Flame of Diablo by Sara Craven

would
    regard that as a provocation, she knew,
    but he would not. He would know that
    she was simply demonstrating her utter
    and total indifference to him, and she
    hoped that his masculine pride would be
    dented a little if not bruised. Besides, if
    she was honest, she knew that he'd seen
    more of her when he'd stood over her as
    she lay asleep in her room at Asuncion.
    That was another humiliation that she
    hoped to repay with interest before she
    had finished.
    She went on with studied insolence, 'Just
    tell me when you've seen enough, senor.'
    She allowed her eyes to widen as if
    something had just occurred to her. 'Or
    perhaps you'd prefer me not to change
    this shirt. Perhaps it would suit your
    machismo better to have me ride into
    Diablo behind you with my clothes half
    torn off?' She lifted her eyes, innocently
    questioning, to his face, and saw just for
    one satisfied second the reaction she had
    hoped for—the flash of cold anger,
    instantly controlled, although his fingers
    tightened momentarily, bruisingly on the
    soft flesh of her arms.
    'It's a beguiling thought, I admit,
    querida ,' he said almost lightly. 'But I
    think you are mistaken in my image.' His
    dark gaze matched her own insolence as
    it lingered on her, frankly appreciating
    the glimpse of her white skin that the
    torn shirt afforded. 'Why rip a woman's
    clothes, when to remove them slowly—
    between kisses—can be so much more
    rewarding?' He studied with amused
    interest the hot wave of colour suffusing
    her face that his words had induced.
    'Don't you agree?'
    'I wouldn't know,' Rachel snapped,
    wrenching herself free and walking
    towards the tent where Carlos had
    deposited her personal belongings—a
    lifetime ago, it seemed.
    She was furious to find her hands were
    shaking as she searched through the
    pack, choosing a spare shirt at random
    and shaking it to rid it of the inevitable
    creases.
    She closed the flap on the tent and
    changed swiftly in the darkness, rolling
    her discarded garments into a tight ball.
    It was the first time she had ever put
    clothes on to go to bed in, she thought,
    but this entire trip was beginning to
    contain altogether too many first times
    for her liking.
    In the morning she would, throw her torn
    clothes away or burn them, but there was
    no way in which she was going to leave
    the frail security of the tent again that
    night, although she believed Vitas de
    Mendoza when he told her that she had
    nothing to worry about that night at least.
    But even that had not been prompted by
    any sense of consideration for her, she
    reminded herself indignantly. He was
    merely concerned that her experience
    with Carlos might have proved too much
    of a turn-off for her to give him the
    satisfaction he expected.
    Oh God, she thought, clenching her
    hands into fists, I'm going to make him so
    sorry! At least I know he's not
    invulnerable. That crack about his
    machismo really got to him.
    Smiling to herself, she wriggled with
    care into the sleeping bag of blankets.
    Oh, she would lead him along nicely.
    She might even let him think she was
    resigned to the inevitable, but at the
    same time, whenever she got the
    opportunity she would plant little barbs
    —barbs he would remember when she
    finally gave him the slip under Mark's
    protection.
    Still smiling, she closed her eyes
    determinedly, trying to shut out a small
    persistent inner voice that wanted to
    inconveniently remind her that the last
    time she had made Vitas de Mendoza
    really angry, the only vulnerability
    exposed had been her own, and with
    well-nigh disastrous consequences.
    She shifted uneasily in the darkness.
    That was something she did not want to
    think about. Nor did she want to ask
    herself the disturbing question if her
    motives for provoking his anger once
    again were quite as simple as she
    wanted to believe.

    It was the smell of cooking that woke her
    —a
    delicious,
    beguiling
    smell
    intermingled with woodsmoke that had
    her sitting up, her