Forbidden Flame Read online

  Forbidden Flame

  By

  Anne Mather

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FORBIDDEN FLAME

  There was no future, Caroline knew, in her love for Andrew, who was married to a wife who loved and needed him. So she sought escape in far-off Mexico—where she fell in love with a man who was forbidden to her in a way Andrew had never been…

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  A HAUNTING COMPULSION

  The affair between Rachel Williams and Jaime Shard had been over for years—but despite the bitterness she felt about Jaime, Rachel was still fond of his parents, and when they invited her to spend Christmas with them she could hardly refuse. But she had not realised that Jaime would be there too…

  IMAGES OF LOVE

  It was sheer coincidence that Mark Newman should turn out to be the half-brother of Robert Lang, who had ruined Tobie's life—but when Mark invited her to go with him to the Caribbean to meet his family, she could not resist the chance to see Robert again—and pay him back for what he had done to her. But Tobie didn't know what had happened to Robert since they had last met…

  WHISPER OF DARKNESS

  Why was Jake Sheldon so antagonistic to Joanna when he so desperately needed her as a governess for his difficult little daughter? Why did he persist in cutting both himself and the child off from all social contacts? Joanna asked herself the questions—but she should have been asking another one: Why was she so concerned about Jake?

  THE INNOCENT INVADER

  Sarah, straight from a convent, went out wide-eyed with excitement to the West Indies to a job as governess to the small ward of Jason de Cordova. And had the bad luck to fall in love with her employer—who was not only married but had every intention of staying married! How could she cope with the heartbreak?

  First published 1981

  Australian copyright 1981

  Philippine copyright 1981

  This edition 1981

  © Anne Mather 1981

  ISBN 0 263 73514 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  Peering through the fly-spotted window of the hotel in Las Estadas, Caroline thought she must have been slightly mad to agree to come here. Whatever had possessed her to apply for this job? Why on earth had she imagined it would be exciting, a challenge, something to divert her from the sudden emptiness of her life in England? What did she, a university graduate, with honours in English and history, know of teaching an eight-year-old child, and why had she been chosen when there had obviously been others more suitable?

  Of course, the advertisement she had read would have interested anyone with a spark of adventure in their blood. The chance to work in Mexico—the land of the Aztecs, steeped in history, and peopled by the ancestors of Montezuma and Cortez—but Caroline wondered now how many of those other applicants had baulked when they were expected to travel to a remote village north of Yucatan. She had spoken with several of the other girls, waiting in the drawing room of the hotel suite in London, and almost all of them had gained the opinion that they were to work in Mexico City.

  But even when Caroline had learned where the job was she had not been discouraged. She knew a little about Mexico, or so she had imagined, and the idea of living within driving distance of the Mayan city of Chichen Itza had been a glowing inducement. Only now, waiting in the seedy surroundings of the Hotel Hermosa, a misnomer surely, did the full realisation of what she was committed to occur to her, and if there had been some way she could return to Merida without anyone's know-ledge, she would have surely done so.

  Outside, a drenching downpour had turned the street into a muddy river, and given a grey aspect to buildings already dirt-daubed and ramshackle. This was not the Mexico she, had imagined, the colourful blending of past and present in a kaleidoscope of rich mosaics and even richer architecture. This was poverty and squalor, and the simple struggle for survival against enormous odds. Las Estadas had not yet felt the impact of the oil boom that was supposedly going to transform Mexico's economy. Here life was still held cheaply and governed by the whims of weather, and a seemingly unkind fate. To Caroline, used to the social and cultural advantages of a Western civilisation, the sight of so much deprivation was doubly shocking, and she was uncomfortably aware that she would have much preferred not to have seen what she had.

  Turning away from the window, she viewed the sordid little room behind her without liking. A rag mat beside the narrow iron-railed bedspread was all the covering the floor possessed, and the water in the chipped jug on the washstand was the graveyard for the assortment of insects who had drowned there during the night. The bed itself had been lumpy and not particularly clean, but the night before Caroline had been so tired she felt she could have slept on the floor. This morning, however, she had experienced a shudder of revulsion when she saw the grubby sheets in daylight, and the breakfast of hot tortillas and strong-smelling coffee still stood on the rickety table where the obsequious hotel proprietor had left it.

  A knock at her door brought an automatic stiffening of her spine, and she straightened away from the window to stand rather apprehensively in the middle of the floor. 'Who is it?' she called, clasping her slim fingers tightly together, and then mentally sagged' again when Seňor Allende put his head round the door.

  'El desayuno, seňorita—it was okay?'

  The hotel proprietor was enormously fat, and as he eased his way into the room, Caroline couldn't help wondering how many of those people she had seen could have lived on what he ate. His girth was disgusting, and he brought with him an odour of sweat and sour tequila that caused her empty stomach to heave.

  'Ah—but you have not eaten!' he exclaimed now, observing the untouched tray. 'It is not to your liking, seňorita? You want I should have Maria make you something else?'

  'Thank you, no.' Caroline shook her head firmly. 'I— er—I'm not hungry. Could you tell me again, what time did Seňor Montejo say he would be here?'

  'Don Esteban say he will come before noon,' responded the fat little Mexican thoughtfully, stroking his black moustaches, and viewing Caroline's slim figure with an irritatingly speculative eye. 'Mas, por cierto, el tiempo—the weather, you understand? It may cause—how you say— the delay, no?'

  Caroline's spirits sank even further. 'You mean the roads may be impassable?' she suggested, and Seňor Allende nodded.

  'Is possible,' he agreed. Then he smiled, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. 'Mas; no worry, seňorita. Jose,' he pointed to himself, 'Jose take good care of you, till Don Esteban come.'

  'Yes.'

  Caroline forced a faint smile of acknowledgement, but she was not enthusiastic. She would not welcome having to spend another night between those dubious sheets, and Seňor Allende's attitude grew increasingly proprietorial. He was looking at her now, as if he had some prior claim to her loyalties, while she felt she would have preferred any other hotel to this. But Seňor Montejo had made the arrangements, and she could only assume that this was the best Las Estadas had to offer.

  'So—' Seňor Allende drew a fat cigar out of his waistcoat pocket, bit off the end and spat it repulsively on to the floor. 'Why do you not come downstairs and wait in my office, no? I have a little bottle of something there to—how do you say it?—make the day sunny, hm?'

  He pronounced little as 'leetle', and it was all Caroline could do not to grimace outright. Did he really imagine she might find
his company appealing? If she had not felt so absurdly vulnerable, she could have laughed at the predictability of it all. As it was she took a backward step and shook her head politely but firmly.

  'I don't think so, thank you,' she replied crisply. 'I'll stay here. I can watch the street from my window, and I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble.'

  'Is no trouble,' exclaimed Seňor Allende, spreading his hands in typically Latin fashion. 'Come—' He stretched out one podgy hand. 'Is much nicer downstairs.'

  'No!' Caroline was very definite this time. 'Please—I prefer to be alone. If you'll excuse me—'

  Seňor Allende shrugged, and then his small eyes narrowed between the folds of flesh. 'Okay, okay, is no big deal,' he retorted. 'Como quiere usted!' And with another shrug of his shoulders, he left her, closing the door behind him with heavy definition.

  Caroline ran a relieved hand over the crown of her head and down to her nape, resting her head back against the support, expelling the tension that had briefly gripped her. The last thing she needed was complications of that sort, and she let her shoulders droop as she walked wearily back to the window. Where was Seňor Montejo? Surely a night's rain was not sufficient to cut all communications!

  Pressing her palms together, she put her thumbs against her lips and gazed thoughtfully down at the verandah opposite. For the first time she questioned her own expectations of her destination. What would the Montejo house be like? What would Seňor Montejo be like? And how could she have been foolish enough to commit herself to a whole month's probation, when she might conceivably want to leave after only one day?

  Somehow things had seemed so different in London. No one meeting Seňora Garcia, who had conducted the interviews, could have had any doubts that anyone associated with her—and she was the child's grandmother— could live in anything other than exemplary surroundings. She had exuded an aura of wealth and sophistication, in keeping with the Dior suit and Cartier pearls she was wearing, and Caroline had naturally assumed her son-in-law and his daughter would be the same. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps Seňora Garcia's daughter had married beneath her. Perhaps Seňor Montejo would turn out to be more like Seňor Allende…

  At noon, the buxom cook, Maria, brought her a bowl of greasy stew and some corn bread. Caroline suffered herself to eat a little of the stew and all of the bread, realising it would be foolish to starve herself in this climate, and then returned to her seat by the window, wondering idly if the road to Merida was still open.

  The afternoon dragged on, and Caroline grew increasingly anxious. What if, as seemed likely, Seňor Montejo did not come? How many days might she be expected to stay in this awful place?

  Her eyes wandered restlessly up and down the street, watching the struggle an ancient truck was having trying to gain purchase on the Slippery road, silently sympathising as its churning wheels threw a shower of mud over an elderly woman passing by. An ox-cart made better progress, though the rain was no less heavy, and she turned away, sighing, just as the door to her room burst open.

  It was late afternoon, and the low-hanging clouds had left the room in partial shadow, but the hotel proprietor's bulk was unmistakable. He stood swaying on the threshold, an opened bottle of tequila clutched in his hand, and Caroline, had no need to wonder how he had spent the day.

  'Holá, seňorita!' he greeted her unsteadily, raising the bottle to his mouth and taking a greedy draught. 'Perhaps you like Jose's corn-company now, hm? You share a little drink with Jose, si?'

  Caroline knew she mustn't panic. She was not exactly afraid, but she was alarmed, and although she felt reasonably capable of defending herself, should the need arise, she dreaded to think where she might go if he threw her out.

  'I don't drink, Seňor Allende,' she said now, facing him bravely. At five feet six inches, she was almost half a head taller than he was, and infinitely fitter, if his size was anything to go by.

  'Do-don't drink!' he echoed, stumbling a little over his words. 'Por cierto, you take a little tequila. Tequila is good, very good. You try some—here—here—'

  He came towards her heavily, holding out the bottle, urging her to take a mouthful. Caroline's stomach lurched as she stepped aside. The idea of putting her lips where his greasy mouth had been caused the lumpy stew to rise into the back of her throat like bile, and she swallowed it back nauseously, shifting to avoid his reaching fingers.

  'Seňor Allende, please! I don't want to try any,' she protested, moving round the bed, but he only came after her, like some lumbering buffalo, panting as his thoughts accelerated beyond the pursuit.

  'You try, you try,' he said, over and over again, licking his lips in anticipation, and Caroline realised it was going to be impossible to get out of this without a struggle.

  She was backed into a corner of the room, with the bed on one side, and the wall of the room, with its tiny crucifix, on the other, and her eyes turned despairingly from the religious image. No immortal being could help her now, and with sudden inspiration she sprang on to the bed, blessing her corded jeans that provided no swirling skirts for the man to grasp. But the proprietor was more agile than she thought, or perhaps desperation lent him speed. Whatever the truth of the matter, his plump fingers reached surely for her ankle, and his brutal jerk brought her down on the bed, the unyielding mattress almost knocking the breath from her body. In those first stunned moments, she felt him clambering on to the bed beside her, and now she really did panic. With a strength she hardly knew she possessed, she twisted on to her back, drawing up her knee in one swift motion, bringing it to the fleshy underside of his body with purposeful effect. His agonised groan was audible, and she scrambled out from beneath him, reaching the door just as another man was about to enter. She collided helplessly with his hard body, and he had to grasp her shoulders to save himself. In the grip of panic, Caroline had no thought to his identity, imagining this might be some colleague of Seňor Allende come to join the fun, but as she lifted her foot to deliver a similar blow, he swung her about, imprisoning her arms by her side.

  'Basta, basta!' he exclaimed, half angrily, then lifted his eyes to the figure just endeavouring to climb off the bed. With Caroline still struggling in his arms, he stared grimly at the obese hotel proprietor, and then, speaking in English for her benefit, he said: 'What has been going on here, Allende? Did you get a little more than you had expected?'

  The cultured voice, accented though it was, brought Caroline to her senses. His words, and the contemptuous way he said them, made her instantly aware that this was no coarse drinking partner of the sweating little proprietor. Even without Seňor Allende's air of subdued discomfort, she would have known that this was someone to be reckoned with, and her struggles stilled as he politely released her.

  'I—I'm sorry if I hurt you—' she began, turning with some gratitude to her rescuer, then her speech died away beneath the hooded grey eyes of the man confronting her.

  Seňor Montejo, if it was indeed he, was like nothing she had imagined. He was younger, for one thing, certainly no more than thirty, and taller than most of the men she had seen since she arrived in Mexico. He was very dark, dark-haired and olive-skinned, but his features possessed all the unconscious hauteur of his Spanish forebears. He was not handsome in the accepted sense of the word. His brows were too strongly marked, his cheekbones too hard, his mouth too thin—but he was devastatingly attractive, and the dark linen jacket and pants he was wearing, over a darker brown fine wool shirt, hugged his wide shoulders and muscular thighs like a second skin. Caroline had never met anyone who exuded such an aura of raw masculinity, and for a moment she faltered, at once confused and embarrassed.

  'Seňor, seňor—' Taking advantage of Caroline's discomfort, the hotel proprietor was attempting to defend himself. 'You misunderstand, seňor—'

  'I think not.' Seňor Montejo's voice was deep and attractive. 'I find you, Allende, in a position of some—shall we say, discomfort, on Seňorita Leyton's bed, and the seňorita herself evidently in som
e distress—'

  'Unnecessarily, I assure you, seňor!' protested Seňor Allende dramatically. 'I have—I admit it—had a little too much to drink.' He shrugged expressively. 'So I rest for un momento on the seňorita's bed. Que he hecho?'

  'What were you doing in the seňorita's room?' enquired Montejo pleasantly, but Caroline could hear the underlying core of steel in his voice.

  'Perhaps—it was a misunderstanding,' she murmured unhappily, unwilling to make enemies within twenty-four hours of her arrival. 'I—I don't think Seňor Allende meant any harm—'

  Montejo's dark face assumed an ironic expression. 'Do you not?' He tilted his head in Allende's direction. 'You are fortunate that Miss Leyton is not vindictive, my friend. I do not think my brother would be so generous.'

  Seňor Allende spread his hands. 'You will not tell Don Esteban, seňor. This posada is all I have—'

  The man made an indifferent gesture and said something else in their own language, but Caroline was not paying any attention. Something else, something Seňor Allende had said, caused her to revise her first opinion, and she realised with sudden perception that this man was not her employer. Yet he knew her name, and he had mentioned his brother. But who was he? Seňora Garcia had mentioned no brother. Only that her son-in-law was a widower, living alone with his daughter and an elderly aunt, on the family's estates at San Luis de Merced.

  As if becoming aware of her doubts and confusion, the man turned back to her now, performing a slight bow, and saying politely: 'Forgive me, Miss Leyton. I have not introduced myself. My name is Montejo, Luis Vincente de Montejo, brother to Don Esteban, and uncle to your charge, Doňa Emilia.'