The jaguar that had killed the man eight days earlier had taken toll of another victim the night before. News had been brought to El Diablo that a child from one of the haciendas was missing when nightfall came. A search had been made, but it had been fruitless until dawn when they had found him mauled and dead about half a mile from his home.

It was rare, Skye learned, to find a man-eating jaguar. They usually preyed on horses, dogs or cattle, and often fed on freshwater turtles. But occasionally, after having tasted human flesh, the jaguar became a confirmed man-eater.

The night before, Skye had been awakened by a strange sound, deep and hoarse and frightening that came from outside.

“Pu, pu – pu, pu!”

It was repeated again and again.

Skye jumped out of bed and slipping on her dressing-gown ran into the outer cave just as El Diablo came from his bedroom already dressed, a gun in his hand.

“What is that noise?” Skye asked, frightened and yet not certain what she had to fear.

“It is a jaguar,” El Diablo answered her.

She heard him call the guards as he ran out to the terrace but the great cat was not heard again and they had no chance of a shot at it.

El Diablo had come back into the outer cave while Skye was still there, peeping through the iron grid to see if she could see anything. In her desire for a glimpse of the jaguar she had forgotten how she was dressed until El Diablo returned and lit one of the candles.

Then she saw the expression in his eyes as they took in every detail of her cheeks flushed with sleep, her hair curling riotously against her forehead and the lines of her slim figure hardly concealed by the soft folds of her chiffon nightgown.

“I must go back to bed,” Skye said nervously.

“Why hurry?” he enquired. “In London the nightclubs will still be full.”

“I only wish I was in one,” Skye flashed at him.

“Listening to pretty compliments, no doubt! Well, I can pay them too if that is what you want! You look very alluring, madame!”

Skye pulled the laces of the dressing gown closer.

“You know that I don’t want to listen to that sort of nonsense,” she said.

“Perhaps deeds, not words, are preferable. The kisses you would doubtless give without protest in the taxi that carried you home.”

“I have never been kissed in a taxi,” Skye retorted. “I have told you before that I hate being kissed – I hate all men and I loathe you.”

He laughed softly at her anger and then walked towards her.

She was suddenly silent, backing away from him in a quickly rising terror. But he had only put out his hand to ruffle her already untidy head.

“You look like a cross choirboy,” he said. “Go to bed.”