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  “Good, because I’m ready to keel over from lack of sleep.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “A good thirty-six hours.”

  “Do you want me to drive?”

  “No, you have Rane on your lap. Don’t wake her.”

  “If I talk, does it help you stay awake?”

  His mouth quirked. “Yes, talking helps.” And God help him, he had so many questions he wanted to ask Pilar. “I remember one time you saying your father had royal blood?” He glanced at her.

  Pilar stirred. Talking might help keep him awake, but she wasn’t completely comfortable being the target of his attention. “My father was an aristocrat from Spain—an ambassador to Peru.”

  “And he married your mother, Maria?”

  “Yes…Mama was a Quechua medicine woman.” She opened her hand and studied it. “I was an only child and very much loved.”

  “I imagine,” Culver said, “you lived a life of luxury.” A lifestyle he couldn’t have given her at twenty-five.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I grew up at the consulate in Lima, surrounded by servants. Later, my papa sent me to America for college.”

  “And you went to Harvard,” he confirmed, remembering.

  Pilar nodded.

  “Was it hard moving back and forth between North American society and this one?”

  She sighed and nodded again. “You know how it is down here in South America. At Harvard, I didn’t have to endure the kind of prejudice I experience here. People can be cruel. Manuela, Hector’s assistant, for example, hates me.”

  “Why?”

  She heard the dismay in his voice, and it gave her the courage to tell him the story. “Because I’m mestiza—what you might call a ‘half-breed’ in the U.S. You see, Manuela comes from a rich family of pure Castilian lineage. When she saw me leaving Hector’s office one day shortly after I became an agent, she turned to a friend and said, ‘Imagine mating a fine Paso Fino stallion to a donkey from the barrios of Lima. What you get is her.”’

  “The bitch.”

  Pilar felt the grating anger in Culver’s voice. “The words cut me deeply,” she admitted, surprised by his response in her defense. “I guess I should have been used to such remarks by then, but I could never seem to harden myself in that way. I tried to hold my head up and keep my shoulders squared, as my mother counseled me. She was a housekeeper at the consulate when she met Papa. They fell in love, even though everyone said it was wrong.”

  Culver nodded. He was familiar with South American prejudice. A woman was considered the property of her husband. A daughter’s entire fortune and life was tied to the man her father chose for her to marry. “Are your parents still around?”

  Pilar felt sadness overwhelm her. “My wonderful Papa died when I was twenty-one. It was one of the worst days of my life. He died suddenly, of a heart attack. He was only sixty.”

  “And your mother? What did she do without the shield of your father between her and Lima’s rich?”

  Pilar smiled grimly. “She fled Lima and moved back to the village where she was born. Without Papa’s powerful presence, Mama didn’t want to stay where she wasn’t welcome. Five years later, she died suddenly, without warning. Now,” Pilar whispered, “all I have left are Grandmother Aurelia and Grandfather Alvaro.”

  “And you got out of your career as an agent when?”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Pilar managed to say in a strained tone, “I joined at twenty-two, as soon as I graduated from Harvard. I was part-time in only three years. I—I quit after our mission.”

  Culver heard what was not said. She had married Fernando, a man twice her age—probably chosen by her father for her when she was ten or twelve years old. Fernando was a man of obvious wealth and station. Well, Culver couldn’t fault Pilar for that, could he? She was mestiza, considered an outcast by the well-to-do of Lima with their aristocratic Spanish blood. Her father had been rich, and she wouldn’t marry below her station, even with her half-breed blood. No, old Fernando had been a far more appropriate suitor than Culver had been. Hell, he’d been a twenty-five-year-old CIA agent with five thousand dollars in savings, no aristocratic breeding and without the sort of future prospects Pilar had wanted.

  Bitterly, he acknowledged a certain understanding of her decisions. Looking at Rane, her beautiful daughter, he figured Pilar must have had at least had six years of happiness before her husband died.

  “If something does happen to you,” he said, “will Fernando’s family take care of Rane?”

  Shaken out of her state, Pilar stared at him. “Fernando?”

  “Yes.”

  She frowned and gave him a questioning look.

  Culver motioned to the girl. “If you die, will your husband’s family take care of Rane?”

  “Oh…yes, they will.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t sure?”

  “Well,” Pilar stammered, flustered by the question, “of—of course they will.”

  Culver was puzzled. Why should such a simple question make her so rattled? Pilar wasn’t the kind of woman who was easily shaken. But she had a characteristic habit of pushing the hair from her eyes when she was nervous, and she was doing that now. Why? It didn’t make sense, but Culver was too damned tired to try to figure it out at the moment. All he wanted was a mat on the floor of a hut and a good night’s sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Culver barely stirred. Somewhere in the distance, voices were speaking Quechua. Children were laughing and playing. A rooster very near let loose with a raucous crowing to where he lay. The smell of woodsmoke permeated his exhausted senses and he became aware of the hard earth beneath him, the blanket woven of llama wool folded under his head as a pillow.

  Something warm and soft met his hand as he stretched his arms and yawned. Culver pried open his eyes, his groggy brain slowly recalling his mission. On the heels of that realization came the memory of arriving at Pilar’s grandparents’ village about four this morning. They had been shuffled off to a small thatched hut with little preamble, though Culver remembered meeting Aurelia, Pilar’s grandmother, who had led them to the hut.

  He recalled Pilar’s surprise and panic at having to share the floor of the hut with him. What had she thought he was going to do? Make love to her? This time at least he’d been too bone tired to be wounded by her rejection of him. Instead, he merely stumbled into the hut, lay down in the far corner on a mat and drew up a blanket for a pillow. Almost instantly, he’d spiraled into badly needed sleep.

  What was he touching? The gloom in the hut was nearly complete. A blanket hung across the entrance, with only a fine line of sunshine peeking around its edges. As his eyes adjusted, he realized with a start that it was Pilar who lay so close to him. She was still asleep, he saw as he eased up onto one elbow. The soft light stealing around the blanket washed lovingly across her form.

  Pilar lay on her back, her hands clasped near her breasts, a blanket drawn up over her. How beautiful, how achingly desirable she looked. Culver couldn’t help himself as he leaned over and threaded his fingers through the tangled black hair near her face. The hut’s dim lighting accentuated her Incan ancestry, from her high cheekbones to her broad, unmarred brow. She was thirty-two years old, yet, he marveled, she had changed very little from the time he’d first known her. Maybe it was her ageless Incan blood.

  Her hair spilled like a dark flow of moonlit water across a small pillow beneath her head. The strands felt like warm silk, just as he recalled. His fingertips tingled as he eased the strands back to get a better look at her face. Her skin was dusky and velvety soft. Did he dare touch her? How badly he wanted to. Culver wanted to do more than that. Her lush lips were parted, begging to be kissed.

  It would be so easy to lean over and graze those lips. His lower body tightened with hungry need. With undeniable memory. Culver allowed his hand to rest lightly against the crown of Pilar’s head. Belatedly he realized that Rane, who had slept in Pilar’s arms last night, was go
ne. Having no idea of the time, he guessed that the girl had long since awakened and was probably out happily running around with the village children.

  His gaze moved back to Pilar. How small and innocent she looked in sleep. Last night, they’d nearly died, yet as her breasts rose and fell slowly, she looked supremely untouched by life. Culver’s fingers moved as if they had a life of their own, lightly stroking her silky hair. All he had to do was lean over and place his mouth against hers. The driving desire almost shattered his massive control.

  Pilar murmured in her sleep and rolled onto her left side. The blanket slipped, revealing her shoulder. Her white blouse was wrinkled, but Culver didn’t care. Pilar could wear the most expensive of gowns or nothing at all and she still looked just as beautiful in his eyes. Her hair tumbled gently downward, caressing the curves of her face and slender neck. Her hand stretched outward, connecting softly with Culver’s chest, his skin tightening instantly where her fingers rested. He marveled at her reaching out for him, even in sleep. Then he scowled. Probably for Fernando, not him. It hurt to be realistic about it, but Culver strove to be ruthlessly honest with himself. It didn’t pay to be an idealist, as he knew from hard experience. Pilar had taught him well.

  Her breath was shallow and moist against his skin. He’d shed his shirt last night in the heat of the hut. Now her breath tickled strands of hair on his chest. Her fingers lay slightly curled against him. So innocent. The words, the feeling, flowed through Culver. In sleep, Pilar trusted him. Taking in a deep, ragged breath, he recalled as if it were yesterday how Pilar used to sleep in his arms—peaceful as a newborn baby. She’d felt completely safe, protected by him. Even with the danger that had swirled around them, she had slept quietly in his arms.

  They had had each other, he realized, sadness blanketing him as he studied her small, delicate hand. An automatic trust had sprung up between them, and it had translated into the abandon with which they had made love. He released a long, painful breath as he stared down at Pilar. What could he have done differently to keep her? How many times had he asked himself that question? What had he done wrong to chase her away?

  It was true that he wasn’t rich or aristocatic. As he studied Pilar, he tried to be sensitive to the plight of a South American woman. The husband was the autocratic ruler here. Marriages knew no equality. Women became so much chattels, allowed no life of their own, no hopes or dreams outside their kitchens and the raising of large broods of children. A husband was considered macho if his wife had many children, for that showed his sexual prowess. And the concept of machismo included making the wife bow to the husband’s needs and demands.

  Culver sighed. He’d lived in South America off and on for a decade now, and he’d often been disgusted by the way men treated women. Among the Quechua, women were respected as equals, so they didn’t suffer as the rest of South American women did. It was a Spanish problem, not an Indian one. Intellectually he could understand that Pilar had been no less trapped by the male-dominated environment than any other South American woman. Her only hope was to marry someone rich and affluent and thereby escape some of the worst of the daily drudgery. Money would provide the services of a maid and housekeeper, and among the rich, families tended to be smaller.

  Culver knew how intelligent Pilar was. He’d always respected her savvy—a combination of her American Liberal-arts education and her deeply rooted Incan heritage. Still, how could she be expected to come back to this village with her royal blood and marry a dirt-poor farmer? She lived precariously between two opposing worlds.

  Leaning over, unable to help himself, Culver lightly touched Pilar’s arm, the skin firm, warm and velvety beneath his fingers. So she had married some old man for his money. Fernando had probably been promised Pilar, anyway, falling for her blazing beauty and youth. How could Culver blame her for finding her own way to avoid the cultural quagmire that threatened all women down here? His mouth tightened. Maybe that was why he had such a hard time staying angry with her.

  “Mi querida,” he whispered near her brow, as he had once called her so often. My darling. She had always been his darling—a beautiful, rebellious survivor of a woman.

  Pilar stirred. She heard Culver’s deep voice rustling like leaves nudged by a breeze. Her dreams were lush. Fulfilling. He was touching her, moving his roughened fingers slowly up and down her arm. His breath feathered across her brow and cheek as she heard the endearment, and her heart opened like a flower starved for sunlight as his mouth pressed lightly against her hairline. She loved her dreams, for in them, she could be with Culver again, laughing, playing and loving without the burden of the terrible price they had paid.

  A slight moan came from within her as she felt herself being eased onto her back. Culver was with her, and that was all she needed. His hand was warm and supportive on her shoulder, and she felt him trace her collarbone. Something was wrong with the dream, though. She was wearing clothes. Usually in her dreams, she was naked and standing beside a deep, dark blue pool with rich green grass beneath her feet. Culver was naked, too, drawing her into his massive arms, smiling down at her with that predatory smile that made her blood sing with anticipation.

  “Mi querida… .”

  Where did dreams end and reality begin? Pilar could feel his lips bestowing a series of small, moist kisses on her forehead. Each touch of his mouth sent a delicious tingling sensation from her head right through her to her very core. The dream felt so real. More so than ever before. Somewhere in the background, she heard a rooster crowing. Something wasn’t right. Pilar dragged herself out of her deep, languid sleep. As she began to surface to awareness, she realized she could still feel Culver’s hand on her shoulder, caressing her, and his lips continued to trail along her temple.

  She slowly lifted her lashes. Though still caught up in the remnants of sleep, her vision blurry, she could smell Culver’s naturally musky scent. No dream had ever been this real. A small, startled gasp escaped her, and she groggily looked upward—into the burning intensity of Culver’s light blue eyes. He studied her in the intervening silence. Her breath caught. He was so close, so close… . Wildly aware of the gentle pressure on her shoulder, she felt as if she were drowning in the desire she read in his eyes. His expression was no longer hard or distant. No, this was the man she had once known so intimately. His lips were parted, his vulnerability clear.

  Pilar’s body throbbed as if in a fever state. The ache within her grew with each wispy, ragged breath she took as she stared wonderingly up at Culver. He wanted her, with a raw, naked need. She wanted him no less. Dizzied by his nearness, by the power of him as a man, Pilar lay helplessly snared within this embrace, her skin still tingling where he’d kissed her brow. Only inches separated them. Would he kiss her lips? Pilar saw the intent in his eyes as his gaze shifted to her mouth. She felt his grip on her arm tighten further. How badly she wanted his kiss. If kissing Culver would make her world right, Pilar would have surged forward those few inches and kissed him first.

  Then, through the flimsy hut walls, Pilar heard Rane laughing with the wonderfully joyous freedom of a child. No. Her own tough reality came rushing back like a shower of ice water. She couldn’t kiss Culver, though every cell in her body screamed out for his mouth’s caress. If she did, she would be lost. Her carefully constructed world, which she’d worked so hard to keep in place, would shatter like a crystal glass beneath the blow of a hammer.

  “Please…” she whispered unsteadily, “please don’t kiss me, Culver… .” Instantly, she saw his eyes narrow dangerously, anger replacing the desire. His hand drew back from her shoulder, and inwardly, she wept for the loss of that cherished sense of effortless intimacy. His mouth tightened once more into a hard, uncompromising line. Regret tunneled through Pilar as Culver shifted away and sat up, his legs crossed.

  How masculine he looked with his magnificent chest and shoulders exposed. He had the beauty of the deadly jaguar—lethal power mingled with an oddly heady promise of letting her feel that streng
th, become part of it. Pilar knew Culver’s magical sway over her could kill her, too; as surely as jaguar. What little was left of her wounded heart couldn’t stand the pain of sharing with him and losing him. She’d barely survived the first time; she didn’t have the strength to survive him again.

  Bitterly, she sat up, the colorful wool blanket spilling into her lap. She hurt for Culver, knowing her words had injured him. She reached her hand toward him.

  “I—I’m sorry, Culver. I wish…I wish so many things were different… .”

  Culver sat, stunned by her rejection. They had been so close to kissing each other. So close to touching once more. He saw the regret on Pilar’s still-drowsy features. Her hair was tousled wildly around her face, and he ached to pick up a brush and stroke those silky strands, taming them back into place. How many times had he dreamed of brushing Pilar’s hair? Feeling those strands slide between his fingers, so full of life and shining like a raven’s wing? Too many, he angrily reminded himself. Why the hell had he tried to kiss her when she’d made it all too clear that she no longer wanted him?

  “It won’t happen again,” he said harshly, forcing himself to his feet. The hut was gloomy and he looked around for his shirt, finding it crumpled up in the corner on one of the woven mats that covered most of the hut’s dirt floor. He saw that blankets covered the windows as well as the door, accounting for the murky lighting. He leaned down, jerked up his shirt and threw it across his shoulder.

  Pilar got to her knees, trying to fight off the sleepy confusion that still held her. “Culver, it’s not what you…”

  He glared at her as he stalked to the entrance and jerked open the blanket. “I said it won’t happen again. Let it go, Pilar.”

  Even after he’d stridden angrily away, Pilar remained kneeling, devastated. Rubbing her hands against her arms, she bowed her head and fought back the sobs that threatened to well up from deep within her. It hadn’t been a dream. But how had she ended up on his side of the hut? The dwelling was very small, the type an elderly person lived in alone, but last night, they’d been dizzy with exhaustion. Her grandmother had brought them to the nearest empty hut. Pilar was grateful for her grandparents’ care. She remembered Aurelia placing a blanket over the still-sleeping Rane after Culver had gently placed the girl on one of the mats.