for yourself how up to it I am, Shontelle,” he drawled, his other hand gliding up her throat to cup her chin.
He was fully erect, his arousal straining against the barrier of clothes. He guided her into stroking him as he tilted her head and bent his own. “Just to make sure I do want the taste,” he murmured, then covered her mouth with his, not giving her any chance of reply.
Shontelle didn’t even think of trying to deny him. The urge to taste him, too, was far too strong for any denial. And his mouth was soft, sweetly seductive, at first, his tongue merely flicking over the soft inner tissues of her lips, sensitising them with delicious tingles.
She responded, wanting to know if the passion they had once shared could be triggered again, beyond pride, beyond all the differences between them. Her free arm instinctively curled around his neck to hold him to her and the kiss deepened, pursuing a more erotic, more exciting intimacy.
Her body started clenching with a need it had all but forgotten. She grasped the hard proof of his desire, fingers digging around it, revelling in the feel of him. She was so caught up in her own strong responses, it came as a shock when he abruptly ended their kiss, removed her hand from him and broke out of her embrace.
“You must be hungry for a man, Shontelle,” he mocked, lifting the fingers that had been squeezing him to his mouth. He lightly nipped them. “Definitely an appetising taste. Please excuse me while I execute my half of the deal. I look forward to the rest of the night.”
He walked away from her, seemingly completely in control of himself. Shontelle was left feeling shattered, her legs trembling, drained of strength, her stomach churning so much she wanted to be sick, her heart aching, her mind zigzagging helplessly through a maze of fierce contradictions.
She loved him... and hated him.
She craved more of him...yet wanted to cut out his callous heart.
Was it to be a night of intense life... or a night of heart-killing desolation?
She didn’t know...couldn’t decide...couldn’t tear herself away from whatever might pass between them.
He picked up a telephone, pressed a sequence of numbers, spoke with the arrogant authority of his name, his position, the power that came automatically with great wealth...Luis Angel Martinez...the only man who’d ever moved her like this...and maybe the only man who ever would.
Was there anything to win by staying?
The bus, her mind answered.
But the bus had no relevance to the question.
She wanted...needed...to win something for herself. So she had to stay and see this night through, even if she lost everything.
One night...one night...unless she could turn it into something more.
CHAPTER FOUR
LUIS was rock-hard and in pain but the shattered look he’d left on Shontelle’s face was worth every second of the discomfort. No way was she going to turn the tables on him! He hoped the witch was burning with frustration.
He deliberately kept his back turned to her while he talked on the phone to Ramon Flores who could organize any form of road transport in La Paz. It was local courtesy to speak Quechua, the old Inca language, and Luis did so with perverse pleasure, knowing Shontelle would not be able to follow it. Her grasp of Spanish was good, but she only had a sketchy knowledge of the native dialects.
Let her stew in uncertainty, he thought. She was too damned sure of her power to get what she wanted. Before this night was out she’d learn who was master of the situation, and he’d kiss her goodbye with the same brutal finality she’d shown him two years ago.
“The bus is not a problem, Luis,” Ramon said predictably. “But...”
The pause sharpened Luis’ attention. “But what?”
“It would be useless to ask any of my local drivers to deliver it. They would be stopped and arrested before the bus got to The Europa. The military edict is no gathering of crowds. They consider three people together a crowd. A local man taking out a bus...it would not be allowed. Too suspicious.”
Luis frowned. He hadn’t thought of that. Yet if he didn’t deliver...no, he had to. He refused to look weak and ineffectual in front of Shontelle Wright. There had to be a way.
“Your Australian friend...he might get through, being a foreigner,” Ramon suggested. “Since he is prepared to risk his tour group in trying to get out of La Paz, tell him to come to the depot and take the bus himself. It will be fully fuelled, ready to go.”
It made sense, but it wasn’t the deal he’d agreed to with Shontelle. Her words, not his, he reasoned. He didn’t have to toe her line. The essence of the deal was the same. The bus would be available for Alan to take. That was all his erstwhile friend had requested.
“Someone will be at the depot to hand over the bus?” he asked.
“Curfew lifts at six. I’ll have a man at the gates at six-thirty.”
“Thank you, Ramon.”
“Your friend is a fool, Luis.”
“His choice.”
“It’s our bus. This could bring trouble kicking back to us.”
“I’ll wear it. You are simply following my orders, Ramon.”
“As you wish.”
Luis slowly lowered the receiver, his mind engaged in hard reappraisal. This whole enterprise was stupid, inviting trouble. Alan’s tour group was safe at their hotel. What was another week or two out of their lives? Better locked away in luxury than dead. It was just as stupid for him to get involved, putting the Martinez reputation for finely balanced political sense on the line.
For what?
A woman who had used him...a woman worth nothing!
Madness to have been tempted into wreaking some sweet vengeance. It was beneath him. He should dismiss her from his suite right now, send her off with a bitter sense of failure. That was vengeance enough.
He turned to do it.
She stood framed by the blackness of the night beyond the window, the twinkling stars of light from the city surrounding her, lending her an air of etherial mystery. Her long hair gleamed like a stream of moonlight and her golden skin glowed, the perfect foil for eyes that shone like emeralds. Her full lips were slightly apart, as he’d left them, waiting it seemed for another kiss, insidiously beckoning him.
He forced his gaze down the long graceful line of her neck to the blood-red T-shirt. She had no heart, he told himself. No heart. But the lush softness of her breasts moved as though to the beat of one, a beat that tugged on him with inexorable and tormenting strength.
How was it possible, he wondered, to feel such desire for a woman...yet hate her with equal ferocity?
“Is the bus assured for tomorrow morning?” she asked, her voice strained.
The
