Sara Craven - Night Of The Condor

She wasn’t sure she approved of Pizarro. Everything she had ever read about the Inca civilisation suggested it had worked perfectly well without outside interference. But the gold which they took so much for granted had lured the conquerors and plunderers from the Old World, and the Spaniards had overthrown the Inca Atahualpa by a trick, then held him to ransom. But the riches of his kingdom, which his bewildered people had brought in load after weary load, were not enough to save him. Pizarro, having sworn not one drop of his blood should be spilled, kept his word by having the Inca strangled.

It was not, Leigh thought with distaste, an uplifting story, and it seemed only fitting that a few years later Pizarro should have been betrayed and murdered by his own men.

But her mind wasn’t really on Peru’s savage history. Over and over again, she found herself thinking about Rourke Martinez, trying to gauge his reaction to her note.

She supposed his most likely response would be to ignore her completely. But I’ll worry about that when it happens, she thought.

And much as she hated to admit it, she was beginning to realise that Lima might not be a safe city for a woman on her own. She was attracting all kinds of unwelcome attention. She could deal with the normal range of wolf whistles and goodhumoured sexual innuendo, but the kind of macho aggression her slender fairness seemed to be inciting was altogether outside her scope. Over-loud remarks accompanied by blatantly lecherous gestures, made her face burn, and she decided to abandon her plan to visit some of the city’s museums, almost running the remaining blocks back to her hotel.

To her amazement, when she asked without much hope if there were any messages, the clerk handed her a folded paper.

‘Dear Miss Frazier,’ his letter read, ‘Your olive branch is accepted. I’m afraid tonight is the only night I can manage, as my time in Lima is strictly limited. Shall we say eight o’clock?’ His signature was as uncompromising as the man himself, she noted ruefully.

But she could feel glee welling up inside her just the same.

As simple as that, she thought in self-congratulation. She said to the reception clerk, ‘Would you send the maître d’hotel to my suite right away, please. I wish to entertain a guest privately there to dinner tonight.’

The clerk stared at her. ‘But our dining-room is excellent, señorita, and tonight there will be a musical show with folk dancing which you and your guest will enjoy.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Leigh in a tone which brooked no argument. ‘My—guest and I have business to discuss which requires peace and privacy, so please do as I have asked.’

As she rode up in the lift, she re-read his note. So his time in Lima was limited. Did that mean he was going back to Atayahuanco very soon? It seemed more than likely.

But what he didn’t realise, she told herself pleasurably, her nails curling into the palms of her hands, was that she would be going with him.

She devoted the rest of the afternoon to relaxing and getting ready, smoothing away any ragged edges with a leisurely session with the hairdresser and manicurist in the hotel’s beauty salon.

Dressing that evening, she subjected her wardrobe to minute scrutiny before deciding what to wear. She felt rather like a general planning some spring offensive. And it was, she thought, definitely time for the big guns!

Her silky black dress relied for its effect on the chic and daring of its cut. It moulded itself lovingly to her slim figure before breaking out into a brief swirl of a skirt, and the halternecked bodice, although reasonably demure at the front, plunged well below her waist at the back.

She fixed delicate gold spirals in her ears, and added a discreet misting of Hermès, before deciding she would do.

Rourke Martinez, she thought smiling, would not know what had hit him.

The telephone rang promptly at eight.

‘Your guest is here, señorita,’ an expressionless voice told her.

‘I’ll come down,’ said Leigh. ‘Ask him to wait for me in the bar, por favor.’

She took a deep breath, as she gave herself a final considering survey in the long mirror. Black shoes with slender, spiked heels and pale stockings with embroidered seams completed her ensemble, and her hair gleamed like silk.

She thought, I look like a woman going to meet her lover, and the realisation stopped her in her tracks. For the first time, she felt a qualm about her plans for the evening, then she squared her slender shoulders, lifting her chin defiantly. However loathsome she might find it having to play up to a man like Rourke Martinez, it would be worth it, if it meant she found Evan at last.

And after the way Rourke Martinez had treated her, it would be amusing to see if she could make him grovel, even for a short while.

She caused a minor sensation as she entered the bar, but she would have enjoyed it more if she hadn’t been working so hard to conceal her own nervousness.

She saw him at once, of course. He was head and shoulders taller than anyone else around, standing at the bar, with his back to her. Then as if alerted by the sudden hush which had descended at her entrance, he wheeled slowly, glass in hand, and looked at her.

He looked—arrested anyway, Leigh thought as she pinned on a cordial smile, and crossed the space which separated them.

‘Doctor Martinez.’ Her voice was warm to match her smile. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’

‘If you did,’ he said slowly, ‘you are undeniably worth waiting for, Miss Frazier. Is this solely in my honour, or are you expecting other company?’

‘But I don’t know anyone else in Lima.’ Leigh lowered darkened lashes demurely.

‘Of course,’ he drawled. ‘I was forgetting. May I get you a drink?’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever you’re having will be fine.’

His brows rose faintly. ‘I’m having a pisco sour, but I should warn you, they can be potent.’

‘When in Rome,’ Leigh said lightly. ‘Shall we sit down?’

It was working, she thought, as she reached into her bag for a tissue she didn’t need. The stark uncovered blackness of the dress against her pale skin was a surefire winner. He could hardly take his eyes off her. Obviously blondes in model gowns were in short supply in the wilds of Atayahuanco. Well, let him eat his heart out.

Although she had to admit, as he brought the drinks to their table, that he didn’t look like a man who would ever go short of female company, except through his own choice.

He was more formally dressed this evening, in a pale, lightweight suit with a dark blue silk shirt. And if she was the cynosure of all the masculine eyes in the bar, she could not deny that he was being surveyed with discreet avidity by the women.

Not that she could altogether blame them, she thought unwillingly. However much she might dislike him, she had to acknowledge that he was an attractive devil, and magnetically virile as well. And not lacking in charm either, she supposed, when he chose to exert it.

Smilingly, she lifted her glass to him. ‘To our better understanding, Doctor Martinez.’

His expression was enigmatic as he returned the toast. ‘Salud, Miss Frazier.’

Leigh tasted her drink with a certain amount of caution. There was a tang of lemon, she recognised, and underneath it all, a kick like a mule. One, she thought, would undoubtedly be enough.

‘So—how are you enjoying Lima?’ he asked.

Polite conversation, it seemed, was the order of the day, and Leigh obediently picked up her cue.

‘Interesting, but it has its drawbacks,’ she said lightly. ‘This constant mist, for one thing.’

‘Ah, the garua.’ He grinned slightly. ‘Legend has it that when the Spaniards asked the conquered Incas where was the best place to build their city, the Incas recommended Lima with deliberate malice.’