Flame Of Diablo. Sara Craven
up on the narrow bed in the now-shadowed room, her clenched fist pressed against her thudding heart. She could see herself in the mirror across the room, the gleam of her hair, and the smooth pallor of her skin, interrupted only by the deeper white of her flimsy lace bra and briefs.
She thought, ‘So I was asleep after all.’ It was a comfort in a way to know that what she had seen had been a nightmare rather than a deliberate conjuration of her imagination. And she was thankful that she had woken when she did. She picked up her gold wristwatch from the side of the bed and studied it. To her surprise, she had been asleep for over two hours.
She slid off the bed, and put on the beige linen trousers she had worn earlier, with a shirt of chocolate brown silk under the loose hip-length jacket. Her hair was wrong, she thought, waving loosely on to her shoulders. She unearthed a tortoiseshell clip from her case and swept the honey-coloured waves severely back from her face into a French pleat, anchoring it with the clip. It made her look older, she decided, and more businesslike.
She swung her dark brown leather shoulder bag over her arm, and went downstairs. It was very quiet—too quiet, she thought. She went to the room where the card game had been in progress and opened the door. It was deserted, and the table had been cleared, the chairs put back against the wall.
Rachel said furiously, ‘Well, I’m damned!’
She supposed he thought he’d been very clever, waiting until she was out of the way in her room to do his vanishing trick. It was his way of saying ‘No’ without further argument.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Well, to hell with him! He might be the best, but he couldn’t be the only guide in Asuncion. She wouldn’t let this one setback defeat her, and if Vitas de Mendoza was going to feature so prominently in her dreams on such short acquaintance, she told herself defiantly that she was glad to see the back of him.
She turned on her heel, and went out into the evening sunshine. The market appeared to be still going strong, and a group of musicians had even started up in one corner of the square, attracting a small but laughing crowd.
She began to wander round the stalls. As well as the handwoven blankets and ruanas, there were also piles of the round-crowned hats the Indians seemed to wear. She would need a hat herself for the trip ahead, she supposed vaguely, but something with a wider brim and shallower crown than those on offer here. There were fruit and vegetable stalls too, where flies swarmed busily, and Rachel averted her gaze with a faint shudder. There was little point in feeling squeamish, she told herself firmly. Conditions would be even more primitive on the way to Diablo.
She was hungry too. Presumably the hotel served meals, but Señor Ramirez had said nothing about their times, which further underlined the fact that he was not expecting her to stay. She could smell cooking somewhere, or was it just her optimistic imagination? A few moments later she had her answer. One corner of the market seemed entirely given over to a gigantic open-air kitchen. Open fires had been kindled and great cooking pots of meat and vegetables suspended over them, while nearby chickens turned slowly on spits.
It all looked appallingly unhygienic, and it smelt mouthwatering. Rachel could resist no longer. She continued her stroll nibbling at a chicken leg. Every second person she met seemed to be doing the same, and surely they couldn’t all be going to die of salmonella poisoning, she comforted herself.
She had paused by a stall selling ponchos and was examining a beauty in a wild zigzag pattern of grey and black and red, when a voice behind her said urgently, ‘Señorita!’
She turned and saw a small man dressed in a tight-fitting white suit. He had a sallow face and a drooping black moustache, and he was mopping furiously at his forehead with a violently coloured handkerchief.
He said, ‘The señorita needs a guide, yes? I am a good guide. I will take the señorita anywhere she wishes to go.’
Rachel stared at him in bewilderment. For an answer to a prayer, he was not particularly prepossessing, she thought. He was plump and rather shiny and a greater contrast to Vitas de Mendoza could not be visualised.
She said slowly, ‘I do need a guide, yes, but how did you know?’
The man made an awkward gesture. ‘The Señor Ramirez at the hotel, señorita. He said so and …’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Rachel, although actually she didn’t. She seemed to have done the disapproving Señor Ramirez an injustice. Or perhaps he just wanted to get her off the premises, she thought cheerfully. ‘I want to go to a place called Diablo,’ she went on, watching him closely through her lashes for signs of dismay and censure. But there were none.
He merely said, ’si, Señorita. As the señorita wishes. And when does she desire to set out?’
‘I’d hoped tomorrow,’ she said, frankly taken aback.
He nodded. ‘I will arrange everything. The señorita can ride a horse?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I thought I could probably hire a Land Rover and….’
He interrupted, shaking his head. ‘A Land Rover no good, señorita. The tracks are bad, and sometimes there are no tracks. Horses are better. I, Carlos Arnaldez, tell you this.’
‘Very well, Carlos.’ She wasn’t going to argue with him. He knew the terrain better than she did. She was glad she had included some denim jeans in the luggage she had brought with her. And she had seen some soft leather boots on a stall which would be ideal for riding.
She was well pleased when she returned to the hotel an hour later, her new boots tucked under her arm. Carlos’ appearance might not be in his favour, but she had to admit that he was efficient. He had taken her to one of the local store-cum-cafés, where they had agreed on his fee for the trip, and also how much he was to spend on the hire of the horses and other equipment. She had been a little suspicious at the mention of money, wondering if he thought she was naïve enough to simply hand over a handful of pesos and watch him vanish with it, never to be seen again. But he had no such intention, it seemed. He would buy everything necessary, he assured her, and obtain receipts for his purchases, and the señorita could reimburse him before they set off, if that was satisfactory.
Then he had drunk her health and to the success of the trip in aguardiente, while Rachel had responded more decorously in Coca-Cola.
She had not told him the purpose of her journey. Let him think she was just a foolhardy tourist, she thought. There would be plenty of time for the truth once they were on their way, and she knew she could trust him.
The reception desk was deserted again when she entered the hotel, and although she banged on the counter and called, no one came.
‘The perfect host,’ she muttered, ducking under the counter flap to retrieve her key from the board at the back.
It was amazing how dark it had become so quickly, she thought as she made her way upstairs. Outside in the square lamps had been lit beside the stalls, and the sound of music drifted faintly on the evening air, the clear tones of a flauta predominating. The sky looked like velvet, and in the space around the band people had begun to dance. Rachel had stood and watched them for a few minutes, but she had found it suddenly disturbing to be alone and an alien in this crowd, where everyone seemed to be with someone else.
Also, her blonde hair and white skin were once again attracting attention, and she was reminded perforce of the warnings she had received at the hotel in Bogota about pickpockets who concentrated on unwary turistas.
She unlocked her bedroom door and went in, closing the door behind her.
She knew immediately that there was something wrong, and the hairs rose on the nape of her neck. There was someone else in the room—the stealth of a movement in the darkness, a faint smell of cigar smoke. Her hands tightened around the boots she carried. They weren’t much of a weapon against an intruder, but they were all she had, and if she screamed there was no guarantee that anyone would hear her.
She heard the