Sweet Torment

by Flora Kidd

  A shiver tingled down her spine and was followed suddenly by an overwhelming weariness. Almost with-

  out realising it she rubbed a hand across her brow in a gesture of near-defeat. The long arduous ski down the steep slope had taken its toll on her and now she ached in every limb. Her head had begun to throb again. She was really in no fit state to cope with the danger presented by this man against whom all her senses were warning her.

  'Oh, what shall I do?' she moaned out of her pain and distress. 'What can I do?'

  The man rose to his feet slowly, pushing back his chair.

  'I think you should go to bed and sleep,' he said coolly.

  `Where?' she mumbled, suddenly past caring what arrangements he might make.

  'On the camp bed where you rested before. I'll pull it close to the stove for warmth and fix the fire so that it'll stay in all night. There are blankets here. You should be quite comfortable.'

  She was vaguely aware of him moving about as she sat with her elbows on the table and rested her aching head on her hands, but a touch on her shoulder startled her and she flinched away from it violently to look up and find him standing beside her.

  `Your bed is ready,' he said quietly.

  To her relief he didn't help her up, and she was glad. She was able to make her way to the camp bed fairly steadily, but was glad to lie down on it and close her eyes. She felt a blanket drop over her, heard him move away. Almost at once her nerves relaxed and she had the sensation of falling down and down into a deep black pit, as sleep took over.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SORREL awoke slowly and blinked drowsily at the grey light of dawn which was slanting in through a small uncurtained window. Where was she? Alarmed because she didn't recognise her surroundings immediately, she sat up and gazed about the room. Plain walls made from rough brown adobe. Rough wooden beams supporting a steeply-pitched roof. A round black stove standing in the middle of the floor. Roughly hewn wooden tables and chairs. A built-in cupboard on which stood an old-fashioned bowl and pitcher.

  Her gaze came back inevitably to the other camp bed, which was parallel to hers but on the other side of the stove. All she could see of the person who was lying on it apparently fast asleep was a tangle of wiry black hair. The rest was covered by a brightly-coloured Indian blanket like the one which covered her.

  It was the sight of the black hair which brought the memory of the previous night rushing into her mind. Cautiously she felt the back of her head. There was a bump there. She shook her head from side to side. It wasn't throbbing any more and the exhaustion which had drained her of all energy had gone. She felt much better and far more able to cope with the danger which the man on the other bed presented.

  While she sat there the light coming through the window began to change. The pale cold greyness was dispersed rapidly and a delicate apricot glow took its place as the sun came up. Sorrel pushed back the blanket which covered her and stood up. There was no feeling

  of dizziness, only stiffness in her arms and legs as a result of the strenuous skiing she had done. Tiptoeing across the room, she visited the bathroom, then, returning to the main room, she went over to the window to look out at the weather.

  Snow had stopped, and under the brightening light of the sun the slopes of the mountains glistened, some yellow, some pink against a pale blue sky. Sorrel shivered a little as the coldness of the air in the room touched her and turned to pick up her discarded ski jacket from the chair where it had been put and shrugged into it. She opened the doors of the stove. The fire had died down, but the embers still glowed. She took kindling from the box beside the stove and placed it on the embers. The dry sticks caught fire and were soon blazing so that she was able to put some logs on them and close the doors.

  A search in the cupboard revealed a jar of instant coffee and another pan. She filled the pan with water from the pitcher and placed it on top of the stove. then she folded the blanket which had covered her and sat down on the side of the camp bed to wait for the water to boil.

  Elbows on her knees, chin cupped on her hands, she stared at the man on the other bed. He had turned on to his back and daylight shafted down on to the scarred side of his face. Questions clamoured in her mind. How? Why? When? Where? She leaned forward to see the scar better, slid off the bed on to her knees and bent over him as if by studying his face she could find the answers.

  How thick and black were his eyelashes, how provocative the curve of his mouth, as if he were smiling at some inner mocking, thought. How handsome he must have been before he had been scarred—No, he

  was still handsome in a hard-bitten, thoroughly masculine way ...

  Light gleamed through the black lashes. He was awake and watching her. She started to move away, but he was too quick for her. His left arm swung up and round the back of her neck. The weight of it forced her head down until her face was so close to his she could feel the sharp prickle of the overnight growth of his beard against her skin. Then the hard warmth of his lips touched hers in a swift taunting kiss.

  'Buenos dias, senorita,' he whispered. 'I wanted to do that last night, but you were too tired. And now I'm going to do it again.'

  'No.' Sorrel jerked her head back in an attempt to break his hold. 'Let me go!'

  'Not yet.'

  He exerted more pressure. Hands against his chest, she tried to break free and couldn't. As his lips touched hers again she tried desperately to keep hers clamped together in a straight line of defence while still trying to push herself free.

  But his arm held her like a vice and she couldn't escape from the slow exploration of her mouth by his, and gradually she felt a desire to respond to the persuasive sensual movements of his lips. Her lips softened, learning from his, and her whole body relaxed. Instead of the hardness of his arm against her neck his hand was there, a fingertip touch sending delicious sensations down her spine to spread along her nerves in a warm tide of pleasure.

  Then the fingertip touch was at her waist, cool against the warmth of her skin, stroking her gently upwards, ever upwards beneath the folds of her ski jacket and her blouse.

  Panic, heart-clutching and cold-sweating, made her

  stiffen. Once again she pushed against him, and this time she won free.

  'Why did you do that?' she flung at him breathlessly, pushing her blouse back into the waistband of her ski pants.

  'Because I wanted to,' he replied simply.

  'And do you always do what you want?' she sniped. 'Most of the time, and when the opportunity presents itself.'

  He half sat up to lean one elbow on the pillow and support his head on his hand. Half afraid he might reach out and grab her again, she shuffled away from him still on her knees. His dark slanting eyebrows came together in a frown.

  `Que tiene? What's wrong?' he demanded.

  'Can't you guess?' she retorted angrily. 'You took advantage of me, that's what's wrong.'

  'I did?' He raised his eyebrows slightly, mockingly. 'But you invited me to kiss you.'

  'I did not!' she gasped, almost breathless with fury.

  'No?' His mouth quirked and she saw his cheek bulge as his tongue touched the inside of it. 'I think you did. I opened my eyes and found you bending over me and I said to myself—aha, the senorita is feeling better this morning and wishes to thank me for rescuing her from the blizzard by kissing me.'

  'I didn't want to kiss you and I didn't want to be kissed by you. I didn't like being kissed by you,' she stormed, shakily wishing he had stayed covered up by the blanket. Somehow the sight of his bare chest and shoulders, their curves and bulges emphasised by the thin white cotton undershirt he was wearing, made her more aware than ever of how physically attractive he was to her.

  'Because of this?' he said, and his fingers touched the

  scar on his cheek. 'I have some more like it, in other parts, whith are not on show right now, but if you like you can see them ...'

  'No, no ! ' She spoke sharply, dismayed partly because he might think she f
ound his scar revolting and partly because he might undress there and then to show her those other scars. 'I never even thought of it,' she added quickly.

  'Then why didn't you like being kissed? And why are you putting on this act of the ...' he paused and rubbed his cheek as he considered how to go on, then snapped his fingers.' The act of an outraged virgin,' he continued mockingly.

  'It isn't an act,' she protested crossly, then caught her lower lip under her top teeth and balled her fists at her sides in an effort to control the surge of fury which swept through her when she saw him lift a sardonic eyebrow. 'I don't care to be kissed by ... by the sort of man you are,' she seethed.

  'And what sort of man am I?'

  'Judging you by your most recent action,' she replied tartly, 'you're the sort I've met before. You believe a woman is good for only one thing and you've been hoping to round off this accidental meeting by ... by making love to me, haven't you?'

  'The idea did pass through my mind,' he said equably. 'But from the way you're spitting fire at me I take-it you're not interested.'

  'No, I am not. Oh, really whatever do you think I am?'

  His gaze swept over her slowly in an arrogant appraisal which brought the blood storming into her cheeks and lit more sparks of anger in the dark depths of her eyes.

  'I think you are a lovely and desirable woman,' he

  said in Spanish, and the lovely lilt of the language made the simple sentence sound like a love-song. 'Too bad,' he drawled in laconic English. 'Too bad you have ice in your veins instead of blood. Judging you by your colouring I'd have thought you'd have been warmer, more passionate.' His mouth lifted in a slightly bitter smile as he shrugged. 'You see, I did something I warned you not to do—I judged you by your looks.' He sighed and the bitterness in his face increased. 'What sort of man do you care for, then? And where is he? Why isn't he here protecting you, seeing that you don't fall into the hands of the sort of man I am?'

  'I ... I don't need any man to protect me. I can protect myself,' she muttered, suddenly very unnerved by the turn the conversation had taken. She scrambled to her feet and turned away blindly to the stove. 'I'm going to make some coffee,' she added.

  'Bueno,' was all he said, and she heard the camp bed creak as he swung off it and the pad of his feet on the floor as he went across to the bathroom.

  Her hands were shaking so much that coffee grounds spilled on the table and the spoon clattered against the edge of the mugs. Why was she shaking? Because a stranger had breached her defences? Because he had held her and kissed her in a way she hadn't been held and kissed since Martin ...

  Remembering the gentle seductive touch of the stranger's fingers and the warm possessiveness of his mouth she swayed where she stood and closed her eyes tightly. No, Martin had never held and kissed her like that. If he had she wouldn't be here now on the other side of the world where she had run to forget that Martin didn't love her, had never loved her and never would love her.

  If only she could have stayed in the stranger's em-

  brace, if only she had had enough courage to give in to the temptation he had offered, to forget for a while who she was and why she was there as she was carried along on that tide of physical pleasure ...

  'I thought you said you were going to make coffee?' He spoke behind her chidingly. Startled out of her daydream, she opened her eyes, picked up the pan of bubbling water and poured.

  'I'd like to set off for the hotel as soon as possible,' she said coolly, offering him a mug of steaming delicious-smelling coffee.

  He was fully dressed in sweater and ski pants, a lithe, compactly-built man who walked with an odd swaggering grace as if accustomed to performing on the stage. He took the mug from her, all the time watching her with bright hard eyes.

  'Your haste to leave here isn't very complimentary to me,' he -said dryly. 'You're quite safe, you know, I won't touch you again unless you invite me to.'

  'That isn't why ...' she began, then broke off and covered her face with her hands. 'Oh, please,' she whispered, 'couldn't we forget what happened just now?'

  'What part of it would you like to forget?' he asked jeeringly. 'The way you responded or the way you panicked and withdrew?'

  She dropped her hands from her face, reached out and picked up her mug of coffee. She had to hold it with both hands to raise it to her mouth. While she sipped she gave him a quick wary glance over the rim of the mug. He was drinking too and watching her. Was it her imagination playing tricks or was there a hint of pity in the expression in his eyes? At once her backbone stiffened. She took another sip of coffee and lowered the mug.

  `All of it,' she said coldly.

  'I don't think I can or that I want to,' he replied. But, but ... Oh, you're not going to tell me it meant anything to you,' she said scornfully.

  He gave her another pitying glance, finished his coffee and set the mug down on the table.

  `Who did it to you?' he asked quickly.

  'Did what?'

  `Hurt you? Someone, I guess it was a man, has damaged you emotionally.'

  She tried to hide her consternation at his accurate guesswork behind bluster.

  'Look, Señor whatever-your-name-is, just because you didn't get what you wanted from a woman for once you shouldn't assume there's something wrong with that woman. You're mistaken. There's nothing wrong with me. I just don't like being pawed by any man who happens to be around, that's all.'

  He didn't say anything, but continued to stare at her until, unable to sustain that steady half pitying, half sceptical gaze, Sorrel turned away with an exclamation of irritation and looked out of the window at the smooth white banks of snow shimmering under the sunshine.

  'I want to leave because I'm worried about Senor Angel and what he must be thinking,' she said. She swung round to face him again. 'Please try to understand. It ... it's nothing to do with what happened.'

  'Perhaps I understand better than you realise,' he said. 'It's just possible that when he hears you spent the night alone in a hut with a strange man he might decide you're not a fit companion for his daughters.' His mouth took on a cynical twist.

  'He's been kind to me,' Sorrel asserted loyally. 'That's why I don't want to cause him any more anxiety than

  necessary.' She chewed at her lower lip uneasily, acknowledging that he could be right. Ramon Angel might take exception to her night out. 'I hope that when I explain it was unavoidable because of the blizzard he will understand,' she added.

  `So you will tell him the truth?'

  `Of course—at least as much as is necessary.' She felt her cheeks grow warm as he eyed her ironically.

  'Then I wish you luck,' he said enigmatically. 'Bueno. Let us get ready to leave. With conditions as they are we should have good skiing this morning. Let's enjoy it together, hmm?'

  Outside the thin cold air stung Sorrel's cheeks and seemed to cut the insides of her nostrils and the back of her throat whenever she breathed in. Beneath her skis the powder snow creaked and squeaked as she climbed the slope behind the refugio, stepping sideways and upwards keeping her skis parallel and digging with her poles into the thick white layers. Several times she stopped to catch her breath and to look around at the cold glittering beauty of the mountains, and every time the man called Domingo, who was higher up the slope than she was, stopped too and waited for her, a black silhouette against a curve of white, with goggles hiding his eyes and his uncovered black hair lifting in the slight breeze.

  Puffing and panting, she reached the top of the slope and he was there waiting.

  'This is where our paths crossed yesterday,' he said. 'Instead of going that way,' he pointed down a slope which fell away to their right, 'you followed me. You see, there is the top of the chair-lift pylon just showing above that ridge. If it hadn't been snowing you would have seen it and skied towards it.' He slanted a glance

  at her. 'And we would never have met,' he added pointedly.

  Was he implying that their meeting mattered to him? He had pushed h
is goggles up on to his hair as she had and when their glances met and locked she knew a moment of wild, joyous response to the invitation which gleamed in his eyes. Yet almost immediately she turned away, lifting her chin and tightening her lips. He was just another Latin-American Don Juan who thought he was the answer to every girl's prayer and was trying out his lures on her because he knew she was English, and therefore possibly more free and easy in her behaviour than the women of his own country.

  She pulled her goggles down and grasped her poles in readiness to ski.

  'I think I can find my way from here. You don't need to come with Me,' she said stiffly, and pushed off.

  He followed her and within seconds had overtaken her, and she had to admit she was glad he was there to share with her the exhilaration of sliding down the mountainside on that clear sunny morning. Not that she managed without falling a few times, but when she did fall he came back to help her, to laugh with her not at her, to bang the snow from her clothing and give her instructions on how she could avoid falling.

  At last they topped the ridge and there was the row of pylons between which the wires of the chair-lift whirred, and there further down the slope was the hotel, its windows glinting in the sunlight and the. many cars parked around it looking like so many toys.

  There was a group of skiers near the topmost pylon. They were gathered round a man who was dressed in a red ski suit, the uniform of the mountain guides, all experienced skiers who were employed by the ski re-

  sort to go out and find lost skiers.

  Domingo stopped and stared at the group. Sorrel swished to a halt beside him. He pushed up his goggles and looked at her.

  'Now, I will let you go by yourself,' he said dryly.

  `Thank you for ... for coming with me and for rescuing me last night,' she said in a rush, realising suddenly how much she owed him, possibly her life.

  `De nada. It was a pleasure, senorita,' he replied politely. He pulled his glance away from the group of skiers and fitted his goggles in place again. 'I only wish—' he began, broke off to glance at the group again. Then he turned to her urgently. 'Sor-rel, listen to me. If you have trouble with your employer you will let me know, hmm?'