Don Joaquin's Pride. Lynne Graham
up in one easy motion and laying her down on the blanket. ‘Rest, then,’ he drawled flatly.
Joaquin Del Castillo was a male of innate and fascinating contradictions, Lucy acknowledged sleepily. Fiercely proud and icily self-contained in his hostility towards her, yet too honourable, it seemed, to make her suffer unnecessary discomfort.
Against the backdrop of the flaming sunset, he stood over her like a huge black intimidating shadow. ‘You look like the devil,’ she whispered, with a drowsy attempt at humour.
‘I will not take your soul, señora…but I have every intention of stripping you of everything else you possess.’
Stray words fluttered in the blankness of Lucy’s brain. They did not connect. They did not make sense. With a soundless sigh of relief, Lucy sank into the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCY opened her eyes slowly.
A small fire was crackling, sending out shooting sparks. No wonder she had awakened, she thought in astonishment. The night was warm and humid, yet Joaquin Del Castillo was subjecting her to the heat of a fire. She scrambled back from it, her eyes adjusting only gradually to his big dark silhouette on the other side of the leaping flames.
Pushing a self-conscious hand through her tangled curls, Lucy sat up just as a hair-raising cry sounded from somewhere out in the darkness. Lucy flinched, her head jerking as she glanced fearfully over her shoulder.
‘What was that?’
‘Jaguar…they hunt at night.’
Lucy inched back closer to the fire and her companion and shivered. He extended a tin cup of coffee and she curved her unsteady hands round the cup and sipped gratefully, even though the pungent bitter brew contained neither sugar nor milk. ‘How soon tomorrow will we get to Fidelio’s ranch?’ she pressed.
In the flickering light his strikingly handsome features clenched, the lush crescent of his ebony lashes casting fan-like shadows on his hard cheekbones. ‘Early.’
‘I suppose we would have got there tonight if I’d been able to ride,’ Lucy conceded, striving to proffer an olive branch for the sake of peace. He might despise her, but she was remembering the plane tickets he had sent at his own expense. He didn’t look as if he was terribly well off, yet he had made a very generous gesture. Without doubt Fidelio had a caring and concerned neighbour, willing to go to a lot of trouble on his behalf. She might loathe Joaquin Del Castillo, and every bone in her body might feel battered by that almost unendurable ride, but she could still respect the motives which had prompted him to demand that Cindy visit her father-in-law.
Joaquin shrugged a sleek, muscular broad shoulder and passed her a plate.
Lucy surveyed the roughly sliced bread and cheese, and a fruit she didn’t even recognise, and then tucked in with an appetite that surprised her.
Having cleared the plate, and drained the coffee in a final appreciative gulp, she felt the continuing silence weigh heavily on her. ‘Perhaps you’ll tell me now how Fidelio really is,’ she prompted, with a small uncertain smile of encouragement.
‘You will see the situation soon enough.’
His cool steady gaze and his sonorous accented drawl had a curiously chilling quality. A faint spasm of alarm crawled up Lucy’s spine and raised gooseflesh on her arms. But as quickly as she found herself reacting in fear, she told herself off. Being brought up by a mother who hated and distrusted all men had made her over-sensitive.
Lucy had been seven when her father met another woman and demanded a divorce. Cindy, always his favourite, had become a real handful after he’d moved out. Infuriated by her daughter’s increasingly difficult behaviour, their mother had complained that it wasn’t fair that she should be left to raise both children alone. In the end Peter and Jean Fabian had divided their twin daughters between them in much the same way that they had divided their possessions.
Her father and Cindy had moved to Scotland, where her father had set up a new business. He had promised that his daughters would be able to exchange visits but it had never happened. And, embittered by her husband’s desertion for the younger, prettier woman he had replaced her with, Jean Fabian had clung to the daughter who remained with feverish protectiveness. A rebound romance in which she had once again been betrayed and humiliated had set the seal on her mother’s prejudices. Lucy’s teenage years had been poisoned by her mother’s hatred for the male sex. The endless restrictions she had endured had made it impossible for her to hang on to her friends.
By the time she had been ready to make a stand and demand a social life of her own Jean Fabian’s health had been failing, and Lucy’s imprisonment outside working hours had become complete. When she had tried to go out even occasionally she had been treated to sobbing hysterical accusations of selfish neglect and threats of suicide.
However, her poor sister had suffered infinitely more in their father’s care, Lucy reminded herself, ashamed of her momentary pang of self-pity. Her mother had loved and looked after her. But when her father’s new business had failed and his girlfriend had walked out on him, Peter Fabian had apparently degenerated into a surly drunk, forever in debt and unable to hold down a job. Cindy had been frank on the subject of her childhood experiences at least. Her sister had had a rough time. Indeed, listening to her talk, Lucy had felt horribly guilty about the security which she herself had taken for granted.
Tugging the blanket back round her again, Lucy lay down and stared up into a night sky studded with stars. She could cope with Joaquin Del Castillo’s icy antagonism for another few hours. He didn’t matter, she told herself. She was here for Fidelio’s sake, and instead of feeling threatened by what was strange and different in Guatemala she should be seizing the opportunity to enjoy what she could of the experience.
Lucy was in agony when she tried to move the next morning. Her mistreated muscles had seized up and a night on the hard ground hadn’t helped to ease her aching limbs. Sore all over, she accepted the small amount of water and the toilet bag which Joaquin silently offered her and removed herself to the comparative shelter of the palms to freshen up as best she could.
She could hardly walk. If anything, she felt worse than she had the night before, and the air was surprisingly cool. Shivering violently, she returned to the low-burning fire and donned the old poncho without being asked, grateful for its shielding warmth.
Joaquin passed her a cup of black coffee and more bread and cheese. He ate standing up, with the quick economical movements of an energetic male in a hurry.
As he helped her mount Chica Lucy gritted her teeth when her every muscle screeched in complaint. Another couple of hours at most, she told herself bracingly, but in no time at all the ride became yet another endurance test.
When the mare finally drifted to an unannounced halt, Lucy muttered, ‘Why have we stopped?’ sooner than go to the trouble of raising her aching head.
Joaquin lifted her down from the mare. For a split second she was in close contact with his lithe, superbly masculine body. The sun-warmed virile scent of him engulfed her. As he lowered her to the ground her breasts rubbed against the muscular wall of his chest. Her nipples pinched taut and throbbed and Lucy sucked in a dismayed breath, her face colouring with embarrassment.
A pair of lean hands curved over her stiff shoulders and carefully turned her round. Her already shaken eyes opened even wider in surprise. A dingy little house with stucco walls lay only a few yards away. Tumbledown out-housing and a broken line of ancient fencing accentuated its forlorn air of desertion and neglect.
‘Where are we?’ she whispered in bewilderment.
‘This is Fidelio’s ranch, señora.’ Joaquin Del Castillo raked her stunned face with hard, glittering eyes. ‘I do hope that you will enjoy your stay here.’
‘This…this is Fidelio’s ranch?’ Lucy queried unevenly, staring with glazed fixity at the hovel before her.
‘No doubt you were expecting