kicking the motor into life. He idled for a moment and then glided up to her, saying, “Hop on.”
“Matt!” Helen said, shocked. “You aren’t going to steal this!”
He met her gaze, deadpan. “No, Helen, I’m going to find the owner and tell him I’m taking it, so he can call the police.”
She looked around furtively. “What if the owner comes back?” she said.
“Well, maybe if we stand here debating about it long enough, he will,” Matteo said impatiently, pointing to the space behind him. “Get on. The idiot left the keys in the ignition—he deserves to walk.”
Helen hesitated, looking unhappy.
“Look, Miss Abe Lincoln, you just defrauded the Puerta Lindan government by entering the country under false pretenses and you’re aiding and abetting a wanted man. I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”
Helen climbed on behind him, winding her arms around his lean waist. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her neck, relieving the wet heat for a moment, and she wished that she were doing this with Matteo under other circumstances, when she might have been able to enjoy the ride.
“Okay?” he said, turning his head.
“Okay,” she confirmed, and he took off with a surge of power, negotiating the streets with controlled efficiency, making his way out of town. When they stopped at a light Helen said into his ear, “Where are we going?”
“A friend of mine has a taberna in the hills. We can rest there and try to think what to do.”
“About what?” Helen said.
“About you,” he answered, and then roared off as the light changed.
Helen hung on as he rode steadily toward the outskirts of San Jacinta, climbing all the way. Spanish street signs and shops with names like Bodega Escorial and Mendeja—Zapatos Para Toda La Familia passed in a blur as the rain, which had stopped, began to fall again. It was a soaking mist that penetrated Helen’s thin clothing and returned Matteo’s hair to the ringlets that the stylist had managed to eliminate. They were driving into the setting sun and darkness was falling with the swiftness of equatorial night.
Helen pressed her cheek to the curve of Matteo’s damp spine and imagined that they were traveling together through the tropical paradise Puerta Linda might have been, without the ominous presence of the soldiers and the constant threat of civil strife. The palms and jacaranda trees lining the streets of the capital bent slightly under the weight of the prevailing wind as they skirted the thinning traffic and left the city, following a winding trail that moved upward through overhanging cliffs. After a while Helen could see the gleam of the ocean below, and Matteo turned on the bike’s single headlight. The air grew cooler with the height, and the road they were traveling was no longer paved. The bike kicked up a spray of loose dust, which covered them both and adhered to their wet skin and clothing. Helen knew she had never been filthier in her life, or in greater danger, but she couldn’t seem to muster much concern about either condition. She was exhausted, and the hibiscus and oleander growing in profusion along the high stone walls they passed intoxicated her with their heavy perfume. She lingered in a dream state in which the feel of Matteo’s strong body under her hands, the heady fragrance of the wild blooms and the enclosing darkness merged to convince her that everything would be all right. Matteo could perform miracles; hadn’t she seen him do it? He would get both of them out of this and she was not going to be afraid.
Helen’s eyes were closed, her head slumped against Matteo’s back, when the bike ground to a halt and he dropped the kickstand. She sat up groggily, and he took one look at her and lifted her bodily off the motorcycle. He shushed her feeble protest that she could walk. She caught only the barest glimpse of whitewashed walls and a handmade wooden sign over the door that Matteo carried
“Matt!” Helen said, shocked. “You aren’t going to steal this!”
He met her gaze, deadpan. “No, Helen, I’m going to find the owner and tell him I’m taking it, so he can call the police.”
She looked around furtively. “What if the owner comes back?” she said.
“Well, maybe if we stand here debating about it long enough, he will,” Matteo said impatiently, pointing to the space behind him. “Get on. The idiot left the keys in the ignition—he deserves to walk.”
Helen hesitated, looking unhappy.
“Look, Miss Abe Lincoln, you just defrauded the Puerta Lindan government by entering the country under false pretenses and you’re aiding and abetting a wanted man. I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”
Helen climbed on behind him, winding her arms around his lean waist. A cool breeze lifted her hair from her neck, relieving the wet heat for a moment, and she wished that she were doing this with Matteo under other circumstances, when she might have been able to enjoy the ride.
“Okay?” he said, turning his head.
“Okay,” she confirmed, and he took off with a surge of power, negotiating the streets with controlled efficiency, making his way out of town. When they stopped at a light Helen said into his ear, “Where are we going?”
“A friend of mine has a taberna in the hills. We can rest there and try to think what to do.”
“About what?” Helen said.
“About you,” he answered, and then roared off as the light changed.
Helen hung on as he rode steadily toward the outskirts of San Jacinta, climbing all the way. Spanish street signs and shops with names like Bodega Escorial and Mendeja—Zapatos Para Toda La Familia passed in a blur as the rain, which had stopped, began to fall again. It was a soaking mist that penetrated Helen’s thin clothing and returned Matteo’s hair to the ringlets that the stylist had managed to eliminate. They were driving into the setting sun and darkness was falling with the swiftness of equatorial night.
Helen pressed her cheek to the curve of Matteo’s damp spine and imagined that they were traveling together through the tropical paradise Puerta Linda might have been, without the ominous presence of the soldiers and the constant threat of civil strife. The palms and jacaranda trees lining the streets of the capital bent slightly under the weight of the prevailing wind as they skirted the thinning traffic and left the city, following a winding trail that moved upward through overhanging cliffs. After a while Helen could see the gleam of the ocean below, and Matteo turned on the bike’s single headlight. The air grew cooler with the height, and the road they were traveling was no longer paved. The bike kicked up a spray of loose dust, which covered them both and adhered to their wet skin and clothing. Helen knew she had never been filthier in her life, or in greater danger, but she couldn’t seem to muster much concern about either condition. She was exhausted, and the hibiscus and oleander growing in profusion along the high stone walls they passed intoxicated her with their heavy perfume. She lingered in a dream state in which the feel of Matteo’s strong body under her hands, the heady fragrance of the wild blooms and the enclosing darkness merged to convince her that everything would be all right. Matteo could perform miracles; hadn’t she seen him do it? He would get both of them out of this and she was not going to be afraid.
Helen’s eyes were closed, her head slumped against Matteo’s back, when the bike ground to a halt and he dropped the kickstand. She sat up groggily, and he took one look at her and lifted her bodily off the motorcycle. He shushed her feeble protest that she could walk. She caught only the barest glimpse of whitewashed walls and a handmade wooden sign over the door that Matteo carried
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