Night Of The Condor. Sara Craven

in Lima, planning their wedding. He might even have been with her now, in this bed, holding her so that she would never be cold or frightened again.

      Leigh shifted restlessly. Except that she had never really believed in pre-marital sex. If she wore white for her wedding, she wanted it to mean something, and Evan had acceded to her wishes, with wry resignation.

      ‘You’re a mass of contradictions, do you know that?’ he had whispered to her, when she had withdrawn gently but firmly from a situation that seemed likely to carry them both away. ‘You’re always so confident, darling, so sure of your place in the world. But underneath it all, you’re really old-fashioned, aren’t you?’

      At the time, she had been delighted with his understanding. It had emphasised, she thought, how right they were for each other. But now she wished she hadn’t been so uptight in her attitude.

      It should have been Evan’s mouth scorching hers in fierce, sensual demand. It should have been Evan’s hands caressing her naked breasts for the first time. It was Evan’s lovemaking which should have drawn that unquenchable shiver of response from her and not Rourke Martinez’ cynical advances.

      Oh, Evan, she thought miserably. Where are you, now that I need you?

      She turned over on to her stomach, pillowing her head on her folded arms. Well, let Doctor Rourke Martinez gloat over his sordid little victory. The campagn was not yet over, and somehow—somehow, she was going to Atayahuanco to find Evan.

      She could expect no help from Peruvian Quest, she knew, either here or in Cuzco. But she wasn’t short of cash, or initiative. She would take one of the organised tours up to Machu Picchu, then hire someone to take her the rest of the way. Jeep, she remembered the girl Juanita had said, and mule. She grimaced in the darkness. It sounded like hell, but if Rourke Martinez could manage it, she could too. And it would give her the utmost pleasure to see the look on his face when she made it into camp at Atayahuanco.

      On that thought, and against all the odds, she fell asleep, smiling.

      The mule’s name was Rosita, and she was said to be a family pet, but Leigh didn’t believe a word of it. She was a scrawny animal, with a drooping ear, and a malignant expression in her eyes, and if she had had a choice, Leigh would have wanted no part of her. Only choices, she had discovered over the past few days, were pretty thin on the ground.

      The first buoyancy which had started her off on her journey had begun to evaporate rapidly under the sheer pressure of the difficulties she had encountered

      There had been no problem in joining an organised tour. The hotel had been happy to arrange it for her, and equally pleased to retain her suite until she returned, because, as she had explained, her plans were fluid.

      And although the trip to Cuzco and Machu Picchu had simply been a means to an end, she had to admit she wouldn’t have missed if for the world.

      Nothing she had read, no photographs had prepared her for the scale and majesty of the ruins under their twin sheltering peaks. She had spoken glibly to Rourke Martinez about ‘the real Peru’. Now, she felt, she might have made a first faltering contact with its extraordinary and splendid past. And even the fact that sightseeing was strictly regimented hadn’t spoiled it for her. She wished she had been just a tourist, like the others. Wished she could have lingered, spent a night or two in the locality, shopped for souvenirs in the narrow streets and markets of Cuzco. Instead, she had to shop urgently for the things she would need for her trip—warm, practical clothes, a small folding tent, a sleeping-bag and cooking implements.

      But there had been setbacks from the beginning. Her first mistake had been to attempt to enlist the help of the tour guide, who had stared at her with open dismay and disapproval as Leigh outlined her plans, and then told her flatly that her schemes were madness. Leigh suspected his main objection would be in returning to Lima with one fewer member of his party than he set out with. Probably looks bad on the records, she thought drily.

      But he had certainly done his best to dissuade her. And she was sure she had him to thank for a daunting visit she had received from two policemen.

      At least, one of them had been a policemen, uniformed and authoritative. The other man, plump with a drooping moustache and sad, shrewd eyes, could have been anyone. No introductions had been made, and he had left most of the talking to his uniformed companion. But however politely couched, the message was a definite one. Leigh had no proper papers, no authorisation for such a trip. Without the proper authority, no pass could be issued. Without a pass, there could be no guarantee of safety. And even with a pass, a woman, young, beautiful, and alone … Hands were spread, looks were exchanged. Her possible fate was left to her imagination.

      ‘But I shan’t be alone,’ Leigh had protested. ‘I—I’m going to join my fiancé, Evan Gilchrist. He’s based at Atayahuanco on the Peruvian Quest project.’

      There had been a silence. Then the plump man had spoken for the first time. ‘You are certain of this, señorita? So how is it the disappearance of this man Gilchrist has been reported to us by the project director, Doctor Martinez?’

      So he had actually shown some concern at last, Leigh thought furiously. And at just the wrong moment.

      She said smilingly, ‘Oh, Evan will have turned up again by the time I get there. I’m sure he didn’t realise the upset he would cause by going off like that. I think he has dreams of finding a cache of Inca gold.’

      The plump man gave a dry, harsh laugh. ‘Inca gold,’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘That is—amusing.’ He lifted a hand and gave minute attention to his fingernails. ‘You have perhaps received some message from your man, señorita. Some rendezvous has been arranged?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ Leigh said carefully.

      He gave her a long steady look. ‘Be advised, señorita. Go back to Lima, or better still to your own country. It is not safe for you here.’

      ‘Thank you for the warning.’ Leigh met his glance, her chin tilted.

      He said quite affably, ‘It is not a warning, señorita. It is an order.’

      They had left her gasping. The visit had unnerved her, and for a while she had been tempted to do as they said, and run for cover. Then she told herself she was being ridiculous. They had been exaggerating, trying to put the frighteners on her, trying to protect their tourist industry. If too many foreigners went missing, it was a reflection on them. But she could afford to hire herself some reliable protection.

      However, their visit meant that she had to proceed with a certain amount of caution in her search for a suitable guide. The desk clerk at the hotel had put her in touch with a couple of suitable guides, but both of them had politely but firmly turned Leigh down when they discovered where she wished to go. They preferred, she realised resignedly, to stick to the more lucrative tourist haunts around Cuzco.