Fallen Angel

‘Oh, responsibility …’ She scuffed her toe against the expensive rug with ill grace. ‘I don’t want to be a responsibility! I’m a person, a human being; a living entity in my own right. I don’t want to be anyone’s responsibility. I just want to be—to be a part of your life, part of someone’s life anyway,’ she finished a trifle wistfully.

Jason’s teeth grated. ‘You won’t try and understand, will you?’

‘What’s to understand?’ She held his gaze deliberately. ‘Are you afraid of me, Mr Tarrant? Are you afraid you might be as—tempted as the next man——’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ Jason’s rejection of her taunting statement was violent, but she stood her ground. ‘I’m simply trying to explain to you that my gauchos are not the fanciful gallants you’ve probably seen on the screen. They’re rough men, mestizos and Indians for the most part, for whom an unattached white girl is fair game. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Perfectly,’ she conceded, without flinching. ‘But surely as your—ward, I would merit some respect.’

‘Perhaps. But I don’t feel like being nursemaid!’

‘And that’s the truth, isn’t it?’ she declared bitterly. ‘Oh, you’re just like my father!’

She presented her back to him then, groping in the bag that hung from one shoulder for the handkerchief she couldn’t find. Jason watched her helpless fumblings for several minutes, and then extracted his own handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

But instead of thanking him, as he had expected, she snatched the pristine square of white linen and threw it on the floor, deliberately grinding the heel of her boot upon it. Jason’ stared, bleak-eyed, as she kicked the now soiled handkerchief aside, and rubbed her nose unhygienically on the back of her hand.

‘Why, you——’

‘Go on!’ she encouraged him, chancing a look at him over her shoulder. ‘Say it! Call me names. Better that than ignoring my existence!’

Jason allowed his breath to escape on a suppressed oath, then bent and lifted the grubby handkerchief. He regarded it solemnly for several seconds, then he stuffed it back into the pocket of his jacket. Alexandra was sniffing now, her head bent, but he made no attempt to comfort her. Instead, he drew a case of the long narrow cigars he liked from his pocket, and placing one between his teeth, applied the flame of his lighter to it.

The aromatic flavour was soothing, and he attempted to remain calm. Arguing with the girl was doing no good, he could see that. But somehow he had to make her see reason. A sudden idea occurred to him. What she needed was someone to take care of her, some woman, and almost instantaneously the image of Miss Holland sprang to his mind. If that lady could be persuaded to accept a position as housekeeper-cum-guardian, he could lease a house here in London, and Alexandra could choose whether she wanted to continue with her studies or alternatively find some suitable occupation. He might even permit her to visit him in Santa Vittoria on occasion. If she stayed at the hotel in Valvedra, there was no reason why she shouldn’t travel if she wanted to.

‘Alexandra …’ His own voice was almost persuasive now, and instinctively she responded to the gentler tone.

‘Yes?’ She half turned, and he glimpsed the tear-washed brilliance of her eyes, tiny globules glistening like raindrops on her lashes. Unaccountably, he was stirred, and the knowledge brought an impatient hardening in his voice.

‘I’ve come to a decision,’ he said, thrusting his balled fists into the pockets of his pants, unaware that the action drew her attention to the powerful muscles of his thighs. ‘I shall lease a house here in London, for you—and for Miss Holland——’

‘Miss Holland?’

‘That’s right. The woman who was here a few minutes ago. If I’m not mistaken, she needs a job badly. Maybe she will be prepared to act as your guardian in my absence——’

‘No!’

‘What do you mean—no?’ he demanded ominously. ‘Alexandra, might I remind you that until your eighteenth birthday, I am your guardian. You will do as I say.’

‘You can’t make me,’ she retorted, swinging round to face him. ‘Oh, I admit, while you’re here, you can force me to stay with Miss—Miss Holland, but after you’re gone, do you honestly believe she’ll be able to make me do as she says? She can’t lock me in my room, you know. I shall have to go out sometimes. And who says I’ll have to come back?’

His face was steely hard by the time she had finished. ‘Are you threatening me?’ he demanded, and she sensed the tautening of his body.

‘I—why, no. Not—threatening,’ she muttered, resorting to looking for her handkerchief again. ‘But …’ She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up at him again, and this time there was only appeal in those drowned violet depths. ‘Oh, Jason, please! Don’t do this. Let me come with you. I’ll be good, I promise. I won’t go near any of your farmhands—gauchos, whatever. I’ll do exactly as you say. I can cook—and clean—and make beds——’

‘No, Alexandra!’

‘Why not? Why not?’ Instead of spitting at him again as he had half expected, she closed the gap between them and he tore his hands out of his pockets to prevent her from getting too close for comfort. ‘Jason, Daddy respected you so much. He wanted us to be friends. Won’t you at least try to like me?’

Jason’s hands had descended on her shoulders, and the fragile vulnerability of the bones beneath his fingers caused him to hesitate before saying, ‘It’s not a question of—liking, Alexandra.’

‘Then why——’

He found he was not immune to those eyes after all. Hurting her was like hurting a wounded deer, a trite observation, but true nevertheless. What the hell, her father had abandoned her, hadn’t he? Was he about to do the same? What would happen to her if he did? Who knew what dangers she might encounter in London, particularly in her desire to prove to him that she needed his protection? His fingers tightened so that he felt the bones might crack beneath his hold, but she didn’t wince, and with a feeling compounded of sympathy and compassion, and a curious kind of self-disgust, he said:

‘All right, all right, I give in. You can come with me to Santa Vittoria. You and Miss Holland both.’

‘You really mean it?’

Tears overspilled her eyes as she stared disbelievingly up at him, and almost with revulsion he thrust her away from him. But that didn’t alter the fact that by allowing her to accompany him, he sensed he was inviting trouble. What form that trouble would take, he could not foresee, but almost immediately he wished he could retract his words.

It was too late, of course. Much too late. The misty relief that shone in her eyes could not be doused, and far from regretting his submission, she was positively incoherent with delight.

‘Oh, Jason!’ she breathed, brushing away her tears with a careless hand, and before he could anticipate what she was about to do, she had flung her arms around his neck and was bestowing kisses all over his face. ‘Darling, darling Jason!’ she was crying exuberantly, while he tried rather unsuccessfully to free himself, uncomfortably aware of those firm breasts pressing against the material of his waistcoat and of the warm scent of her arms wound so closely round his neck. If she was to accompany him to San Gabriel, they would have to talk about her impulsive methods of expressing herself, he thought dryly. He wondered how she saw him. As some kind of Dutch uncle, perhaps, or the father figure she had never known. Whatever, she would have to learn that young women, however enthusiastic, did not throw themselves into the arms of a virtual stranger just because he had agreed to her wishes, albeit against his better judgment.

Having extracted himself, and with her wrists pressed firmly against her sides, Jason felt more able to speak seriously to her, although the dancing violet eyes were a continual distraction.

‘Miss Holland,’ he said, ‘Miss Holland must agree to come with us, do you understand? If she refuses——’

‘She won’t,’ Alexandra interrupted certainly. ‘She liked you, I’m sure.’

‘It’s you she has to deal with,’ retorted Jason repressively, wondering with some misgivings how Estelita would react to two such females in his house. ‘And while we’re on the subject, you must not be so—so demonstrative.’

‘Demonstrative?’ Alexandra’s brows arched. ‘Towards you, you mean?’

‘Towards anyone,’ amended Jason dryly, but she only smiled.

‘Why?’ she persisted. ‘Don’t you like it? Don’t you like me to touch you?’

‘That has nothing to do with it,’ he began, but she shook her head.

‘I think it has.’ She tried to free her wrists, but he knew better than to let her go. ‘I think it has everything to do with it. At the convent—you know, when I was living with the nuns—nobody ever touched one another. We were like—separate species.’ She sighed. ‘We used to talk together—and smile together—even pray together. But we never touched.’ She moved her slim shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘I think people should touch one another. That’s what caring is all about.’ She lifted her head. ‘I like touching people. I like touching you …’

‘That’s enough!’

Abruptly, she was free, but she knew better than to touch him just then. After a moment’s laboured breathing, he turned and crossed to the telephone, and while she watched, he asked the operator to get him the number of the agency where he had engaged to interview the governess. It was a brief call, but it served a dual purpose—on the one hand, it accomplished the need to contact Miss Holland as quickly as possible, and on the other it gave him time to realise the enormity of the task he was taking upon himself.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_98c84f16-d767-55fc-8f17-fdf912c67d81)

ALEXANDRA had never experienced such a sense of space and freedom, miles and miles of long pampas grass stretching as far as the eye could see. Acres and acres of land, grazed by herds of shorthorned cattle, that turned wicked eyes in their direction as they passed, making Alexandra, at least, aware of the thin sheet of metal which separated them from those ugly pointed projections. Cattle in France and England never had such beady little eyes, or moved with the arrogance of the beast, untamed and magnificent.

Ever since the powerful Range-Rover passed beneath the crossed strips of wood which had marked the boundary of Jason’s land, she had been expecting to see the ranch-house, but mile followed mile and there was nothing in sight but the untrammelled grasslands of the Santa Vittorian plateau. The road, which from Valvedra had been passably smooth, was now little more than a beaten track, and she was regretting her impulse to offer Miss Holland the seat beside Jason in front. As she sat in the back of the Range-Rover, the base of her spine was in constant opposition to the springs of the vehicle, and her back ached from being thrown from side to side.

From time to time, her eyes encountered Jason’s through the rear-view mirror, and then she made a determined effort to appear unconcerned, aware that occasionally a trace of amusement lightened their umber depths. But she was here, that was the main thing, she thought with satisfaction, and the awareness of Jason’s lean body in the seat in front of her was all the compensation she needed.

It had not been easy, she acknowledged it now, and until the moment she and Miss Holland had boarded the plane she had been terrified in case he should send some message forbidding her to join him. But from the minute her father had spoken of Jason Tarrant, describing the kind of man he was, telling her about their adventures in Mexico, the rough absorbing outdoor life they had led, she had wanted to meet him. All her life she had wanted to do the things her father did, meet the people he worked with, and share in the thrill of his excavations. She would have followed him to the ends of the earth if he had asked her, but he never had. So far as he was concerned, she was a girl, and girls were not welcome in what he considered to be a male province. Her own mother had died in childbirth confirming his belief that females were weak, defenceless creatures, and he had only sent for Alexandra at the end because he had known he was dying, too.

Even then, he had not known what to do with her. Her assurances that she would make out on her own had not convinced him, but his suggestion of returning her to the nuns of Sainte Sœur had filled her with alarm. It was then she had coined the idea of writing to Jason Tarrant, of telling him her father was dying, and putting her future into his hands. She knew her father had helped him when he was in trouble, but Charles Durham would not even consider such a proposition. Instead, he had dictated a letter to his solicitors, giving them the address of the convent, and asking that if—when—anything happened to him, Alexandra should return there, at least until she was eighteen.