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  `No, it's me.' The door was pushed open and Isabella Cortez came into the room. `Do you mind if I come in? Or are you two sharing secrets again?'

  'No, no, not at all.' Monica's laugh was a little forced. 'Sorrel and I don't share secrets. We talk a lot because we come from the same country, use the same language. She has been telling how she was caught in the blizzard on the mountains yesterday and couldn't find her way back to the hotel.'

  `That must have been terrible, for you,' said Isabella with a show of concern for Sorrel as she came further into the room. 'You might have been lost forever. I'm sorry to interrupt you both, but there is something I must tell you, Monica, before I leave. It's very important and to do with what happened on the mountain yesterday.'

  Isabella had a quiet confidential way of speaking which always made the person she was talking to feel as if she had their interests at heart and would do anything to help, thought Sorrel as she stood up.

  'Please excuse me. You'll want to be alone. I'll go,' she said politely.

  `Come to me later, Sorrel,' Monica called after her. `I'd like to have some massage before going to bed tonight. I missed your attentions very much yesterday

  and today. Now don't forget.'

  'No, I won't.'

  'You're so understanding, Sorrel,' Isabella murmured with her most kindly smile as she held the door open for Sorrel to go out of the room and possibly to make sure it was closed before she started to talk to Monica.

  Outside in the passage Sorrel wandered slowly along until she came to a patio window which had been opened for coolness. Sliding back the mesh screen which covered the opening so as to keep flying insects from entering the house, she stepped out into the garden. Behind a line of spear-shaped cypress trees which guarded the garden on its western perimeter the sun was setting, streaking the greenish sky with bars of flame-coloured feathery clouds. Nearby a songbird hidden among the leaves of a cherry tree was whistling his evensong.

  Along the winding paths of a shrubbery Sorrel strolled and thought about Isabella. She knew that the woman was the widow of Aurelio Cortez who had been particularly interested in the promoting of sport and who had been killed three years ago in a plane crash in the Andes. Since then it seemed that Isabella had been a frequent visitor at the Angel house, becoming in fact Monica's close friend. But while she had been staying in the Angels' home Sorrel had noticed that the woman spent almost as much time talking to Ramon in his study as she did talking to Monica.

  Was it possible that the woman was the cause of friction between Ramon and his wife? Sorrel sighed, impatient with the direction her thoughts were taking. It wasn't any of her business and she mustn't become involved in any way with the problems of a patient. She must remain professionally aloof.

  Yet there were times when she felt sorry for Monica

  and wanted to help her. She smiled ruefully. That was how she had become involved with Martin. He had been a patient at the hospital in her home town where she had trained and had worked as a physiotherapist. She had helped him to learn how to walk too and in the process had, fallen in love with him—or thought she had. She had listened to his marital problems and had hoped that he would be true to his word and get a divorce so he could marry her. And then one day his wife had come to the hospital to take him home with her, and somehow all Sorrel's love for him had changed to disgust.

  Now she made an exclamation of exasperation and turning on her heel marched along the path to the house. She had taken this job far away from home to forget about that foolishness with Martin. She had a chance to make a new life for herself and she wasn't going to waste any more time thinking about men and how devious and deceptive they could be. She could manage very well without them.

  Twilight was always brief in the valley and the garden was full of shadows as she walked across it into the house, intending to go up to her room and write some letters before dinner. She was half way up the stairs when she heard Ramon Angel call to her from the hall.

  'I wish to speak to you,' he said. 'Come to my study, por favor.'

  'Si, senor.'

  She went down the stairs again and followed him to the book-lined room where he spent much of his time when he was at home. It was a dark, severe room, rather like the man who used it, she thought as the desk lamp, which he switched on, illuminated his long narrow face.

  `Sit down.' He pointed to a high-backed leather-

  covered chair and she sat and waited while he took several paces up and down the room. He was obviously very agitated about something, but at last he stopped in front of her and spoke in his precise English.

  'I have decided that it is impossible for you to stay with us any longer. You will leave tomorrow morning.'

  'But why? What have I done wrong?' she exclaimed. 'Oh, you're not pleased because your wife doesn't seem to be making progress, but it takes time to persuade numbed limbs to move again ...'

  'My wife's progress or lack of it has nothing to do with my dismissing you from my employment,' he replied. 'I shall of course pay your fare back to England as well as your wages until the end of this month. That is all I have to say. You may go.'

  'It is not all you have to say!' Sorrel was on her feet, her heart thudding excitedly as anger swept through in reaction to his arrogant treatment of her. 'You can tell me why you're dismissing me. I have a right to know.'

  'I am under no obligation to explain anything to you,' he retorted, his lips thinning and his eyes beginning to glitter as his own temper began to rise. 'I am the master in this house and I have the last word.' He took a deep breath and paced over to the window to pull the heavy brocade draperies across it. 'Believe me, it is with great regret that I do this, because you came to us with the highest recommendations both from the hospital where you used to work and from Monica's mother who is friendly with your own mother so I'm told. You have done much to help Monica, for which I am very grateful, but I cannot risk it happening again.'

  'Risk what happening again?' she demanded in be wilderment.

  He gave her an impatient glance and began to pace

  up and down the room again.

  `So you pretend ignorance of the whole affair,' he accused, stopping before her suddenly. 'I'm not surprised. It fits in with your lie about the identity of the man with whom you spent the night in the refugio.'

  'I didn't lie,' she retorted hotly, her own little drop of Latin blood coming to boiling point. 'Is that why you want me to leave, because you believe I lied to you?'

  'Si. I have also discovered that you are untrustworthy and that you are involved in a conspiracy with my wife.'

  'A conspiracy?' She repeated incredulously, and laughed outright. 'Oh, whoever told you that?'

  For a moment he looked a little disconcerted by the question and she realised that he wasn't used to having his authority questioned, at least not by a woman. But he soon recovered and drawing himself up stiffly looked down his long Spanish nose at her.

  'I did not need to be told by anyone,' he retorted. 'I'm well aware of the fact that my wife confides in you. I should have realised that would happen when she asked for a therapist from England, for someone more sympathetic and understanding, she said. Por dios,' he exclaimed angrily, 'how she has deceived me all this time! '

  'I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about,' said Sorrel, cool again. 'But I didn't lie to you about the man in the refugio. I didn't know who he was—lie wouldn't tell me. All he said was that I should call him Domingo. And if Gabriela hadn't recognised him none of us would have been any the wiser.'

  `And that is exactly why I can't risk you being sent to meet him again,' said Ramon, swinging round to her again.

  'But I wasn't sent to meet him—the meeting was ac-

  cidental. I've told you I was lost and ...'

  `He very conveniently found you. He would recognise you were something to do with Monica because you were wearing her ski suit,' he said bitterly, and she gasped, her hand going to her mouth as-she remembe
red the man saying he had thought she was a woman he knew. 'Oh, it was very well planned,' Ramon went on. 'He saw us all together in the coffee shop, followed us to the top of the ski slope and when you fell lured you down to the hut. And none knows better than Renaldo how to lure. He's an expert with bulls and women, as anyone who is a follower of the corrida will tell you.'

  'I wish I knew what all this fuss is about,' complained Sorrel. 'First your wife asks me if the man gave me a message for her and now you ...'

  `Aha! he cried triumphantly. 'So I'm right—they did use you.'

  'Who used me?' she asked, uneasily aware that she shouldn't have mentioned the message.

  'My wife and Renalda.'

  She stared at him in dismay, realising he could be right. She could have been used as a go-between without knowing it.

  `But why?' she demanded. 'Please tell me why. I have a right to know.'

  'I cannot. It's a matter of my honour,' he replied stiffly, and she knew enough about the Spanish code of honour to which some Colombian men still clung to realise he wouldn't tell her any more. 'Here,' he pointed to the desk. 'That is a cheque made out to you—the amount will cover your fare back to England and the remainder of your salary. Please take it. Tomorrow Pedro will drive you to the airport and you will please take the first plane to England.'

  Sorrel picked up the cheque. No point in refusing it. Even if she didn't go back to England she would still need the money.

  `All right, I'll go because there isn't anything I can do to prove you're wrong about me, that I didn't conspire with your wife or act as a go-between for her and Juan Renalda. And I think you're very silly!'

  He turned on her furiously, his eyes flashing.

  `You dare to criticise me?' he said hoarsely.

  `Yes, I do. You see, I'm not frightened of you like your wife and daughters are, so I dare to call you silly because you can't see further than the end of your proud Spanish nose. You can't see that your wife loves you and no one but you. Buenas noches, senor:

  CHAPTER THREE

  SORREL ate her evening meal as usual with Laura and Gabriela in the small dining room neat the kitchen which was used only by the family. Manuela, the housekeeper, waited on them and when Sorrel excused herself from the table at the end of the meal saying she was going to see Señora Angel, the housekeeper, who was collecting dirty dishes from the table, looked up and said quickly.

  `She is not feeling well. She has gone to bed early. She said to tell you not to go to her.'

  Slowly Sorrel welt upstairs to her room again. She felt as if the one and only move left to her had been blocked. If she couldn't tell Monica how unjustly she had been dismissed by Ramon, whom could she tell?

  If you have trouble with your employer you will let me know, hmm? The man who had said his name was Domingo must have known there would be trouble for her if Ramon discovered his identity. So didn't that mean he and Monica had been using her as a go-between? But why did they need a go-between? She caught her breath in a gasp of outrage as she answered her own question. Juan Renalda was the reason why the Angel marriage was shaky. He and Monica must have been having an affair before the car accident and now they were trying to revive that affair. That must be why Monica had suggested Sorrel go skiing that week-end, because she had known Juan would be at the ski resort and would pass on a message.

  There was just one flaw. Juan Renalda hadn't given

  her a message for Monica. He hadn't referred to Monica at all. Instead he had done his best to start an affair with herself.

  Her thoughts chaotic, she went to bed and spent half the night tossing and turning as she tried to unravel the tangle she was in. But without the help of Monica it was impossible, and she fell asleep no nearer to a solution.

  She didn't wake until she felt a hand shaking her shoulder and Manuela's voice calling to her.

  'Senorita, senorita, it is late and Senora Angel wants to see you at once! '

  Sorrel sat up quickly and pushed her hair back out of her eyes.

  'Esta mal? Is she ill?' she asked, springing from the bed and pulling on her dressing gown.

  'No, no, esta cansada—she is tired. She did not sleep at all.'

  'Is Senor Angel at home?'

  'No. He has gone to the office. He said to tell you Pedro will drive you to the airport when you are ready to go.' Manuela's round black eyes rolled around in their sockets. 'I am sorry that you are leaving us. The Senora is much better since you come.'

  'Thank you, Manuela. I haven't gone yet,' replied Sorrel with a smile, and left the room.

  Monica was still in bed lying against big fat silk-covered pillows edged with lace and toying with the breakfast which Manuela had taken to her on a tray. Her eyes were red-rimmed with weeping and her pale face was blotchy beneath the heavy layer of make-up she had applied to it in an attempt to disguise the ravages of a sleepless night.

  'Oh, thank God you haven't gone yet! Ramon said he was going to tell you to leave. I begged him not to,

  but he wouldn't listen to me,' she said. 'And I've not been able to sleep.' She smiled wanly. 'A guilty conscience plays hell with beauty sleep,' she added.

  'Is your conscience guilty?' asked Sorrel, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  'Yes. You see, it's my fault you've been given the sack.' Monica gave a dreary little laugh. 'Ramon believes that I sent you to El Sombrero deliberately to make contact with Juan for me.'

  `And didn't you?'

  `No. Oh, I sort of hoped Juan might be there and that he might speak to one of the girls.' Monica shrugged and smiled again. 'But there was nothing planned.'

  `Yet you did ask me if he gave me a message for you.'

  'Only when I knew you'd talked to him about me. I thought, fool that I am, that he might have cared enough to ask after my health,' Monica's voice shook uncontrollably. 'But I guess he didn't.'

  `No, he didn't. In fact he gave no indication that he knew you.'

  Monica winced as if she had been given a knife-thrust and closed her eyes as she leaned back against her pillows.

  'And that's the message, I suppose,' she muttered. 'He couldn't care less. Oh God, what a fool I've been ' She opened her eyes and looked at Sorrel. 'And now I've embroiled you in my mess too. I'm sorry, Sorrel. I wish there was something I could do.'

  `You could tell your husband that he's wrong and that you didn't send me to meet Juan Renalda.'

  'I have done, several times, but he doesn't believe me.' Monica's voice was bitter. 'He believes I've been unfaithful to him.'

  'And have you been unfaithful?'

  'Only in thought, never indeed,' sighed Monica. 'I

  never got the chance, but Juan's reputation being what it is—or was—no one will ever believe that. And Ramon knows I'd been to see Juan at his ranch near Ibara when I crashed the car although I didn't realise he knew until last night when he came and told me that he was sacking you and that if I didn't stop trying to see Juan he would go to his lawyer to discuss arrangements for a divorce.'

  Sorrel slid off the bed and went over to the window to look out at the garden. Pedro was cutting the grass, sitting on a small tractor-like machine, and the smell of newly cut grass wafted into the room.

  'Why did you go to see Renalda? What was there between you and him?' she asked.

  'Oh, how can I explain? It's so complicated. There was something, yet there was nothing,' cried Monica.

  'Couldn't you tell me the relevant bits? I know you met him after watching a bullfight. Your friend Isabella introduced to him, didn't she?'

  'That's right, she did. It was her idea we should go to the corrida in Copaya. But I didn't see him again for about nine months because he was badly hurt in a fight at Manizales and was a long time recovering.'

  `So what happened when you did meet him again?'

  'I fell in love with him, I suppose,' said Monica flatly, and Sorrel turned to stare at her. 'I know it sounds ridiculous at my age, but you've no idea how bored I was at the time. Ramon was a
lways busy, busy, busy at the textile factory. The girls were at school all day. I had nothing to do except sit at home or entertain my women friends with bridge parties or play golf or go skiing.' Monica's voice shook a little. 'And since we'd lost the little boy,' she continued miserably, 'Ramon and I had seemed to drift apart.'

  'What little boy?'

  'Our son. He died a few days after he was born. Ramon had always wanted a son, something to do with the cult of machismo which some Latin-American men follow—you know, having a son proves their manhood or some such nonsense. Anyway, the doctors said I shouldn't have any more children, so ...' Monica shrugged her shoulders and made a pathetic grimace, 'he lost interest in me. You can guess how we've lived since, apart, yet in the same house, and you can guess too how I was feeling when I met Juan, very much in need of love and companionship. He had taken up skiing as a form of recreation after being very ill. He was different from anyone I'd ever met before—he possessed a rough sort of glamour, if you know what I mean. I've been told it's because he's a matador. There's always a romantic aura about them because they come close to death so many times! ' Monica gave a self-deprecatory laugh. 'I have to admit now I behaved no better than an adolescent with a crush on a film-star or a rock group. I followed him about. I went to places where I knew he would be.'

  `Did he know how you felt?' Sorrel asked.

  'I thought he did. At least, he never gave me the brush-off. We often skied together, but I was never as lucky as you—I never got him to myself. Then I didn't see him for a while and the need to see him began to build up in me. I knew where he lived, Isabella had told me, so I drove there one day. Looking back now I believe that I'd made up my mind to leave Ramon and the girls if Juan would have me.'

  'What happened?'

  'Sometimes I wish I'd never gone,' Monica muttered, and her eyes were wide and unseeing as she stared past Sorrel, obviously reliving whatever had happened between herself and the bullfighter. Suddenly she buried