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  Jason’s hands had descended on her shoulders, and the fragile vulnerability of the bones beneath his fingers caused him to hesitate before saying, ‘It’s not a question of—liking, Alexandra.’

  ‘Then why—’

  He found he was not immune to those eyes after all. Hurting her was like hurting a wounded deer, a trite observation, but true nevertheless. What the hell, her father had abandoned her, hadn’t he? Was he about to do the same? What would happen to her if he did? Who knew what dangers she might encounter in London, particularly in her desire to prove to him that she needed his protection? His fingers tightened so that he felt the bones might crack beneath his hold, but she didn’t wince, and with a feeling compounded of sympathy and compassion, and a curious kind of self-disgust, he said:

  ‘All right, all right, I give in. You can come with me to Santa Vittoria. You and Miss Holland both.’

  ‘You really mean it?’

  Tears overspilled her eyes as she stared disbelievingly up at him, and almost with revulsion he thrust her away from him. But that didn’t alter the fact that by allowing her to accompany him, he sensed he was inviting trouble. What form that trouble would take, he could not foresee, but almost immediately he wished he could retract his words.

  It was too late, of course. Much too late. The misty relief that shone in her eyes could not be doused, and far from regretting his submission, she was positively incoherent with delight.

  ‘Oh, Jason!’ she breathed, brushing away her tears with a careless hand, and before he could anticipate what she was about to do, she had flung her arms around his neck and was bestowing kisses all over his face. ‘Darling, darling Jason!’ she was crying exuberantly, while he tried rather unsuccessfully to free himself, uncomfortably aware of those firm breasts pressing against the material of his waistcoat and of the warm scent of her arms wound so closely round his neck. If she was to accompany him to San Gabriel, they would have to talk about her impulsive methods of expressing herself, he thought dryly. He wondered how she saw him. As some kind of Dutch uncle, perhaps, or the father figure she had never known. Whatever, she would have to learn that young women, however enthusiastic, did not throw themselves into the arms of a virtual stranger just because he had agreed to her wishes, albeit against his better judgment.

  Having extracted himself, and with her wrists pressed firmly against her sides, Jason felt more able to speak seriously to her, although the dancing violet eyes were a continual distraction.

  ‘Miss Holland,’ he said, ‘Miss Holland must agree to come with us, do you understand? If she refuses—’

  ‘She won’t,’ Alexandra interrupted certainly. ‘She liked you, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s you she has to deal with,’ retorted Jason repressively, wondering with some misgivings how Estelita would react to two such females in his house. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you must not be so—so demonstrative.’

  ‘Demonstrative?’ Alexandra’s brows arched. ‘Towards you, you mean?’

  ‘Towards anyone,’ amended Jason dryly, but she only smiled.

  ‘Why?’ she persisted. ‘Don’t you like it? Don’t you like me to touch you?’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it,’ he began, but she shook her head.

  ‘I think it has.’ She tried to free her wrists, but he knew better than to let her go. ‘I think it has everything to do with it. At the convent—you know, when I was living with the nuns—nobody ever touched one another. We were like—separate species.’ She sighed. ‘We used to talk together—and smile together—even pray together. But we never touched.’ She moved her slim shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘I think people should touch one another. That’s what caring is all about.’ She lifted her head. ‘I like touching people. I like touching you…’

  ‘That’s enough!’

  Abruptly, she was free, but she knew better than to touch him just then. After a moment’s laboured breathing, he turned and crossed to the telephone, and while she watched, he asked the operator to get him the number of the agency where he had engaged to interview the governess. It was a brief call, but it served a dual purpose—on the one hand, it accomplished the need to contact Miss Holland as quickly as possible, and on the other it gave him time to realise the enormity of the task he was taking upon himself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALEXANDRA had never experienced such a sense of space and freedom, miles and miles of long pampas grass stretching as far as the eye could see. Acres and acres of land, grazed by herds of shorthorned cattle, that turned wicked eyes in their direction as they passed, making Alexandra, at least, aware of the thin sheet of metal which separated them from those ugly pointed projections. Cattle in France and England never had such beady little eyes, or moved with the arrogance of the beast, untamed and magnificent.

  Ever since the powerful Range-Rover passed beneath the crossed strips of wood which had marked the boundary of Jason’s land, she had been expecting to see the ranch-house, but mile followed mile and there was nothing in sight but the untrammelled grasslands of the Santa Vittorian plateau. The road, which from Valvedra had been passably smooth, was now little more than a beaten track, and she was regretting her impulse to offer Miss Holland the seat beside Jason in front. As she sat in the back of the Range-Rover, the base of her spine was in constant opposition to the springs of the vehicle, and her back ached from being thrown from side to side.

  From time to time, her eyes encountered Jason’s through the rear-view mirror, and then she made a determined effort to appear unconcerned, aware that occasionally a trace of amusement lightened their umber depths. But she was here, that was the main thing, she thought with satisfaction, and the awareness of Jason’s lean body in the seat in front of her was all the compensation she needed.

  It had not been easy, she acknowledged it now, and until the moment she and Miss Holland had boarded the plane she had been terrified in case he should send some message forbidding her to join him. But from the minute her father had spoken of Jason Tarrant, describing the kind of man he was, telling her about their adventures in Mexico, the rough absorbing outdoor life they had led, she had wanted to meet him. All her life she had wanted to do the things her father did, meet the people he worked with, and share in the thrill of his excavations. She would have followed him to the ends of the earth if he had asked her, but he never had. So far as he was concerned, she was a girl, and girls were not welcome in what he considered to be a male province. Her own mother had died in childbirth confirming his belief that females were weak, defenceless creatures, and he had only sent for Alexandra at the end because he had known he was dying, too.

  Even then, he had not known what to do with her. Her assurances that she would make out on her own had not convinced him, but his suggestion of returning her to the nuns of Sainte Sœur had filled her with alarm. It was then she had coined the idea of writing to Jason Tarrant, of telling him her father was dying, and putting her future into his hands. She knew her father had helped him when he was in trouble, but Charles Durham would not even consider such a proposition. Instead, he had dictated a letter to his solicitors, giving them the address of the convent, and asking that if—when—anything happened to him, Alexandra should return there, at least until she was eighteen.

  To her shame, Alexandra had never written that letter. Because his eyesight was failing, she had written all her father’s letters for him, and it wasn’t difficult to substitute a letter of her own for him to sign. It was possible that given time, the solicitors might have questioned that particular missive, but Charles Durham suffered a massive heart attack the following day from which he never recovered. Alexandra was left, pale and distraught, at the mercy of her own machinations.

  Her first meeting with Jason, at his hotel, had not been exactly as she had expected. Of course, she had expected him to protest about the fact of her being a girl—didn’t everyone?—but she had not imagined he would be so young. She had been prepared to meet a contemporary of her father�
�s, a man in his fifties, at least, instead of someone perhaps twenty years younger. But that initial hazard had been swiftly superseded by her immediate attraction to the man himself, whose lean hard body and dark-skinned features reminded her vividly of the painting of an Indian the nuns had kept at the convent. Those gentle women would have been shocked by Alexandra’s reactions to that particular picture, the baptism to Christianity of a tall bronzed pagan, which had taken on a different aspect in Alexandra’s maturing eyes.

  Jason himself had been as confounded as her father by his new responsibilities, but in the event it proved providential that he had imagined her to be a boy. Without Miss Holland’s intervention, he might never have been persuaded to allow her to go to Santa Vittoria, but she felt now that whatever he had decreed, she would have followed him. It was fate, she decided, which had prompted her to write that letter, and for now, just being with him was enough.

  Miss Holland was another matter. That lady had taken her responsibilities very seriously, and seemed to regard her situation as that of a nursemaid, rather than a companion. There were times when she made Alexandra feel like a child in the company of an adult, and those occasions were galling. She was seventeen; granted she had led a comparatively sheltered life, but she had read a lot, much of it books the nuns would have been horrified to discover in the hands of one of their charges. The only thing her father had not kept her short of was money and she had spent it lavishly on literature of all kinds. All her experience of the relationship between a man and a woman had come from books, but she felt adequate to cope should the situation arise. She was a mature and intelligent young woman, or so she believed, and Miss Holland’s behaviour was a source of irritation to her. The fact that since their arrival in Valvedra, it was a source of amusement to Jason, too, only added to her frustration.

  Miss Holland had proved useful when it came to providing her with a wardrobe suitable to the climate in which she was to be living. Her knowledge of London was extensive, she having tutored the children of a titled family for more years than she cared to admit, and maybe because she regarded Alexandra as little more than a child, she chose those shops where teenage clothes were sold. Once inside those shops however, Alexandra soon made her own wishes felt, and the sales assistants added their encouragement. The fashions of the day—jeans and sweaters, pants suits, and long flowing skirts and dresses—looked good on Alexandra’s slender figure, and although Miss Holland looked askance at revealing smocks and skin-tight jumpers, her opinion was overruled. Besides, the ear-splitting music which was an accompaniment to the service in these establishments gave her a headache, and she was obliged to wait outside.

  Although Charles Durham had not died a poor man, he had not died a rich one either. He had used most of his capital to finance the expeditions which had become the cornerstone of his life, and sacrificed his dream of creating an institute in the tireless search for knowledge. Even so, the sale of the small house he had owned, though seldom occupied, in Ealing did provide Alexandra with a comfortable nest-egg, but her plans of bestowing it on her benefactor were doomed to disappointment. Before departing for South America, Jason had made it very clear that until her majority, he intended to make himself responsible for her maintenance, and the knowledge that she had tricked him into supporting her occasionally gave her a sleepless night. She consoled herself with the belief, however, that once she was living in his house, she would make herself useful to him in every way possible, and somehow she would repay him.

  The days following Jason’s departure had dragged. She and the middle-aged lady who was to accompany her were obliged to have jabs for various tropical diseases before their departure, and because Jason could not spare the time away from his estancia, he had left within a week of their first meeting. From then on, Alexandra had lived in a fever of anxiety, as much from the knowledge of her own duplicity as from the after-effects of the vaccination serum.

  But eventually the day of departure had arrived, and they had left a cold, grey England, recovering from the chills of January, to fly south into the sun. Their overnight stay in Rio de Janeiro had given Alexandra no thrill, although Miss Holland had marvelled at the twin peaks overlooking Guanabara Bay, and the magnificent statue of Christ whose shadow embraced the city. The thrill for Alexandra had come when they landed the next morning at Valvedra’s much smaller airport, and found Jason awaiting them in the arrivals lounge. In mud-coloured Levis and a matching shirt, half open down the muscled darkness of his chest, he appeared relaxed and casual, only the guarded narrowing of his eyes revealing the doubts he still possessed about bringing her here. But Alexandra had determinedly ignored his restraint, and much to both his, and Miss Holland’s, disapproval she had flung her arms about his neck and greeted him in her usual impulsive fashion. This time, however, Jason had quickly disengaged himself, and the kiss meant for his mouth had slid harmlessly along his jawline. Alexandra had been sad, but unrepentant, despite the effort of Miss Holland to behave as if she was some kind of annoying child who refused to behave with decorum.

  Beyond the windows of the Range-Rover, the ground was steadily rising, and she saw to her surprise that they were in rolling hill country now, granite-like ridges casting shadows across the land. In the distance, the purple peaks of the Sierra Grande looked rugged and mysterious, and the whole aspect of the country had changed. It was late afternoon and already the shadows were lengthening, elongating the branches of the wind-torn cypresses that clung to the ridges, and shedding a rippling wave of ghostlike fingers across the land.

  Their emergence into a sunlit valley was almost startling, the escarpment dropping away below them where a stream tumbled recklessly down the cliff face. It was then that Alexandra saw him, outlined against the golden rays of the sinking sun on the ridge opposite them, a magnificent black stallion silhouetted by the purplish gold backdrop of earth and sky. Just for a second he was there and then he was gone, plunging into the gully behind him, so that she thought for a moment she had imagined him.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasped, the sound escaping from her on a soft sigh, and Jason’s response was one of wry satisfaction.

  ‘You saw him.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miss Holland, unaware of the tableau, gave an exclamation of surprise.

  ‘I beg your par—’ she was beginning, when Alexandra leant forward to rest her arms along the backs of their seats, saying eagerly: ‘Yes. Yes, I saw him! Whose is he? Is he yours? Oh, Jason, he’s beautiful!’

  Jason gave her a half mocking glance over his shoulder. ‘I doubt that brute will ever belong to anybody,’ he remarked flatly. ‘I suppose technically, yes, you could say that as he runs on my land, he belongs to me, but no one’s ever succeeded in breaking him.’

  ‘You have caught him, then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jason nodded, and Miss Holland’s expression grew even more confused. ‘But he’s a proud bastard—excuse me!’ This as that lady’s brows ascended. ‘He considers running my range with my mares and keeping them happy his prime objective!’

  Alexandra’s low laugh was intimate, and as if realising her bare arm was resting comfortably against the broad expanse of his shoulder, Jason’s expression hardened and he moved so that she was not touching him. Fortunately, perhaps, Miss Holland chose that moment to ask a question of her own, and Alexandra sank back against the upholstery as Jason explained what they had seen.

  ‘You breed horses, Mr. Tarrant?’ she enquired, her lips twitching a little as if at a rather distasteful subject, and Jason’s hard features softened a little.

  ‘Horses are my passion,’ he admitted, his eyes meeting Alexandra’s for a brief compelling moment. Then, braking as the road took a sharp curve, he added: ‘But the production of beef is my primary concern.’

  ‘But this animal—the one Alexandra has just seen—is a wild creature?’ Miss Holland persisted.

  ‘I suppose he is,’ Jason nodded, frowning as the wheels of the Range-Rover slid across a shingly patch of pebbles dangerou
sly close to the edge of the track. ‘But sometimes I wonder if he’s not more civilised than we are.’ His lips twisted at the older woman’s apparent astonishment. ‘There’s little that goes on at the estancia that he doesn’t know about. Some of the Indians think he’s the reincarnation of one of their gods. To them, he’s sacred. To me, he has less saintly qualities.’

  Miss Holland shook her head, obviously disturbed by her first introduction to life at San Gabriel, but Alexandra was filled with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. This was what she had always wanted, she thought with satisfaction; travel and adventure, and a chance to live her life instead of just existing. Jason’s disapproval did not disturb her, it was a challenge, and something told her he was not as indifferent to her femininity as he pretended to be.

  Then her breath caught in her throat as she suddenly glimpsed a building ahead of them. As yet, it was below them in the valley, but the painted tiles of its roof, leaved across a wide verandah, gave her her first sight of Jason’s hacienda.

  Uncaring of his hostility, Alexandra leant forward again, deliberately allowing her slim fingers to stroke the nape of his neck, hidden beneath the over-long straightness of his hair. ‘Is that your house?’ she breathed, and the scent of her breath mingled with the perfume of wild verbena that drifted irresistibly through the open windows of the Range-Rover.

  Jason’s hand came up, ostensibly to smooth his hair, but he pushed her fingers determinedly away, as he answered: ‘Yes, that’s San Gabriel,’ and her delight in her surroundings obliterated the coldness of his tones.

  ‘It’s rather a large house, isn’t it, Mr Tarrant?’

  Miss Holland had her own opinion, and Jason chose to tell her that the sprawling outbuildings she could see were the lodgings of the gauchos who worked for him. He pointed out the long bunkhouse and the cookhouse where their meals were served.