El Diablo’s deep voice made her start as he came back, his hair still wet from the shower, his neck golden brown against the white silk of his evening shirt. She did not speak as he walked across the floor and stood looking at her.

She was wearing a dress of hyacinth blue chiffon with a sash of pink and silver lame. His eyes travelled over her, taking in every detail of her appearance, before he said,

“Come and enjoy your dinner. It may be the last you will have here!”

“What do you mean by that?” Skye asked, startled.

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring forth?” he answered lightly.

“You mean that Alejo – ” Skye began.

“I mean nothing,” El Diablo interrupted, “except that our charming Dictator may have a clever trap up his sleeve. If he takes me prisoner, it might solve many of his problems. Men have been known to agree to strange things in the prisons of Jācara.”

Skye remembered that Josné had said much the same thing.

“But if you think he is not to be trusted, why go?” she asked.

“My dear, I cannot afford to ignore any olive branch however suspicious it may appear. Besides, it may be a genuine change of heart. Alejo wants to come to an agreement over these mountains and I don’t suppose he wishes to fight for them any more than we wish to defend them. And I can assure you that I propose to take every possible precaution.”

“But what happens if things go wrong and – you are captured?” Skye asked in a low voice.

“Then you will be free,” El Diablo replied. “I have given instructions to Juan and to the others I can trust that, should anything happen, they are to take you at once to the yacht. Get out to sea as quickly as you can. I don’t need to tell you that once you are away from Mariposa you should forget me and everything that has happened here.”

“It would not be as easy as it sounds,” Skye retorted.

He raised his eyebrows at that.

“No? Then you can think of me being tortured by Alejo with a lighted cigar and any other fascinating gadgets that Dictators employ on those who are unable to retaliate and you can feel with satisfaction that you are getting some of your own back.”

“Don’t!” Skye cried sharply. “It makes me feel sick to think of anyone, even you, being tortured.”

“I will say this to your credit, that you are not as tough as you pretend,” El Diablo teased.

“Did I ever pretend to be tough?” Skye enquired.

“But of course,” he replied. “The incomparable Miss Standish who could go everywhere and do everything, armed with dollars and, of course, her most valuable weapon, a British passport.”

Skye felt her temper rise at the mockery in his voice, but with an effort she kept it under control and said quietly,