Flight of Passion: True romance and the obsession for love

by Mollie Mathews

  Her gaze lingered over the sheets draped sensually over his naked body, enveloping his firm buttocks and muscular thighs, immortalizing his nakedness. It was as though he was a reincarnation of Michelangelo’s statue of David, powerfully symbolizing strength and human beauty. Ruby dared not move, dared not breathe for fear of waking him.

  The dappled sunlight streaming through the Jacaranda leaves accented the firm contours of his muscles and cast a heavenly glow.

  Act cool, she said to herself as he started to stir. That’s all you have to do—act cool. She had no need to feel guilty. They hadn’t promised each other anything. It was a stolen moment. A moment she’d selfishly longed for since the first time they had met.

  And now it was over.

  Oliver doesn’t care for me, she reminded herself. If she succumbed to his charm the family farm would be sold and lost to her forever. If she resisted him and kept her distance she would marry Carlos as planned. Her family would be happy and in time, if she learned to love Carlos like she should, perhaps she could be happy too.

  She wondered what foolishness had driven her to put herself in such an uncompromising position. She wondered how fleeting desire had caused her to stray so far.

  I don’t care for you, she repeated gazing at his sleeping body. If that was true, she thought, as her heart plummeted, why did it hurt so bad?

  But she knew two things with absolute clarity.

  Oliver couldn’t be found. And she must honor her commitments.

  FIXATION

  A fixation is very stubborn: it burrows into the brain and breaks the heart. There are many fixations, but love is the worst

  ~ Isabel Allende ~

  TWENTY

  Damn her! How dare Ruby deny him. With razor like precision Oliver brandished the machete with the force of a man possessed. He watched with satisfaction as the fallen branch splintered into tiny fragments.

  Damn her and her stubborn sense of duty to hell. With the flourish of an executioner he swung the razor sharp blade through the thick tangled mass of vines that covered the forest floor.

  He had wasted too much time already. Oliver glanced at the sun. Full and ripe and searing hot. Perfect conditions. There was no time to waste. He must catch the butterfly today if he was to succeed in his quest.

  He glanced at the compass on his watch. This should be the spot. He rested the three meter long handle of the net against a tropical hardwood tree. Its slender trunk towered into the air like a giant fireman's pole. The arching leaves of the tree provided welcome relief from the scorching midday sun.

  Only mad men and butterflies come out in this heat, Oliver chuckled, as he took off his wide rimmed khaki hat and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  He must be mad. Mad to be alone in the jungle chasing after a tiny creature. Mad to be giving his heart to a tiny object he may love forever but that would never, ever love him back.

  He leant against the tree, and twisted his foot in the soil. Was it madness or fear that drove him from the arms of the most beautiful girl in the world.

  Safety. Sanity. Security. At least his obsession was something tangible. Something real. Something he could control.

  Unlike love.

  And unlike other collecting trips this time he had a compelling purpose. Jacqui’s life depended on his success.

  Then he saw it. The treasure for which he was prepared to risk everything. The treasure that others coveted but none had been able to collect. The treasure that could save his sister’s life.

  Passion burned within him like a raging flame. He wanted to scream; to lie down on the ground and beat his fists and feet against the happy earth; to have Hope, the papilio Esperanza, over him like a shroud while he stood, not breathing, was a dream.

  Instead he crossed his arms over his chest and stared as the butterfly flitted high amongst the canopy a giant 50 meters above.

  Whatever he did he must not squander the opportunity with one emotionally out of control sweep of his net.

  Other predators like wasps would not be so merciful. Instead they would torture the beauty with their vicious barbs and poisonous sting, causing it to plummet to the ground.

  Oliver would treat her with the reverence Hope deserved. After considerable effort to reach it, he would sweep the butterfly delicately in his net, carry it tenderly back down to the ground, and pray that she would lay eggs, before putting her to sleep and adding her to his collection.

  She would feel no pain. He would make sure of that. He would save her from a much crueller death—unscrupulous predators who would suck her life force. And though she may never know it, her death would save his sister’s life.

  He gazed up the towering canopy where the butterfly flew. He sat on the ground, suddenly overcome. He had forgotten to breathe and his head hammered. The hairs on his neck stood to attention and he felt an uncontrollable, inexplicable sense of danger.

  Screeching insects wouldn’t shut up, nearly driving him mad with their shrill banter. On and on they relentlessly bleated. Imagining climbing to the top branches of the tree filled him with panic.

  Of course he was mad. Mad and obsessed. What other person would climb so high with such a fear of heights? He gritted his teeth.

  “You have to do it.”

  His passion and conviction urged him on. His obsessive pursuit of butterflies had taken him to the furthest corners of the world and he’d not fallen from a tree yet. He glanced up at the canopy again.

  Still, it was a pretty lean, mean looking tree.

  “There’s nothing else for it,” Oliver said obstinately, as the tell-tale spinning sensation took hold. Nothing great in the world has been achieved without passion, he encouraged himself, nothing great has been achieved without risk. He ignored the question that begged to be asked, ‘So why won’t you commit to Ruby?’

  He jerked his head back and gulped back water, pouring the cool, refreshing, liquid down his face. He shook his head vigorously and steeled himself for the climb.

  Oliver gripped the machete handle in his teeth like a pirate, and draped the diameter of the net over his head. His hands free, he hooked a rope around the back circumference of the trunk, and then twisted it around his well-worn tramping boots, creating a chain that would help him shimmy his way up the trunk.

  Could any place be hotter or more punishing, he thought, as he wrapped his arms tightly around the roughly textured trunk?

  What was Ruby was doing now, he suddenly wondered as he recalled how her soft, supple, skin responded to his touch. He grimaced. Last night was a stark contrast to the hard, gnarly, rigid lump of living wood to which he now so foolishly clung.

  His arms should have been wrapped around Ruby. His arms should have been hugging her tightly. His arms should have been drawing her to him, possessing her in a frenzied yet heartfelt embrace.

  Except he wasn’t, he was here. Alone.

  Alone in this godforsaken, unbearably hot, hellhole. Alone, at the mercy of his skills and the unforgiving bush. Alone, fending for himself. Alone, with no one to help him should anything go wrong.

  Nothing would go wrong, Oliver reminded himself. He had made sure of that. As always he’d been meticulous in his planning. As meticulous as he could be when dealing with the elements.

  He gripped the tree and began to pull himself slowly upwards with sheer, stubborn brute force. He glanced up at his bulging biceps and was glad he’d placed a few more weights on at the gym to give him more muscle power.

  It would be a long, slow climb. But soon the butterfly would be his. His for the taking. His for the keeping. His for Jacqui’s cure.

  Hugging the tree in a bear-like grip, he drew his feet up and inched his way up its length. His progress was excruciatingly slow. It had to be to avoid chafing his arms as he edged over the rough bark. He paused briefly upon branches that could hold his weight to regain his strength and with grim determination avoided looking down.

  Only 10 meters to go he guessed and then he would be at the top w
here he would lie and wait and when the moment came he would, with any luck, take a direct swing, and net the butterfly in one skilful swoop.

  That, was of course, assuming everything was going according to agenda. His plan to capture Ruby with one charmingly, skilful bedtime romp hadn’t work either he mused ruefully.

  In fact since Ruby had come on the scene all his plans were fast disappearing. But giving up wasn’t his style. He drew out his machete and hacked a branch away from the center of the trunk and continued forging a direct line to the canopy.

  Oliver vowed not to allow himself to get distracted. First he would get his butterfly. Then he would get the girl, taking from Carlos the woman he had no right to possess.

  His ego was getting him into a spot of bother he had to concede, as a strong gust of wind whisked his hat off. Without thinking Oliver looked down. A wave of nausea engulfed him as he watched the cap sail 20 metres to the floor, bouncing off jagged branches as it made its unplanned descent. Oliver froze and gripped the tree more tightly.

  Don’t look up. Don’t look down, he cautioned.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “You could have died.”

  Ruby’s disapproving tone conflicted with the concern pooling in her eyes. Could it be that she cared more for him than Oliver dared let himself imagine.

  “Lucky, I’ve got such a thick head,” he shot back, grimacing as she wrapped a bandage around his head. Playing patient wasn’t his idea of doctors and nurses, he mused irritably.

  Oliver threw back the sheets and eased his legs out of the bed, gritting his teeth as spiking pain like great rocks of hail peppered his bruised spine. Where was his pack? It was imperative he got to it before Ruby discovered his deception. A corrugated scowl rippled across his brow.

  Ruby shot him a warning look as her soft palm pushed firmly against his chest.

  “You’re going nowhere.” She bent down and lifted his legs with a strength that surprised and aroused him. Desire coursed through his veins as her warm, tender skin connected with his.

  Instant fire.

  Oliver fell back reluctantly as unwanted emotion, more painful than the dull throbbing in his head, beat a discordant tune.

  “You’re lucky I found you.”

  How could he have made such a fatal error?

  One minute he had the butterfly in his reach. He recalled catching it and taking it from the net. Its frail wings were damaged. The wind had most probably battered it, rendering it imperfect for his purposes but still able to fly. Oliver demanded perfection. So he’d set it free.

  His next attempt had been more successful. He’d clambered down the tree, placed the Hope butterfly carefully in a large jar, ensuring she had her food plant so she could lay eggs, and placed the jar in his pack. Then he climbed that wretched tree to catch another. He had too. He couldn’t leave it to chance. What if one butterfly didn’t lay eggs?

  He remembered seeing another one. His reach had exceeded his grasp, sending him plummeting to the jungle floor bed. The luck of the gods must have cushioned his fall plunging him into the soft, springy bushes below.

  What had she seen? Oliver’s eyes flew around the familiar room of the casita then drifted beyond the window. The sky was low and troubled. A feverish shiver coiled through his body.

  “My backpack?” he asked, keeping his voice even to mask his rising anxiety. His eyes darted for the floor glancing over his bag as though it were of less relevance.

  “Don’t worry. I picked up everything. Nothing was left behind,” she said softly in soothing, melodic tones.

  Only my pride, thought Oliver as he tried to prop himself up.

  He didn’t want her pity, he reflected glumly. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, averting his gaze from those big blue, endless, all seeing eyes. Eyes that seemed to see right through his rugged exterior and conflicted conscience. Eyes that seemed to see right through his veneer. Eyes that seemed to pierce through to his soul.

  “Bloody weakling,” he cursed as he struggled in vain.

  Ruby gestured to the chair by the window. His trusty blue rucksack, worn and frayed, perched uncomfortably on the unblemished fabric, as though at any moment it could topple—like Oliver’s resolve.

  Oliver’s gaze ricocheted between Ruby and the pack. Either she was putting up a great façade or she didn’t suspect a thing. He heaved a frustrated sigh and fell back against the luxurious pillows.

  Ruby’s gaze intensified, flitting first to his rucksack and then back to Oliver as though trying to reach into the deep fathoms of his mind. She dipped into the antique porcelain bowl at the side of the table and withdrew a soft, cotton cloth. With long supple fingers she wrung out the excess water.

  “What a fine pair we are,” she said, “Both walking wounded.” The irony didn’t escape him. He was as damaged as she was, they were both dragging around their childhood wounds.

  Leaning dangerously close to him, she drew the cloth slowly across his brow. The smell of her skin, the sensuality of her touch, the desire he fought valiantly to suppress and the secret he knew he must keep wound his heart into a knotted mess.

  Oliver bit his lip pensively. How much did she know?

  “I suppose you found my Playboy’s?” he tested, nodding in the bag’s direction.

  She rolled her eyes, barely masking her disdain. “Don’t worry Oliver, I’m not in the least bit interested in what’s in that old crumby old bag.”

  Then, as though sensing his unusual preoccupation with the pack, her pupils dilated with hawk-like intensity. “Should I be?”

  “Be my guest,” he challenged, foiling his apprehension with a raspy, seductive drawl. He was sure if he came on sexy her curiosity would quickly cool. Ever since that night of passion she’d kept her distance from him.

  She wrinkled her nose, her eyes hardened with the cool, detachment he’d come to expect.

  “Yuck! I wouldn’t touch that sack with a 20-foot magic wand. It’s disgusting. When’s the last time you gave it a good spring clean?”

  If only she would put as much energy into loving him as she did resisting, he thought irritably.

  “It’s sentimental,” Oliver bit back.

  Ruby’s eyes widened, “I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

  Oliver averted his gaze. If only she knew. “So how long are you planning on keeping me in your bed,” he said, steering his voice into a seductive, premeditated crawl.

  Ruby’s lips pressed into a firm barrier as he knew they would. She was so predictable. So desirable, he conceded, so damned addictive.

  “You should be right in a few days. Then you can go. Believe me ,I’m counting the nights.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I guess we’re stuck with each other until then.” Oliver shot back. If only he could put aside his passion. If only he could curb his obsession.

  TWENTY-TWO

  He tried to study her with clinical detachment as she tucked him into bed. It was a strangely intimate moment. For a brief shining moment he saw what it might be like to call her his wife, Mrs Ruby Hart. His heart surged, warmth flooding him like a day at the beach. It sounded good. Felt good. Damn. He was in trouble.

  She smiled self-consciously suddenly aware of his lingering gaze. “Don’t get too attached,” she said softly, picking up a jug of water and topping up his glass.

  If only, if only, if only I wasn’t such a damaged man, he thought, as she brought the glass to his lips and held his head as he took a sip. If only I was a better man. He glanced at the pack. But I’m not, he accused himself guiltily.

  Ruby set the jug down and leant across him, her soft breasts brushing his forehead as she plumped up his cushions. As though satisfied she had finished her nursing duties, she wrapped herself in her favorite baby pink cashmere cardigan, drew up a chair and sat beside him.

  “What the hell were you doing up the tree anyway?”

  Interrogation time.

  “Bird-watching,” he growled petulantly.

&nbs
p; “What possessed you to think you could fly through the canopy?” Ruby’s eyes narrowed, “If I didn’t know you better I’d say you threw yourself out of that tree deliberately.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “You knew I’d be the only mug within miles who’d tend to your wounds. The only mug that doesn’t know how to say no to you. The only mug that puts other people first. But I’m warning you Oliver Hart, don’t make trouble. Carlos and I will get married one day and no amount of throwing yourself out of trees is going to change that.”

  Oliver scowled. Bloody Carlos. Would he ever be free of that man’s shadow?

  He pinched the ridge of his nose then swept his brow with his hand. His gaze drifted to Ruby. Did he owe her his life? He shuddered to think what would have happened if he had lain concussed for much longer.

  Yet she was to blame as much as he was. He’d been thinking of her when he fell. His thoughts distracted by visions of her loveliness. Her perfect, unblemished skin. Her exquisite, flawless soul.

  Her perfection was as enticing as it was dangerous. Would she flee when she discovered his deception?

  He followed her every move as she left the room, her head of curls coiling like Medusa’s serpents. Her sexy hips swaying like a temptress in her floor length maxi dress.

  She glided across the floor as if she knew he was watching but was pretending with confident assurance not to care.

  Already she had proved distracting. Already his fascination had become obsessive. Already she had proved she could be dangerous. Next time would he be so lucky?

  A roar like dull thunder quaked through his heart. There was no point in playing Mr Macho. There was no point in resisting. If Ruby wanted to tend his wounds who was he to complain. Hell, he grinned, this may even be pleasurable. He couldn’t think of a sexier nurse.