Fallen Angel. Anne Mather

those shops where teenage clothes were sold. Once inside those shops however, Alexandra soon made her own wishes felt, and the sales assistants added their encouragement. The fashions of the day—jeans and sweaters, pants suits, and long flowing skirts and dresses—looked good on Alexandra’s slender figure, and although Miss Holland looked askance at revealing smocks and skin-tight jumpers, her opinion was overruled. Besides, the ear-splitting music which was an accompaniment to the service in these establishments gave her a headache, and she was obliged to wait outside.

      Although Charles Durham had not died a poor man, he had not died a rich one either. He had used most of his capital to finance the expeditions which had become the cornerstone of his life, and sacrificed his dream of creating an institute in the tireless search for knowledge. Even so, the sale of the small house he had owned, though seldom occupied, in Ealing did provide Alexandra with a comfortable nest-egg, but her plans of bestowing it on her benefactor were doomed to disappointment. Before departing for South America, Jason had made it very clear that until her majority, he intended to make himself responsible for her maintenance, and the knowledge that she had tricked him into supporting her occasionally gave her a sleepless night. She consoled herself with the belief, however, that once she was living in his house, she would make herself useful to him in every way possible, and somehow she would repay him.

      The days following Jason’s departure had dragged. She and the middle-aged lady who was to accompany her were obliged to have jabs for various tropical diseases before their departure, and because Jason could not spare the time away from his estancia, he had left within a week of their first meeting. From then on, Alexandra had lived in a fever of anxiety, as much from the knowledge of her own duplicity as from the after-effects of the vaccination serum.

      But eventually the day of departure had arrived, and they had left a cold, grey England, recovering from the chills of January, to fly south into the sun. Their overnight stay in Rio de Janeiro had given Alexandra no thrill, although Miss Holland had marvelled at the twin peaks overlooking Guanabara Bay, and the magnificent statue of Christ whose shadow embraced the city. The thrill for Alexandra had come when they landed the next morning at Valvedra’s much smaller airport, and found Jason awaiting them in the arrivals lounge. In mud-coloured Levis and a matching shirt, half open down the muscled darkness of his chest, he appeared relaxed and casual, only the guarded narrowing of his eyes revealing the doubts he still possessed about bringing her here. But Alexandra had determinedly ignored his restraint, and much to both his, and Miss Holland’s, disapproval she had flung her arms about his neck and greeted him in her usual impulsive fashion. This time, however, Jason had quickly disengaged himself, and the kiss meant for his mouth had slid harmlessly along his jawline. Alexandra had been sad, but unrepentant, despite the effort of Miss Holland to behave as if she was some kind of annoying child who refused to behave with decorum.

      Beyond the windows of the Range-Rover, the ground was steadily rising, and she saw to her surprise that they were in rolling hill country now, granite-like ridges casting shadows across the land. In the distance, the purple peaks of the Sierra Grande looked rugged and mysterious, and the whole aspect of the country had changed. It was late afternoon and already the shadows were lengthening, elongating the branches of the wind-torn cypresses that clung to the ridges, and shedding a rippling wave of ghostlike fingers across the land.

      Their emergence into a sunlit valley was almost startling, the escarpment dropping away below them where a stream tumbled recklessly down the cliff face. It was then that Alexandra saw him, outlined against the golden rays of the sinking sun on the ridge opposite them, a magnificent black stallion silhouetted by the purplish gold backdrop of earth and sky. Just for a second he was there and then he was gone, plunging into the gully behind him, so that she thought for a moment she had imagined him.

      ‘Oh!’ she gasped, the sound escaping from her on a soft sigh, and Jason’s response was one of wry satisfaction.

      ‘You saw him.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miss Holland, unaware of the tableau, gave an exclamation of surprise.

      ‘I beg your par——’ she was beginning, when Alexandra leant forward to rest her arms along the backs of their seats, saying eagerly: ‘Yes. Yes, I saw him! Whose is he? Is he yours? Oh, Jason, he’s beautiful!’

      Jason gave her a half mocking glance over his shoulder. ‘I doubt that brute will ever belong to anybody,’ he remarked flatly. ‘I suppose technically, yes, you could say that as he runs on my land, he belongs to me, but no one’s ever succeeded in breaking him.’

      ‘You have caught him, then?’

      ‘Yes.’ Jason nodded, and Miss Holland’s expression grew even more confused. ‘But he’s a proud bastard—excuse me!’ This as that lady’s brows ascended. ‘He considers running my range with my mares and keeping them happy his prime objective!’

      Alexandra’s low laugh was intimate, and as if realising her bare arm was resting comfortably against the broad expanse of his shoulder, Jason’s expression hardened and he moved so that she was not touching him. Fortunately, perhaps, Miss Holland chose that moment to ask a question of her own, and Alexandra sank back against the upholstery as Jason explained what they had seen.

      ‘You breed horses, Mr. Tarrant?’ she enquired, her lips twitching a little as if at a rather distasteful subject, and Jason’s hard features softened a little.

      ‘Horses are my passion,’ he admitted, his eyes meeting Alexandra’s for a brief compelling moment. Then, braking as the road took a sharp curve, he added: ‘But the production of beef is my primary concern.’

      ‘But this animal—the one Alexandra has just seen—is a wild creature?’ Miss Holland persisted.

      ‘I suppose he is,’ Jason nodded, frowning as the wheels of the Range-Rover slid across a shingly patch of pebbles dangerously close to the edge of the track. ‘But sometimes I wonder if he’s not more civilised than we are.’ His lips twisted at the older woman’s apparent astonishment. ‘There’s little that goes on at the estancia that he doesn’t know about. Some of the Indians think he’s the reincarnation of one of their gods. To them, he’s sacred. To me, he has less saintly qualities.’

      Miss Holland shook her head, obviously disturbed by her first introduction to life at San Gabriel, but Alexandra was filled with a mixture of anticipation and excitement. This was what she had always wanted, she thought with satisfaction; travel and adventure, and a chance to live her life instead of just existing. Jason’s disapproval did not disturb her, it was a challenge, and something told her he was not as indifferent to her femininity as he pretended to be.

      Then her breath caught in her throat as she suddenly glimpsed a building ahead of them. As yet, it was below them in the valley, but the painted tiles of its roof, leaved across a wide verandah, gave her her first sight of Jason’s hacienda.

      Uncaring of his hostility, Alexandra leant forward again, deliberately allowing her slim fingers to stroke the nape of his neck, hidden beneath the over-long straightness of his hair. ‘Is that your house?’ she breathed, and the scent of her breath mingled with the perfume of wild verbena that drifted irresistibly through the open windows of the Range-Rover.

      Jason’s hand came up, ostensibly to smooth his hair, but he pushed her fingers determinedly away, as he answered: ‘Yes, that’s San Gabriel,’ and her delight in her surroundings obliterated the coldness of his tones.

      ‘It’s rather a large house, isn’t it, Mr Tarrant?’

      Miss Holland had her own opinion, and Jason chose to tell her that the sprawling outbuildings she could see were the lodgings of the gauchos who worked for him. He pointed out the long bunkhouse and the cookhouse where their meals were served.

      ‘I have twenty men who work for me on a permanent basis, and at least twice that number who are employed if and when we need them. Then there’s Ricardo Goya, and Andrés Alberoni, who has his own home at the other end of the valley. Ricardo is my foreman, and Andrés is the best herdsman this side of the Andes.’

      ‘Quite a large establishment.’ Miss Holland was impressed, although Alexandra