“Have I not taught you how to kiss better than that?” he asked.

Her eyes fell before his.

“I want you to kiss me for once as if you meant it. Forget your hatred.”

“How can I do anything so impossible?” Skye asked. “I hate you, you know that. Kisses are for those who love.”

“And what do you know about love?” he asked.

“Nothing and thank God for it,” Skye replied.

“Shall I teach you to love me?”

His fingers seemed to tighten on hers.

“That is the one thing you can never do.”

“Is it? Are you quite sure of that?”

Skye’s lips curled scornfully.

“You must be confusing me with your other women, the women who were eager to stay here after you had tired of them.”

“And if I never grow tired of you?”

“You will – you must. Think how much more pleasant it would be to have someone here who loved you, who wanted to kiss you.”

“More pleasant?”

Skye’s voice had broken with the intensity of her pleading, but, when she looked up into El Diablo’s eyes, she could say no more. There was the fire of which she was so afraid and then he released one of her hands and took instead her chin between his fingers.

“Could anything be more pleasant than this?” he asked and kissed her.

His lips, fierce and compelling, held her mouth captive and then his other arm went round her and he drew her slim body close against him.

The passion of his kisses left Skye breathless.

Then suddenly with a strength that surprised him, she fought herself free.

“I am hungry,” she said in a tone that seemed suddenly to rasp like the cry of a toucan in the forest.

For a moment he did not answer and then, as she stood on the other side of the room trembling for fear of him, he walked to the door and opened it.

“Dinner,” he commanded to the man outside and, before he could return to his place on the hearthrug, the Indian servants came hurrying into the room.

If there was to be a feast for the camp, the French chef had obviously decreed that there should be one for his Master also.

Skye had eaten many delicious meals since she had been an unwilling guest of El Diablo’s, but tonight’s repast exceeded all others.

There was fresh fish from the river and baby chickens young and tender, very unlike the gristly long-legged monsters they became as they grew older. There was lamb cooked in some special way with cream and vegetables and there were small pineapples, which grew locally, soaked in wine and served with limes to which a strange liqueur had been added.

Two wines were served during dinner, a white one, light and golden as the sunshine itself, and a red one, which seemed to have been distilled from the warmth and crimson of the sunset.