Then she realized that he was continuing to stand there, staring at her. She became aware of the revealing nature of her diaphanous gown. She was standing before a ceiling-to-floor window with bright moonlight behind her, outlining every inch of her body. She snatched a negligee from a nearby chair, holding it against her bosom. "Please go," she said in an unsteady voice.
But, instead, he moved toward her. She shrank back against the window. Del Toro towered over her. In the moonlight, she could see his eyes ablaze with desire as they drank in the sight of her figure.
She began shivering. It was the deserted beach all over again. But this time she saw a raw hunger in his face beyond any power to control.
"Please—" she whimpered.
She saw a struggle in his eyes. Then, with a broken cry, he seized her and buried his face against her throat. She heard him murmur her name in broken phrases.
"Oh, no—no—" she begged, trying with all her strength to push him away.
But his arms had become bands of steel that swept her up and carried her to the bed.
She felt his scorching kisses on her face, the hollow of her throat, on her breasts. Dimly, she heard her gown tear, heard the stifled, choked sounds of her protests and pleading, and the rough sound of his voice murmuring her name.
One moment he was tender, the next demanding, but at no time could she escape his towering strength. He held her prisoner, but he did not have to resort entirely to force. Instead, he kissed and caressed her until slowly a responsive fire awakened in her. She despised him for this power he had over her, and she hated herself with equal rancor for feeling the desire that was making her heart pound and her body quiver.
What a wicked power Del Toro had over her—and he had known it since that first kiss on the beach. He had agreed to a marriage in name only, knowing full well that he could awaken these fires in her when he wished. They were both being consumed by passion—but it was passion without love. She did not love Jorge Del Toro, and she knew he certainly did not love her. He had made it quite clear that she was his passport into the United States, nothing more.
Still, those thoughts were swept away by this wild need that now molded them together. The present excitement was all that mattered. She gave herself willingly, freely and wholly. She throbbed at his every touch, his every movement. He led her to heights of fulfillment beyond anything she had dreamed possible. He was a skillful lover who left no avenue of passion untouched.
But, inevitably, the insanity abated. The desires satisfied, cooled. Cold and unpleasant reality took the place of rapture.
Dawn was creeping through the windows when Del Toro arose to leave her. She saw his face shadowed by a changing pattern of emotions.
"I suppose you think this makes me feel differently," she choked. "It does—it makes me hate you even more, for doing this to me, knowing that what I felt was only physical, that I did not… do not love you. Hate… only hate—"
His eyes were solemn, then angry. He turned without a word and stalked from the room.
She turned to the wall and wept in her loneliness and heartache. A loveless marriage. What a sad, forlorn phrase that was…
Chapter 6
JoNell rubbed her fingers gingerly over the soft velvet of her gold gown with its exquisite lace inset bodice. She studied her mirror reflection with a feeling of awe and fright. Tonight, Del Toro was giving a party to introduce her to Peruvian society. His important friends were, at this moment, approaching the house in their limousines. And what would they see when they were greeted by the new hostess of the Del Toro mansion? A young woman in an exquisite gown complemented by a jade necklace, a sophisticated blond upswept hair style, manicured fingernails and professionally applied makeup—all the product of an entire afternoon in one of Lima's more expensive beauty salons.
The guests would critically scrutinize the outer trappings of the new seňora Jorge Del Toro, who came from a middle-class American family. While she was sure they would notice and evaluate her every move, she wondered whether they would also notice the bleak look in her frightened brown eyes and the quivering of her lips as she tried to maintain her composure.
"Might as well get it over with," JoNell thought resignedly.
A week had passed since she became Del Toro's bride. She had seen little of her husband this week. He had been totally occupied with his business. He was gone when she awoke in the mornings, and often came in late at night after she was in bed; and some nights he didn't come home at all, leaving word that he had to be away overnight on business. He had not tried to invade her bedroom since their wedding night, but she felt it was only a matter of time before he visited her bed again. She dreaded that moment. Passion without love was a travesty of the sacred meaning of marriage. Yet, she knew her own weakness where his kisses were concerned. He would rekindle the fires and she would respond physically. But the needs of the flesh were not the needs of the heart. Theirs was a union without soul, without meaning, without love. She would cry again for the young dream of love that had been so cruelly taken from her, and she would hate him for doing this to her.
She had tried not to think about it this past week. She had occupied herself with tennis and swimming at the ultra posh country club where Del Toro had a membership. Once, she'd had Miguel drive her to the airport, and she had taken Del Toro's plane up for a brief flight by herself. Alone, in the clouds, she had experienced a few moments of peace and freedom. She'd had a rash impulse to turn the plane in the direction of the United States and flee this trap she'd fallen into. But sanity forced her to turn, instead, back to the airport and she had reluctantly landed.
Now, she moved out of her room to the hallway, gathering her courage before descending the stairs.
"Good evening, seňora Del Toro," a masculine voice murmured at her elbow.
She swung around, raising her chin as intense green eyes raked over her. "Good evening, seňor Del Toro," she replied coldly.
"You must remember to call me Jorge, my dear," he reminded her. "I expect you to be convincing in public."
"Am I dressed properly? Am I walking correctly? Do I please you?" she asked sardonically.
"Almost as much as on our wedding night," he replied huskily.
She felt her cheeks burn scarlet. Quickly, she changed the subject, although something inside her tingled at the thought of Del Toro's body so dangerously near hers.
"Will Consuelo be here tonight?"
"Of course. She is from one of the leading families in Peru. How would it look if I excluded her?"
JoNell bit her bottom lip, but said no more.
Naturally, Del Toro would want Consuelo here. She was the woman he loved, after all.
JoNell walked down the winding stairway on Del Toro's arm to the main ballroom where a flurry of activity was taking place. Waiters in dinner jackets bustled with last minute preparations. Musicians wearing gold lame vests took instruments from well-polished cases and thumbed through sheets of musical arrangements. A table across one side of the huge room had a large, ornate golden crown suspended in midair above it. The table was weighed down with fruits, appetizers and hors d'oeuvres.
"Do you like it?" Del Toro asked, with a broad sweep of his arm.
"A little on the ostentatious side," JoNell said flatly. Then she regretted her lukewarm response. Del Toro's expression dimmed. Why should she care that the bright sparkle in his deep green eyes had turned cold, she wondered?
"Is it so important to impress your friends? Do you really care so much what society thinks?"
"It is vital to me what they think."
She remembered that he had made it quite clear how dangerous his political enemies were.
"But surely you can't have any enemies among your friends? This is a party, not a political rally."
"I can trust no one." He smiled indulgently. "You do not understand these political matters. This party is part of the plan to convince all of Lima that ours is a real marriage, and not just a matter of expedienc
y. This is extremely important to me, as I have explained."
"I still wish you hadn't invited Consuelo."
"Why not? Do you feel she's a threat to you?"
JoNell flushed angrily. "Of course not. I know she's in love with you, and you with her—as much as you are capable of feeling love. It means nothing to me. I just think it doesn't look right. Everyone expected you to marry her. Instead, you married me. And now you invite her to this party, as if to flaunt your new bride in her face. Do you really think that's very considerate?"
JoNell knew that her concern was not entirely for the feelings of Consuelo Garcia. That demure young woman had proven she was quite capable of looking out for herself. It was the prospect of another verbal attack by Consuelo that disturbed JoNell.
But there was no more time for discussion; the guests were arriving. JoNell moved beside Del Toro to receive the guests.
In spite of being forewarned, JoNell was overwhelmed by the opulence of the occasion. Her head began spinning as Del Toro murmured introductions. She found herself face to face with governors, movie stars, artists, and industrialists. Even the American ambassador was present.
JoNell tried to guess at the number of extra pounds of jewelry the women were transporting on their well-costumed bodies. She mentally undressed all the guests and placed their clothing and jewelry on one side of an imaginary scale and the naked people on the other side of the scale. The clothes and jewelry won out. The idea was so ludicrous that JoNell almost giggled aloud. She realized with a start that hysteria was bubbling up in her, and her mental game had been a form of defense against having to mingle with people who she felt sure must hold her in contempt because of her middle-class background.
The giggle died a sudden death when JoNell's eyes fell on pale skin against ink black hair. Consuelo had entered the room.
"Let's dance," JoNell said breathlessly to Del Toro. At that moment, she preferred the arms of the man who had bribed her into a loveless marriage rather than the deadly sting of Consuelo's blazing stare.
"At your service, my love," he smiled. "We really should greet the rest of the guests, but no one will fault me for that oversight when they see why I have chosen to neglect them." He signaled to the orchestra leader.
The soft strains of a pachanga carried JoNell and Del Toro rhythmically across the floor. She was not surprised to find Del Toro a skillful dancer. And, because of her Cuban friends back home, she was familiar with most of the Latin dances. She moved lightly in Del Toro's strong arms.
Then she realized to her horror that she and Del Toro were the only couple dancing! A hundred eyes were following her every movement.
When the dance ended, JoNell tried to pull herself loose from Del Toro's arms. But he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close again as the strains of a marinera filled the room. This time other couples joined them. Del Toro held JoNell tightly. His hard, masculine body threatened her even through her heavy velvet gown.
He was carrying off the act beautifully, looking for all the world like a proud man guarding his most prized possession. He kept JoNell on the floor through the entire set, gracefully leading her through a tango, a samba and a rumba. His eyes bore into hers, sending cold shivers down her spine. She tried to look away, but when she did, she encountered Consuelo's searing stare.
When the music finally paused for an intermission, Del Toro's friends crowded around them both, and JoNell found herself being introduced to the guests who had not reached the receiving line when the dance began.
She smiled politely and hoped she said all the right things. But inside, she felt bitterly alone and out of place.
She greeted a guest and her gaze encountered a pair of deep, black eyes set in a thin, dark face.
"Good evening, seňora. My name is Rafael Garcia. My prayers and good wishes go to bless your marriage," he murmured in a perfunctory manner. But his intense black eyes lingered on her face.
"Thank you," she said matter-of-factly.
She expected the slender young man to wander off after the obligatory greeting, but he remained. "You look beautiful, seňora. We do not see many blondes in Peru. It is refreshing to behold such a stunning, light-haired seňora."
"Thank you," she said, a trifle embarrassed. She knew Latin men loved to toss around the flowery phrases, but she was still uneasy when she was the object of their flattery.
"That dress was just made for you. Do you have any idea how it enhances your already gorgeous figure?"
"Please," JoNell protested. "I—I don't know what to say."
"But you need not say anything. Anyone as beautiful as you need do nothing but look lovely."
"Thank you," JoNell faltered again. She felt a growing warmth edging up her cheeks. Unlike Latin women, she was not versed in all the proper responses for this kind of attention.
"Now, if you will excuse me," she mumbled demurely, her eyes cast downward. She headed toward one of the downstairs bathrooms that had been designated for the women, when she encountered something that made her stop dead in her tracks. Standing squarely in her path was Consuelo! JoNell was much too flustered to take on her arch rival in a bitter verbal battle. She turned on her heels and detoured to a balcony overlooking the inner courtyard.
A gentle breeze caressed her warm cheeks and soothed her tormented feelings. She stood with her hands on the cool marble railing, breathing deeply, her eyes half-closed. She sighed audibly.
"What is the matter, seňora?" asked a masculine voice from behind her.
JoNell turned. Silhouetted against the light coming through the French doors stood the man who had moments before been flattering her so lavishly.
"Oh, you startled me," JoNell exclaimed.
"I am very sorry, seňora," he said earnestly. He took a step toward her. "You, of all people, I do not want to frighten."
"I wasn't scared. I just didn't expect you, that's all."
"I hope you don't mind that I followed you," he said, moving to her side.
"You followed me? Why?"
"I thought it was obvious, seňora."
"Well, I'm afraid it isn't," she said uneasily.
"Seňora, you cannot know what it does to me when I look at you."
"Seňor…"
"Please call me Rafael. It would give my poor heart such pleasure to hear you call me by my first name."
"But, seňor, we have just met. I'm not sure it's proper."
"When a man feels about a woman the way I feel about you, that makes it proper."
"Seňor, please. I am a married woman."
"Only because I met you too late," he said sadly.
"How can you say such things? You don't know a thing about me."
"I know all I need to know. You are beautiful… bewitching… breathtaking—"
"Seňor!" she protested again. "Please! You say too much!"
"There is no way I could say too much to one who is so captivating."
"My husband may come looking for me. If he overhears you…"
"Would you really mind?" he asked.
"Of course."
"I think you say that because you think you must. But you mustn't let Jorge Del Toro bully you into staying in a marriage that does not make you happy."
JoNell stared at him. Could this man, a total stranger, read the unhappiness in her eyes? Was it that obvious?
"Del Toro—Jorge—has not bullied me into anything," she lied.
"You cannot be happy with him," he said.
"How can you know anything about what makes me happy?"
"Because I know Del Toro. I have known him all his life. And now that I have seen you, I know you too."
"No, you don't."
"Forgive me, seňora, but I do. Deny that you are a gentle woman, compassionate, warm and vulnerable."
Unnerved by this display of familiarity, JoNell was at a loss to know how to answer him.
He went on, "Deny that your marriage to Del Toro does not cause you deep trouble. I saw it in your face and eyes when
you were dancing with him. I watched you closely."
"You have no right—"
"I have every right. My attraction to you gives me that right."
"Seňor—"
"Rafael."
"Seňor," she repeated emphatically, "you overstep the bounds of propriety. I know that Latin men love to flatter women, but you have gone much too far. Save your compliments for a seňorita who is not married. Why do you waste them on me, a married woman?"
"Because I have never known any woman who set my heart on fire the way you do. Your marriage does not stand in the way of my feelings. You do not have to stay married if you are unhappy. Even in Peru, it is possible to get a divorce, and according to the newspapers it was a civil ceremony, so the church would not stand in the way."
"You must be insane," JoNell said.
"Yes, seňora, I am insane. I have been driven insane by my torment because you are married to another man."
JoNell realized she could have ended the conversation by simply walking away. But there was something quite appealing about the ardent young man. His flattery was one of the most elaborate lines she had ever heard, even for a Latin. But behind the compliments, she sensed a certain tension which was absent in the patter of most Latin men when they were trying to woo a seňorita. There was a boyish honesty about Rafael, almost as if he truly meant what he said. Yet, something was amiss. He was overly controlled in his manner, as if walking a tightrope with careful maneuvers. The contrast between what appeared to be genuine honesty and what she sensed to be an inner disturbance was a mystery that intrigued her, so she remained and listened.
"Rafael—" the name came easily, now that she had seen his naive quality, "—perhaps you do find me attractive. I guess that's not so hard for me to believe. Just the fact that I have blond hair makes me stand out. I've already realized that in the short time I've been here. But—" she searched for the right words, not wanting to hurt the sensitive young man.
"Yes?" he asked eagerly.
"Uh—don't you think you're overdoing it a bit? Peruvian women may be used to hearing such exaggerated flattery. But to an American it sounds a little— unbelievable," was the most polite word she could think of.
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