Captive Heart
By
Patti Beckman
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Captive Heart
"I will have you when the time is right…" JoNell knew that the wealthy South American playboy Jorge Del Toro would carry out his threat. He played the game of love and business with a fierce determination to win.
But JoNell was unprepared for his ruthless offer: marriage to him in exchange for saving her father from financial ruin.
Trapped by this marriage of necessity, alone in a wild and exotic land, JoNell is shocked when a spark of passion kindles her hatred of Jorge into searing flames of love.
To my husband Charles
who is the model for all my heroes
© 1980, Patti Beckman
© 1982, Cover Illustration, Edito-Service SA. Geneva
Published by Edito-Service S.A., Geneva
by arrangement with the Silhouette Division
of Simon & Schuster
ISBN 2-8302-0226-0
Chapter 1
JoNell Carpenter impatiently tossed a long, blond braid back over each shoulder. Her fidgeting fingers drummed the stick of the Cessna 180. She was approaching her destination—Lima, Peru—and becoming more nervous by the minute.
Tension from the long hours at the controls was making her slender body ache. Her eyes felt gritty, her muscles cramped. More than that, however, her inner turmoil was grinding at her nerves. She tried a few long, deep breaths, but they didn't help.
Unexpectedly, the mist cleared briefly. JoNell gasped. In spite of herself, she felt a pleasant tingle as she saw the Peruvian coastline come into view. The blue waters of the Pacific sparkled with a vitality that brought tears to her eyes.
She dabbed away the moisture from her eyes with a tissue that had been wadded up in the right breast pocket of her powder blue jump suit. "It's just beautiful!" she gasped softly, not wanting to waken her tired Uncle Edgar who snored intermittently in the seat beside her.
The magnificent sight of a foreign coastline laid out in all its raw splendor under the wings of the little airplane caught JoNell off guard and made her forget briefly how much she truly disliked what she was doing.
Under other circumstances she would have thoroughly enjoyed the flight down here from the United States. The scenery had been awesome. She had flown over vast panoramas of deep green jungle alternating with patches of brown and yellow deserts. At times she had cleared mountain passes at 13,000 feet with soaring peaks on either side dissolving into the mist. And once she had caught sight of the great Amazon like a silvery python writhing its way through the jungle.
Yes, the countryside was beautiful—but her mission definitely was not. Had it not been for her father resting at home, recovering from a heart attack, she certainly would never have agreed to ferry this airplane to Peru for the notorious Jorge Del Toro.
JoNell knew all about the philandering, South American playboy. Stories about him filled the Spanish language magazines read by the Cubans back home in Florida. JoNell read the Spanish magazines to keep up her fluency in the language. Long ago, she'd grown tired of reading about Del Toro's romantic escapades. Men like Del Toro were ruthless with women. Once they conquered a woman, they grew bored with her and tossed her aside in search of new game.
Del Toro's most recent encounter had involved a beautiful American actress who had a leading part in a movie being filmed in Peru. The actress had dubbed Del Toro "Latin America's Most Ruthless Heartbreaker." Well, a scoundrel like that certainly couldn't break JoNell's heart… but of course he wouldn't try. Men like Del Toro moved in the rarified atmosphere of the South American social jet set. His acquaintances ruled the political and economic tides of Latin America. He came from a rich and prominent family. He would hardly notice a small town girl like JoNell!
JoNell nudged Uncle Edgar awake. The two of them flew in awed silence as they admired the breathtaking view of the Peruvian coastline. The radio hissed and crackled when JoNell called the Lima tower for permission to land. Over the static, she heard a male voice give the wind direction and velocity. She picked her runway, brought the plane down in a smooth, skillful landing and taxied glumly to the hangar.
"That's it," sighed JoNell. She turned off the ignition and watched the spinning arc of the prop come to a halt. "We're actually here."
"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?" drawled Uncle Edgar in his slow, deep voice. He faced her squarely. His lips curved ever so slightly to indicate that he was smiling.
"Oh, Uncle Edgar," she exclaimed impatiently, "can't you ever really smile like ordinary people do?"
JoNell was immediately ashamed of herself as she saw the blood drain from Uncle Edgar's long, homely face as his hint of a smile turned into a hurt frown.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Edgar," she apologized swiftly, touching his big hand. "I truly am. It's just that I'm so uptight, I'm looking for an excuse to pick on somebody."
She hoped he believed her, because she honestly was sorry. Uncle Edgar was the last person she would ever want to hurt. He had seen her through mumps, chicken pox and the flu. She had trailed around after him ever since she'd been big enough to carry a wrench. In his slow, plodding way, he had talked to her about engines and airplanes for hours on end. He had taught her to love and understand machinery.
Now she had verbally attacked him for a facial mannerism she had come to love. What was wrong with her?
"I know, Pet," he drawled slowly. "I understand. You don't really want to be here, do you? But you feel you don't have any choice. So you're just looking to take your anger out on somebody, and I guess I'm the handiest target. Sure, I understand. Don't worry your pretty head about it."
"Okay, Uncle Edgar," she choked, "you're the most—the most—"
"I know," he said, and patted her hand clumsily.
JoNell looked at her Uncle Edgar through a mist of tears. He had to be the most compassionate and forgiving man in the world. But then, why not? He'd been through some miserable times with his alcoholism. He'd sunk pretty low. When he finally joined Alcoholics Anonymous and went on the wagon, he spent a lot of time repenting the trouble he'd caused everyone. So he could certainly understand how it is possible to lash out at someone you love when you're not feeling like yourself. And JoNell Carpenter definitely wasn't feeling like herself right now.
"I wonder what he's really like?" JoNell mused, her thoughts again turning to the buyer of the plane she was delivering, the notorious Jorge Del Toro. She raised the door handle, swung around and climbed down. Her sneakers touched Peruvian soil, but right now she wished herself back home in good old south Florida, where the sun was hot and bright every day and the palm trees whispered their secrets to the blue sky. Instead, here she was in damp, chilly Lima, Peru, south of the equator, on a mission she didn't want but couldn't refuse.
"All Peruvian men are dashing, charming, good-looking, suave—terrific lovers and terrible husbands," drawled Uncle Edgar, with a hint of a twinkle in his eyes.
"Oh, Uncle Edgar," she giggled, "now you've done it. You've ruined my beautiful gloomy mood!" And she broke into a merry laugh, her large, brown eyes coming to life for the first time since they had landed the red and white Cessna.
"It's about time," said Uncle Edgar. "Now, let's find this joker and get this transaction completed."
JoNell was all in favor of getting this business over with as quickly as possible. But she faced the irksome prospect of being stuck here in a foreign country, far from home, while she gave flying lessons t
o a rich playboy. She felt like someone who had been dreadfully miscast in a play. She was a small town girl whose only ambition in life was to be a good teacher in an elementary school. The only kind of man she was interested in meeting was a steady, decent type who'd want to marry her and live a simple, uncomplicated life with her while they raised a small family. Galavanting off to South America had not been part of her plans.
JoNell and her uncle began walking toward the hangar. A fine mist settled around them, making JoNell shiver. She had read that the garua, as the mist is called, occurs during the Peruvian winter months from May to October. Mingling with a fog, it obscured the surrounding mountains. Above, the gray sky looked neither threatening nor inviting, just impersonal. JoNell had also read that it never froze in Lima, but she hadn't expected the damp chill to penetrate so deeply.
A heavy, short, dark-haired man materialized wraith-like out of the mist. "Bienvenidos," he said cheerfully, bowing politely to JoNell and offering his hand in welcome to Uncle Edgar.
"Sorry, I don't speak Spanish," Uncle Edgar apologized. "But my niece here speaks your language fluently."
"That good, seňor." He rattled off a polite greeting to JoNell in rapid-fire Spanish, flashing a white-toothed smile, but then returned to thickly accented English. "For you, seňor, I speak the English, which I do with much good. You Americans, no?"
"Yes," replied JoNell a bit impatiently. "May we go inside? It's awfully cold out here in the rain."
"Rain, seňorita? But it never rains in Peru," he chuckled. "This is only a little mist. Come. I take you to dry place. You be more comodo."
"Thanks," JoNell answered gratefully.
"De nada," said the man as he led them through the hangar door, past airplanes of all sizes and colors, and into a small, well-lighted office.
"First, we check you through customs," said the man. "Then…"
"Customs?" JoNell asked with surprise. "But don't we have to go through customs in the main terminal with everybody else?"
"Oh, but you see, seňor Del Toro instruct customs officer to come here. More—con—con—easy," said the man with a broad smile. "Please, be sit. Everything taken care of for you."
JoNell and her uncle sat on a small green vinyl sofa near the door where they had entered. "Looks like money talks," JoNell said under her breath.
"You're right," Uncle Edgar murmured. "It got you here."
"And how. I certainly wouldn't be here for any other reason!"
JoNell settled back against the sofa and glanced around the room. To her right was the door they had entered. To her left was a worn and battered wooden desk with a bare top. Behind it stood a metal file cabinet. The wall was covered with sectional maps used in airplane navigation. There were two uncomfortable looking straight-back chairs and another sofa, a twin of the one she was sitting on.
With a sudden homesick pang, JoNell envisioned the little airport office her parents owned back home. She sorely wished she were back there now, taking phone calls, filling in the Link trainer when her parents were busy, giving a few flying lessons.
"Uncle Edgar, do you think I did the right thing?" she asked suddenly. "I mean, do you think I did right by insisting on coming here?"
He gave her a long, slow look. She had long ago given up any hope of prodding Uncle Edgar into fast action or fast talking. She had learned to wait patiently, or sometimes impatiently, while he turned over even the simplest question in his mind before he drawled out his slow, thoughtful answer. "Course you did the right thing, Pet," he said with finality. "What other choice did you have?"
"Yeah, I guess you're right." She had already known she'd had no other choice, but it made her feel better to hear someone else back her up.
Just then a door opposite them burst open. In strode the most handsome man JoNell had ever seen in her entire life. She caught her breath at the magnificent sight of him. Latins are fantastic looking, she thought, and her skin tingled with unexpected electrified excitement.
A fierce, commanding countenance gazed down at her. JoNell saw flared nostrils, a neatly trimmed black mustache, dark green eyes, light olive skin and wavy black hair. This man had to know he was good looking, she thought. His self-confident stride announced to the world that he knew what he wanted, and he was used to getting it.
"Aqui," he called over his muscular shoulder to a much smaller man who followed him into the room. He waved his arm authoritatively.
"I am so sorry for the delay," he apologized in impeccable English. His almost imperceptible bow told JoNell that here was a polished man who knew all the courtesies of high society, but refused to give them more than grudging acknowledgement.
"I am Jorge Del Toro."
Nerves jangled in remote recesses of JoNell's body. Of course. She should have recognized him from his pictures in the gossip magazines. But she hadn't expected Del Toro to meet them at the airport—and in real life he was even more dashing and handsome than in the pictures. She felt her knees turn to jelly, and for a moment she didn't think her legs had the strength to stand up.
No wonder women fell under his spell!
His smartly styled Italian suit hugged his tall, muscular body with just a hint of suggestiveness. His steely, cold green eyes evoked a challenge to turn his impenetrable gaze into smoldering desire. The woman who could create a look of passion in those haughty eyes must surely think herself a goddess. But that woman would be asking for heartbreak, JoNell knew. From what she'd read and heard about the man, he'd allow a woman to awaken the fires that burned under his cool exterior, sweep her to heights of romance most women only dream about, and then, when the fires cooled, dispose of her without a twinge of compassion. At least, that was what the gossips said about him.
"Welcome to my country," he said.
Uncle Edgar arose from the sofa slowly and pulled JoNell by the hand after him. "Why, thank you," he replied.
"The customs man will take care of getting you checked into the country." Then, without really looking at JoNell, Del Toro said, "What a beautiful daughter you have."
JoNell suppressed a smile. How typical of the Latin macho code. Here I stand in my jump suit, my hair in braids, no makeup, and he says I am beautiful. But Latins, she knew, judged their manhood by how smoothly they could flatter a woman and by how many conquests of the heart they could make. The truth, she thought, is not in him.
"Oh—this is my niece, not my daughter," Uncle Edgar said after a typically long pause in which his slow thinking processes lurched into gear.
Del Toro looked puzzled. "Aren't you Mr. Carpenter. And is this not Miss Carpenter?"
"Well, yes and no," Uncle Edgar replied slowly.
"Maybe you'd better explain. Why don't we all sit down?"
"Well," Uncle Edgar drawled, "Mr. Carpenter took sick."
The tale would be long in the telling. Uncle Edgar just couldn't be hurried. But JoNell didn't have the composure to shorten the tale by interrupting. She was too tired and too upset by the whole situation. Her father had suffered a heart attack brought on by business pressures. Airplane sales had fallen off, there hadn't been as many flying students, and expenses were going through the roof. With one year left in college before she earned her teaching degree, JoNell was still dependent on her parents for financial support. When she found out that this airplane sale to the wealthy South American industrialist, Jorge Del Toro, would pull them out of the woods, at least temporarily, she had insisted on ferrying the plane to Peru herself. She had met all of her father's objections. First, her mother couldn't deliver the plane because she had to take care of JoNell's father. Second, JoNell wouldn't be going alone. She would take Uncle Edgar with her. He could return home by commercial plane after the plane was delivered. And she would be well taken care of in Peru. Del Toro had already made arrangements to house JoNell and her father. Part of the deal in selling the plane to Del Toro was that he would be given some preliminary flying lessons. After the lessons were completed, JoNell could fly home by commercial p
lane. And finally, JoNell spoke excellent Spanish, having played as a child with Cuban refugee children and having been partly raised by a Cuban housekeeper while her parents were busy with their airplane company.
Uncle Edgar was laboriously explaining the part of the story about why he was here in his brother's place when Del Toro interrupted impatiently. "Then you, seňor, are to give me the flight instructions instead of your brother?"
There was a long pause. "No," said Uncle Edgar slowly, "I just fix planes. I don't fly them."
Del Toro looked baffled. "But part of the agreement was that I was to be given flight instructions when the airplane was delivered."
JoNell struggled to hold back her laughter. Wait until he heard about the new arrangement!
"Oh, you're goin' to have the flight lessons, just like we promised," Uncle Edgar assured him. "JoNell, here, is going to be your instructor."
For a moment Del Toro was speechless. "What?" he asked incredulously. His penetrating green eyes swung in her direction and impaled her.
JoNell threw her head back with a haughty smirk. She wasn't surprised at his reaction. Of course a Latin man with his macho self-image would be shocked at the prospect of taking flight instructions from a woman. But she stood her ground and met his gaze with cool self-composure. She was not about to become apologetic, just because this man was rich, handsome, conceited and used to ordering men around and having his way with women. His reputation and his overwhelming personality did not intimidate her. When she made up her mind about something, she was as stubborn as they came. She had delivered the plane and she would give the instructions.
"I'm a very good flight instructor," JoNell said calmly.
"But you're a mere girl!" Del Toro laughed. A wave of his hand dismissed her as inconsequential.
JoNell's brown eyes flashed with rage. She had expected him to resist being taught by a woman. But to dismiss her as a "mere girl" was infuriating.
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