‘I’m afraid I have none to offer. I am Joaquin Francisco Del Castillo, and I am not accustomed to doubt on that point.’
Lucy tried and failed to swallow on that staggeringly arrogant assurance. He had thrown his head high as if she had insulted him, his strong jawline rigid. ‘Well, Señor…er…Del Castillo, I am not accustomed to going off with strange men—’
‘Es verdad? You picked up Mario in a Los Angeles bar and shared his bed the same night. That knowledge does not lead me to believe that you are a particularly cautious woman,’ he drawled, his growling accent roughening the vowel sounds.
Lucy was nailed to the spot, still focusing on that firm male beautifully modelled mouth. She blinked, her soft lips opening and closing again in shock. She just could not believe that he had said something so offensive right to her face. Burning colour slowly crawled up her throat. ‘How dare you?’ she whispered in a shaken undertone. ‘That is a complete untruth!’
‘Mario and I grew up together. You are wasting your time putting on an act for my benefit. Save it for Fidelio. Are you coming…or are you staying here?’
‘I’m not going any place with you! They can send someone else out from the ranch,’ Lucy informed him with restraint, from between clenched teeth.
‘There is no one else, señora.’ And, with that clipped retort, Joaquin Del Castillo simply turned on his heel and strode back outside, command and cool writ large in his straight back, wide shoulders and fluid measured carriage.
Still awash with sheer paralysed shock at being treated with so shattering a lack of respect, Lucy stayed where she was. The men at the bar were talking between themselves. She stole a cringing glance at the growing male huddle, appalled by the suspicion that one of them might have understood enough English to follow what Joaquin Del Castillo had slung at her. Her cheeks aflame with colour, she grabbed up her heavy suitcase and struggled back outside with it.
Joaquin Del Castillo was waiting for her.
‘You are the most rude, foul-mouthed man I have ever met,’ Lucy announced, giving him only the most minimal sidewise glance of acknowledgement. ‘Please do not speak to me again unless it is absolutely necessary.’
‘You can’t bring that case.’ Before she could even guess his intention he had swept it up in one lean brown hand, planted it down in the dust and sprung it open.
‘What are you doing?’ Lucy gasped, her frigid air of desperate dignity fracturing fast.
‘It’s a long ride and I want to make good time. You will have no need for all these fripperies on the ranch,’ Joaquin Del Castillo asserted grimly. ‘Pick out a few necessities and I’ll put them in the saddlebags. The bar owner will look after your case until you return.’
‘A long ride…?’ Lucy repeated weakly. ‘Are you seriously expecting me…to get on a horse?’
‘Fidelio sold his pick-up.’
‘A h-horse?’ Lucy said again, even more shakily.
‘In a few hours it will be getting dark. I suggest you go behind the bar and change into a more appropriate outfit for the journey.’
Fidelio had sold his pick-up? Certainly a seriously ill old man would have little need of personal transport. But Fidelio Paez was also a wealthy man, and Lucy would have thought that any big ranch needed at least one vehicle. But what did she know about ranching? she asked herself, ruefully conceding her abysmal ignorance on the subject. Evidently Joaquin Del Castillo didn’t have motorised transport either, and she had seen for herself how poor and few were the roads in the Petén.
Lucy snatched in a deep shuddering breath. She had never been on a horse’s back in her life. ‘I can’t ride…’
A broad muscular shoulder sheathed in fine black cotton shrugged. It was fluid, it was dismissive, it was impatient. In fact Joaquin Del Castillo had the kind of highly expressive body language that made speech quite unnecessary. With the heel of one lean brown hand he pushed back the brim of his hat and surveyed her without pity. Sunlight illuminated his lean dark features for the first time.
Lucy’s breath tripped in her throat. He was so incredibly handsome she just stared and kept on staring, involuntary fascination gripping her.
His eyes were a clear startling green, framed by spiky ebony lashes and shockingly unexpected in that bold sun-bronzed face. His high, proud cheekbones were dissected by a lean, arrogant blade of a nose, the brilliant eyes crowned by flaring black brows, the whole brought to vibrant life by a mouth as passionate and as wicked as sin. He was just so gorgeous she was transfixed to the spot.
Their eyes met. An infinitesimal little tremor ran through Lucy. Her heart skipped a beat, began thundering in her ears instead. Green like emeralds, green like fire. A thought which didn’t make any sense at all, but then nothing that Lucy experienced in that moment had anything to do with normal thought. She watched the colour score his fabulous cheekbones with a level of wonderment that was undeniably mindless. Insidious heat curled up in the pit of her stomach, making her suck in her breath and blink, and at the same moment she blinked he turned away.
Sudden appalled embarrassment engulfed Lucy as she realised how she had been behaving. She was supposed to be choosing clothes from her case. What on earth had she been doing, gaping at him like some starstruck schoolgirl? Mortified by her own adolescent behaviour, Lucy crouched down beside her case and struggled to concentrate. ‘I can’t ride,’ she muttered afresh.
‘The mare is quiet.’ His rich, dark drawl had a disturbingly rough edge.
Her hands were trembling as she rooted clumsily through all the designer clothing which her twin had given her on loan. He was standing there watching her, and every time she turned up a piece of lingerie she blushed furiously and thrust it hurriedly back out of sight. He looked like a film star but he had the manners of a pig. But then he probably didn’t know any better, born and bred in the back of beyond, surrounded by a lot of cattle and grass, she told herself bracingly. She pulled out a pair of pale blue stretch cotton pedal pushers and an embroidered gypsy top, neither of which she fancied wearing—but unfortunately they were the only remotely casual garments which Cindy had been prepared to include.
‘I can’t get changed without privacy,’ she told Joaquin tautly.
‘You’re not modest…why pretend? Not two months after Mario died you were flashing everything you’ve got in a men’s magazine centrefold!’
Lucy closed stricken eyes in horror and chagrin. She knew so little about her twin’s life during the years they had been apart. And this hateful, dreadful man seemed to be revelling in making offensive allegations. How did he know so much about Cindy? Had her sister met Mario in a bar and slept with him the very same night? Lucy cringed, knowing she was a real prude but unable to stifle her shame on her sister’s behalf. Had Cindy engaged in nude modelling before she’d decided to train as a make-up artist?
But then stripping off for the camera was not the shocking choice it had once been, Lucy reminded herself bracingly. Famous actresses did it now, proud and unashamed of their beautiful bodies. Adam and Eve had been unclothed and unashamed too, until the serpent got at them. How dared this crude backwoods rancher sneer at her twin?
‘I believe I asked you only to address me again if it was unavoidable,’ Lucy reminded him in the same icy tone she would have used to quell a very badly behaved child in the library where she had once worked.
Behind the bar, which rejoiced in nothing as sophisticated as a window on the back wall, she kicked off her shoes and peeled off her tights at frantic speed, and then hauled up the clinging pedal-pushers beneath her skirt. By the time she reappeared her elaborately teased mane of carefully coiffed hair, which