Counterfeit Bride(12)

'You don't believe it exists?' His hand closed round her arm, and she  was urged gently but firmly forward. Had she been alone, she could well  have blundered into it, she realised. It was only a shape, slightly  darker and more solid than the darkness around it. No lights, no dogs  barking, or friendly welcome of any kind. In fact it looked-deserted.

She said sharply, 'Where is everyone?'

'There is no one but ourselves,' he said coolly. 'Believe me, chica, when you see the size of the cabin, you will be grateful.'

Nicola felt anything but grateful. She hung back as he opened the door, which creaked eerily.

'Frightened?' He was laughing at her again. 'Wait here, then, while I  light a lamp, and dislodge any intruders which may have taken up  residence in Miguel's absence.'

'There's no need for that,' Nicola protested. 'Other people are just as entitled to a night's shelter and ...'                       
       
           



       

'I was not thinking of people,' he said gently, and a shudder went  through her, as she suddenly imagined unnamed horrors waiting there in  the dark. Rats, she thought. Ugh-or scorpions-or even-snakes.

She heard the rasp of a match and saw a glimmer of light which gradually  swelled into a steady flame. A moment later, and another appeared in a  corner of the room. Nicola stepped gingerly across the threshold and  looked around her. It was not a prepossessing sight which met her eyes.  There was a blackened fireplace built into one wall, with a  rusty-looking cooking pot suspended from a hook in the chimney, and in  the opposite wall was a deep alcove with a wooden bedstead actually  built into it. A frayed curtain hung from a rough pole above: the  alcove, and could be drawn for privacy, Nicola supposed. The first lamp  her companion had lit hung from the ceiling. The second stood on a  square wooden table in the corner. Two stools and a lumpy mattress on  the bed seemed to supply the rest of the furnishings.

Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because her  companion gave a low laugh. 'What did you expect, Señorita Turista? A  room at the Continental in Mexico City?'

She looked at him, her eyes widening involuntarily. He had discarded his  hat and the poncho-like garment he had been wearing during the ride.  The elegant urban suit had gone too, and he was wearing close fitting  dark pants and superbly made riding boots. Another of those expensive  dark-coloured silk shirts moulded his shoulders and chest. He looked the  business man no longer, but very much the man of action, and Nicola  realised suddenly that in this guise he was even more formidable. She  felt the force of his attraction before, but now she had no charade to  hide behind, no outraged grandee's novia to play. She was herself alone,  and she realised with alarm that he was watching her in that same  speculative way as at their first meeting, as if he was both amused and  intrigued.

For a moment their eyes held in silent challenge, then he gave a slight shrug and turned away.

He said, 'I'll get a fire started. There's some food in my saddle bag.  Perhaps you would get us a meal while I attend to Malagueno.'

Again she rushed into speech. 'Where did you learn to speak such good English?'

'Here and there. Where I could.'

She said, 'You're not very communicative.' She forced a laugh. 'Have you got something to hide?'

'No, chica,' he said softly. 'Have you?'

He disappeared through a door at the back of the cabin, leaving her  gasping. When he returned he was carrying a bundle of firewood which he  arranged deftly in the fireplace, and coaxed into flame with his  matches.

'You certainly know how to make yourself at home,' Nicola commented,  recovering a little. 'You mentioned Miguel. Does he own this place, and  is he a friend of yours?'

'He did, and he was.' He stood up dusting his hands together.

'He's dead. I-I'm sorry.'

He shook his head. 'Miguel is very much alive. I'll go and get that food.'

Nicola sat down on one of the stools and stretched her legs out in front  of her. There was no real warmth from the fire yet, but the flicker of  the flames was in itself a comfort. And comfort was what she needed,  because her unease was deepening with every moment that passed.

Ramon had changed, and not just in exterior details like his clothes.  His manner had changed too. It was cooler and more incisive. On the  journey at times he had seemed a charming playboy, but there was no  trace of that any more. Now, he was no one's second in command. He  behaved like a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

She thought, 'But of course he runs the ranch, and he's back on his own territory. That explains it.'

But her explanation lacked conviction, and she knew it. There was something deeply wrong, something which was eluding her.

'Que pasa?' She started violently and turned to find him watching her  from the doorway, frowning. 'You are very pale. Are you ill?'

Nicola shook her head. 'Reaction, I suppose.' She tried a weak laugh. 'It's been quite a day.'

And could turn out to be quite a night too. She had tried to avoid  looking at the bed in the alcove. Even with the curtain drawn, it was  far from being a sanctuary.

With an effort she turned to the articles he had just placed on the  table-a can of some kind of stew, with, an opener, a packet of coffee,  and a tin mug and plate.

He met her gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile.  'I regret there are no tortillas. I apologise too that there is only  one set of dishes.'

That, she assured him silently, doesn't worry me half as much as the fact that there's only one bed.

'There is a well in the yard at the rear.' He pointed to another door at  the back of the cabin. 'I'll fetch you some water. There is also a hut  there- -for your convenience.'                       
       
           



       

'Thank you,' Nicola muttered, and he laughed.

'The word is 'gracias,' he said. 'Perhaps after we have eaten I will  give you a lesson in Spanish. You can hardly hope to traverse my country  on the two phrases you have used so far.'

'No,' she said weakly She had pushed her leather bag under the table  hoping it would be less obtrusive there, and she saw him look at it as  he turned to leave, but he said nothing and she breathed again. She  debated whether or not to take off the truck driver's jacket and decided  against it. In one pocket, her fingers encountered the torch which she  had completely forgotten about, and its solid presence idiotically  cheered her.

There was a sink in one corner of the room, consisting of a tin bowl  with an attached waste pipe. Nicola decided that one priority was to  give the cooking pot even a rudimentary wash. There was an enamel coffee  pot, battered but usable, standing under the sink, and Nicola shook her  head as she looked at it. The preparation of this meal was going to be a  challenge, and surviving it could well be a miracle.

Yet, in the event, it proved simpler than she had imagined, and when the  spicy savoury smell of the stew began to fill the cabin, Nicola forgot  her qualms and allowed herself to realise how hungry she was.

She knew he was watching her. They were watching each other, taking each  other's measure like adversaries who know battle is about to begin.  She'd seen him bring in a blanket roll and toss it on to the bed, and  had bent towards her cooking, glad that the heat from the fire gave her  an excuse for the sudden flare of colour in her face.

She tried to remind herself of all the times she had been alone with  Ewan. When she had been close in his arms, kissed and caressed by him as  he tried to persuade her to let him make love to her. Yet even then she  had always felt she was ultimately in control of the situation.

But not with this man, she thought. This man who was a law unto himself.

He came back into the cabin, humming softly to himself. She recognised  the tune. It was the one the mariachi band had been playing at the hotel  restaurant, and her face went blank as she hastened.

'Is the food ready?' he broke off the tune to ask, and she jumped.

'Er-yes, but I don't know how we're going to manage...'

'I found a fork and spoon in my saddlebag. You can have the spoon.'

Her hands were shaking as she tried to ladle the stew on to the plate,  but eventually she managed and placed it on the table between them. She  picked up the spoon and made herself eat, forcing each mouthful down her  reluctant throat, while her mind ran feverishly like a tiny animal on a  wheel.

His choice of tune had been purely fortuitous, she tried to reassure  herself. He hadn't recognised her. To him, she was just a silly tourist  who'd got herself into a difficult situation and wanted to be rescued.

'You are very quiet.' He was watching her. 'Have you run out of questions, chica?'

All, except for the sixty-four-thousand-dollar one, she thought shakily, and I don't think I want to know the answer to that.

She tried to smile. 'Tell me some more about Miguel.'