Montega's Mistress by Malek Doreen Owens

Author:Malek, Doreen Owens [Malek, Doreen Owens]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Gypsy Autumn Publications
Published: 2012-04-18T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 7

Matteo carried Helen to the cot and knelt to put her on it, then joined her, wedging in next to her in the narrow space. Helen curled up against his side, putting her head on his chest and slipping one hand under his broad back. The other drifted to his flat middle and stayed there, as if to reassure her of his presence.

“My fault,” he murmured, his fingers combing through her hair.

“What?” Helen sighed, too happy to care much about anything. It was like a miracle to have him so close after their estrangement.

“What happened tonight was my fault,” he clarified.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Matt,” Helen responded. “How could it be?”

“I know Olmos, how he thinks, how his mind works. I should have anticipated what he would do. He never confronts anything directly, but steps around it craftily, like a cat moving in on a mouse. It was just like him to use you the way he did to get to me. You wound up being the victim of my stupidity.”

“I’m all right, really,” Helen said. “I was scared when it happened, but I’m over it now.”

“Then go to sleep,” Matteo directed her. “You must be exhausted.”

“It’s too hot to sleep,” she answered dreamily, rubbing her cheek on his breast. She felt his muscles tense and planted a kiss just above his left pectoral. His skin tasted salty from his exertions and she licked her lips.

“Go to sleep,” he said again, through clenched teeth. “It’s almost two in the morning.” His words seemed to be coming with difficulty.

“If I go to sleep, you’ll leave me.”

“I promise I won’t,” he said, thinking that if she didn’t stop moving against him he would soon be unable to conceal his aroused state.

“Do you think it will rain?” she asked drowsily, already drifting off.

“I hope so,” he said softly, “we could sure use the relief from this heat.”

He waited for her to answer, but her breathing had already deepened, become regular and peaceful. He calmed down himself, certain that if he just held her quietly and didn’t think about what she was wearing—or not wearing—he would be able to get through the night.

Matteo stared into the half-lit gloom, watching the oil lamp’s flame cast its dancing shadows on the canvas walls of the tent. He heard the first tentative raindrops fall, hitting the roof with individual splats, and then listened gratefully as they gathered into a torrent. The rain fell steadily, dripping over the tent entrance, bringing with it a freshening breeze that swept through the opening, cooling his body. It carried a fine mist that soaked into the baked earth floor and settled on his hair and skin. The humidity broke as if a curse had been lifted, and his thoughts ranged over the evening’s events, which replayed like a tape in his mind.

The argument with Olmos had started it. Matteo was a cautious campaigner, taking out targets one at a time, following a progressive plan of gradually weakening the government’s defenses until it would be easy prey for a takeover.

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