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American. In complement to the wide-brimmed hat of a far finer material than those of the local peasants she had seen on the road, he wore a khaki-colored cotton shirt, rolled to the elbow and open at the throat, dark blue jeans which skimmed his lean hips and muscular thighs in rugged harmony of man and material, and sturdy leather boots whose richness seeped through even the fresh layer of dust. A very American look, yet the articulation of his name defied this image, perplexing Eva all the more. He had spoken his name with a
sense of pride, both personal and national; she respected him for it, even as she found it electrifying.
    Eva had been staring at him, tongue-tied, a rare experience for her. As she sought her next words, he barked through thin drawn lips.
    â€œI know of no Eva Jordenson on this trip! Who are you?”
    â€œEva Jordenson—er, Mrs. Stuart Jordenson. You met my husband in New York and made arrangements with him for this expedition?”
    â€œYes, of course, I met a Stuart Jordenson and he did plan to join this group. But he made no mention of a wife, much less of plans to bring her here.” The anger in his voice took her aback, and she suddenly wished she had written beforehand informing him of her intentions. In her own desperate need to escape New York, it had not occurred to her that joining the expedition would pose any problem. Dismayed at her own shortsightedness and not quite sure where to begin her explanation, she once again found herself directed by a low-toned question.
    â€œWhere is your husband?”
    Strangely embarrassed, Eva looked away from him quickly. “Stu is dead. He suffered a heart attack two weeks ago. I had assumed that I could take his place.” The words had come too fast, and she riveted her eyes toward him in anxious anticipation of his reaction. She was totally unprepared for it when it came.
    Two broad strides brought him from his position before the window to where she stood by the dresser. Barely masking the contempt etched in fine lines around his mouth, he cruelly seized her by the shoulders, spinning her around until her back was to the bed. Anger seethed as he growled, low and threatening.
    â€œJust what kind of imbecile do you take me for? A more callous story I’ve never heard before! You’d
like to have me believe that a mere two weeks after your husband’s sudden and premature—if my judgment of his age and health last month were correct—death, you hop a plane and show up thousands of miles away in a small town at the edge of nowhere, intending to join an expedition to which you were neither invited nor are wanted? I don’t believe you, Mrs … . whatever your name might be. Don’t tell me about the recent death of your husband when this is mine for the taking—”
    He thrust his hand roughly into the mass of curls, pulling her head back precariously as he drew her slim body against his and fiercely claimed her lips once more. This time there was neither tenderness nor persuasion; it was a raw act of possession, reducing the potential of beauty to its basest form. The message was clear to Eva as she was forced to endure his punishing kiss. When he finally released her, she staggered backward, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed. Fear permeated her every fiber, not so much of Roberto de Carvalho as of what he had said. In her heart she felt that his accusations were justified. What kind of a wanton could she be to have behaved such? An inner torment had begun to gnaw at her, and Eva felt her confidence disintegrating.
    Roberto now stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, his broad stance one of the master awaiting an accounting for some heinous crime. He was not going to make it any easier for her this time, as his steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation.
    Eva’s eyes had been glued to his in confusion and fear since his violent demonstration. She shifted them now