Master Of Her Innocence
Chantelle Shaw
The purest of diamondsWhen renowned diamond magnate Diego Cazorra is asked to escort Sister Clare Marchant halfway across Brazil, he feels duty-bound to get her there—after all, without the help of the church he’d still be on the streets. But the look in Clare’s innocent eyes tempts him like no other…After it’s revealed that Clare is only disguised as a nun to save her kidnapped sister, Diego suddenly finds himself trading his prize diamond to help her. Now Clare is indebted to the notorious womaniser and he intends to collect…!
‘Do you remember what I said I would do if you called me Mr Cazorra?’ he drawled.
Diego’s silver wolf’s eyes gleamed with a feral hunger as he drew Clare’s face down to his and angled his mouth over her lips. His kiss was like no other she had ever experienced: deeply sensual and so utterly irresistible that she did not stand a chance against his skilful seduction.
Still half-dazed with sleep, but more dazzled by him, she found her lips parting of their own volition when his mouth exerted subtle pressure. Like a connoisseur of fine wine he tasted her slowly and unhurriedly, and yet with such bone-shaking eroticism that she melted against him.
The sense of unreality she had felt since she’d arrived in Brazil increased, and she sank into a dreamlike state in which she was only conscious of the strength of Diego’s arms around her and the divine smell of him … the taste of him when she dipped her tongue into his mouth. He overwhelmed her, and the feel of his hand smoothing up and down her spine evoked a languorous warmth in her veins.
He deepened the kiss, and the languorous feeling was replaced with a fierce pull of desire in the pit of her stomach so that she lifted her hips, unconsciously seeking to assuage the ache inside her. She sensed a new urgency in Diego, a barely controlled savagery as he ravished her mouth with his intoxicating mastery, taking everything she offered him and demanding more.
Bought by the Brazilian (#ulink_f4232f12-fac3-504a-9687-7795791609db)
Claimed by passion!
Cruz Delgado and Diego Cazorra—two men brought up in Brazil’s favelas—have literally dragged themselves from dirt to a diamond empire.
But having the world at their feet and dripping with their jewels is not enough. Now they will have their revenge against the women who walked away.
It’s time for Cruz and Diego to claim what’s theirs … and for both of these women to be Bought by the Brazilian!
Read Cruz and Sabrina’s story:
Mistress of His Revenge
Read Diego and Clare’s story:
Master of Her Innocence
Master of Her Innocence
Chantelle Shaw
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast and thinks up her stories while walking on the beach. She has been married for over thirty years and has six children. Her love affair with reading and writing Mills & Boon stories began as a teenager, and her first book was published in 2006. She likes strong-willed, slightly unusual characters. Chantelle also loves gardening, walking and wine!
For New York Times bestselling historical romance author Sarah MacLean, who gave brilliant workshops at RWA 2015 and inspired me to go with my crazy ideas and write bonkers! Thank you, Sarah.
Contents
COVER (#u9e45a64e-8d3d-57ee-9e96-88585c4e8600)
INTRODUCTION (#ua1e70787-f6fc-585a-84a8-9d784ae8a956)
Bought by the Brazilian (#ulink_9e4a6f4b-278c-575a-9276-857d2cf0ced5)
TITLE PAGE (#u0fbfc565-a7aa-5077-9e73-a88a58ccb693)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#uf4e56f31-8367-59f5-b98c-6efb1381908d)
DEDICATION (#u69fbd550-1999-5302-b723-079478bfe3fb)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_bf7dd82d-4c0e-5d54-a6a9-ef183e79179f)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b3c77f11-cd52-5694-b783-f41547289d3c)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_4554a024-cbc6-54a9-846c-ca52b9df1ec2)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e8002e01-fdcc-5b82-b39d-32d9c381166b)
‘SISTER ANN, DO I really need to wear a habit?’ Clare Marchant looked doubtfully at the Mother Superior. ‘It seems wrong to pretend that I belong to the Holy Order of the Sacred Heart. I feel like I am an imposter.’
‘My child, I strongly advise that for your safety you should dress as a nun. Torrente is one of the most dangerous places in Brazil. Its close proximity to the border with Colombia has made it a route for drug smuggling and people trafficking and I have heard of young women in the town who have been forced into prostitution. It is a lawless place where even the police are too scared to visit. The men who run the drugs cartels have little respect for life, but they do at least retain some respect for the church.’
The Mother Superior smiled gently at Clare, noting the signs of strain on the young Englishwoman’s face and the shadows beneath her eyes that told of too many sleepless nights of worry.
‘There is no need for you to feel like an imposter. You have come to Brazil with the selfless intention to search for your sister and pay the ransom her kidnappers have demanded. You are bravely prepared to put yourself in danger to help someone you love, and at least the church can offer you some small measure of protection.’ Sister Ann’s expression became grave. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the men who took Becky are utterly ruthless.’
Clare followed the nun’s gaze to what looked like a jewellery box on the desk, and a feeling of nausea swept over her as she pictured the gruesome contents of the casket. Don’t think of it, she ordered herself. But her mind visualised the severed tip of an earlobe wrapped in layers of tissue paper like some ghastly mimicry of a gift from a lover. Surely it wasn’t a piece of Becky’s ear? She could not bear to think of her beautiful sister being mutilated by whoever had snatched her from the street outside the five-star hotel in Rio de Janeiro where Becky had been modelling for a photo shoot.
She tore her eyes from the box and stared at what she could see of her reflection in the small mirror hanging on the wall of the Mother Superior’s office. The grey habit Sister Ann had lent her fell to just above her ankles to reveal a pair of flat black lace-up shoes. She watched the Sister place a veil on her head. With her auburn hair covered up she looked different—more elegant and sophisticated like Becky—although the sprinkling of freckles on her nose were a giveaway clue to her vibrant mane hidden beneath the veil, she thought ruefully.
‘If it helps your conscience, I have given you a white veil; they are worn by novice nuns before they take their final vows when they change to a black veil,’ Sister Ann explained. ‘That way, it is not entirely untruthful for you to appear to be a young woman who is contemplating a religious life. And, after all, you were drawn to seek comfort at the chapel of Santa Maria when you arrived in Rio de Janeiro. Many of us are called to our vocation in mysterious ways.’
Clare could not bring herself to admit to the kindly nun that she did not believe her future was to follow a life of religious devotion. Although the fact that she was still a virgin at the age of twenty-four meant that she fitted the requirement of chastity, she thought wryly. Mark had called her a prude, but she didn’t think she was. She had simply wanted to be sure he was the right man for her, and it turned out that he hadn’t been.
England and her break-up with Mark seemed a million miles away, and she wondered if she would wake up to find that her sister being kidnapped was a bad dream rather than a living nightmare. But, unbelievable though it was, the situation was real. On Monday morning she had arrived for work as usual at her parents’ company, A-Star PR, and received a frantic phone call from her father with the astonishing news that her younger sister Becky, an internationally famous model, had been kidnapped.
‘The kidnappers have sent a letter saying they will kill Becky unless I follow their instructions.’ Rory Marchant had sounded shaken. ‘They want me to go to Brazil and pay a ransom, but I can’t leave your mother, and I daren’t tell her that Becky’s life is in danger. The specialist said it is important that Tammi doesn’t suffer any kind of stress. She was lucky to survive the first stroke, and a second one could kill her.’ Rory had broken down. ‘Clare, I don’t know what to do. I want to rescue my precious girl, but I don’t want to lose my wife.’
‘I’ll go to Brazil and take the ransom money to the kidnappers,’ Clare had said instantly. ‘You can’t leave Mum, especially now that she is finally showing signs of recovering.’
She had dismissed the little voice in her head, which whispered that her father had never thought of her as his precious girl. It had always been her sister who had come first in their parents’ affections, but it was unsurprising after Becky had been seriously ill and nearly died when she was a child, Clare reminded herself. She loved Becky and could only imagine how terrified her sister must be feeling right now.
She blinked back a sudden rush of tears and turned to the Mother Superior. ‘Thank you for helping me. All the Sisters have been so kind. I felt scared and alone when Sister Carmelita spoke to me in the chapel in Rio.’
Clare’s thoughts flew back to two days ago when she had arrived in Rio de Janeiro and, following the kidnappers’ instructions, had checked into a rundown motel to wait for the gang to contact her. But, instead of receiving a letter telling her what to do next, as had happened when the kidnappers had contacted her father in England, this time she had been sent a package, and when she had opened it and seen the grisly, severed piece of earlobe, she had rushed to the bathroom to be sick.
The note sent with the box had instructed her to go to the town of Torrente, which she had found on a map was in the far west of Brazil, over two thousand miles from Rio and deep in the Amazon rainforest. It had been at that point, exhausted and fearful that the kidnappers had hurt her sister, that she had been inexplicably drawn to step inside the church near her motel, and she had broken down and told the nun she had met about Becky being kidnapped. Within twenty-four hours Sister Carmelita had arranged for Clare to catch an internal flight to the city of Manaus in northern Brazil, and she had been staying with the nuns of the Holy Order of the Sacred Heart while Sister Ann arranged her onward journey to Torrente.
‘I wish you would reconsider your decision to try to rescue your sister alone and go to the police.’
‘I can’t. The kidnappers said they would kill Becky if I told anyone they are holding her. I’m scared I may have put her life in danger by accepting help from the Sisters—’ Clare’s voice trembled ‘—but I didn’t know what else to do.’
‘I am afraid the kidnapping of wealthy tourists is becoming a growing problem in Brazil, and it is sadly true that often the police are unable to track down the kidnap gangs,’ the Mother Superior said heavily. The sound of a vehicle driving into the courtyard drew her to the window. ‘Mr Cazorra is here and, God willing, you will soon be reunited with your sister.’
Clare picked up the rucksack she had packed with a few of her own clothes and other essentials. ‘The gold prospector you have asked to take me to Torrente doesn’t know why I’m going, does he?’
‘Don’t worry, your secret will remain within the walls of the convent. I have explained to Diego that you are to take up a post teaching at the Sunday school and you must reach the town by the weekend.’
Fear cramped in Clare’s stomach. Sunday was when the kidnappers had said they would contact her again to tell her where she should take the ransom money. She picked up the leather briefcase that held five hundred thousand pounds in used bank notes. It was a terrifying thought that Becky’s very life was contained in the briefcase and Clare gripped the handle tightly.
‘I should warn you about the gold prospector,’ Sister Ann said.
‘Warn me?’ Clare’s tension ratcheted up a notch. ‘You said I could trust him.’
‘I don’t doubt he will get you to Torrente safely. He knows that area of the Amazon rainforest better than anyone I can think of. Mr Cazorra is a good man who has helped the Sisters in the past, but he has a reputation for...’ The nun paused before saying delicately, ‘Well, let’s just say that he enjoys the company of women. Many women. He is very charming.’
‘You mean he’s a flirt?’ Were all Brazilian men Lotharios? Clare wondered, remembering the taxi driver who had driven her from Manaus Airport to the convent. The man had greasy hair and was wearing a sweat-stained T-shirt, but he had suggested that he would give her a free tour of the city if she went to bed with him. Needless to say, she had declined his invitation.
All she could think about was saving her sister and the news that her escort to Torrente was a womaniser was the least of her concerns. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to handle your Mr Cazorra,’ she said grimly as she followed the Mother Superior outside to the courtyard.
* * *
Diego Cazorra glanced up at the stained-glass window of the convent and noticed how the sunlight shining through the coloured glass reflected a rainbow effect on to the floor of the courtyard. It was strange how beauty was often found in the simplest things, he mused. At the diamond mine he owned with his close friend and business partner Cruz Delgado, he had discovered some of the most fabulous diamonds ever found in Brazil. But the purity of sunlight touched his soul in a way that glittering gemstones never could.
The two years he had spent in one of Brazil’s most notoriously violent jails had taught him to appreciate the simple things in life: the feel of warm sunshine on his face every time he came up from a mineshaft, or the sight of a cloudless blue sky, which he hadn’t seen the whole time he had been locked up in an overcrowded prison cell that stank of the sweat and fear of incarcerated men.
The memories of what had happened to him as a teenager had never faded, but Diego had learned to block out thoughts of the past, although he could not prevent his nightmares. He turned his mind to a recent phone call which was the reason for his visit to the convent on the outskirts of Manaus, the largest city in the state of Amazonas.
‘I was wondering if you would grant me a favour, Mr Cazorra,’ Sister Ann had asked him. And, like a sucker, he’d agreed, thinking that the Mother Superior wanted him to paint some walls or fix the roof. But no, it was nothing so simple. It turned out the favour was to escort one of the nuns to a town on the border with Colombia.
Diego frowned. Torrente was a godforsaken hellhole, and he doubted that a multitude of nuns could make a difference to the lives of the population of the town, who lived in extreme poverty and had pretty much all turned to crime because there was no other way of making money to feed their children.
The favela where he had spent his childhood had been as crime-ridden, disease-ridden and despair-ridden as Torrente, and he had no desire to visit a place that was a grim reminder of his past. But he never forgot that the only person who had helped him when he had been a young man in desperate need of salvation had been a priest, Father Vincenzi. Diego was not religious himself, but he felt a strong sense of loyalty to the church that had quite literally taken him from prison and given him his life back.
He was due to return to Rio next week to check up on the casino and nightclub he owned, before flying to Europe for a business meeting with Cruz to discuss his stake in the jewellery company Delgado Diamonds and the Old Betsy diamond mine. But he could spare a couple of days to drive one of the Sisters of the Sacred Heart up to the border. He might even get a chance to take a look at a site where geological survey reports showed there could be gold reserves. Maybe his good turn would be repaid with good luck and he would find gold in Torrente, Diego mused as he adjusted his battered leather hat and climbed out of the Jeep when he saw the door of the convent swing open.
The Mother Superior swept towards him, her grey habit and black veil flapping in the breeze. ‘Diego, it’s good to see you,’ she greeted him in English, which was curious because they normally conversed in their native Portuguese. ‘I would like you to meet Sister Clare, who has recently joined our holy order from England.’
So that cleared up one mystery. What was less easy to explain was why his heart felt as if it had slammed into his ribcage with the force of a speeding train. Diego stared at the diminutive figure, dressed from her neck to her ankles in unremitting grey, who followed Sister Ann across the courtyard. Sister Clare’s white veil framed a heart-shaped face dominated by the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They had the dark intensity of sapphires, their colour emphasised by the fact that her skin was pale like cream and as flawless as porcelain.
He silently mocked himself. Santa Mãe, he’d be writing a sonnet next! He was shocked by his reaction to the English nun and surprised that she was so young. He guessed she was in her early twenties: only a few years older than him when he had been sent to the state penitentiary in Belo Horizonte. Of course prison was not the same as a convent, but he couldn’t comprehend why a beautiful young woman would choose to shut herself away from the world.
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Cazorra.’ Her voice was sweetly melodious, reminding Diego of a crystal-clear mountain stream.
‘Sister—’ He took off his hat and held out his other hand. He was suddenly conscious of his calloused palm when she placed her fingers in his. Her small hand was swamped by his much bigger one and her skin was as soft as satin. An image flashed into his head of her stroking her soft hands over his naked body. He wondered what her body was like beneath the shapeless nun’s habit, which did not entirely conceal the swell of her firm, round breasts.
Whoa! Diego stopped his imagination in its tracks. She was a nun, he reminded himself, and strictly off limits. He was certain he was already damned in the eyes of whatever deity he might meet when the time came for him to leave this world, but having inappropriate thoughts about a holy maid was a step too far even for someone as disreputable as him. But, while he had a conscience, the drug lords in Torrente definitely did not. He doubted they would respect Sister Clare’s innocence; they’d just as likely wonder how much money they could make by selling her virginity.
‘I can read your thoughts, Diego.’ Sister Ann’s voice jolted him from those thoughts, and he sincerely hoped she couldn’t. ‘I can tell you are keen to get on the road before the bad weather that is forecast arrives. When do you estimate you will arrive in Torrente?’
Diego did not want to be responsible for taking the young nun to a town where her safety was by no means guaranteed and he quickly made a decision. ‘It’s not going to be possible to make the journey, I’m afraid. As you know, the wet season has started early this year and heavy rain is due in the next few days, which will make the roads impassable.’
‘But we have to go.’ Sister Clare stepped forward and stood directly in front of him. Her petite stature meant that she was forced to tilt her head to look up at him, and Diego was startled by the fierce expression in her blue eyes. ‘You agreed to take me.’ Her voice was no longer soft and soothing but shrilly demanding. ‘I must reach Torrente by Sunday.’
He frowned. ‘With respect, Sister, you’re going there to teach at a Sunday school. It’s hardly a matter of life and death and I don’t fancy being trapped in Torrente for weeks, possibly months. The road up by the border is a dirt track that turns into a quagmire when it rains.’ He jammed his hat on to his head and walked back to his truck. ‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to start your teaching post next spring when the wet season ends.’
He put his boot on the footplate of the Jeep, but as he was about to swing himself up into the driving seat, he felt a surprisingly firm grip on his arm.
‘You’re not listening to me, Mr Cazorra. I need to get to Torrente by Sunday and apparently you are the best person to take me. But if you are worried about some wet weather, can you lend me your vehicle so that I can drive myself?’
Diego was riled by Sister Clare’s snippy tone. ‘Have you seen rain in the Amazon? It’s not a light shower like you get in England; it’s a deluge that frequently causes flooding and mudslides. I don’t allow anyone to drive my truck, Sister. And even if I did, how would you return it back to me as you’ll be living in Torrente?’
Clare bit her lip as she realised her mistake. She could not admit that she intended to catch the first available flight out of Brazil as soon as she had paid the ransom money and rescued Becky. ‘I’m sure I could find someone who would drive your Jeep back to Manaus.’ Her heart sank as the gold prospector shook his head. She knew of no other way of reaching Becky and this man was her only hope of saving her sister. ‘Please, Mr Cazorra. I must get to Torrente.’
Diego cursed beneath his breath when he saw the shimmer of tears in the nun’s eyes. He could never resist a pretty face, although his usual response when he was attracted to a woman was to take her to bed until he had sated his desire for her. ‘Is teaching at a Sunday school so important to you?’
Sister Clare’s sapphire-blue eyes seemed to grow even darker in intensity. ‘I...have been called to Torrente,’ she said in an emotionally charged voice.
Diego appealed to Sister Ann for support. ‘Torrente is a dangerous place, especially for a young woman.’
‘Sometimes we are asked to show courage, as the priest who once helped you did,’ the Mother Superior reminded him.
‘Damn it,’ Diego growled. It was true that if Father Vincenzi had not been brave enough to accept the role of chaplain at the violent prison where Diego had been an inmate he might still be rotting in a cell, or dead. Who was he to argue with what the English nun clearly believed was her religious duty?
‘All right. I’ll take you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you that Torrente is no place for innocents. We’ll leave straight away and if we’re lucky we might beat the bad weather.’
‘Thank you.’ Her smile was angelic and Diego felt a strange sensation in his chest as if a hand was squeezing his heart. His gaze dropped once more to the outline of her pert breasts and he felt as though another part of his anatomy was being squeezed! He’d obviously gone too long without sex, he thought derisively. When he went back to Rio he would remedy the situation and visit one of his casual mistresses, many of whom were dancers who worked at his nightclub.
His life as a wealthy entrepreneur was very different from the poverty and deprivation he had endured as a child, Diego mused. His mother had been a drug addict, and most of the time she’d been incapable of taking care of her son. From a young age, Diego had been left to roam the dark alleyways of the favela. He had witnessed things that no child should see, and sometimes when he’d felt really scared he’d taken shelter at his friend Cruz Delgado’s home. By the time he was a teenager he had become hardened to the grim realities of life in a slum, but one night he had found his mother being beaten by her drug dealer because she did not have enough money to pay him, and Diego had lost his temper—with catastrophic results.
Deus, don’t go there! He jerked his mind away from the dark pit of his past and glanced towards the Mother Superior, who had gone back inside the convent and now returned carrying a crate filled with bottles of drinking water. ‘You’ll need to take plenty of fluids with you for the trip,’ she said.
Diego preferred a stronger kind of liquid refreshment, but he shrugged. ‘Pack the water in the back of the Jeep,’ he told Sister Clare, ‘while I check over the engine.’
* * *
Clare’s hands were shaking as she gripped the crate of water bottles, and her legs felt so wobbly that when she climbed into the back of the Jeep she sank on to her knees, overcome with relief that she had persuaded the prospector to drive her to Torrente. She was a vital step closer to rescuing Becky. Her heart was beating painfully hard in her chest, but not only from fear of what lay ahead when she met the kidnappers.
When the Mother Superior had said the gold prospector was a womaniser, Clare had visualised the slimeball taxi driver who had flirted with her when he had driven her to the convent. She could not have been more wrong! Diego Cazorra was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. Working for her parents’ modelling agency meant that she had met hundreds of good-looking guys, but none, including Mark, came close to the smoulderingly sexy Brazilian.
She studied him through the window of the Jeep. The first thing that had struck her about him was his height. He was several inches over six feet tall, lean-hipped, his long legs encased in faded denim jeans, which he wore with calf-length leather boots. His broad shoulders and powerful pectoral muscles were clearly defined beneath his tight-fitting black T-shirt.
The biggest surprise was when he had removed his hat and revealed an unruly mass of streaked dark blond hair that reached to below his collar. His European appearance was further enhanced by his silvery-grey eyes and sculpted features: razor-edged cheekbones and a square jaw covered by several days’ growth of blond stubble. Add to that a blatantly sensual mouth and a wicked glint in his eyes when his gaze had lingered on her breasts that had made Clare feel flustered.
He was a fallen angel and he oozed sex appeal from every pore, but she was horrified by her reaction to the prospector when her thoughts should be totally focused on Becky. Even if Sister Ann hadn’t warned her that he was a womaniser, she would have guessed as much from the way he had eyed her up as if he was imagining her without any clothes on. She could still feel a tingling sensation in her breasts and was thankful that the stiff serge fabric of her nun’s habit disguised the hard points of her nipples. Suddenly the Mother Superior’s advice to travel to Torrente in the guise of a nun seemed a good idea. She could not afford any distractions.
The slam of the Jeep’s bonnet made Clare jump and she looked around for somewhere to store the bottles of water. There were no seats in the back of the Jeep, just a bench running down one side, a camping stove and cooking equipment and a couple of rolled-up sleeping bags. The Jeep was basic, but as long as it got her to Torrente she didn’t care that it promised to be an uncomfortable ride.
The storage area behind the front seats already contained a large crate of beers. She moved the crate over to make room for the water bottles and discovered a pile of books and, out of curiosity, she glanced at the titles and was surprised to see her favourite novel, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. There were a number of other classic novels by Orwell, Steinbeck and Tolstoy. She would not have guessed that the tough gold prospector’s choice of reading material included Anna Karenina, the iconic tale of doomed love—which just went to prove the adage that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, she mused, as she flipped through a well-thumbed book of poetry by John Keats before replacing it where she had found it.
The prospector called her, sounding impatient. ‘Are you holding a prayer meeting back there? Let’s go, Sister.’
Clare hurried round to the front of the Jeep and her heart gave a painful lurch when she realised that the briefcase containing the ransom money was no longer where she had left it on the floor of the courtyard.
‘Where is my case?’ she demanded in a panic-stricken voice.
‘I put it on the front seat.’ The prospector gave her a curious look. ‘Take it easy. What are you carrying in that case that is so valuable—the Crown Jewels?’ he asked in a teasing voice.
Five hundred thousand pounds to save her sister’s life. Clare swallowed. ‘Books for the Sunday school.’ Technically, it wasn’t a lie. Sister Ann had given her a few prayer books to take to Father Roberto, the priest in Torrente.
She was relieved to see the briefcase in the front of the Jeep. There was no elegant way of climbing up into the cab. She hitched her nun’s habit up to her knees so that she could put her foot on to the step, and gave a startled gasp when two hands gripped her waist and the prospector lifted her off the ground.
For a few breathless seconds she was aware of the strength of his arms around her and the imprint of his fingers burned through the stiff fabric of her clothes and set her skin on fire. The scent of sandalwood cologne mixed with his musky maleness stirred her senses, and she felt an inexplicable urge to turn her head and press her lips against the blond stubble on his jaw.
‘Thank you, Mr Cazorra,’ she mumbled as he plonked her on to the passenger seat. Her face felt hot with embarrassment that he might have guessed her thoughts.
‘Any time,’ he said laconically. ‘My name’s Diego. We’re going to be spending the next forty-eight hours together so let’s drop the formality.’
‘Forty-eight hours! Do you mean we won’t reach Torrente today?’ Clare stared at him and her stomach swooped as her eyes were drawn to the lazy curl of his smile. ‘Where will we spend tonight?’
‘I usually sleep in the back of the Jeep. Admittedly, it’s not very comfortable for someone of my height, but it does for a night or two.’
Clare pictured herself and the prospector squashed into the small space and her heart gave a painful jolt. ‘I can’t sleep in the Jeep with you.’
Diego silently acknowledged the truth of her statement. There was only one reason he would spend a night with a woman and it certainly wasn’t to sleep. Various inappropriate thoughts had run through his mind when he had lifted Sister Clare into the Jeep. His hands had almost spanned her tiny waist and he had been aware of the gentle flare of her hips and the swell of her breasts. He guessed that beneath the voluminous folds of her nun’s habit she had the curvaceous figure of a Pocket Venus, but he would have to curb his imagination or spend the five-hundred-mile journey to Torrente in his current uncomfortable state of arousal.
‘There is a settlement on the way to Torrente where we’ll stop tonight. The villagers offer basic accommodation for tourists who want to explore the rainforest.’
He started the engine and Sister Ann spoke to Clare. ‘Good luck, my dear. I will pray for your safekeeping and for your soul.’
As the Jeep turned out of the convent grounds Clare was gripped with apprehension that soon she would meet the kidnappers. She felt sad to be leaving the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, knowing she was unlikely to meet them again.
‘Good luck?’ Diego questioned. ‘Torrente must be an even worse place than it was the last time I visited the town if the Mother Superior needs to pray for you while you teach at the Sunday school.’
He glanced at his passenger and wondered why she blushed. The soft stain of colour on her face emphasised the delicate lines of her cheekbones and made her look even lovelier. But something about the situation didn’t feel right. He had an antenna for trouble, honed during his years living in the favela and the time he had spent in prison. His experiences of life had turned him into a cynic, he acknowledged. What could be suspect about a young nun who was as pure and beautiful as an English rose?
‘It was a figure of speech.’ Sister Clare turned her guileless blue eyes to him. ‘I’m sure Sister Ann prays for all souls, even yours, Mr Cazorra.’
He dismissed his strange feeling that she was not what she seemed and grinned. ‘Heck, that’s going to take a lot of prayers.’
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_723ff281-4a32-5d75-bcec-1a7b30498de5)
CLARE WAS DETERMINED not to respond to the gold prospector’s undeniable charisma. She looked away from his toe-tingling smile to focus on the road ahead. The highway was signposted to Boa Vista, which she remembered from the map was in the far north of Brazil, but soon they turned off the main road on to a dirt track.
‘There are no paved roads going west,’ Diego explained. ‘Most people who want to visit the towns along the border with Colombia and Peru travel by boat on the Rio Negro.’
‘Why didn’t we take a boat instead of driving?’
‘The river narrows as it flows into Torrente, making it easy for the drug lords to control the area. There’s an airstrip at the edge of the town which they also control. Travelling by Jeep means I can go where I like and, more importantly, I can leave whenever I want to.’
Clare’s heart plummeted at the news that criminals controlled the air and river routes into and out of Torrente. Once she had paid the ransom money she hoped to get Becky to safety as quickly as possible. She wondered if she should tell the prospector the real reason she was going to the town and maybe he would agree to bring her and Becky back to Manaus. But, although Sister Ann had said he was trustworthy, Clare was afraid to trust anyone apart from the nuns who had helped her.
She thought of her father back in London. Rory Marchant would be desperately waiting for news of Becky but trying to pretend to his wife that there was nothing wrong. Tammi Marchant was only in her early fifties, but a year ago she had suffered a stroke that had left her partially paralysed. It broke Clare’s heart to see her once vibrant and still beautiful mother now so fragile. Her father had insisted on caring full-time for his wife and had handed the running of A-Star PR over to Clare.
It had been a daunting task to take charge of the agency, but Clare had risen to the challenge. She’d enjoyed developing her PR skills and had discovered a natural talent for devising advertising campaigns. At least being busy meant she’d had no time to brood over her break-up with Mark. Her mother’s illness and her father’s devoted care of his wife had shown her that she wanted a marriage as strong as her parents’ relationship, and she was prepared to hold out until she met a man she could love and trust with all her heart.
The one positive thing was that recently she had felt a deepening bond with her father as they’d shared looking after Tammi and discussed business together. For the first time in her life she sensed that her father was as proud of her as he was of her sister. Of course she was not in the same league as Becky, who was one of the world’s most sought-after models, but it made a nice change to realise that being the brainy daughter rather than the beautiful one wasn’t such a bad thing.
It was likely that Becky’s fame and high profile were the reasons she had been targeted by the kidnappers. Perhaps they had tied Becky up—or worse, Clare thought sickly, as she remembered the severed piece of earlobe the kidnappers had sent her.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down. Allowing her imagination to run away with her would not help Becky. In an attempt to take her mind off the situation she searched for a topic of conversation.
‘What exactly does a gold prospector do? I mean, I realise that you search for gold, but there must be more to it than that.’
‘Actually, it’s pretty much as you described. I take my metal detector to areas where I think there might be gold deposits.’
‘But how do you know where to start looking?’
‘I have a good knowledge of geology and I know how to recognise signs of mineralisation. I carry equipment that allows me to analyse rocks, but often it’s down to intuition. I’ve been looking for, and mining, gold and diamonds for many years.’
Clare’s eyes were drawn to the prospector’s darkly tanned fingers on the steering wheel and she recalled that when she had shaken his hand the skin on his palm had felt rough, as if he was used to manual work. ‘Have you actually worked in mines? What made you choose such a dangerous job?’
He shrugged. ‘I needed to make a living, but I left school with few qualifications, which limited my career options,’ he said drily. ‘Mining is dangerous but it’s well paid.’
A poorly educated miner who read Tolstoy and poetry? Clare studied his chiselled profile and wondered where he had learned to speak faultless English, albeit with a sexy accent. She flushed when he turned his head and caught her looking at him. ‘You obviously lead an interesting life, Mr Cazorra,’ she murmured.
‘My name is Diego,’ he reminded her. ‘I’ve got a question for you, Sister. What made you decide to become a nun?’
Oh, help. She bit her lip as she searched her mind for an answer.
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you are a beautiful young woman and committing yourself to a life of chastity is not normal, in my opinion.’
She shot him a startled glance at the same time as he turned his head towards her, and their eyes met. Once again she was aware of a sizzle of sexual chemistry between them. Did he really think she was beautiful? For years she had compared her very ordinary features to her sister’s stunning looks and she had never had much self-confidence in her appearance.
The Mother Superior had warned her that the prospector was a womaniser, Clare reminded herself. He probably flirted with every woman he met, but even if he did find her attractive, she could not respond to the gleam in his eyes without blowing her cover that she was a nun. She realised he was waiting for her to answer his question, but lying did not come naturally to her.
‘All of us are on a personal journey, and this is the road I have chosen to take,’ she said vaguely. It was not entirely untruthful because the road to Torrente led to her sister. She was eager to change the subject and at that moment a flock of brightly coloured birds flew out of the trees.
‘Oh, look! Are they parrots? I’ve only ever seen a parrot in a cage. There is such a huge diversity of wildlife in the rainforest. I recently watched a documentary about the Amazon. Did you know that over a thousand species of birds are found in the Amazon basin?’ Clare was determined to keep the prospector’s attention away from her personal life. ‘Sister Ann said you know the rainforest well. I suppose you must get the chance to see many different species of wildlife?’
He gave another shrug. ‘I’ve hunted wild boar occasionally if I needed a meal and run out of supplies. And it’s always a good idea to check your sleeping bag before you get into it in case a tarantula has crawled inside.’
‘Really?’ Clare paled. ‘I hate spiders.’ She winced as the Jeep hit a pothole in the road and she was jolted in her seat, only saved from hitting her head on the window by her seat belt. The dirt road was becoming progressively bumpier as they drove further west, and the trees on either side grew so densely that in places they formed a tunnel that the sunlight could barely penetrate. She did not want to think about spiders or any other deadly creatures that might be lurking in the humid gloom of the forest. Nor did she want to think of the evil men who had snatched Becky. She forced her mind to more pleasant thoughts. ‘I believe there are many different species of monkeys living in the rainforest. Do you like monkeys, Mr Cazorra?’
‘To eat?’ he drawled.
‘Of course not. You don’t really eat monkeys, do you?’ She gave him a horrified look, only realising when he grinned that he was teasing her. His smile should come with a danger warning, she thought, feeling the hard points of her nipples chafe against her lacy bra. Her inconvenient awareness of the prospector was making a stressful situation even worse. She could not bring herself to use his first name, preferring to keep a sense of formality between them. With a deep sigh, she turned her head and stared out of the window to remark on interesting flora and fauna as the Jeep bounced along the uneven road.
They had been travelling for a couple of hours when the first drops of rain landed on the windscreen and quickly turned the dust-covered glass opaque, despite the efforts of the windscreen wipers.
Diego cursed beneath his breath as within seconds the shower became a torrential downpour. From experience he knew the potholes in the road would soon fill up and the road would turn into a river of mud. He needed all his concentration to drive in these conditions, but his passenger hadn’t stopped talking for what seemed like eternity.
‘Sister Clare—’ he interrupted her mid flow as she listed some of the different types of flowers that apparently grew in the rainforest; the woman was a walking encyclopedia ‘—have you ever considered joining a silent order?’
She blushed and Diego was fascinated by the rosy stain that spread across her cheeks. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a woman blush before, but the kind of women he associated with were not sweet virgins, he acknowledged. He pictured Sister Clare’s pretty face flushed with a glow of sexual arousal and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his body reacted predictably.
‘I’m sorry.’ She nibbled her lower lip with her teeth, making Diego long to soothe the tender flesh with his tongue. ‘I tend to talk too much when I’m nervous,’ she admitted.
‘You’re right to be nervous. Torrente is not a nice place.’ He wished she had taken heed of what he’d told her about the town before they had left Manaus. ‘If you want to turn back, say so now. Once the road floods, I won’t be able to turn the Jeep round without the risk of the tyres becoming stuck in the mud.’
‘We can’t turn back!’ Panic made Clare’s voice sharp. The prospector gave her a curious glance and she forced herself to speak in a calmer tone. ‘I want to carry on to Torrente. I have a job to do there.’
‘Couldn’t you have taught at a Sunday school in England?’ he muttered, followed by something in Portuguese, and Clare guessed it was a good thing she did not understand.
He had been right about the rain in the Amazon being a deluge. Five minutes ago the sun had been shining, but now it was as if a dam had burst and gallons of water were falling on to the Jeep and the road, which, as she peered through the windscreen, she could see was quickly becoming a river of mud.
She was jolted violently as the wheels went down another pothole and the truck came to a standstill. Diego revved the engine but the Jeep did not move and, looking out of the side window, Clare saw the wheels spinning round in the mud. When he rammed the gear lever into reverse she held her breath as the Jeep moved backwards a little way before it stopped.
‘What are we going to do?’ Clare had to shout above the noise of the rain hitting the roof. ‘I thought the bad weather wasn’t due for a few days?’
‘It rains every day in the rainforest,’ Diego said ironically. ‘This shower will probably last for an hour. When the wet season starts properly it sometimes rains for days without stopping.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to wait until the rain stops before we can try to dig the wheels out of the mud?’
‘If we wait, the Jeep will sink up to the axles in no time. I’ve got some wooden planks in the back that I’ll put under the rear tyres.’
Diego pulled the brim of his hat down low to shield his eyes from the rain and opened the door. Within seconds of stepping out of the Jeep he was soaked to the skin. ‘Slide across to the driver’s seat,’ he ordered Clare. ‘When you hear me thump twice on the Jeep I want you to start the engine, select reverse gear and then accelerate slowly.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Do you know how to drive a car?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ She had never driven a four-by-four or attempted to free a vehicle that was stuck in mud, but Clare tried to sound more confident than she felt. After some fumbling, she found reverse gear and when she heard two thumps on the bodywork she pressed her foot down on the accelerator pedal. Nothing happened, so she pressed harder until finally the Jeep rolled backwards.
They were free! Feeling a sense of achievement, she smiled at the prospector when he yanked open the door, but her smile faded as she took in his mud-spattered appearance.
‘Santa Mãe! I told you to accelerate slowly. Look at me.’
Clare couldn’t stop looking at him! Even covered in mud he was the sexiest man she had ever laid eyes on. She shifted across to the passenger seat so that he could climb into the Jeep. There was even mud on his face, but he still looked gorgeous and he exuded an air of toughness and raw masculinity that made Clare imagine being swept up into his arms and carried off to be thoroughly ravished by him.
His T-shirt was sodden and her heart skipped a beat when he pulled it off to reveal his tanned chest, covered with a fuzz of golden hairs. Heaven help her. He had an amazing body. She could not tear her eyes from his well-defined six-pack and powerful shoulder muscles. Her parents would snap him up on to A-Star PR’s books, but she would feel a lot more comfortable if his toned physique was hidden from her view. ‘Do you have a spare shirt I could find for you?’ Her voice sounded annoyingly breathless.
‘There’s no point. It’s likely the Jeep will get stuck again and I’ll have to get out in the rain to free up the wheels.’ His eyes narrowed on her pink cheeks. ‘Next time, could you not stamp on the accelerator like you’re a racing car driver?’
She was already overwrought with worry about Becky and felt ultra-sensitive to his criticism. ‘I’m sorry you got covered in mud, but I thought you wanted to get the Jeep out of the pothole,’ she said stiffly.
‘You have no idea what I want, Sister,’ Diego muttered. If she did not stop looking at him like she was doing—as if she had never seen a half-naked male before—he would be unable to restrain himself from showing her exactly what he wanted.
He dragged his gaze from her cupid’s-bow lips and tried not to imagine how soft and moist her mouth would feel beneath his if he kissed her. It was likely she had never seen a man’s bare flesh, he conceded. His skin was burning up, but for the first time in his life he could not succumb to temptation. If she had been any other woman he would have suggested they climb into the back of the Jeep so that they could alleviate their mutual desire.
For it was mutual. Diego’s extensive experience of women meant he was infallible at recognising the telltale signs of sexual awareness. Sister Clare was desperately trying to hide her reaction to the chemistry fizzing between them, but her big blue eyes reflected her sexual interest in him that her chosen way of life commanded her to deny.
Deus, women were always trouble, he thought, reaching behind the seat for a beer. He flipped off the bottle top with the opener that, for convenience, he had screwed to the Jeep’s dashboard and lifted the bottle towards his lips but, before he could take a swig, a hand grabbed his arm.
‘Surely you are not thinking of drinking alcohol while you’re driving?’ Clare said in an outraged voice.
‘I’d prefer not to be thinking about it, Sister,’ Diego murmured as he lifted the bottle closer to his mouth and felt her fingers dig into his bicep. Her hand looked pale against his darkly tanned skin. He visualised her naked white body beneath him, her soft thighs spread in readiness for him to possess her. Tension coiled low in his gut and he shrugged her hand from his arm and put the bottle to his lips, his taste buds anticipating his first sip of beer. It was warm rather than ice-cold the way he liked it, but it was better than nothing.
Diego stiffened when Clare leaned across him and he inhaled a fresh lemony fragrance, which he recognised was soap. He supposed nuns did not wear perfume or make-up. Sister Clare’s smooth complexion was entirely natural. Her long eyelashes were dark auburn and he wondered if her hair, hidden beneath her veil, was the same colour.
The jangling sound of metal jerked Diego from his fantasies and he frowned when he saw that she had taken the keys out of the ignition.
‘Drunk driving is a despicable crime and potentially life-threatening to other road users,’ she stated.
He tried to control his impatience. ‘In normal circumstances I agree that driving after drinking alcohol is unacceptable, certainly in a town. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, we are the only people on the road. We haven’t seen another vehicle since we left Manaus, and we won’t see another one because no one else is crazy enough to want to go to Torrente.’
He held out his hand. ‘Give me the keys, Sister Clare, and let’s be on our way. We can’t afford any more delays if you want to reach Torrente by Sunday.’
She had to be there on Sunday to pay Becky’s ransom. Clare remembered the instructions from the kidnappers to wait in a cave close to a waterfall just outside the town. She felt torn, knowing the gold prospector was right and they could not afford to be delayed. But she fervently believed that driving while under the influence of alcohol was wrong.
‘My aunt was killed by a drunk driver,’ she burst out. ‘Aunt Edith was knocked off her bicycle one Christmas Eve. The driver of the car who was responsible for her death was found to be three times over the legal alcohol limit.’
Diego squinted through the mud-smeared windscreen at the torrential rain. ‘I’m sorry about your aunt, but we’re unlikely to come across a cyclist in the middle of the rainforest.’ He looked at Clare, noting the stubborn set of her chin but also the faint quiver of her lower lip. She had the most beautiful eyes, twin sapphires that at this moment shimmered with a sheen of tears. ‘Damn it.’ He exhaled heavily. ‘All right,’ he muttered as he wound down the window and poured the beer on to the ground.
‘Satisfied?’ He glared at Clare as she silently handed him the keys.
The word hovered in the hot, humid atmosphere inside the Jeep as sexual tension exploded between them. Clare’s gaze locked with the prospector’s grey eyes. Satisfied made her think wanton thoughts and imagine how it would feel to be satisfied by him. With his rugged good looks and to-die-for body, he was every woman’s fantasy and, without consciously being aware of moving, she swayed towards him, her eyes unknowingly issuing an invitation as she moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.
Seemingly in slow motion, he lowered his head until his face was so near to hers that she felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek. Another few centimetres and his mouth would brush across her lips. She held her breath, willing him, wanting him to kiss her.
Suddenly Becky’s face flashed into her mind. Dear heaven, what was she doing? Clare silently questioned. Self-disgust swept through her as she realised she had not given her sister a thought while she had been panting over the gold prospector.
She jerked away from him and inched across her seat until she could go no further and was pressed up against the door. ‘Please, can we continue our journey, Mr Cazorra?’ she said in a low voice.
For a moment she thought he was going to refuse. When she peeped at him she was shocked by the feral hunger that tautened his features and gave him a wolf-like appearance that was further enhanced by the hungry gleam in his eyes. She was relieved when he inserted the key into the ignition and started the engine.
Diego forced himself to concentrate on steering the Jeep around the rain-filled potholes. It was impossible to tell how deep the holes were and he wanted to avoid becoming stuck in the mud again at all costs. The quicker they got to Torrente and he could deliver his beautiful, infuriating passenger, the better it would suit him.
He glanced at her sitting primly beside him, her body hidden by her nun’s habit and her hair covered by her veil so that only her lovely face was visible. Her serene expression irked him. She was apparently unaffected by the fact that they had been a heartbeat away from kissing, while he was aware of a dull ache in his groin that felt as if he’d been kicked by a mule.
‘You seem to have trouble remembering my name, Sister Clare,’ he drawled. ‘I’ll remind you again. It’s Diego. If you call me Mr Cazorra once more, I might be tempted to assist your memory.’
‘Assist, how?’ Clare was curious, despite her determination to keep her distance from him, something that was difficult to do physically while they were cooped up in the Jeep. She was intensely aware of him every time he moved his arm to change gear, and when he took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair, her fingers itched to brush back the dark blond strands that had fallen across his brow.
He took his eyes briefly from the road and sent her a smouldering glance that melted her insides. ‘I’ll have to kiss you until you have learned my name.’
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_10cb6094-31c5-5e5a-a4c0-48d6dcec6aa8)
HEAT SWEPT THROUGH Clare and she felt herself blush from the tips of her ears down to her toes as she visualised Diego carrying out his threat. This had to stop, she told herself firmly. She had come to Brazil for one reason only—to rescue Becky. She had no idea what kind of conditions her sister was being held in, but the severed piece of earlobe sent to her by the kidnappers made the situation very real and very dangerous. She could not allow herself to be distracted by the outrageously sexy man sitting beside her.
Unable to think of a suitable retort to what she assumed was his teasing remark, she turned her head to stare out of the window at the unending jungle. He would not really dare kiss her, she assured herself. But she remembered the Mother Superior’s warning about him being a womaniser and decided not to give him any opportunity to take liberties with her.
They had been driving for some while—Clare had been absorbed in her thoughts and had lost all track of time—when the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The heat of the sun close to the equator caused the wet leaves to evaporate steam into the air so that the forest looked like a giant smoking cauldron. Even the huge puddles were steaming on the road that stretched ahead as far as the eye could see, like a giant brown snake wending through the green forest.
‘When was your aunt killed?’ Diego asked suddenly, his voice breaking the tense silence that had filled the Jeep for miles.
‘Almost two years ago.’ Clare remembered the cold grey day before Christmas when her mother had phoned to break the news that Aunt Edith had died after being knocked off her bike by a car. The fact that the driver was drunk at the time of the accident had only been revealed later at the inquest, and Clare had felt anger as well as grief that her aunt’s life had been ended by a thoughtless, selfish act.
It was hard to imagine that when she had left England three days ago the weather had, typically for November, been freezing cold with the promise of sleet, while in Brazil the temperature on the dashboard was showing thirty-seven degrees centigrade and the humidity was so high that Clare’s clothes were sticking to her.
‘The car driver said that he skidded on a patch of ice, but the police breathalysed him and found he was over the alcohol limit and shouldn’t have been driving,’ she said tautly. ‘My aunt was older than my parents, but she was fit and healthy until her life was cut short.’
‘You were obviously fond of her.’
It was strange how it was often the way that you didn’t appreciate what you had until it was gone, Clare mused. She missed Aunt Edith’s sensible advice and dry humour more than she would have believed.
‘I lived with her for part of my childhood.’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘At the time I hated being packed off to her cottage in a remote Kent village while my parents remained at our home in London. It never occurred to me that my aunt might not have enjoyed having her life disrupted by a stroppy kid.’
‘Why did your parents send you away from home?’ Diego could not explain why he was curious about his passenger. Usually he avoided personal discussions. He was never even mildly interested in his mistresses’ private lives, and he discouraged curiosity about himself. His past was not a place he wanted to revisit or reveal to anyone.
‘My sister was very ill when she was a child. She was diagnosed with leukaemia when she was six years old and underwent chemotherapy for several years before she was finally given the all-clear. My parents couldn’t cope with spending weeks, sometimes months, in the hospital with Becky at the same time as trying to run their PR company and look after me.’
She sighed. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I felt abandoned by my parents. I was only nine when Becky became ill, and I didn’t understand how serious her illness was. When my parents spent so much time with her I believed she was their favourite child.’
‘That’s understandable.’ Diego could appreciate Clare’s feeling of abandonment when she was a child. He had been abandoned by his father before he had been born, and his mother’s dependence on crack cocaine meant that he had learned to fend for himself from a young age. ‘You said your sister made a full recovery. Once she was better, did you return to live with your parents?’
‘No. I visited them at weekends, but I had started at a secondary school in Kent and my parents decided it would be better not to disrupt my education by moving me to a new school in London.’
‘You must have resented your sister because she lived with your parents while you were left with your aunt.’
Clare was surprised by Diego’s perception. There had been times when she had felt jealous of all the attention Becky received, she acknowledged, but she had hated herself for her jealousy because, of course, her sister had not chosen to have leukaemia.
‘I love my sister. It wasn’t Becky’s fault that I grew up feeling pushed out of the family. I was lucky that I hadn’t been struck down with a horrible illness or spent chunks of my childhood in the hospital. My parents dealt with a difficult situation in the best way they could.’
Thinking about Becky and wondering if the kidnappers had harmed her made Clare’s stomach contract. Becky had suffered so much as a child and it seemed desperately unfair that once again her life was threatened. Clare hoped her sister was not making the situation even more difficult. Becky had been over-indulged by their parents during the long years of her illness, and her subsequent career as a successful model meant that she was used to people rushing around after her. But it was unlikely the kidnappers would treat Becky like a princess.
The Jeep lurched as the wheels went down another crater in the road and Clare winced and rubbed her bruised spine. The continual jolting made her feel as though she was inside the drum of a washing machine on the fast spin cycle.
‘How much longer do you think it will take us to reach the village where we are going to stop for the night?’
Diego glanced at the instrument panel. ‘We’ve driven one hundred and forty miles. Inua village is two hundred and fifty miles from Manaus and because of the damned potholes in the road we’re travelling at an average speed of thirty-five miles an hour.’
‘So we should reach the village in just over three hours,’ Clare said instantly. She caught Diego’s surprised look. ‘I have a freakish brain when it comes to maths. At school, when my friends were trying to decide what careers to choose, I always knew that I wanted to be an accountant.’
‘So, did you go to university?’
She nodded. ‘I have a degree in Accountancy and Marketing and after I graduated I was headhunted by a top bank in the City of London. I worked for the bank for eighteen months, before I became chief accountant at my parents’ public relations company. Recently, I’ve become much more involved in the actual PR side of the business.’
Diego frowned. ‘I’m trying to understand what made you give up a good career and cut yourself off from your family and friends. How do your parents feel about your decision, especially as you have chosen to leave England and join a holy order in Brazil?’
Clare regretted telling him so much about herself. It was a sign of her insecurity that she felt she needed to boast of her academic achievements to make up for the fact that she wasn’t beautiful, she acknowledged ruefully. For a few moments she had forgotten that the Mother Superior had persuaded her to pretend to be a nun for her protection. She felt uncomfortable about her deception but she did not dare risk telling Diego the real reason why she was going to Torrente.
‘My parents support what I am doing,’ she murmured, remembering how her father had hugged her tightly when she’d said goodbye to him before leaving for Brazil. ‘What about you?’ She steered the conversation away from herself. ‘Do you have a family?’
‘No.’
When it became clear that Diego wasn’t going to add anything more, Clare tried again. ‘So, you’re not married?’
‘No.’
‘I imagine being a gold prospector means you spend a lot of time on your own. It must be a lonely way of life.’
‘I like my own company,’ he drawled.
Clare gave up. She wanted to ask him how he had developed an appreciation of classic literature if his education had been as poor as he had said. There was something about him that made her think he was more than a rough, tough prospector. It was not just because of the books she had found. She could not explain why she sensed an air of mystery about him, but the idea that he was hiding something reinforced her decision to keep the truth about her identity a secret.
* * *
The surface of the dirt road grew worse the further west they travelled. Twice more the Jeep became embedded in mud. The first time, Diego managed to free the wheels by placing wooden planks beneath them, but on the second occasion he had to use a specially designed jack to lift up the front of the Jeep. It was a lengthy procedure and Clare had to get out to help and found herself ankle-deep in mud which dried to the consistency of cement in the sun.
By the time they reached Inua she was wilting from the humidity and exhaustion and visualised a clean hotel room, hopefully with air conditioning and perhaps even a bath.
‘Where is the rest of the village?’ she asked Diego when he parked in a clearing in the forest where a few huts with thatched roofs were grouped around a larger hut that seemed to be a communal place for the villagers. The men sitting on the floor outside the large hut were mainly dressed in shorts and shirts, but the women were topless and the children who rushed up to greet the white-skinned strangers simply wore loincloths.
‘This is it,’ Diego told her. ‘Inua is home to a small community called the Yanomami.’
‘But you said that tourists stay here.’ Clare looked at the ramshackle huts. ‘Where will I sleep tonight?’ Her visions of a comfortable bedroom and en suite bathroom were disappearing.
‘The guest hut is over there.’ Diego pointed to a hut set slightly apart from the others. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said when he saw her expression. ‘The wooden cubicle next to the hut is a shower. The Yanomami children find the shower fascinating because they bathe in the river.’
He walked away to talk to an elderly tribesman and came back to Clare a few minutes later. ‘I’ll get your bag from the Jeep and show you your accommodation. The tribal elder, Jacinto, asked if we would like to eat dinner with the Yanomami people, but they do actually hunt monkey and that’s what’s on tonight’s menu. I guessed you’d want me to decline the invitation.’
‘Thank you.’ Clare shuddered. She hadn’t felt like eating much since she had heard about Becky being kidnapped, and the idea of eating monkey destroyed all vestiges of her appetite. She followed Diego into the guest hut and was relieved to see a wooden bed frame. The mattress was woefully thin, but at least she would not have to sleep on the floor.
‘I realise it’s not the New York Hilton,’ Diego drawled when he saw her expression, ‘but I assume you are used to living a simple life at the convent.’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘How does a gold prospector and self-confessed loner know what the New York Hilton is like?’
He gave her one of his heart-stopping grins and ignored her question. ‘I’m going to cook dinner on the camping stove. I only have non-perishable tinned food, nothing fancy. But you’re welcome to join me.’
‘Actually, I think I’ll have a shower and an early night. It’s been a tiring day.’ The heat and her constant worry about Becky had made her feel drained both physically and emotionally. Her fierce awareness of Diego was not helping matters, Clare conceded as she watched him walk over to the Jeep. A brief spectacular sunset had streaked the sky with hues of pink and orange, but now darkness was closing in and she felt very alone in an alien environment.
It was a relief to take off the stiff serge habit and her veil. The shower was surprisingly powerful, but Clare was convinced she had glimpsed a snake slither out of the cubicle as she had entered and she did not dare hang around in case it came back.
Even at night the humidity was so high that she felt as if she was being smothered in a damp blanket. She had packed a light cotton chemise to sleep in, but she was still too hot and the mosquitoes were eating her alive. She lay on the bed, huddled beneath the mosquito net, and wondered where Becky was sleeping tonight. The rainforest was even noisier at night than during the day, as hundreds of species of insects and nocturnal creatures vied to make the loudest sounds.
What was that? Clare tensed when she heard a scurrying noise on the floor of the hut. Could it be a rat? Her muscles tensed and her heart was pounding. The noise came again and she switched on her torch and shone it on the floor. The beam of light revealed a huge cockroach, its hard black shell gleaming and its long antennae twitching as it moved purposefully towards the bed.
‘Ugh!’ Clare’s nerve crumbled. The rainforest was a terrifying place. She loved the English countryside, but here in the jungle she imagined what other creatures might be crawling or slithering inside the hut. Panic engulfed her and, without thinking of anything but her desperate need to find a place of safety, she leapt out of bed and remembered to grab the briefcase containing the ransom money before she tore out of the hut. She sprinted over to the Jeep faster than she had ever run in her life. The rough ground hurt her bare feet and the beam from her torch picked out glowing pinpricks of light that she realised were the eyes of animals hiding in the dark forest. Frantic with fear, she pulled open the back door of the Jeep.
‘Diego, there’s a huge cockroach in the hut.’ She paused to drag oxygen into her lungs—and stared.
Diego was sprawled on top of a mattress that he had unrolled to cover the floor of the Jeep. He was leaning back against a couple of cushions, bare chested, his jeans sitting low on his hips. A kerosene lamp emitted a bright glow that fell on the pages of the book he was reading and cast a pool of light on his torso, highlighting the golden hairs on his chest. With his tousled blond hair and the blond stubble on his jaw, he reminded Clare of a lion: sleek, muscular and supremely powerful.
‘Unlikely,’ he drawled in his laid-back manner that gave the impression he took nothing in life too seriously.
‘There is. I know what a cockroach looks like.’
‘I meant it’s unlikely there’s only one. Cockroaches like company and they like to hide in small spaces. There is probably a nest of them behind the headboard of the bed.’
Clare shuddered. ‘I can’t sleep in the hut with a family of cockroaches.’ She screamed as she felt something touch her foot. ‘There’s a snake on me. It’s running up my leg!’
‘Snakes don’t run.’ Diego held up the lamp so that it shone on the ground where Clare was standing. ‘It’s just a harmless lizard,’ he told her as he brushed the vivid green creature from her leg. ‘It’s probably far more scared of you than you are of it.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ Clare muttered as she scrambled into the Jeep, unaware that as she did so the hem of her chemise slid up to reveal several inches of her bare thighs. She pushed her mane of long auburn hair out of her eyes and looked pleadingly at Diego. ‘Please can I sleep in here tonight?’
He did not reply and she wondered why he was staring at her as if she had grown another head. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said shakily. ‘Do I have another lizard on me?’
‘I thought nuns had to cut their hair short.’
Idiot, Clare silently berated herself. She had forgotten that she wasn’t wearing her nun’s habit and veil. Her hair had dried quickly after her shower, but the humidity and the fact that she did not have her straighteners had resulted in a wild tangle of curls tumbling halfway down her back. She tensed as Diego reached out and wound a curl around his fingers.
‘It feels like silk,’ he murmured. ‘And it’s such an amazing colour. It reminds me of the conkers I saw children collecting in England when I was there one autumn.’ His eyes narrowed on Clare’s flushed face. ‘It’s a pity to hide such beautiful hair beneath a veil.’
She sensed he was waiting for an explanation and searched her mind for one. ‘I’m a novice, which is why I wear a white veil instead of a black one. I don’t have to cut my hair until I take my final vows.’
‘When will you do that?’
‘Soon,’ she assured him quickly.
Diego shut the door of the Jeep and resumed his position stretched out on the mattress with his shoulders propped against a pile of cushions. He tucked his hands behind his head and the action drew Clare’s gaze to his bare chest and superb muscle definition.
‘So you are not yet absolutely committed to your cause?’ he said softly. ‘You could change your mind?’
The speculative gleam in his light grey eyes sent a quiver along her spine as she became aware of the sexual chemistry fizzing in the close confines of the Jeep. Clare realised she had swapped one danger for another. She had felt unsafe in the hut, but her intense awareness of Diego could prove to be a greater threat to her peace of mind, especially when his gaze lingered quite blatantly on her breasts that were inadequately covered by her cotton chemise.
She remembered Becky and the vital reason why she needed to get to Torrente. ‘Nothing will deter me from the path I have chosen.’
His mouth curved into a sexy smile that should be illegal in front of susceptible females. ‘You don’t think you could be tempted to choose a different path?’
Heaven help her. She wished he would stop looking at her as if he was imagining stripping her naked and having his wicked way with her. She glanced rather desperately around the Jeep for something to cover herself with. ‘Could I borrow a sleeping bag?’
‘Help yourself.’
She unzipped the bag and gave it a thorough inspection for tarantulas before she got into it and pulled the zip up to her chin. Immediately her temperature soared but at least her body was hidden from Diego’s gaze. ‘Temptation is the work of the devil,’ she said primly.
‘Are you telling me you have never been tempted by desire, which is a perfectly natural human instinct?’
His voice was like molten syrup sliding sensuously over her body, inciting all sorts of shocking images in her head. She was fiercely attracted to Diego but she certainly wasn’t going to admit it. ‘If I did ever feel tempted...I would pray until those feelings passed.’
The Jeep was suddenly plunged into blackness as Diego switched off the lamp. Clare heard him moving. He was obviously trying to get comfortable but his height meant that he had to lie diagonally across the Jeep.
‘While you’re praying to be delivered from temptation, maybe you could say one for me, Sister,’ he muttered. ‘You’d better pray real hard because I keep picturing you in your cotton nightdress and I’ll be honest, I’ve never been so tempted by a woman in my life.’
If the devil did exist and was waiting to receive sinners into the fires of hell, he was toast, Diego thought to himself. He was burning up with desire to unzip Sister Clare’s sleeping bag and remove the tantalising, almost see-through garment she was wearing. If he had ever given a thought to what nuns wore in bed he would have guessed something demure and ankle-length, not a sexy little slip that left little to his imagination.
‘I’m sorry I interrupted you when you were reading,’ she said quietly. Her voice was as soft as the velvet darkness surrounding them. ‘You told me you had a poor education, so when did you discover an appreciation of classic and contemporary literature? I noticed you have a collection of books by a wide range of authors.’
The question took Diego back almost two decades to when he and Cruz had been employed by Earl Bancroft. His first instinct was to tell Sister Clare to mind her own business, but he needed something to distract his thoughts from his damnable desire for her.
‘I once worked at a diamond mine in Brazil which was owned by an English earl. My friend was dating the Earl’s daughter, and I used to go to the ranch house with him and chat up the housekeeper.’ He grinned. ‘Lucia was a few years older than me and she taught me a lot.’
‘About literature?’ Clare asked disbelievingly.
‘Well, no. I admit I was more interested in her physical attributes than her mind. But she used to let me borrow books from the Earl’s library while he was away.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/chantelle-shaw/master-of-her-innocence/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.