two more celebratory drinks were in order.
Of course, a second engagement party would be arranged, although he’d insist on doing it himself—his way—next time. This minor reprieve was only a postponement of the inevitable. He was thirty-six years old, time for him to marry, time for him to start a family. It was also time for his mother to step right out of his affairs.
She’d undoubtedly be stewing with frustration over this further delay to a public announcement of her most cherished ambition—the tying of the Martinez fortune to that of the Gallardo family. Do her good, Luis thought with intense satisfaction. She was far too fond of pushing.
She’d picked Claudia Gallardo out for him very shortly after his brother’s death. Luis had scoffed at the idea—a schoolgirl! She’d be groomed to suit him, to grace their social position, to uphold all the traditional virtues of a wife, his mother had argued. I’ll choose my own wife, he’d tossed back at her at the time, but he really didn’t care anymore, not since Shontelle—that green-eyed witch—had chewed him up and spat him out.
He took ice and a lime from the refrigerator, lined up the bottle of Caipirinha, and wished he could blot the memory of Shontelle Wright right out of existence. Because of her...after her...he’d wanted more than just a suitable wife. He’d wanted to feel...
But maybe he didn’t have any passion left in him, so what did it matter if his marriage bed wasn’t as warm as he’d like it? Stupid to keep holding out for something he might never experience again. He would make the commitment to Claudia soon enough. She was willing. He was willing. Together they’d beget another line of heirs and heiresses. Surely he’d feel something for his children.
Nevertheless, it was one thing resigning himself to the destiny mapped out for him, another to be relentlessly pressed into it. Although he’d finally put his rebellious years behind him and shouldered the responsibilities that would have been his older brother’s, had Eduardo lived, Luis did not want his mother thinking she could rule his life. He was glad—yes, glad—he couldn’t fly back to Buenos Aires to keep her timetable, however reasonable it was.
Claudia would undoubtedly wait submissively.
She did everything... submissively.
Luis grimaced. Sometimes he suspected it was an act, deliberately put on to give him the sense of being on top. Respected. Honoured. King of his kingdom. But, so what? At least he knew where he was with Claudia.
He dropped the wedges of lime into his glass, mashed sugar into them, added the ice and drowned the lot with Caipirinha. Sweet and sour—like life, he thought. The telephone rang as he stirred the drink. Carrying the glass with him, he moved to pick up the nearest receiver, cynically wondering if his mother had found a danger-free way out of La Paz for him.
“Luis Martinez,” he rolled out carelessly.
“Luis, it’s Alan Wright. Please...don’t hang up. It’s taken me hours to track you down and I desperately need your help.”
The quick, taut plea stilled what would normally have been an automatic reaction. Luis had no wish to see, hear, or have any contact with the man whose sister had taken him for no more than a lump of tasty Latin meat. The heat of deeply lacerated pride instantly burned through him.
“What kind of help?” he snapped, angry with himself for even hesitating over cutting off his former friend.
“Luis, I have a tour group caught here in La Paz. We were due to fly to Buenos Aires yesterday. God knows when the airport will be reopened. They’re frightened, panicky, and some are suffering from altitude sickness. I need a bus to get them out. I’ll drive it. I thought you might be able to provide it.”
A bus.
It conjured up old memories—a much younger, wilder Alan, driving a beaten-up bus through the Amazon jungle to the mining operation where Luis had been sent for safekeeping, away from the troubles in Argentina. Alan had worked there for six months, more or less swapping his mechanical skills for the spare parts he needed to get his bus roadworthy enough to set up his own tour business.
An Australian, in love with South America—nothing was going to stop Alan Wright from selling it to tourists back home. Camping trips to start with, he’d decided. Then gradually he’d build up to the bigger money stuff. Luis had admired his initiative and determination, liked his cheerful good nature, and enjoyed his company. For nine years they’d maintained an infrequent but always congenial contact with each other. If Alan hadn’t introduced his sister...
“Is Shontelle with you?”
The question slipped out, unconsidered and loaded with a long, pent-up hostility that hissed down the line.
No denial. Nothing but a fraught silence that emphatically underlined the division of their interests.
“Is she?” Luis demanded harshly, uncaring of what the other man thought, knowing he had the power to ruthlessly cut their connection without any comeback.
“Goddammit, Luis! I’ll pay you for the bus. Can’t you just deal with me?” Alan exploded, tension and urgency ripping through every word.
She was with him.
More than pride started burning through Luis Angel Martinez. Every cell of his body was hit by an electric charge. Adrenalin shot through his bloodstream. Even the sense of his sexuality leapt into powerful prominence...sharply revitalised, wanting, needing, craving the satisfaction of wringing something more from the woman who’d dismissed all they’d shared as a brief bout of lust, come to the end of its run.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At the Europa Hotel,” came the quick, hopeful answer. “As luck would have it, just around the corner from the Plaza.”
“Very convenient!” Luis smiled. It was a smile that would have chilled the heart of anyone who saw it. “What’s the size of your tour group, Alan?”
“Thirty-two, including me.”
“I can get you a suitable bus...”
“Great!” A gush of relief.
“...And have it at your hotel, ready to go in the morning...”
“I knew if anyone could do it, you could.” Warm gratitude.
“...On one condition.”
Silence. On edge again. “What is it?” Wary.
Luis didn’t give a damn about Alan’s feelings. His friendship had probably been as self-serving as his sister’s association with him. After all, for a foreign tour operator, Luis Angel Martinez was a contact worth having in South America. He could open doors.
And shut them.
“Shontelle will have to come to my suite at the Plaza to negotiate the deal with me,” he stated blandly. “The sooner the better, for your purposes.”
“You can’t be serious!” Alan burst out. “There’s a curfew on. Army tanks are trundling around the streets and trigger-happy soldiers are everywhere. A woman alone, breaking curfew...it’s too dangerous, Luis.”
So was driving a bus out of here, Luis thought. The farmers were
