Sweet Torment

by Flora Kidd

  'It was me,' he said, removing her boot from her foot. He placed it on the floor and began to unfasten the other. 'Why were you following me?'

  'I was hoping you would lead me back to the hotel. I'd lost contact with the people I was skiing with, and

  the snowstorm disorientated me. They aren't here, are they?'

  `No. There's no one else here.' He removed her second boot, placed it on the floor and stood up, seeming to tower over 'her like a dark giant. Sorrel raised her head a little and searched her back hair with probing fingers.

  `Ouch!' she exclaimed. `It is like an egg, isn't it? I wonder if you would mind looking to see if the skin is broken?'

  He stared down at her for several seconds then raised his shoulders in a fatalistic shrug.

  'As you wish,' he murmured in Spanish. `I'll fetch the lamp '

  She lay back again because her head was hurting, but when she heard him returning she turned her head on the rough pillow on which it was resting to watch him approach with the lamp, hoping she would be able to see his face more clearly. The mellow glow from the lamp only accentuated hollows and angles and gave the taut skin stretched across his cheekbones a matt golden sheen.

  He placed the lamp on a stool close to the camp bed on which she was lying and then knelt on the floor. `Can you sit up?' he asked.

  She pushed her hands down against the sides of the narrow canvas bed and heaved herself up. Again everything whirled before her and she would have fallen backwards if he hadn't put an arm about her shoulders.

  `I hope I'm not concussed,' she muttered.

  `I hope you're not, too,' he said. `Would you tip your head forward, por favor.'

  She did as he asked and felt him parting her -hair. The touch of his fingers was light yet firm.

  `It isn't easy to see because you have such thick hair,

  but there doesn't seem to be any blood,' he said, and she felt a tiny shiver shake her as his breath feathered the nape of her neck. 'Does your head hurt?'

  'Yes, very much.'

  'Then lie back and rest. I seem to remember that rest and as little movement as possible are the best remedies for a bang on the head.'

  She did as he told her and watched him take the lamp across to a round table. In the uncurtained pane of glass in the window she could see the reflection of the lamp against the darkness outside and realised it was the light which had shone out to guide her to this place. Looking round further, she saw there was a freestanding cast-iron stove in the middle of the floor. It had doors behind which she could see the brightness of flames leaping.

  'Is this a refugio?' she asked.

  He turned to look at her across the room and leaned

  his hips against the table. With his back to the lamplight it was impossible for her to see his face properly. 'It is,' he replied.

  'Is it far from the hotel?'

  'About ten kilometres.'

  `Oh.' She was surprised. 'I'd no idea I had come so far out of the way. I was hoping to find the chair-lift.' 'That is to the north of here.'

  She frowned, trying to remember the map of the area which Ramon had shown her at the hotel on which the refugios were marked, but the pain in her head was making thinking difficult and she had no clear image of the map.

  'You seem worried, senorita.' The man's deep voice interrupted the flow of her thoughts and she gave him a quick glance. He was still leaning against the table and was watching her.

  'I am. Not on my own behalf, but for the others. They'll be frantic thinking I'm lost. I don't suppose there's any way I can contact the hotel tonight to let them know I'm safe?'

  'There's no phone and no electricity, as you can see,' he said coolly. 'You'll have to be patient and wait until daylight. By then the blizzard should be over and after a night's rest you should feel better. I'll show you the way back to the hotel when we can see. Worrying about your friends won't do you any good, so relax and be thankful you're safe and comfortable for the night.'

  'I am thankful, very thankful,' she said hurriedly, afraid that he might think her rude. 'Thank you very much for rescuing me—I should have said that before, shouldn't I?' she added, smiling across at him. 'I'm afraid the bang on the head has scattered my wits, and I still can't understand how you came to be behind me when I was following you.'

  He pushed away from the table and walked over to the stove. He hooked back the two doors to reveal a log fire which was settling down to an orange blaze and which sent out a comforting heat. Turning, he folded his arm across his chest and looked down at her.

  'I saw you fall on the slope,' he said. 'I almost knocked you down again. You should be more careful and look around to see if anyone is skiing down before moving out. A collision could have been painful for both of us. If you hadn't started to ski again I'd have stopped and gone back to help you, but you seemed to be in one piece, so I came on here to shelter from the snow. I came in, lit the fire and the lamp. I looked out and saw you come down to the trees.' He paused and raised a hand to rub one side of his face.

  'Something about you was familiar,' he went on. 'I thought you were a woman I know, so I went out to

  meet you. We passed in the trees. I saw you, but you didn't see me. I realised you weren't the person I had supposed you to be and turned to follow you, then I saw you fall again.' He lifted his shoulders. 'If I hadn't been curious and gone out you would still be there.'

  Sorrel shuddered a little and blotted from her mind a picture of herself lying unconscious and slowly being smothered with snow.

  'I hope you aren't disappointed to find I'm not the woman you know,' she said lightly.

  He didn't reply at once but continued to stare at her in a strangely wary way almost as a hunter might watch an animal he was stalking, waiting to counter any move it might make, and she felt her skin tingle with apprehension.

  'No, I'm not disappointed,' he said softly at last. 'Quite the reverse.'

  The reverse would mean he was glad that she wasn't the woman he knew, thought Sorrel with a frown. But thinking and trying to puzzle out the implication behind his comment was too much for her aching head, and with a little sigh she lay back against the pillow again. The man moved, took off his ski jacket and tossed it on to a nearby wooden chair.

  'Are you hungry?' he asked abruptly.

  'Not very.'

  'Could you eat some soup?'

  'Is there any ?'

  'There are cans of it in the cupboard and a pan to warm it in on top of the stove. You wouldn't have to do anything. I'm quite capable of preparing it.'

  In the firelight their glances met and measured again. Sorrel learned nothing from his shadowed face, but it seemed to her that he watched her with his whole body, not just his eyes, and that all his muscles were coiled

  ready to spring into action if she should make a move one way or the other.

  'I would like some soup, thank you,' she said faintly, and at once became aware of another desperate need. 'Is there a bathroom?'

  `Si. A small one, through the door at the back of the room.'

  She began to sit up and immediately he moved as she had suspected he would.

  'Wait, I’ll help you. You may feel dizzy when you stand and I wouldn't like you to fall again. You've fallen enough for one afternoon.' he said.

  'You must think I'm a terrible skier, and I am compared to you. You ski superbly,' she murmured.

  'Muchas gracias, senorita,' he replied with a lilt of surprise. 'I do my best. Now give me your hand.'

  She hesitated, staring at the hand held out to her. It was wide-palmed, squarish in shape, and looked as tough and muscular as the rest of him. But she was afraid of physical contact and was determined to stand up without help. Pushing with her hands against the camp bed, she stood up. Her head whirled and she swayed right into his arms.

  'So you are one of those independent women who scorn the offer of a helping male hand,' he scoffed, and this time his breath stirred the hair at her temple, with disastrous results. Strange
sensations zigzagged along her nerves. A desire to cling to him burned suddenly within her as she felt the power and warmth of his strong body beneath the hand she had placed against his chest. Her fingers had actually fanned out caressingly when sanity .returned, and jerking back sharply she broke his hold on her.

  'I'm all right now,' she asserted. 'Through the door at the back of the room, I think you said,' she added,

  and turning without looking at him she forced herself to walk steadily towards the door.

  The bathroom was lit by a small kerosene lamp attached to the rough adobe wall. It contained only a chemical toilet and an old fashioned pitcher and a bowl for washing. The water in the pitcher was ice-cold but refreshing and when she returned to the main room Sorrel felt the wash had cleared her head somewhat.

  The man was standing by the stove stirring the contents of a black pan from which a savoury-smelling steam was rising. Sorrel went to the round table on which the lamp was standing and sat down on one of the chairs.

  `The soup smells good,' she said politely.

  'It is a meat soup containing cracked wheat, very sustaining and just right for weather like this,' he replied, coming across to the table with the pan to ladle soup into the earthenware bowls he had found. Light from the lamp shafted across his right cheek, showing up an ugly white scar which angled from the bottom of his ear to the corner of his mouth as if someone had taken a knife at one time and had gouged the flesh from his face.

  'Oh, your face! Whatever have you done to it?' Sorrel gasped without thinking.

  There was an awful strained silence as he stared down at her. Then thick dark lashes came together over the hard gleam of his eyes and the left corner of his mouth slanted upwards as he smiled. He put down the ladle and raised his hand to finger the scar.

  'You're not supposed to mention it,' he jeered. 'You're supposed to look away and pretend it isn't there. Didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't pass comment on a disfigurement?'

  His mockery had more effect on Sorrel than she was

  prepared for.

  `I ... I'm sorry,' she mumbled. 'I had no idea. I couldn't see you properly before and ...'

  `Say no more,' he interrupted her curtly. 'I understand, and on consideration I think I prefer your outspoken comment to the furtive glance, the no-mention. Now, please, will you eat your soup?'

  She waited until he came back from putting the pan on the stove and had sat down opposite to her before she picked up the spoon and dipped it in the thick brown soup.

  `If we're going to eat together and stay the night here we should introduce ourselves,' she said. 'I'm Sorrel Preston.'

  `Sor-rel,' he repeated slowly. 'Is that an English name?'

  `It's a name given to a certain colour of horse,' she said, and laughed a little at his upward glance of surprise. 'One which is reddish-brown in colour. My father named me. He trains horses in England for racing.'

  `Are you on holiday here?'

  `No, I am working in the home of a businessman in Medellin. I'm a sort of companion to his wife and two daughters.'

  `And a companion to him also?' he suggested. She gave him what she hoped was a cold glare.

  `That remark was out of line,' she retorted sharply. He shrugged.

  'It isn't unusual for a married man to have a mistress in this country, even in Medellin, where people tend more to Puritanism which goes with their image of sober industrialism,' he said.

  `Well, I'm not Ramon Angel's mistress and I don't want to be,' she replied stiffly, trying to keep the lid on her temper.

  `Ramon Angel, president of the Angel Textile company?' he asked.

  `Yes. Do you know him?'

  `By repute only. Why does he need a companion for his wife and daughters?'

  `His wife was badly injured in a car crash a few months ago and she can't walk. I'm a trained physiotherapist and I help her to exercise every day.'

  `Couldn't a Colombian therapist have done that for her?'

  `Yes, but Monica Angel either couldn't or wouldn't co-operate with the therapists at the hospital. She's English too and comes from the same town in England as I do. Her mother came to visit her after the accident, was worried about her condition and agreed to try and find someone who was English to come out here to help her. I saw the advertisement in the local paper. I'd always wanted to visit South America, and since I could speak some Spanish Mrs Bolton recommended me to Señor Angel.'

  `Your Spanish is good. Where did you learn it?' he asked casually.

  `From my mother. She is half Spanish. Her father was a British mining engineer who worked in Spain and married a woman from Andalusia.'

  'Hmm. Red hair and almost black eyes are an unusual mixture,' he said, and she looked up to find he was leaning back in his chair staring at her. `Do you dye your hair, or is it a wig you wear?'

  The spoon clattered noisily against the empty earthenware soup bowl as Sorrel almost threw it down in expression of her irritation.

  `The mixture is no more unusual than ink-black hair and grey eyes,' she countered. 'Is your hair your own or do you wear a piece to hide a fast receding hairline,

  Senor—Senor ...' She broke off deliberately and raised enquiring eyebrows at him, hoping he would tell her his name.

  'You are quick with the tongue,' he commented dryly, and raised a hand to his hair to pull at the short fronds which had slipped across his forehead. 'You see it doesn't come off.' He leaned forward across the table, holding his head down. 'Please feel free to test it.'

  She stared at the thick wiry hair and found herself clenching her hands on her lap in an effort to resist the temptation to reach out and rake her fingers through it.

  `No, thank you,' she muttered. 'You haven't told me your name.'

  'You can call me Domingo,' he said carelessly, sitting up straight again.

  'But that's Spanish for Sunday,' she complained.

  `So? I was born on a Sunday and my mother ...' His taunting slanted smile appeared. 'You must know what mothers are when it comes to naming their sons, something like fathers in the matter of naming daughters.'

  'But my name is really Sorrel,' she protested.

  'And my name is really Domingo,' he said.

  `Do you live near here?'

  'Near enough.'

  'Oh, I do believe you don't want to tell me anything about yourself.'

  'I've given you a name.'

  'One which you've made up.'

  `No, I assure you, senorita. Domingo is a common name in this country.'

  'Yes, so common it means nothing without a family name. Domingo what?' she demanded.

  'Whatever you like. Telling you my full name, where I live and what I do won't make me any more trust-

  worthy, you know. I could spin you a web of lies about myself and you wouldn't know.'

  She had to admit he was right. Telling her about himself wouldn't make him trustworthy if he wasn't. From under frowning eyebrows she studied him curiously. His scarred cheek, his hard light-coloured eyes, the derisive slant of his well-shaped firm mouth, the pugnacious jut of his jaw gave an impression of toughness. He looked as if he lived and worked dangerously.

  Slowly her glance drifted down to the snug fit of the high neck of his sweater of fine ivory-coloured wool. She guessed it had been designed and made by a certain exclusive men's fashion house which specialised in sportswear for the jet set. Already she had noticed that his ski suit, boots and skis were of the best quality money could buy. He was obviously very wealthy, and though he spoke the English of North America his Spanish was the almost pure Castilian which Colombians of Spanish origin spoke.

  'Never judge a man by his looks or his clothes. Judge him only by his actions,' he drawled tauntingly.

  'What makes you think I'm judging you?' she countered.

  'The way you're looking at me.'

  'I'm only looking at you in the way you've been looking at me all evening,' she defended herself.

  He shook his head slowly from side
to side, yet the hard stare of his eyes never wavered from her face.

  'I can't agree with you. You're judging me and trying to define what sort of man I am. But I was and I am still enjoying looking at you, indulging myself. You see, it isn't often I have the company of someone like you.'

  'Oh, I can't believe that,' she retorted scornfully. 'You said before you thought I was a woman you knew ...'

  'I didn't say I don't ever have the company of a woman,' he interrupted her softly, and now there was subtle change in the way he was looking at her. The glance of the grey eyes was no longer hard. It seemed to caress her as it lingered slowly on each feature of her face, then drifted down to her throat revealed by the unbuttoned collar of her blouse. 'I said a woman like you,' he added. 'Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're beautiful in an unusual and exotic way, Sorrel?'

  The expression in his eyes unnerved her, and she looked away from him. The room was full of shadows And the only sounds were the faint hissing of the lamp, the crackling of the fire and the whining of the wind at the window behind her. She was alone in an isolated but with a strange man who had just admitted he liked looking at her and who was looking at her in an intimate predatory way which made her nerves crawl with apprehension. Her glance flicked to the door. Even if she could reach it before he stopped her of what use would running away be? Outside a blizzard was raging and she had no idea in which direction to go. She would be buried in snow in a very short time. No, she would have to stay here and hope that if he forced unwelcome attentions upon her she would find the strength from somewhere to fight him off.

  Warily she glanced back at him. He was still watching her, thick black lashes almost hiding the gleam of his eyes, and again she had the impression that all his muscles were coiled together ready to spring into action should she make a move.

  'Don't you like being here alone with me?' he asked quietly. 'Are you wishing perhaps that I'd left you out in the snow to freeze to death?'