gathered into a torrent. The rain fell steadily, dripping over the tent entrance, bringing with it a freshening breeze that swept through the opening, cooling his body. It carried a fine mist that soaked into the baked earth floor and settled on his hair and skin. The humidity broke as if a curse had been lifted, and his thoughts ranged over the evening’s events, which replayed like a tape in his mind.

The argument with Olmos had started it. Matteo was a cautious campaigner, taking out targets one at a time, following a progressive plan of gradually weakening the government’s defenses until it would be easy prey for a takeover. Olmos was impatient; he wanted to launch a coup right now, before the military caught on to their methods and developed strategies to combat them. While Matteo agreed that there was such a risk, he felt that jumping the gun and attacking before significant munitions depots and fuel reserves were destroyed would be fatal. And so they went head to head about it, and this time, as never before, Olmos was ready to back him to the wall.

Matteo had wearied of arguing with him. With tolerance evaporating in the oppressive heat, excessive even for Puerta Linda, the smoldering controversy had ignited into open warfare.

Now Olmos was gone. Matteo had always hoped it wouldn’t happen, hoped that he could control the other man’s rivalry and keep him in the fold, because his strength and dedication to the cause made him valuable. But when he had chosen to assault Helen, he’d moved beyond the pale and become Matteo’s mortal enemy.

Helen turned in her sleep, and Matteo looked at her, at the slim, perfect legs pressed along the length of his, exposed from midthigh to ankles by the brevity of his shirt. She had buttoned it hastily, awkwardly, and the swell of her breasts rose above the opening, full and inviting.

Matteo closed his eyes and turned his head, taking a deep gulp of the rain drenched air. But when he looked back it was worse; her movement had caused the top button to slip its confinement. One creamy breast was revealed beyond the line of her new, red-gold tan, almost to the nipple. His fingers itched to touch it.

He lifted his hand and settled for stroking the honeyed flesh of her throat, but of course it was not enough; one sensation enticed with the prospect of more. He drew his thumb along the line of her collarbone, pressing lightly, and she sighed, her lips parting. His fingers moved lower, slipping inside the opening of the shirt, and she yearned toward him unconsciously, her breath escaping in a soundless exhalation. Overcome with desire, Matteo cupped her breast and stroked it, rising to fullness himself as her nipple blossomed into his palm.

Helen stirred and her eyes opened.

Matteo flushed scarlet and withdrew his hand quickly, muttering hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”

Helen found his big hand with her smaller one and replaced it on her breast, locking her gaze with his.

With a moan of surrender, Matteo pulled her on top of him, crushing his lips to hers.

“I want you,” he said thickly, against her mouth. “I can’t fight myself and you, too. I just can’t do it any more.”

Helen lay in his arms and felt him, stallion ready, through the scant barrier of their clothes. She shifted position instinctively, her legs open, almost straddling him. He groaned—the first time she had ever heard that distinctive sound of complete, helpless male arousal—and surged upward to meet her. The cot rocked unsteadily, almost pitching them into the dirt.

“The hell with this,” he mumbled, putting her aside and snatching up the sheet Helen had discarded. He shook it out and spread it on the floor. With almost the same motion he zipped the tent flap closed and kicked a storage chest in front of the entrance, blocking it. He returned to scoop Helen up and deposit her on the sheet, flinging himself down beside her and pulling her back into his arms.

“You won’t stop this time?” she asked, wary of being hurt again.

“No,” he answered, drawing back to look into her eyes. “I guess I made up my mind when I realized what might have happened tonight with Olmos.” He traced the outline of her lips with a blunt forefinger. “I want to be the first man in your life, Helen. I want to
begin
your life.”