Captive Heart (12 page)

The drink was delicious and deceptively mild. "What's in it?" she asked.

"Pisco is a raw brandy made from grapes and sugar," he explained. "Lemon juice, sugar and a beaten egg white are added to the Pisco and mixed in a shaker with ice."

"It's very good. I think I'd like another."

"Very well, but I should warn you that a Pisco Sour is like a time bomb that may go off later in the evening."

She shrugged away his warning. If the drink numbed her mind, so much the better. It might make this sad evening more bearable.

They had a second round of drinks while Del Toro poured over the menu, then ordered dinner with a bottle of vintage French champagne.

JoNell thought that she could buy a new carburetor for her airplane back home for what the champagne was no doubt costing Del Toro. "I wish you wouldn't order such a large dinner for me," she protested. "I'm not hungry." Her tongue felt slightly thick.

"You should eat," Del Toro said. "Two Pisco Sours on an empty stomach…" He shook his head. "And I venture to say you are not accustomed to alcoholic drinks."

"We always keep a bottle of wine in the house for special occasions," she said recklessly.

That brought a chuckle from him, but she couldn't see what was so funny. She realized she was having some problem focusing her eyes. Her tongue was growing even thicker and more difficult to manage.

Presently, a retinue of waiters swooped down on their table with numerous trays. A salad was tossed before her. Flaming dishes were ignited. A champagne cork popped. Strolling musicians gathered around their table and serenaded them.

JoNell felt embarrassingly conspicuous. She became aware that people at other tables were looking their way, whispering, nodding and smiling at them. She tried to hide behind her napkin. "People are staring at us!" she whispered angrily.

"Of course," he smiled. "You are the bride of Jorge Del Toro. You are now the toast of Peru."

"I don't want to be th' thoast of—I mean, th' toast of anything!" she said furiously.

"Eat your dinner. You're getting tipsy."

"Am not!" she flared, raising her chin. But she only poked at her food.

The events of the evening grew hazy. Eventually she was aware that dinner had ended. Del Toro had enjoyed his food with gusto and consumed most of the champagne. When he escorted her from the table, he kept a firm hand under her arm. As much as she hated herself for having to do so, she was obliged to lean against him for support. "I warned you about two Pisco Sours on an empty stomach," he grinned.

She shot him a dirty look, but said nothing, afraid to trust her tongue at this point.

"Now be prepared," he said. "When we go out to the car, there will be reporters and photographers. They are not allowed in the dinner club."

In answer to her look of mingled distress and anger, he confessed, "Yes, I notified the press. It is important for all of Peru to know about this wedding. I told you, there can be nothing secret about it. We must convince everyone that the marriage is real."

Then they were outside. Photographic electronic flashes blazed in her eyes. Reporters gathered around them. JoNell was stunned to see a mobile television unit on the scene. Del Toro held up his hand and made a brief statement. "My bride, seňora JoNell Del Toro Carpenter," he introduced, following the Peruvian custom of including her maiden name as a second last name. "Seňora Del Toro came to this country from the United States to give me flying lessons. We fell in love at first sight and were married tonight by my friend, Judge de la Cuestra. We will be at my home in Lima for the present time and, in a few weeks, will take a delayed honeymoon trip to the United States."

JoNell was impressed by Del Toro's suave composure. He towered over the reporters and photographers, a commanding presence exhibiting supreme self-confidence and control of the situation. As for herself, she wanted to sink out of sight through a hole in the ground. She was grateful that a Peruvian wife would be expected to be silent and let her husband do the talking.

There was the drive home, of which JoNell remembered very little, and the stairs to navigate when again she was forced to accept Del Toro's amused assistance. She vowed that never again would she have one of the insidious Pisco Sours on an empty stomach!

At last she was in the safety of her room. She slipped out of her lemon-white wedding suit and into one of the filmy nightgowns that were now part of her costly wardrobe. She switched off the light, and started walking unsteadily toward her bed, when suddenly a shaft of light cut across the floor. She spun around. Outlined in the doorway was the broad-shouldered silhouette of Jorge Del Toro.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"I just came to see if you were safely in bed. You were not in a very steady condition coming up the stairs."

"I'm perfectly all right," she lied. Actually, her head was spinning and her thought processes were still somewhat befuddled.

Then she realized that he was continuing to stand there, staring at her. She became aware of the revealing nature of her diaphanous gown. She was standing before a ceiling-to-floor window with bright moonlight behind her, outlining every inch of her body. She snatched a negligee from a nearby chair, holding it against her bosom. "Please go," she said in an unsteady voice.

But, instead, he moved toward her. She shrank back against the window. Del Toro towered over her. In the moonlight, she could see his eyes ablaze with desire as they drank in the sight of her figure.

She began shivering. It was the deserted beach all over again. But this time she saw a raw hunger in his face beyond any power to control.

"Please—" she whimpered.

She saw a struggle in his eyes. Then, with a broken cry, he seized her and buried his face against her throat. She heard him murmur her name in broken phrases.

"Oh, no—no—" she begged, trying with all her strength to push him away.

But his arms had become bands of steel that swept her up and carried her to the bed.

She felt his scorching kisses on her face, the hollow of her throat, on her breasts. Dimly, she heard her gown tear, heard the stifled, choked sounds of her protests and pleading, and the rough sound of his voice murmuring her name.

One moment he was tender, the next demanding, but at no time could she escape his towering strength. He held her prisoner, but he did not have to resort entirely to force. Instead, he kissed and caressed her until slowly a responsive fire awakened in her. She despised him for this power he had over her, and she hated herself with equal rancor for feeling the desire that was making her heart pound and her body quiver.

What a wicked power Del Toro had over her—and he had known it since that first kiss on the beach. He had agreed to a marriage in name only, knowing full well that he could awaken these fires in her when he wished. They were both being consumed by passion—but it was passion without love. She did not love Jorge Del Toro, and she knew he certainly did not love her. He had made it quite clear that she was his passport into the United States, nothing more.

Still, those thoughts were swept away by this wild need that now molded them together. The present excitement was all that mattered. She gave herself willingly, freely and wholly. She throbbed at his every touch, his every movement. He led her to heights of fulfillment beyond anything she had dreamed possible. He was a skillful lover who left no avenue of passion untouched.

But, inevitably, the insanity abated. The desires satisfied, cooled. Cold and unpleasant reality took the place of rapture.

Dawn was creeping through the windows when Del Toro arose to leave her. She saw his face shadowed by a changing pattern of emotions.

"I suppose you think this makes me feel differently," she choked. "It does—it makes me hate you even more, for doing this to me, knowing that what I felt was only physical, that I did not… do not love you. Hate… only hate—"

His eyes were solemn, then angry. He turned without a word and stalked from the room.

She turned to the wall and wept in her loneliness and heartache. A loveless marriage. What a sad, forlorn phrase that was…

JoNell rubbed her fingers gingerly over the soft velvet of her gold gown with its exquisite lace inset bodice. She studied her mirror reflection with a feeling of awe and fright. Tonight, Del Toro was giving a party to introduce her to Peruvian society. His important friends were, at this moment, approaching the house in their limousines. And what would they see when they were greeted by the new hostess of the Del Toro mansion? A young woman in an exquisite gown complemented by a jade necklace, a sophisticated blond upswept hair style, manicured fingernails and professionally applied makeup—all the product of an entire afternoon in one of Lima's more expensive beauty salons.

The guests would critically scrutinize the outer trappings of the new seňora Jorge Del Toro, who came from a middle-class American family. While she was sure they would notice and evaluate her every move, she wondered whether they would also notice the bleak look in her frightened brown eyes and the quivering of her lips as she tried to maintain her composure.

"Might as well get it over with," JoNell thought resignedly.

A week had passed since she became Del Toro's bride. She had seen little of her husband this week. He had been totally occupied with his business. He was gone when she awoke in the mornings, and often came in late at night after she was in bed; and some nights he didn't come home at all, leaving word that he had to be away overnight on business. He had not tried to invade her bedroom since their wedding night, but she felt it was only a matter of time before he visited her bed again. She dreaded that moment. Passion without love was a travesty of the sacred meaning of marriage. Yet, she knew her own weakness where his kisses were concerned. He would rekindle the fires and she would respond physically. But the needs of the flesh were not the needs of the heart. Theirs was a union without soul, without meaning, without love. She would cry again for the young dream of love that had been so cruelly taken from her, and she would hate him for doing this to her.

She had tried not to think about it this past week. She had occupied herself with tennis and swimming at the ultra posh country club where Del Toro had a membership. Once, she'd had Miguel drive her to the airport, and she had taken Del Toro's plane up for a brief flight by herself. Alone, in the clouds, she had experienced a few moments of peace and freedom. She'd had a rash impulse to turn the plane in the direction of the United States and flee this trap she'd fallen into. But sanity forced her to turn, instead, back to the airport and she had reluctantly landed.

Now, she moved out of her room to the hallway, gathering her courage before descending the stairs.

"Good evening, seňora Del Toro," a masculine voice murmured at her elbow.

She swung around, raising her chin as intense green eyes raked over her. "Good evening, seňor Del Toro," she replied coldly.

"You must remember to call me Jorge, my dear," he reminded her. "I expect you to be convincing in public."

"Am I dressed properly? Am I walking correctly? Do I please you?" she asked sardonically.