Deal With The Devil

by Marton, Sandra

"You mean, you told her we were married? But—"

  Her words fell into silence as Blake's hands cupped her shoulders. The hut was cramped aid dark, barely large enough for two. Suddenly, the laughter was gone.

  "I told her the truth, Elena," he said softly. She swallowed drily as his hands slid down her arms. "We are married. And this is our wedding night."

  Her breath caught as their eyes met. Blake's pupils were as black and deep as shadowed pools. Elena swayed in his grasp. He was going to kiss her, she thought, and her heart hammered crazily. He was going to take her in his arms and kiss her and...

  "Would you rather sleep outside, Elena?"

  "Yes," she said quickly.

  His mouth twisted. "It's not safer there, if that's what you're thinking."

  "I...I wasn't thinking anything. I mean, it'll be cooler, won't it? Outside?"

  "But not safer." Amusement danced in his eyes. "Unless you're not worried about the vampire bats."

  Elena grasped his sleeve. "What vampire bats? My father never mentioned vampire bats, and he camped at archaeological sites for years."

  Blake shrugged. "Why would he have told you about them? It's not exactly a bedtime story for children, is it? But you don't have to be too concerned. They're not the way they're made out to be in films." He smiled at her. "The bats prefer horses to people. Well, that's if there are horses around. But they're willing to take a meal from somebody's big toe if that's what available."

  "You're making that up," Elena said positively, but one look at his face told her he wasn't. "All right, Rogan," she said quickly, "you've made your point. We'll sleep in here. You on that side of the hut," she added firmly, pointing with her finger, "and me on this side."

  Blake scuffed the mat with the toe of his boot. "There's only one mat, Princess. Are you offering to give it up?"

  She lifted her chin and stared at him. "You're a perfect gentleman, aren't you?"

  He grinned. "I'm a man in need of a good night's sleep, sweetheart."

  She stared at him for a second and then her chin rose. "Is there a place where I can wash?" she asked coolly. "I'd like to scrub off some of this dirt."

  Blake grinned at her. "After you," he said, making a sweeping bow. "Our hostess said the facilities are just up the trail."

  The facilities were a small spring that bubbled up from a rocky cairn. Elena watched as Blake unconcernedly pulled off his shirt, bunched it up and soaked it in the water. He scrubbed at his neck and shoulders, and then he ran the wet shirt across his chest. In the fading daylight, the muscled planes and ridges of his arms and torso looked as if they'd been touched with gold. When he opened the top button of his jeans, Elena blushed and turned away.

  "Would you step behind a tree or something?" she asked stiffly. "I... I'd like to get washed, too."

  He laughed softly. "Of course, Princess. Forgive me. Modesty's such a nice quality in a bride. I'll see you at the hut."

  She said nothing while he moved off. After a moment, she unbuttoned her shirt—his shirt, she reminded herself—and knelt beside the spring. She eased the shirt off her shoulders, and then bent forward and cupped her hands in the water.

  The cool sweetness of it made her gasp. Elena splashed the water over her face and dribbled it over her shoulders and breasts. Sighing with pleasure, she bent forward and let it spill over her hair. Perhaps there'd be time tomorrow for a real scrub, she thought, but for now, the water alone felt wonderful. She got to her feet and looked around her. It was almost dark and she was still alone. Quickly, she slipped off her sneakers and socks, unzipped her jeans and stepped free of them.

  The air was still warm, and it felt like silk against her flesh. She stood there for a moment, wearing only a pair of cotton bikini underpants, and then she sighed and reached for the shirt. If only she had the courage to sleep in just the shirt, she thought, picking it up slowly. But at least she'd had the heavy jeans off for a little while. At least...

  "Dammit, Elena, what the hell are you..."

  She gasped as Blake stepped into the clearing. In that final moment before nightfall, he was visible only as a silhouette against the trees. He took a slow step forward and she felt a pulse begin to beat in her throat.

  "I thought something had happened to you," he said. His voice was thick and husky. "I thought..."

  " I didn't realize..." She stuffed her arms into the sleeves of the shirt and pulled it around her. Her hands trembled as she began to do up the buttons. "I didn't realize I'd taken so long," she said. "Just let me..."

  "Let me," he said in that same thick voice. She stood still while he reached towards her, barely breathing while he buttoned the shirt. His hands brushed lightly across her breasts and she caught her breath.

  "Blake..."

  The word was a whisper. She swallowed as his hands closed on the collar of her shirt and drew her forward. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

  "Elena," he said softly. "Princess.."

  He reached out and touched his hand lightly to her cheek. A tremor raced through her at the heated feel of his skin against hers. He whispered her name again and her head lifted, her eyes searching his. He bent to her slowly, slowly, until finally his mouth touched hers.

  "Don't," she murmured.

  But her body betrayed her. She moved against him and his hand spread along her cheek, cupping her face, raising it to him, and all the while his mouth was on hers, tasting her, urging her to taste him in return, and she knew that she wanted the kiss to go on for ever. She wanted more—to touch him, to be touched, to beg him to teach her all the things that existed only in the shadows of her dreams. And then, without warning, he grasped her arms and put her from him.

  "No," she whispered, "please..."

  His hand brushed her cheek and she opened her eyes. The moon was rising above the trees. In its faint light she thought she saw a glimmer of sadness in his eyes.

  "It's all right, Princess," he said softly, "I understand. It's been a long day."

  She wanted to tell him that he hadn't understood her plea at all. But, before she could speak, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to their hut. Inside, in the velvety darkness that wrapped her in its soft embrace, he lowered her gently to the sleeping mat. Elena waited, breathless in the silence of the jungle night, as Blake lay down beside her. His arm closed around her waist and he drew her against him. Her breathing quickened as she felt the heat of his bare chest press against her back, felt the roughness of his denim-clad legs against the naked flesh of hers. The pulse in his throat beat erratically against her temple as she nestled her head under his chin.

  "Goodnight," he whispered. His lips touched her hair, and then everything was still.

  Chapter 8

  Mazatal. The name of the town almost a day's walk from the Indian village sounded magical. Elena had imagined an exotic city rising from the dark green of the rainforest with ancient Mayan majesty. What she found was a miserable collection of unpaved streets, adobe shacks, and scrawny dogs which lay slumbering in the afternoon heat, beneath the brooding splendor of the Mountains of the Moon. Their trek through the jungle had ended.

  "It looks OK," Blake said after a moment. "I don't think the fighting's reached here yet."

  Elena sighed. "I want a hot bath," she said. "And a cold drink. And..."

  Blake grasped her wrist. "Wait."

  "For what? There's nothing happening—you just said so. And I..."

  One look at his face silenced her, and she sank to the ground beside him, her back pressed to the trunk of a tree. Blake squatted on his haunches beside her, staring down into the town. Elena followed his gaze, and suddenly realized that there was a flurry of activity in the town square.

  "Troops?" she whispered.

  He shook his head. "No," he said finally, "not troops." He smiled and got to his feet. "We're in luck. It's fiesta tim
e in Mazatal."

  Elena rose and took his outstretched hand.

  "They're putting up the banners in the plaza now. It's four o'clock. Siesta's over and people are pouring into the square."

  "We're going to look awfully out of place for a festival," Elena said as she looked down at her stained and ripped clothing. "I thought the idea was not to draw attention to ourselves."

  "We won't if we get into the crowd and keep moving." Blake smiled down at her upturned face. "We'll be all right, Elena," he said softly. "I promise."

  By the time they'd scrambled down the hillside, the streets of the little town were filled. Blake slid his arm around Elena's waist and they moved into a crowd. No one gave them a second glance, except for one man whose dark glance swept over Elena's tousled hair and stained clothes. But when Blake's eyes locked with his, the stranger's face paled. He touched his hand to his hat and murmured something which Blake acknowledged with a curt nod.

  Elena glanced up at the man beside her. The confrontation had been silent but impressive. No wonder the campesino had backed down. There was a dark, dangerous look about Blake, as if he belonged in this wild, untamed town. His hat was drawn down over his eyes, as it had been when they first met. A two-day beard shadowed his cheeks and jaw. His shirt was damp and clung tightly to his muscled shoulders and torso, and his jeans were molded to his narrow hips and long legs. He was, she thought suddenly, every man's fear and every woman's desire. Her blood began to pulse swiftly in her throat.

  Blake looked down at her and smiled. "What's going through that pretty head of yours now, Princess?"

  She blushed and looked away. "I... I was just wondering where all these people came from," she said. "I mean, Mazatal's in the middle of nowhere."

  A child raced into the street ahead of them, a yapping dog at its heels, and collided with Blake's legs. The little boy went down in a tangle of limbs, his face contorting, but before he could cry, Blake scooped him into his arms and swung him high into the air.

  "Guardete, nino," he said, laughing as the boy's round, black eyes widened. "You could get hurt in all this traffic."

  He set the giggling child down on the pavement and clasped Elena's hand in his. "Amazing, isn't it? Fiesta time brings everybody in from miles around. Don't tell me that a little girl who grew up in San Felipe never went to a fiesta."

  "Only the ones in Santa Rosa. And they weren't like this."

  Blake laughed as they stepped around a group of Indians painted in stripes of white and brown clay from head to toe

  "No, I'll bet they weren't."

  Elena was peering over her shoulder. "Blake?" she whispered. "Those men had tattoos on their faces."

  "They're probably Xivera Indians." He drew her closer to him and put his lips to her ear. "Headhunters," he whispered.

  Elena stared up at him. "You're teasing me.".

  Blake grinned. "Well, they were, twenty or thirty years ago." He watched her wide eyes as she tried to take in the profusion of sights, and then he took her hand in his. "Come on, Princess," he said. "We'll take a quick trip through the market, buy what we need, and then we'll join the party."

  She looked up at him. "Really?"

  He touched his finger to her mouth and nodded. "Really," he said gently. "We might as well enjoy ourselves."

  * * *

  Elena stood before the cracked mirror in her hotel room, brushing her hair. It was still damp, and the ends curled softly on her shoulders. She'd soaked in the tub for an hour, until the water, none too hot to start with, had cooled and chilled her skin. She smiled at her reflection.

  "You'll never be able to get us rooms," she'd whispered to Blake as they stood inside the crowded entrance to Mazatal's only hotel.

  But he'd done more then get them rooms, she thought, securing her hair behind her ears with tortoiseshell combs. He'd got her the only room with its own bath.

  "The Honeymoon Suite," he'd said with a grin as he handed her the key.

  Her heart had seemed to stop while she'd waited for him to tell her they were sharing it. But his smile had twisted suddenly and he'd turned away from her. When he'd spoke, his voice had been brusque.

  "I'll meet you downstairs at seven, Elena," he'd said, and a strange hollow feeling expanded in her chest as she'd watched him stride away.

  She put down the brush and turned to the bed. Blake had bought her an armful of clothing at the market—things for the mountains, he'd said, while she selected sneakers and jeans and shirts. And then, without asking her opinion on color or style, he'd carefully chosen a blouse, skirt, shawl, and leather sandals for her to wear this evening.

  "This one," he'd said, almost gruffly, handing her a cream-colored blouse woven of cotton so soft and fine that it had the substance of a spider's web. "And that," he'd added, pointing to a black skirt with masses of red roses at the hem and waist.

  Elena hadn't had the heart or the courage to tell him the outfit wasn't to her taste. The blouse was too plain, the skirt too gaudy. She sighed as she slipped the blouse over her head. It settled like gossamer over her shoulders, clinging lightly to her breasts. She looked at her reflection in surprise. There was nothing plain about the blouse; she was amazed she'd ever thought so. There was a delicate pattern of tiny flowers in it, roses, she realized, like the ones on the skirt. Her skin glowed golden against the creamy cotton.

  She picked up the skirt, stepped into it, and looked at herself again. A slow smile curved along her mouth. The skirt was soft and feminine, fitting closely from waist to hip and then flaring gently until it was a mass of heavy folds that ended just below the knee. Elena turned slowly, watching as the skirt whirled softly away from her bare legs. The outfit was simple and in quiet good taste, yet it emphasized the provocativeness of her slender body. Her skin tingled as she imagined Blake's face when he saw her.

  Suddenly, she remembered another evening when she'd stood before a mirror, staring at her reflection. She had been on the threshold of puberty, but there was no one to tell her about the mysteries her body would undergo on its way to womanhood. She had been looking into the mirror as she changed for dinner, and had been transfixed by her own image. Margarita, the ascetic housekeeper who'd believed that fasting was good for the soul, had come upon her just as Elena lightly touched her newly burgeoning breasts.

  "Look, Margarita," she'd said with innocent wonder, "I'm becoming a woman."

  The housekeeper had grasped her wrists roughly and pulled her hands to her sides.

  "Stop that, nina," she'd hissed. "Believe me, it is best to remain a child as long as you may."

  And then she'd told her all about men, about the things they wanted of a woman's body. Elena's face had whitened.

  "But...but why?" she'd whispered. "Why would a woman let anyone do those things to her?"

  Margarita had grimaced. "It is a duty, nina. But there is no pleasure in it."

  There had been no other talk of sex. "You know all about that sort of thing, don't you, darling?" her mother had asked once, just before Elena had turned thirteen. Embarrassment had made Elena nod her head. In boarding-school, whispered conversations after lights-out made her suspect that there might be more to it than Margarita had told her. Eventually, she'd come to believe that what happened between men and women was terribly overrated and not worth all the attention the world seemed to give it. It might even be pleasant, as Jeremy's soft goodnight kisses sometimes were...

  Heat and apprehension flooded through her as she remembered the taste of Blake's mouth and the feel of his hands on her body. The fiery excitement of his touch had shocked her. Never, except in the hidden depths of a dark dream, had her flesh quickened before. And when his hands had brushed her breasts—even the memory made her nipples tighten and ache.

  Elena turned quickly from the mirror and snatched up the shawl Blake had bought her. He was not the villain she'd thought him to be, th
at much was true. He had a sense of honor; he could have abandoned her at any time in the past days and he hadn't. But he was still an adventurer perennially in search of an elusive pot of gold. It was why her father had been able to buy his services. And once he'd brought her safely to Miami, he'd be off chasing another rainbow.

  She tossed her head and took a deep breath. "You've got jungle fever, Elena Teresa," she said aloud. But her voice lacked conviction, and she had to pause at the door and rest her forehead against the cool adobe wall before she could trust herself to leave the room.

  Her new sandals slapped softly against the wooden stairs as she went swiftly downstairs. The little hotel was crowded; people brushed by her as she went through the lobby to the rear courtyard where dinner was being served. She hesitated as she stepped out into the cobble-stoned courtyard. It was crowded with tables and chatting diners; candles flickered and a guitar played softly in the background. Her glance went from table to table. Everyone was dressed for fiesta. The dark-eyed women glowed and the men were handsome in the tall, dark way many of them were in this northern province. But none had hair the color of chestnuts and eyes the color of the sky.

  The weakness trembled within her again, and Elena closed her eyes. "Stop it," she whispered to herself.

  "I can't," a deep voice said just beside her. "I always get this foolish look on my face when I see a beautiful woman."

  Her eyes flew open and she stared into Blake's face. He was standing beside her, smiling down at her, and the breath caught in her throat when she looked at him. How beautiful he was, she thought. He was wearing white linen trousers that fitted him snugly, and a dark brown shirt, the top buttons left undone so that the golden column of his throat was exposed. His thick, dark hair was still damp, as if he'd just come from the shower.

  He'd shaved, too, and the smoothness of his skin made his eyes seem even more blue than she remembered.

  He smiled into her eyes. "Good evening, Princess," he said softly.

  Elena cleared her throat. "Good... good evening," she murmured. "You look..." She swallowed hard. "You look... nice."