Escape From Desire. PENNY JORDAN

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      ‘Get up!’

      It was Zach speaking, his voice iron-hard and inflexible, cutting through her self-pity.

      ‘I can’t go any further,’ she protested wearily.

      ‘Oh yes, you can,’ he replied grimly, ‘and will—unless you want to be left here to die. These guys aren’t playing games, and they don’t make allowances. Now get up. I value my life even if you don’t value yours.’

      He had spoken so quietly that Tamara had had difficulty in hearing him, his voice deliberately flattened to prevent the words from carrying, and once again she remembered his profession.

      ‘It’s all right for you,’ she protested bitterly. ‘I suppose you’re used to this. You …’ Her breath was cut off savagely as she was hauled to her feet and held against him, while his mouth came down on hers, almost depriving her of breath. Again she heard the men laughing, but this time in a different way.

      It was only seconds before Zach released her from what hadn’t been a kiss at all really, more a harsh punishment, her lips bruised from the abrasive pressure of his, her nostrils full of the musky male scent of him. Just before he stepped away from her, he gritted furiously, ‘You little fool! Any more cracks like that and we’ll both be dead, understand?’

      Too late, she did, all too well, and as she walked on on shaky legs, couldn’t stop herself from visualising what might have happened had any of the guerrillas guessed what she was going to say. The information that Zach was connected with the British Army, in no matter how nebulous a fashion, was bound to provoke an unpleasant reaction.

      Half blinded by tears, sick and shaking, Tamara forced herself to go on, not knowing who she hated the most, Zachary Fletcher or the guerrillas.

      How long they walked along that narrow winding track which she felt sure must be circling the mountains instead of climbing them Tamara didn’t know; she only knew that the physical effort of simply putting one foot in front of the other was a greater ordeal than anything she had experienced in her life; there was no room for thought, or even fear, only the sheer physical necessity of keeping going.

      The sporadic downpours of rain were something she had become accustomed to, like the soaking clothes plastered to her skin and the discomfort of walking in wet shoes. As they brushed past trees and through dense undergrowth, so thick in places that it almost obscured the trail, Tamara felt as though she had strayed into a horrendous nightmare of the sort where, during her childhood, she had been forced into headlong flight, pursued through the gnarled and tangled blackness of a forest by some nameless but terrifying oppressor.

      A damp tangle of leaves brushed her skin and she felt a momentary sharp pain, but her brain was too weary, too involved in the process of simply walking, to register more than faint surprise. It was only later when yet another of the huge moths which seemed to infest the forest flew in front of her face and Tamara raised her arm that she realised what had happened, her whole body stiffening in primeval fear and horror so that Zach, who had been walking behind her, cannoned straight into her.

      His ‘What’s the matter?’ turned into a small sound of understanding as his fingers circled her wrist with hard warmth and found the alien body of the huge leech which had attached itself to Tamara’s soft flesh.

      Her scream was suppressed instinctively, her eyes closing in childish reaction to blot out the sight of the pulsing body of the leech as it clung to her arm.

      ‘Move!’

      This time Zach ignored the harsh command, forcing the guerrilla leader to drop back to see why they had stopped.

      ‘Your flesh is tender and more to their liking than ours,’ he commented when he saw what had happened. ‘Here.’ He tossed Zach a box of matches and asked laconically, ‘Do you know what to do?’

      ‘I think so.’ Calmly Zach struck one of the matches and applied the flame to the body of the leech. Tamara watched in dazed horror as the bloodsucker shrivelled and dropped to the ground. Her body was trembling so much she could barely stand, shock waves of reaction flooding over her, drowning out everything but her revulsion for what had just happened.

      ‘Walk!’

      The gun thrust into her side reminded her of her surroundings, and obediently she started to move slowly along the trail. They must have come miles. What time was it? She wasn’t wearing a watch and found it impossible to calculate the length of time that had passed since their capture.

      The higher they climbed the less dense the vegetation became; although it was still thick enough to provide a thick scree to cover the steep slope they were ascending. Tamara could remember reading in her holiday brochure that because of the climate even the tops of the mountains were covered in heavy foliage, and the more time went on the more she came to realise the implausibility of them being rescued quickly.

      At last the guerrilla leader called a halt, although Tamara could see nothing in their surroundings to distinguish it from anywhere else on their trek.

      ‘That way,’ he instructed, motioning them towards a sheer-sided mass of shiny black rock. ‘Hurry!’

      It was only when they drew nearer that Tamara realised that what she had mistaken for a narrow cleft in the volcanic rock face was, in actual fact, the entrance to a much deeper fissure.

      ‘I discovered this place when I was a boy,’ the guerrilla leader told them, adding boastfully, ‘I doubt there are half a dozen people on St Stephen’s who know of its existence, and certainly no one who would be able to lead anyone here.’

      Tamara could well believe him. She shrank back instinctively from the almost Stygian darkness that seemed to reach out greedily for her as they approached the fissure, and this time it was Zachary Fletcher who urged her on, his face unreadable and remote, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.

      The fissure was so narrow that they could only walk through it in single file, and Tamara, who had always had a horror of being underground, felt her skin crawling with a terror remembered from a childhood visit to the caves at Inglewhite, many years before. But this time there were no understanding parents to hurry her out to the welcome fresh air, and she bit down so hard on her lower lip to prevent herself from protesting that she could taste the blood.

      At last, when she felt she could not stand another second trapped in that narrow passage, it opened out into what was obviously a series of caves. The first one was empty, and despite the number of openings leading off from it, the guerrillas seemed to have no difficulty in selecting one of them, and herding their prisoners into it.

      This time the tunnel was mercifully short and it opened into a large cavern, well lit by Calor gas lamps which threw eerily reflected shadows over the shiny rock face. Furniture of the type used on camping holidays—folding canvas chairs, a table, a cooker next to a container of gaz with a fridge on the other side of it was scattered incongruously inside the cavern, and as though he sensed her surprise, the guerrilla leader laughed at Tamara.

      ‘Even men such as we need our “home comforts”, but do not be deceived, we are quite capable of living off the jungle if need be.

      ‘Kennedy,’ he addressed one of the men over his shoulder, ‘make us some food, while I show our guests to their quarters. You will be very comfortable,’ he threw over his shoulder to Tamara. ‘I shall give you the honeymoon suite.’

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