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 Señor 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 Señor 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.
Señor 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 cheek-bones 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.
‘Señor, señor—–’ Taking advantage of Caroline’s discomfort, the hotel proprietor was attempting to defend himself. ‘You misunderstand, señor—–’
‘I think not.’ Señor Montejo’s voice was deep and attractive. ‘I find you, Allende, in a position of some—shall we say, discomfort, on Señorita Leyton’s bed, and the señorita herself evidently in some distress—–’
‘Unnecessarily, I assure you, señor!’ protested Señor 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 señorita’s bed. Que he hecho?’
‘What were you doing in the señorita’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 Señor 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.’
Señor Allende spread his hands. ‘You will not tell Don Esteban, señor. 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 Señor 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? Señora 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, Doña Emilia.’
‘I see.’ Caroline gathered herself quickly. ‘You are—you are here to meet me?’
‘Of course.’ Long dark lashes narrowed the steel grey eyes. ‘My brother is—indisposed. He asked me to bring you to San Luis.’
Caroline drew a somewhat unsteady breath and nodded. ‘I’ll get my things.’
‘Permit me.’
He was there before her, hefting her two cases effortlessly, indicating that she should preceded him from the room. The fat little hotel proprietor watched them with a mixture of relief and brooding resentment, and Caroline, meeting his cold gaze, shivered. In spite of the ingratiating smile he immediately adopted, she would not trust him an inch, and she hoped she never had to throw herself on his mercy.
Downstairs, a group of men were gathered in the hall, and from their attitude Caroline suspected they had been hoping for a fight. She guessed they had known what Allende was about, and as they stepped back with evident respect to let them pass, she felt an increasing surge of gratitude towards Señor Montejo. Without his intervention she could have expected no help from this quarter, and she pressed her arms tightly against her sides to avoid any kind of contact.
Outside, the downpour had eased somewhat, but it was still raining. Water drained in douches from the eaves above their heads as they crossed the muddy street to where a scarcely-identifiable Range Rover was parked, and the shoulders of Caroline’s shirt felt damp as she scrambled with more haste than elegance into the front seat. Her companion thrust her cases into the back, then came round the bonnet to get in beside her, removing his jacket as he did so, and tossing it into the back along with her luggage.
He didn’t say anything as he inserted the keys into the ignition and started the engine, and Caroline endeavoured to recover her composure. It wasn’t easy, with the memory of what had almost happened still sharply etched in her mind, but as her breathing slowed she managed to get it into some kind of perspective. In retrospect, it seemed almost ludicrous to imagine herself tumbling across the bed, but at the time she had known definite fear.
‘A baptism of fire, would you say?’ Señor Montejo enquired, as the vehicle reached the end of the village street, and Caroline glanced sideways at him. Ahead was only jungle, vine-infested and menacing in the fading grey light, and although Las Estadas was scarcely civilised, compared to what was beyond, the lights of the village seemed infinitely comforting.
