Matteo raised the knife above his head, and images of Olmos putting his hands on Helen filled his fevered mind. Olmos stared up at him, saw his death in Matteo’s eyes, and surrendered. His whole body went limp as he waited for the blow to fall.
Helen’s scream cleared the red mist obscuring Matteo’s vision. His whole being cried out for him to follow through, to drive the knife into Olmos’ hated flesh, but if he did so he would lose Helen forever, and he knew it. She could never watch him kill a vanquished, defenseless man and forgive him. Or forget. His fingers opened slowly and the knife fell from his hand.
He could hear Helen sobbing behind him as he grabbed Olmos’ shirt and raised his bloodied face until it was inches from his.
“Get out,” he said to him in Spanish. “Now, tonight. I don’t want to see you ever again. I’m warning you, if I do, I will kill you.”
He flung Olmos aside and crawled off him, hanging his head as he tried to catch his breath. Olmos, reprieved, didn’t wait for Matteo to change his mind. He scrambled to his feet and plunged through the group of onlookers, who parted to let him pass.
Matteo looked up and said to the people assembled at the entrance to the tent, “Go back to your beds. It’s all over.”
A couple of them looked toward Helen, and Matteo added, “I will take care of the senorita.” He turned his head and met her eyes, adding softly, “She is my affair.”
They left the tent and dispersed slowly, glancing at one another but unwilling to discuss what they had just seen until they were away from their leader. Matteo waited until they were gone and then got up, stripping off his shirt and holding it out for Helen, who slipped into it, letting the sheet fall as she did so.
“Are you all right?” he asked as she turned toward him and he enfolded her in his arms. “He didn’t...”
Helen shook her head, letting him take her weight as she relaxed against him. “No, I told you that. He just wanted to drive you to fight him, and he did. Oh, Matteo, when I thought you were going to stab him...”
“Shh,” he said, stroking her hair with one hand as he pulled his shirt closer around her with the other. “It’s finished. Don’t think about it. He’s gone; you won’t ever see him again.” He put his arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the cot, saying, “Let me help you back to bed.”
“I should clean those cuts you have,” she protested.
“Forget them. Come on, your legs are giving way. You need to rest.”
Helen froze, clutching at his hands, burying her face on his naked chest. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Stay with me.”
He swung her up into his arms, sweeping her feet off the floor.
“Don’t worry,” he answered, pressing his lips to her ear. “I won’t leave you alone tonight.”
Helen closed her eyes and sighed gratefully. Her head fell back and her long hair trailed across his shoulder as he carried her, her bare legs draped over his lower arm.
Chapter 7
Matteo carried Helen to the cot and knelt to put her on it, then joined her, wedging in next to her in the narrow space. Helen curled up against his side, putting her head on his chest and slipping one hand under his broad back. The other drifted to his flat middle and stayed there, as if to reassure her of his presence.
“My fault,” he murmured, his fingers combing through her hair.
“What?” Helen sighed, too happy to care much about anything. It was like a miracle to have him so close after their estrangement.
“What happened tonight was my fault,” he clarified.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Matt,” Helen responded. “How could it be?”
“I know Olmos, how he thinks, how his mind works. I should have anticipated what he would do. He never confronts anything directly, but steps around it craftily, like a cat moving in on a mouse. It was just like him to use you the way he did to get to me. You wound up being the victim of my stupidity.”
“I’m all right, really,” Helen said. “I was scared when it happened, but I’m over it now.”
“Then go to sleep,” Matteo directed her. “You must be exhausted.”
“It’s too hot to sleep,” she answered dreamily, rubbing her cheek on his breast. She felt his muscles tense and planted a kiss just above his left pectoral. His skin tasted salty from his exertions and she licked her lips.
“Go to sleep,” he said again, through clenched teeth. “It’s almost two in the morning.” His words seemed to be coming with difficulty.
“If I go to sleep, you’ll leave me.”
“I promise I won’t,” he said, thinking that if she didn’t stop moving against him he would soon be unable to conceal his aroused state.
“Do you think it will rain?” she asked drowsily, already drifting off.
“I hope so,” he said softly, “we could sure use the relief from this heat.”
He waited for her to answer, but her breathing had already deepened, become regular and peaceful. He calmed down himself, certain that if he just held her quietly and didn’t think about what she was wearing—or not wearing—he would be able to get through the night.
Matteo stared into the half-lit gloom, watching the oil lamp’s flame cast its dancing shadows on the canvas walls of the tent. He heard the first tentative raindrops fall, hitting the roof with individual splats, and then listened gratefully as they gathered into a torrent. The rain fell steadily, dripping over the tent entrance, bringing with it a freshening breeze that swept through the opening, cooling his body. It carried a fine mist that soaked into the baked earth floor and settled on his hair and skin. The humidity broke as if a curse had been lifted, and his thoughts ranged over the evening’s events, which replayed like a tape in his mind.
The argument with Olmos had started it. Matteo was a cautious campaigner, taking out targets one at a time, following a progressive plan of gradually weakening the government’s defenses until it would be easy prey for a takeover. Olmos was impatient; he wanted to launch a coup right now, before the military caught on to their methods and developed strategies to combat them. While Matteo agreed that there was such a risk, he felt that jumping the gun and attacking before significant munitions depots and fuel reserves were destroyed would be fatal. And so they went head to head about it, and this time, as never before, Olmos was ready to back him to the wall.
Matteo had wearied of arguing with him. With tolerance evaporating in the oppressive heat, excessive even for Puerta Linda, the smoldering controversy had ignited into open warfare.
Now Olmos was gone. Matteo had always hoped it wouldn’t happen, hoped that he could control the other man’s rivalry and keep him in the fold, because his strength and dedication to the cause made him valuable. But when he had chosen to assault Helen, he’d moved beyond the pale and become Matteo’s mortal enemy.
Helen turned in her sleep, and Matteo looked at her, at the slim, perfect legs pressed along the length of his, exposed from midthigh to ankles by the brevity of his shirt. She had buttoned it hastily, awkwardly, and the swell of her breasts rose above the opening, full and inviting.
Matteo closed his eyes and turned his head, taking a deep gulp of the rain drenched air. But when he looked back it was worse; her movement had caused the top button to slip its confinement. One creamy breast was revealed beyond the line of her new, red-gold tan, almost to the nipple. His fingers itched to touch it.
He lifted his hand and settled for stroking the honeyed flesh of her throat, but of course it was not enough; one sensation enticed with the prospect of more. He drew his thumb along the line of her collarbone, pressing lightly, and she sighed, her lips parting. His fingers moved lower, slipping inside the opening of the shirt, and she yearned toward him unconsciously, her breath escaping in a soundless exhalation. Overcome with desire, Matteo cupped her breast and stroked it, rising to fullness himself as her nipple blossomed into his palm.
Helen stirred and her eyes opened.
Matteo flushed scarlet and withdrew his hand qu
ickly, muttering hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”
Helen found his big hand with her smaller one and replaced it on her breast, locking her gaze with his.
With a moan of surrender, Matteo pulled her on top of him, crushing his lips to hers.
“I want you,” he said thickly, against her mouth. “I can’t fight myself and you, too. I just can’t do it any more.”
Helen lay in his arms and felt him, stallion ready, through the scant barrier of their clothes. She shifted position instinctively, her legs open, almost straddling him. He groaned—the first time she had ever heard that distinctive sound of complete, helpless male arousal—and surged upward to meet her. The cot rocked unsteadily, almost pitching them into the dirt.
“The hell with this,” he mumbled, putting her aside and snatching up the sheet Helen had discarded. He shook it out and spread it on the floor. With almost the same motion he zipped the tent flap closed and kicked a storage chest in front of the entrance, blocking it. He returned to scoop Helen up and deposit her on the sheet, flinging himself down beside her and pulling her back into his arms.
“You won’t stop this time?” she asked, wary of being hurt again.
“No,” he answered, drawing back to look into her eyes. “I guess I made up my mind when I realized what might have happened tonight with Olmos.” He traced the outline of her lips with a blunt forefinger. “I want to be the first man in your life, Helen. I want to begin your life.”
“I want that, too,” she whispered, her eyes brimming.
“Don’t cry,” he said, catching a tear with the back of his hand.
“You’d better get used to it,” she said, smiling tremulously. “I always cry.”
“Always?”
“When I’m happy.”
“Haven’t you got that backward?”
“Maybe,” she answered, shrugging, as if to let it go.
“No, I guess not,” he added, after thinking a moment. “If you cried every time you were unhappy you would have washed away on a sea of tears long ago.”
Helen reached up and smoothed his tumbled, sweat-dried hair. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Without waiting for her to reply he went on, “I hope I’m not going to add to that.”
“Stop worrying about me.” She examined a lock of the hair falling onto his forehead and said, “That reddish tint is all washed out of your hair, Matt.”
“Thank God,” he said fervently. “The hairdresser overdid it. All I wanted was to disguise the color, not to look like Maureen O’Hara.”
Helen giggled. “Why did you tell her you needed it dyed?”
“I told her I was going to read for a part on television. She believed me, which goes to show how gullible some hairdressers are.”
“Why gullible? I’d believe it.”
“Oh, is that the acid test?” he said, laughing. “Worldly wise, sophisticated Helen would believe it?”
“You’re teasing me.”
“I’m not,” he replied in a warning tone. “Now, this is teasing.” He bent to pull at the buttons on her shirt with his teeth, then snaked his tongue into the gap between two of them, swiping at her skin.
Helen sucked in her breath. His tongue was hot, scalding, and seemed to her an extension of his inner fires. Matteo put his mouth over her breast and his lips burned her through the cloth. When he lifted his head, there was a wet circle where they had been, and she could tell from his expression that he wasn’t teasing any more.
Matteo undid the buttons of the shirt he had given her with trembling fingers as she lay supine on the sheet, the dull drumming of the rain a counterpoint to their ragged breathing.
“Oh, my lady,” he murmured when she was revealed. “My sad, lonely lady. Look at you. You’re beautiful.” He leaned forward to place a kiss in the valley between her breasts.
Helen tangled her fingers in his hair, holding his head against her. His mouth moved to one nipple, then the other, and she closed her eyes, trying to accept that this was finally happening.
Matteo raised his head and kissed her gently, moving his mouth lightly over hers, pressing, then drawing away, until she reacted as he had intended. Helen clutched him and kissed him back urgently, parting her lips to admit the invasion of his tongue. Her head fell back as he dragged his open mouth along the supple line of her throat, and the shirt trailed loosely from her arms as he molded her naked torso to his.
Matteo pulled the sleeves off and dropped the shirt to the ground. He buried his face between her breasts, enclosed by her silken flesh, and locked his hands behind her waist. Helen felt the twin sensations, exquisite in their textural contrast, of his soft mouth and his soft hair against her skin. He turned his head and laid his fevered cheek against her belly, and his lids drifted closed in luxurious abandonment to the sensuality they shared.
Helen looked down at him, at the deep flush staining his tanned skin, marred by the cuts Olmos had made, at the sweep of his black lashes against his cheeks. His lips were parted, revealing a glimpse of the white teeth that showed so starkly in the gypsy darkness of his face. His mouth was moist from contact with hers, swollen from the fight and her kisses, and reddened, as if he had sipped from her lips the wine that made them drunk on each other. His kneeling position was curiously obeisant; he seemed to be worshiping her. She put her hand on his head, felt the springy, wavy hair curl around her fingers and dug her nails gently into the flesh of his scalp. He drew a broken breath and sighed.
When Matteo moved to get up, she still watched him, fascinated by the feline grace of his body as he stood and took off his pants. The lamplight fractured his movements as he unbuckled his woven belt and stepped out of his fatigues, kicking off the canvas shoes all the men wore when not outfitted in boots. As she remembered, he was slim, but not thin, and his well developed biceps flexed as he tossed aside his clothes and joined her on the floor.
He drew her against him and Helen gasped. Feeling him so completely was a shock, and his strength and rigid manhood frightened her a little. Sensing this, he pulled back slightly, holding her in the curve of one arm and smoothing her hair.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked tensely, ready to beg if she said yes, hoping she wouldn’t.
“Oh, no, Matteo, no,” she answered, rolling farther into his arms, hiding her face on his shoulder. She twined her legs with his, saying shyly, “I’m just, this is just...”
“I understand,” he interrupted, running his hand along the damp curve of her spine. “It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t. He had never been in this situation before and he was afraid of handling it wrong. But no fear was strong enough to threaten the relentless drive that compelled him to take her.
Matteo kissed her again, falling back on the familiar to reassure her with affection. But as the embrace intensified she began to move in his arms, so sinuously that he finally lifted himself above her, letting her go. It was not wise to fondle her too much; he could feel himself surging forward, and with an experienced woman who could follow him he would have just let the tide take him. But not with Helen. She was porcelain and could be broken; she was crystal and could shatter with a careless touch.
He shifted position to lie next to her and held her loosely until she looked questioningly into his face, asking for more. He began to caress her again, stroking her breasts, rasping the nipples with his thumbs as they tightened into hard, rose-pink pebbles. She arched her back and moaned, writhing toward him as he drew the flat of his hand across her abdomen, seeking the soft mound of golden brown hair below. He hesitated slightly, to see if she would stop him. But she was too far gone; her skin was dewed with perspiration, her eyes slitted almost closed, the blue irises bright in the lamplight, like slices of sky. When his fingers trailed over her thigh she lifted herself toward him eagerly, seeking his hand. Then he cupped her and she sighed with satisfaction. She was ready for him. As he caressed her she turned her face away to hide her pleasure, as if such delici
ous torment should be a hidden, secret thing. As it increased she put one hand to her mouth, and he removed it. He kissed the delicate fingers, then placed them on himself.
She did not recoil, but encircled him slowly, made bold with the joy of discovery. Her caresses were clumsy, inexpert, but Matteo found them more stimulating than anything he had ever experienced. She sought him with her other hand, touching the ribbed musculature of his stomach, and in the coiled, restrained power beneath her fingers she could feel how much he wanted her. She moved on to the marble hardness of his thighs, sculptured like a statue, roughened with wiry dark hair. When she reached between his legs to stroke his soft parts, the vulnerable underpinnings of his swollen manhood, he groaned and rolled away from her, throwing his arm across his eyes, unable to take it a moment longer.
“Matteo?” she whispered, her voice uncertain. “Did I do something wrong?”
It was several seconds before he answered. His breath was coming in short bursts and he licked the sweat from his upper lip before he said, his voice sounding muffled, strange, “No. You couldn’t do something wrong if you tried. Come here.”
She obeyed, turning once more into his arms. Unable to wait any longer, he positioned her, putting her flat on her back and looming above her. He kissed her lightly, and she reached up to put her arms around the sturdy column of his neck. His skin was slick with perspiration, hot to the touch, and he fairly vibrated with sexual tension, his whole body as taut as a drawn bow.
“Helen...” he said, his voice hoarse with strain.
“Yes,” she murmured, and he took her at her word.
He meant to go slow, he meant to be careful, but this was Helen, and he had wanted her, it seemed, for such an endless, aching time. He plunged into her, and she tensed immediately. He couldn’t stop, rearing back and plunging again.
Helen cried out and pulled away frantically. Instantly contrite, Matteo withdrew, cursing his damned impatience, the bottled up longing that had caused him to lose control. He enfolded her tenderly, blinking back tears of frustration and regret.
Men of Intrgue A Trilogy Page 14