Pictures of You

by Barbara Delinsky

  As though reading the subtle change in her green eyes, now glittering in a jumble of confusion, apprehension, and excitement, his face moved slowly toward hers, a deliberately provocative movement. Eva inhaled to protest in vain as his lips seized hers, forcing them into silence, dominating them, crushing them with the force of brute animal instinct. His lips released hers as deliberately as they had taken them, a stark statement that only his willing it had terminated the contact.

  Eva lay in shocked silence as though in a world totally apart from the one in which she had so recently been widowed. Her mind told her to resist; her body refused. Never before had she been kissed with such conviction. Her lips burned in the aftermath of his fiery possession; her insides quivered in the memory of it.

  She shook her head from side to side, as if to deny the chemical reaction which had already begun, but when he moved again to still her resistance, she yielded willingly to the seering need that had been building within her for months and months, and now threatened to rage out of control.

  As his lips covered hers once again, she responded to him with an urgency she could no longer contain. Sensing this need, his kiss softened into one no longer of forceful domination but of subtle challenge, as the gentle pressure of his lips parted hers in a soul-reaching massage. His hands had released their grip on her arms and were now caressing her every contour, fingers tracing the line of her jaw, her ear lobe, cascading down the sensitive cord of her neck to her shoulder. One hand returned to stroke her cheek as the other glided to her waist, its thumb faintly brushing the swell of her breast in its volatile descent.

  An involuntary moan of pleasure escaped her lips as her hands, of their own volition, climbed to his shoulders in eager exploration of his taut-muscled frame, before intertwining with the thick crop of black hair at the nape of his neck. In this moment of passion she blocked out all else but the mutual hunger being assuaged by and for this man whose name she didn’t know.

  As reciprocal as their lovemaking had been, so was this shock of reality as he roughly thrust her away from him and abruptly stood and walked across the room to the window. Eva bolted into a seated position, her feet dangling on the floor, her head collapsed on her chest, her wildly beating heart the only sound audible to her as she tried to assimilate into her consciousness the events of the last few minutes. In a gesture of self-defense, though from whom she was not sure, she reached for and quickly put on the sun dress she had so casually removed earlier.

  The sun had fallen surreptitiously behind the mountains during this physical interchange, leaving the barest remnant of the golden edging which had but moments before outlined the craggy peaks. Eva glanced sidelong at the stranger, now dispassionately staring at this thread of nature. How controlled he was, she thought, becoming painfully aware of her own shortcomings in that department.

  In a voice soft and unsure, she broke the silence in search of the answer to the only question that had surfaced amid the passionate whirlpool of earlier moments.

  “Who are you?”

  The tall stranger, if she could now truthfully call him that, turned pensively toward her, his gaze coming to rest on her questioning eyes.

  “Who are you?” Once again the game, she thought. Damn him. But someone had to give first and she was not one to carry pride to absurdity.

  “My name is Eva Jordenson. I’m here on an expedition into the Serra do Espinhaco.” Reluctant to reveal too much, though she found the words slipping out too easily for comfort, she sighed as she asked a final time, slowly and deliberately, “Who are you?”

  The answer came back crisp bold, and determined, with the pride that a particular set of the chin had suggested once before.

  “I am Roberto de Carvalho.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Stunned silence filled the room as Eva stared in disbelief. “Who?” she burst out, the shock in her voice shattering the fragile atmosphere.

  This time the response held a note of impatience, almost anger. “I am Roberto de Carvalho.” For the first time, in the pronunciation of his name, Eva detected the trace of an accent. His English had been otherwise flawless, the spilling of words from his tongue so spontaneous that it had not occurred to her that this was anyone but a fellow countryman. His dress, too, was strictly contemporary and very American. In complement to the wide-brimmed hat of a far finer material than those of the local peasants she had seen on the road, he wore a khaki-colored cotton shirt, rolled to the elbow and open at the throat, dark blue jeans which skimmed his lean hips and muscular thighs in rugged harmony of man and material, and sturdy leather boots whose richness seeped through even the fresh layer of dust. A very American look, yet the articulation of his name defied this image, perplexing Eva all the more. He had spoken his name with a sense of pride, both personal and national; she respected him for it, even as she found it electrifying.

  Eva had been staring at him, tongue-tied, a rare experience for her. As she sought her next words, he barked through thin drawn lips.

  “I know of no Eva Jordenson on this trip! Who are you?”

  “Eva Jordenson—er, Mrs. Stuart Jordenson. You met my husband in New York and made arrangements with him for this expedition?”

  “Yes, of course, I met a Stuart Jordenson and he did plan to join this group. But he made no mention of a wife, much less of plans to bring her here.” The anger in his voice took her aback, and she suddenly wished she had written beforehand informing him of her intentions. In her own desperate need to escape New York, it had not occurred to her that joining the expedition would pose any problem. Dismayed at her own shortsightedness and not quite sure where to begin her explanation, she once again found herself directed by a low-toned question.

  “Where is your husband?”

  Strangely embarrassed, Eva looked away from him quickly. “Stu is dead. He suffered a heart attack two weeks ago. I had assumed that I could take his place.” The words had come too fast, and she riveted her eyes toward him in anxious anticipation of his reaction. She was totally unprepared for it when it came.

  Two broad strides brought him from his position before the window to where she stood by the dresser. Barely masking the contempt etched in fine lines around his mouth, he cruelly seized her by the shoulders, spinning her around until her back was to the bed. Anger seethed as he growled, low and threatening.

  “Just what kind of imbecile do you take me for? A more callous story I’ve never heard before! You’d like to have me believe that a mere two weeks after your husband’s sudden and premature—if my judgment of his age and health last month were correct—death, you hop a plane and show up thousands of miles away in a small town at the edge of nowhere, intending to join an expedition to which you were neither invited nor are wanted? I don’t believe you, Mrs … . whatever your name might be. Don’t tell me about the recent death of your husband when this is mine for the taking—”

  He thrust his hand roughly into the mass of curls, pulling her head back precariously as he drew her slim body against his and fiercely claimed her lips once more. This time there was neither tenderness nor persuasion; it was a raw act of possession, reducing the potential of beauty to its basest form. The message was clear to Eva as she was forced to endure his punishing kiss. When he finally released her, she staggered backward, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed. Fear permeated her every fiber, not so much of Roberto de Carvalho as of what he had said. In her heart she felt that his accusations were justified. What kind of a wanton could she be to have behaved such? An inner torment had begun to gnaw at her, and Eva felt her confidence disintegrating.

  Roberto now stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, his broad stance one of the master awaiting an accounting for some heinous crime. He was not going to make it any easier for her this time, as his steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation.

  Eva’s eyes had been glued to his in confusion and fear since his violent demonstration. She shifted them now toward her pocketbook, which rested on t
he low table where she had placed it earlier. As in a trance she went to it, reached inside, and drew out the strongest pieces of evidence she had—her passport and the letter from Roberto which had traveled so many miles and back again. Shoulders bent in a posture of defeat, she handed him the two items before moving to the opposite side of the bed where she sank down, her back to him, a fresh outburst of trembling racking her body. Wrapping her arms around herself protectively, she began to rock gently back and forth, suddenly overwhelmed by the torment of the past few weeks, indeed the past hour. For the first time since she awoke to Roberto’s presence, she was completely unaware of him, her only sense being the intensity of the pain which radiated from within to her every extremity. She was conscious of a low, tortured sob, though unaware that it had escaped her own lips.

  At the moment her anguish peaked to shatter the last shreds of control, strong yet gentle arms enveloped her, drawing her into a cocoon of warmth and tenderness. With her head buried between a firm hand and powerful chest, the tears that had been denied for so long would be denied no longer. Roberto held her as she yielded to the convulsive sobs that shook her. Tears streaked down her cheeks, soaking his shirt, a protective hand pressing her closer to him as he stroked her head soothingly. His body adopted the steady sway, to and fro, which hers had begun, and he patiently let her cry until the vehemence of her grief was spent.

  Eva did not know how long she remained thus, cradled in Roberto’s arms, absorbing the comfort he offered. When the worst of the quivering had subsided and the tears had ceased, she withdrew from his arms and moved to the window, where she stood gazing out at the darkened hills. In a voice broken intermittently by the uneven rhythm of a few lingering sobs, she spoke.

  “I had to get away. You c-can’t imagine the oppression there. I couldn’t die beside Stuart, although they would have liked it. I f-found your letter among Stu’s papers and it seemed like a perfect solution at the t-time. Maybe I was wrong. Was I?”

  She reeled around with a force she hadn’t realized she still possessed and glared at him, her voice gaining in strength. “Was I wrong? I’m human, too. I was never unfaithful to my husband. I am not some merry widow looking for a good time. I need some time—to think, to relax, to work.” Glancing around, she pointed a shaky finger at her camera, as she rapidly continued.

  “I’m a photographer. I work. I am competent. I do my job well. My photography gives me great comfort. I saw this expedition as a photographic opportunity that would be good for me. So I took it.” She spoke quickly, as though fearing that these thoughts which so begged to be aired would be lost somehow if she hesitated.

  “I’m sorry if I sound foolish. Believe me, I can give as much as the next. And I’m happy to do so. But right now I need this trip.” Trying to anticipate his arguments, she continued her monologue.

  “I can handle it physically, if that’s what worries you.” Here she felt the color rise to her cheek as her mind retraced her most recent physical endeavor. Too quickly, she went on.

  “I can climb those hills, search old caves, cook—whatever you ask of the others I can match. Please give me the chance.”

  The poignancy of her final plea was not unappreciated. Through the long moments of her rebuttal, he had sat transfixed. Unfathomable at their murky depths, his eyes never left hers. Now, with the silence looming as a heavy mist between them, he rose from the bed and walked toward the door, his gaze only then shifting.

  “Be downstairs in twenty minutes. You can meet the others then. While we eat I will outline our route.” The strangely husky voice broke off, and he was gone before Eva could begin to respond.

  She stood in the wake of his departure staring at the door whose closing click had brought with it a ring of finality to the issue. Slowly, she let out the breath she had been holding. She raised her hand to her chest to steady her racing heartbeat, realizing how close she had come to losing out on the main objective of this trip. If Roberto de Carvalho had denied her request to accompany the group into the hills tomorrow, she would have been defeated in this first effort to rebuild her life. True, she had gotten away from New York, had begun to sample the healing warmth of this faraway country, and had already taken many photographs which she could proudly present to her editor. But the Espinhaco Topaz would be the pièce de résistance, she knew. It would add an overall direction to the photographs she collected here. It would be a breathtaking subject in and of itself. Yes, the Espinhaco Topaz would be the climax of her journey … or so she had thought.

  Strange and disquieting thoughts began to race in Eva’s brain. What was she really doing here? She had run away from the problems besieging her in New York. She couldn’t fool herself any longer—she had run away, something she had never done in her life. She had been raised to be a fatalist, facing challenges with a calm acceptance. What was happening to her now?

  More perplexing, what had happened to her a few minutes ago in the arms of a total stranger? By all rights she should have been indignant at Roberto’s approach, rejecting his advances, even fighting them off as the cheap and degrading portents of a lust to which she suspected that type of man was accustomed. He hadn’t been satisfied with the passing stewardess; Eva had catapulted into his expedition and he would take advantage of the effect which, he was sure to know by now, he had on her. She must be constantly on her guard, she resolved.

  But whom did she fear? Roberto? Or herself. Eva sat down on the bed at this last admission, studying the folded-back coverlet and the indentations that had so recently been made by two bodies, side by side in intimate embrace. She let her eyes roam back toward the pillow, from which her head had risen to meet his in a moment of uncontrolled passion. What had come over her? She had never been one to behave in such a reckless manner.

  Always before, she had been able to monitor her emotions. She couldn’t deny that Stu had excited her. He had introduced her to the art of lovemaking with the tenderness and consideration born of experience. Eva had often wondered, especially as their mutual attraction had begun to fade, how she compared with his other conquests. As for her, although she had none to compare with, she had been pleased with the initial intimacy, sensing the thrill of an arousal which, though falling short of a deeper ecstasy she could fantasize about, complimented her feelings of femininity.

  It was with chagrin that Eva recalled the burgeoning passion that this stranger named Roberto de Carvalho had ignited within her. Never before had she been stirred to the height to which his overpowering masculinity and raw sensuousness had carried her. She blushed even now at the eagerness of her response, vividly remembering the shock of separation when the embrace had been broken.

  At the time, she had attributed her shock to the plain fact of his assault. Now, as her lips tingled in remembrance of the firm and persuasive touch of his, she knew it was something deeper—it was her own driving need that shocked and bewildered her as much as his. She would have to guard her own actions, as well as his, for should she give in to this newly discovered susceptibility, she feared that the psychological damage to her own fragile state of mind would be irreparable.

  Complicating the situation further, Eva was totally bewildered by her behavior after the embrace. Why had she broken down, crying like a baby, in this man’s presence? What had come over her? She couldn’t remember the last time she had let herself go emotionally to such an extent in front of someone else. She was a very private person, and self-control had always been a characteristic she prized, though she was well aware that it may have hurt her marriage. If she had been able to talk more with Stu, maybe things would have been different. Instead, she had bottled up all the anger and bitterness until she seethed at everything he said and did. Why had she restrained herself with her husband and then collapsed before Roberto, a stranger? The question nagged at her mercilessly.

  Looking at her watch, Eva saw that her twenty minutes were nearly gone. Frantically scanning the room, it hit her suddenly that she did not have her other bags, that
they must still be downstairs where she had left them earlier. Refusing to be daunted by this minor setback, she straightened the bed with a sweep of the hand before grabbing the wet washcloth from the basin, wringing it out, and applying it to her eyes, which still bore signs of the tears that had so violently overflowed. Fortunately, her pocketbook held a few items of makeup; hastily repairing the damage to her eyeliner and mascara, she restored the red-purple gleam to her lips, added a stroke of rhubarb to the hollows of her cheeks, and brushed her wayward curls into a semblance of casual disorder. Replacing these items into her pocketbook, she put on a pair of gradient red-tinted eyeglasses, used primarily for reading when her eyes were strained, which would serve perfectly to hide the slight puffiness that lingered around her eyes. With a final straightening tug at her sun dress, she grimaced into her high-heeled sandals, gathered the shoulder straps of her pocketbook and camera together, and left the room.

  Retracing the steps she had taken earlier, Eva easily found the living room, which she assumed to be the site of this gathering. Her hunch was correct. As she appeared at the doorway of this front room, conversation was already in progress among a group of men—several standing, several seated on and around the sills of the elongated windows that overlooked the street. There were four men in all, two of whom conversed in low tones in a language Eva guessed to be French from the few word fragments that the evening breeze gently carried to her across the room. Both men were of above-average height and athletic build, though one was fair-skinned and auburn-haired while the other was dark, a well-trimmed black beard accentuating the immediate sense of mystery, even threat, which sent a brief shiver through Eva. The other two were somewhat younger, perhaps in their early twenties, she guessed. Both had an American Ivy-League look about them, from their faded jeans and open-necked Oxford cloth shirts to their loafer-shod feet. One, a sandy-haired fellow with a friendly look, had a pullover sweater draped around his shoulders, prompting Eva to note for the future the potential of the evening breeze. The last young man was lean as his buddy had been, but he was darker, his thick brown hair falling carelessly across his forehead. Eva was struck by something very familiar in his face, a feature she couldn’t pinpoint but which distinctly reminded her of someone else—though she wasn’t sure of whom.