Montega's Mistress Read online

  Montega’s Mistress

  Doreen Owens Malek

  –

  Published by

  Gypsy Autumn Publications

  P.O. Box 383 • Yardley, PA I9067

  –

  Copyright 1986 and 2012

  by Doreen Owens Malek

  www.doreenowensmalek.com

  The Author asserts the moral right to

  be identified as author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  “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 on the lam with a wanted man. If I were you, I wouldn’t let a little thing like a stolen motorbike stand in my way.”

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  New Releases by Doreen Owens Malek

  Chapter 1

  An opalescent moon hung over the Atlantic, dappling the shoreline and streaking the frothing waves with a silver path, as a wounded man stumbled up from the beach. Half crawling, trying to run, he was gasping for breath and glancing nervously over his shoulder at the flashing blue lights of the police cars gathering on the sand. Scrub grass and sea oats littered the slope, impeding his progress, and he staggered, almost falling several times. He clutched his injured arm with his other hand, the fingers slippery with his own blood. A small revolver dangled loosely from his forefinger and thumb, and he stuck it in the waistband of his pants so that he could wipe the sweat and seawater from his eyes. His vision thus cleared, he saw a light at the top of the embankment, and he headed for it, feeling a surge of hope. According to his information, this area of the beach was supposed to be deserted during the off season, the vacation homes empty, and he hoped to find refuge in one of them. He dropped to the ground suddenly as the beam of a searchlight passed over him and then he stood unsteadily, reaching for his gun again and scrambling for the ridge. He had to make it before he passed out; he had been shot before and could feel the remembered weakness flooding his limbs.

  The light blurred and danced in the distance, coming closer by inches as he dragged himself toward it. When he drew near he saw that it was an arc lamp above a patio, probably left on for security reasons when the owners departed. He paused for a moment, surveying the landscape. The house stood alone, surrounded by artfully placed trees and bushes that provided privacy as well as a beautiful setting. Satisfied, he lurched onto the cement deck, supporting himself with one hand flat against the redwood siding of the house as he peered through sliding glass doors. They were covered by heavy woven drapes that effectively concealed the interior from view. He looked back at the beach, at the distant figures of uniformed men swimming dizzily before his eyes, and then down at his arm. In the dim light his sleeve seemed covered with a substance the color and consistency of spring mud. Making his decision, he lifted a folded tarpaulin from the railing behind him and wrapped it around a small deck chair. Gathering the last vestiges of his vanishing strength, he raised the chair above his head and crashed it into the right hand panel of the doors.

  The glass cracked and he kicked it loose from its frame, taking care to do so quietly. When he had created an opening large enough to admit his body, he slipped through it. He slumped against the inner wall with relief, then shot bolt upright as a switch was thrown and the room filled with light.

  A woman faced him—young, pretty, terrified. She was dressed in a floor length flowered nightgown, pale hair cascading over her shoulders, and it was obvious that she’d been reading at the dining table with a small study lamp whose glow was not visible outside. Her hand went to her throat as her blue eyes widened in alarm, and his heart sank. Oh, no. Not a woman. A man he could have knocked out, or tied up, but this was impossible…

  Her eyes moved toward the telephone, and he stepped forward before she could act on her thought. She went white, staring at the gun in his hand. Her fright was palpable, flowing in waves across the distance separating them. He had to reassure her, fast, or panic might cause her to do something reckless.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said hoarsely, weaving on his feet as he spoke. “I’m not a criminal. Just do what I say, and everything will be all right.”

  Helen Demarest looked back at him, trying to accept the reality of his alien presence in her father’s house. Her trancelike gaze moved over his form, registering that he was tall and slim, wet and very disheveled, with longish dark hair and tattered, filthy clothes. His features were handsome, or would have been under normal circumstances, without the sickly pallor that underlay his olive skin and made his brown eyes too large for his face. As she hesitated, unsure whether she should listen to him or run for the door, he shivered violently and several drops of blood sprayed from his fingertips, spattering the beige carpeting with carmine stains. Helen lifted her hand, as if to aid him, and he acted reflexively, raising his gun.

  She flinched visibly, and he knew he had made a mistake. He had to convince her that she was safe, not act like the thug she thought he was.

  “Sit down,” he rasped, gesturing with the barrel of the gun toward one of the Breuer chairs surrounding the table. She sat stiffly, her body rigid with apprehension, and he sank gratefully into a deep leather lounge chair. His dizziness subsided, and he studied her more closely. Barefoot, her face washed clean of makeup for the night, she was a slight, porcelain blonde who looked back at him without expression, her hands clasped tensely in her lap.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, meaning it, aware of how empty it sounded after his intimidating entrance, but trying anyway. In his debilitated condition he might not be able to control her without harming her if she decided to make a break for it.

  He couldn’t tell if she believed him. She kept looking at his arm, and finally he did also, realizing what a gory mess it must seem to her. She didn’t look the type to be familiar with gunshot wounds.

  “Can you get me a rag?” he asked. She rose slowly, went to the space age kitchenette on the other side of the oak bar and returned with a dish towel. She handed it to him, and he bound it clumsily around the wound, watching her all the w
hile. She stood unmoving in front of him, obviously afraid to take a step except on his command.

  “And a glass of water,” he added. She got it for him and he drank eagerly, feeling a delicious slaking of his fierce thirst.

  “Juice would be better,” she said in a light, steady voice, and it was a moment before he realized she had spoken. He blinked, startled.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood; you should have some orange juice. Would you like me to get it?”

  He nodded, amazed, hoping that this was not some kind of trick that would force him to take action against her. But she appeared to be in earnest, going to the shiny, stainless steel refrigerator and removing a quart carton of juice. He noticed that the whole place was done up like a designer’s dream: coordinated neutrals, recessed lighting, rich fabrics and heavy, polished woods. Whoever this girl was, she was not poor.

  When she gave him the carton he refused the glass and drank straight from the container, wiping his mouth with the back of his good arm. Their eyes met over his sodden sleeve and he said, “What’s your name?”

  “Helen. Helen Demarest. What’s yours?”

  It almost struck him as funny, the way she sounded so American, like one of the coeds he had gone to school with making chitchat at a frat party. “Matteo,” he answered truthfully, playing along, buying time.

  “Did the police shoot you, Matteo?” she inquired evenly.

  She was nothing if not direct. He decided to answer her in kind.

  “Yes.”

  “What you were doing is illegal,” she said. It was not a question.

  “It is illegal, but it is not wrong.”

  Their attention was distracted by the wail of a siren in the distance, moving closer. Helen’s head turned toward it automatically, and he stood abruptly, the room spinning around him. He rocked back on his heels and his eyes closed as he fought for equilibrium. The threat implicit in the sound seemed to defeat him, and when he opened his eyes again he extended the gun to Helen, butt first.

  “No police,” he said huskily, falling heavily against the wall, sliding along it, his lashes fluttering. He was losing consciousness, the gun slipping from his fingers. As he passed out Helen ran to his side, grabbing the gun and easing his descent to the floor. He rolled bonelessly onto his back as she stood up uncertainly, the gun like a living thing in her hand.

  Her first impulse was to throw it out the window, but she feared it might be needed later. She tried to think of an unlikely place to hide it and she saw the door of the refrigerator standing slightly ajar. She ran to the kitchen and tossed the gun into the crisper drawer, glad to be rid of it. Then she hurried back to the man sprawled on the rug, knelt next to him and lifted his wrist. His pulse was rapid and thready, his heart working overtime to make up for decreased blood volume. Helen wondered how badly he was hurt; the wound looked awful, but she was no judge of such things. Perhaps he was going into shock. She tried to remember long ago first aid classes and could only recall something about keeping victims warm. She was going for a blanket when she was halted by the echo of screeching tires at the end of the lane. This was followed by the sound of doors slamming. It had to be a squad car; nothing else would be abroad at this time of the night. The people in it were searching for the fugitive at her feet. She glanced at the door; help was just beyond it, a hundred yards away. She looked back at Matteo and, as if in response to her examination, his eyes opened. The lashes stirred, then lifted to reveal onyx eyes that locked with hers.

  “No police,” he whispered, then faded out again.

  Helen swallowed. There was something pathetic, even touching, about his insistence in the face of his failing strength, and she found she couldn’t deny his request. Making an impulsive and possibly foolish decision, she ran to the wall and snapped off the overhead light. With her heart pounding she listened to the activity outside, waiting until the sounds indicated that the search was over and the police had left. Then, after making sure all the drapes were closed, she picked up the study lamp, extended the cord to its full length and examined her nocturnal intruder more closely.

  He was still unconscious but breathing regularly. His face was beaded with sweat, his clothes already drying in the air- conditioned room. The bleeding from his wound seemed to be slowing, but his color was alarming, making his tan seem like a coat of greasepaint. Helen got up to fill a basin with water and then bathed his face, stroking his brow and temples until he revived. When he saw her he tried to sit up, but collapsed.

  “It’s all right,” Helen soothed him. “The police have gone and I’ve put your gun away. You can’t stay here on the floor; you need some proper rest. You’ll have to get up now. I’m going to take you to my bed.”

  It was clear that despite his dazed state he understood she was going to help him. He looked stunned for a second, then rapidly decided to accept without question the boon that fate had sent him. He draped his good arm over Helen’s shoulders and hoisted himself first to a sitting position, then to his knees. He didn’t wince or cry out, but perspiration broke out afresh on his forehead and his mouth became a grim line.

  “It’s just down the hall,” Helen said gently.

  He nodded stoically, determined to make it. She put her arms around his waist and hauled him upward, swaying with his weight. His scent overwhelmed her, a combination of musky masculinity and the coppery, heated smell of blood. He was muscular, heavier than he looked, and she had to pause to catch her breath when he was finally on his feet.

  “Calmate,” he murmured, looking into her eyes, lapsing into his native language in his attempt to encourage her. “We can do it together.”

  Calmate. That was Spanish. Helen recognized it from her childhood, when her mother had had a Costa Rican maid. It was the Latin equivalent of “take it easy,” an expression used between friends. She had earlier noticed his slight accent, discernible only with certain words. This, along with his name, confirmed her initial suspicion that he was not American.

  It was a short distance to the bedroom, but the walk seemed to go on forever. It had taken everything he had left to get to the house, and Helen almost had to carry him to the bed. She could tell that he was humiliated, frustrated by the frailty of his body, whose instant obedience he had evidently come to expect. By the time they reached their goal one side of Helen’s nightdress was drenched with his blood. When she released him he sank heavily onto the edge of the bed, then fell back on it, passing out almost immediately. Helen did what she could to arrange his limbs comfortably, hoping that she would be able to move him to change the linen. The bed already looked like a murder had taken place on it. She covered him with a light blanket from the closet and then sat on the satin draped chaise next to the bed, trying to collect herself.

  She almost couldn’t grasp what had happened. An hour before she had been studying the details of Christopher Marlowe’s death in an Elizabethan barroom brawl, and now she had a wounded outlaw ensconced on her stepmother’s Oscar de la Renta bedspread, as if the one event had influenced the other. She had to do something to care for his wound; it could become infected if not dressed, and she didn’t even know if the bullet was still in it. Helen bit her lip thoughtfully, instructing herself not to panic. She was a graduate student in sixteenth century literature, not a nurse, but surely common sense had to play some role in an event like this. Soap and disinfectant, that’s what she needed. She picked up a notepad from the end table next to the bed and began to make a list.

  Her life had not prepared her to deal with such a crisis. She was the daughter of a millionaire, but far from being the pampered princess some supposed, she was a postscript to the youth of both her parents. They had gone on to successive remarriages, behaving dutifully but not lovingly toward her. Raised by a socialite mother who had little time for her only child, Helen had been shuttled from boarding schools to expensive European summer camps, always an afterthought, always alone. She grew up seeking solace in the intellectual pursuits that became the butt of joke
s and misunderstandings among her family and friends. Occupied with fashion shows, shopping expeditions, tennis and skiing, they could not fathom her interest in books and knowledge. Considered an oddity, almost an outcast, Helen was driven further into her studies, trying to find a meaning in them that seemed absent from the aimless, hedonistic lives of her relatives. She was now pretty much on her own, living on a trust fund, maintaining minimal contact with her imperious, dictatorial mother and a father far more interested in his stockbrokers than he was in her. For the child of generations of money, Helen was singularly idealistic, almost naive, having been raised apart from the financial pursuits of her family in the rarefied atmosphere of strictly run private schools. With money to support her and little interference from the father who supplied it, Helen went on with her studies, absorbed by a rich and timeless past she found much more rewarding than sterile reality. She had been immersed in her work for three weeks, isolated in her father’s vacation house, when the man on the bed had disturbed the quiet, satisfying pattern of her days with his unexpected intrusion.

  Helen suddenly threw her pencil on the floor and pressed her palms to the sides of her head. A man could be dying not five feet away from her, and she was making a list, for heaven’s sake. She got up hurriedly, realized she was still wearing the stained nightgown, stripped it off impatiently and slipped into a terry robe. She checked on Matteo, who was sweating profusely, muttering to himself. It was clear that his temperature was rising, and Helen wondered if there was alcohol in Adrienne’s medicine cabinet. She left her patient to rummage in her stepmother’s bathroom, looking for supplies. Adrienne was more into fifty dollar an ounce wrinkle cream than gauze bandages, but Helen did manage to find some peroxide and large sterile pads that would have to do until she was able to get out to a pharmacy. What she really needed was an antibiotic. Since Adrienne was something of a hypochondriac, with a coterie of doctors and no shortage of cash to command their attention, she had a separate glass cabinet stocked with little plastic vials of prescription medicines. Helen had never looked in it, but she did so now, passing over the many bottles she was unable to identify until she came to one labeled “erythrocin stearate.” She had taken that once herself for a strep throat, so she set it aside, hoping that its time of potency had not expired and that Matteo was not allergic to it. The date on the label was obscured, but there were ten tablets left, enough to help if he responded to it. Helen also found a half empty container of Percocet, with directions indicating that Adrienne had taken it for an abscessed tooth. It had to be a pretty powerful painkiller because her stepmother raised the roof if she got a hangnail. Helen put the two bottles in the pockets of her robe and rapidly replaced everything else, then went back to the vanity and assembled what she thought she would need to dress the wound.