The Mule: An Erotic Romance in Colombia Read online

  “So?”

  “You want out of here and I’m in the market for a girl.”

  Cleo instantly thought of the hooker in Medellin. She stared at him. “You need palanca to get off the hook on law 30,” she repeated automatically.

  He nodded. “It was out of my scope to prevent prosecution.”

  “Are you from the embassy?”

  “No.”

  “So how do you expect to get me out of here? A jailbreak maybe?”

  “All right. Forget it.” He stood up. He’d been wrong. It had been a crazy idea.

  The second she saw he was going to leave, she panicked. “No wait! Please!”

  He stopped and turned to look at her.

  “You can get me out?”

  “I can arrange for house arrest.”

  “House arrest?”

  “Instead of spending 8 years in prison, you’d spend it with me.”

  “You want a sex slave?” Her voice shook.

  It was exactly what he was hoping to avoid saying. He looked at her and saw her desperation. It reminded him of the day he’d picked out Moreno, a frightened young dog, out of the local pound. This girl had the same scared yet hopeful look. “That sounds harsh. I prefer the term pet.” The half joke didn’t help. He tried to explain. “I don’t mean you any harm, Cleo. It’s a straightforward deal: you can stay here if you don’t want to take your chances with me. But honestly, I think you’d be better off with me.”

  Cleo shivered. The image of the hooker back in Medellin floated in her mind. Better a bed and food and drink...

  God, I’d do it for a hot shower and soap, Cleo thought in horror. How did I get into this mess?

  Her impulse was to agree, anything to get out but something about his pale eyes frightened her. And then she remembered him.

  “You were in the hotel,” she stammered. “At the bar. And the pool.”

  “That’s right.”

  Cleo remembered what Pedro had told her. This was the man who’d killed the men who’d tried to rob him. Cleo wasn’t remotely surprised; with his cool manner he looked capable of anything. She remembered the way he and Juan had nodded at each other. “You know Juan.”

  He just looked at her. “So?”

  “Can you talk to him? Tell him...”

  “No!” he snapped. He couldn’t believe she still loved that fucker. “Get this straight right now: if you come with me, there will be no talk about Garcia Riviera.” He spoke quietly but his eyes bored through her, narrowed with suppressed anger. His hands had curled into fists.

  She was awed by his rage. “All right,” she whispered. “But if you hate him so much, why me?”

  “When I saw you in Medellin, I wanted you.” He paused, thinking back to the taunt Riviera Garcia had made about his brother being willing to pay her rates. Connor would have taken that with a grain of salt but the newspapers reporting on the case had pointed out Cleo wasn’t a young innocent but a seasoned hooker. They’d filled their pages with pictures of Cleo dancing topless and nude, stripping, and had made a big deal out of her arrest for soliciting. “And it’s not like you haven’t been round the block a few times.”

  So he knew, Cleo thought in horror. She’d totally forgotten that Ffrench had told her that the prank that had led to an arrest had been touted in the local newspapers. All Cleo could think was that Juan had told everyone her secret shame. He must really hate her, thinking she had tried to smuggle that coke and gotten his brother into trouble on purpose.

  “Well? Are you interested?” The pale eyes were staring at her.

  She saw an odd flashing light. Everything went blurred at the edges. She became aware of his increasing impatience. “I have a problem.” Cleo blurted out “I took some coke and I think there was something wrong with it. I’m seeing things.” Instantly, she wished the words unsaid. She didn’t know why she was telling him this.

  Connor just shrugged. “It will wear off. And you won’t get any when you’re with me.”

  “And I have this crawly feeling that I am being eaten alive.”

  “Probably lice. Or maybe fleas,” he said calmly.

  Cleo felt her gorge rise. “Ohmigod!”

  “So, is it yes or no?”

  Cleo dithered for a moment but when he stood up with an air of finality, she made up her mind. “Yes!” she said, her voice high with despair.

  Looking at her, his heart suddenly went out to her. She was stupid but she didn’t deserve to be here, so desperate that she was willing to take a chance on a complete stranger. “Come here,” he said gently.

  When she got to her feet and took a step towards him, her legs felt rubbery at the knees. She knew her skin was clammy; cold sweat was running down her back in rivulets. He took her hand. His hand engulfed hers but it was warm, dry and his grip gentle.

  “Good decision. You wouldn’t last eight weeks in this place, never mind eight years. You’ll be much better off with me. I’ll take good care of you.” He looked down at her, his voice hardening. “But remember, this is your choice. If you come with me, there is no turning back. No changing your mind, no refusing anything I ask.”

  “All right.”

  “And you play nice. No sulking, no backchat and no whining or complaining.”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  He stared into her eyes. Cleo looked back at him, wondering if she’d done the right thing. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking but whatever he saw in her eyes seemed to please him. He smiled faintly. “Come on then. Let’s get you out of here.”

  They walked out of the room and were escorted along a carpeted corridor and into a plush office. The luxuriant moustache in the uniform was sitting behind a huge desk. The moment he spotted Connor, he stood up, shook hands and waved at them to sit down. Then, completely ignoring Cleo, they began rattling away in Spanish. The moustache was all charm; it was quite a contrast to the yelling the day before.

  Cleo didn’t understand what they were saying and she didn’t care. All she wanted was to get out.

  Connor put down an envelope on the desk. It was stuffed with cash. Moustache picked it up and threw it into a drawer. When Connor got to his feet, Cleo stood up quickly too. This was really happening. He really could get her out. She’d finally be able to contact Juan. She knew that if she could speak to him, to explain, it would all be ok.

  “Hang on a moment,” Connor said to her. He asked a question of moustache, who promptly yelled something into a phone. Seconds later, a harassed looking man trundled in, walked up to Cleo, whipped a magnifying glass out of his pocket, and examined her hair. Then he looked at the bite marks on her arms closely, spoke briefly and left again.

  “You’re lucky. You don’t have fleas or lice,” Connor said.

  “Why am I all itchy?”

  “It’s just dirt.”

  At his words, Cleo cringed. She really had hit rock bottom.

  Connor saw the look in her eyes and took her hand. “Never mind. Come on, it’s all fixed. We can go now.”

  A swift rattle of Spanish and they were out of the office, out of the gates and in the open air. The sky was a beautiful deep blue. There was a light breeze. It was so quiet that Cleo heard the silence roaring in her ears.

  He walked her to a small black car and opened the door for her. Cleo slid into the seat. The material felt luxuriously soft.

  Connor got in. He was so tall that his seat was racked almost all the way back. Cleo held her breath, still frightened someone would stop them and haul her back inside. But Connor started the car, slid quietly into gear and they were off.

  He drove silently. Cleo sat quietly, determined not to scratch herself. Although the doctor said she didn’t have fleas or lice, she could feel her skin crawling.

  They drove through the city suburbs, along the motorway and finally turned onto a smaller road. Gradually, the traffic dwindled and disappeared. The road narrowed and turned into a winding mountain road marked by enormous potholes. The silence and the lush green countr
yside began to have its effect: Cleo began to unwind. Three hours later, they tracked through a small village sporting a sign announcing San Juan.

  Maybe this was Juan’s saint, Cleo thought. She knew Colombians tended to name their children after saints and to celebrate their saint’s day as vigorously as birthdays. A hundred meters up the road, a small dilapidated sign announced that the Garcia Riviera emerald mine was 4 km away. Cleo sat up straight. It was Juan’s saint and that was Juan’s family’s mine. Maybe he would be here. Maybe she could see him and explain. If only he knew what had really happened, he would forgive her and it would all be sorted out.

  But the little car drove past the turnoff, through the village and up another mountain road. Twenty minutes later, they passed through another small village marked Dos Burros, after which the road narrowed again. Although it was now just one lane wide, the surface was immaculate. After a few kilometres more, Connor slowed and pulled up. The road ended on the crest of a hill. Tall gates and a high wall lay in front of them. Connor dug about in the glove compartment and flicked a clicker. The gates opened. They had arrived.

  Chapter Four

  Connor got out and much to Cleo’s surprise walked round and opened her door for her. He then opened the boot. Cleo saw it was stacked with groceries. Connor ignored the shopping and picked out a large bag. “Take this. It’s yours. I’ll deal with the rest. It’s too heavy for you.”

  Cleo peeked into the bag curiously. To her surprise it was full of girly clothes. He must have known she would say yes. A six-month supply of pills lay on top. They were her brand. How had he known?

  “Come on.” He led her into a large kitchen and through a living room. It was ordinary and simply furnished but huge windows overlooked a deep gorge and jungle valley so beautiful that it looked like a travel poster. It was the most spectacular view Cleo had ever seen.

  Corridor led her into a long corridor with just two doors. He stopped and gestured into the first door, “My room.” It overlooked the gorge as well but the thing that struck her was the four-poster bed. It had a baby blue satin-silk draped top and was exquisitely carved. It didn’t look like something that belonged in a man’s room.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “It came with the house,” Connor replied. He walked to the door at the end of the corridor. “Your room,” he announced.

  It was a miniature suite, Cleo decided. There was a bedroom, furnished simply with a large single bed and inbuilt cupboards, and an arched doorway that led to a living room containing a sofa set, coffee table and a huge television. It had the same view of the gorge.

  “It’s beautiful,” Cleo said, trying to placate him. His still demeanour and quiet ways were making her nervous.

  “This was built as a love nest by one of the local drug lords,” Connor informed her. “The mistress had a maid. This was her room.” He pointed to a door. “Bathroom’s over there. Get washed and dressed. Then come and find me. I’ll be in the kitchen, making us something to eat.”

  It was the most he’d said to her so far. Cleo wasn’t sure what to think of him but one look at the bathroom drove all thought about Conner out of her head.

  There was a conventional toilet, washbasin and mirror but the shower was on an outdoor platform overlooking the gorge and jungle canopy. Cleo saw that the veranda reached all the way round the house, but bamboo screens and careful positioning kept out prying eyes. It was a beautiful blend of function and luxury that she had only seen in magazines.

  She shrugged off her clothes and dropped them on the floor. Amazingly, her jeans crumpled. She’d have bet they were so dirty that they’d stand up by themselves. Diving into the shower, she turned it on full and let the water stream over her. She scrubbed herself thoroughly and washed her hair three times.

  Finally deciding she was clean again, she got out and went into the bedroom. Letting the air dry her, she sat on the floor and inspected the clothes he’d bought her. She was expecting slapper gear but, to her surprise, they were perfectly normal comfortable cotton bras and knickers, T-shirts and skirts. He’d included some string bikinis, just like the ones she’d bought for herself at the Medellin market. When she got dressed, it was all a little bit loose but it would do.

  Cleo waited uncertainly for a few minutes. Then she decided that there was no point in hanging about. Whatever his plans for her were, it had to be better than jail. Also, he’d mentioned food and she was hungry.

  On her way to the kitchen, she peeked into the big bedroom again. The bed really was beautiful. Each poster was carved with jungle vines and animals. The mistress must have been a romantic, Cleo thought to herself.

  Suddenly she got a whiff of something delicious. Garlic and onions. Her mouth began to water. As she hastened down the corridor, the smell became stronger. Cleo’s stomach growled. She was absolutely starving.

  Connor was standing at a large wooden table, cutting up tomatoes for a salad. “Come and let me have a look at you.”

  His cool tone and pale eyes demanded instant obedience. Cleo found herself standing next to him.

  He tugged at her clothes, turned her around and nodded. “Bit loose but it will do,” he said. “Good.”

  He saw she was nervous. He debated if he should tell her that he had her passport in his safe, so he could send her back if this didn’t work. It would take more work and lots more favours to arrange but, if the situation became unbearable, he’d send her back to England.

  He decided against it. If she knew he was having doubts, she’d only beg to run off to Juan and he knew how that would end. He hardened his heart; she’d settle down soon enough.

  “Do you cook?”

  She equivocated. “A bit.”

  “Good. You can take over the kitchen tomorrow.”

  Crap, Cleo thought. Her cooking was based on defrosting, microwaving and boil-in-the-bag cuisine.

  He stood up and went to the stove. Cleo followed, sniffing appreciatively at a pan filled with onions, mushrooms and bacon. Connor threw a few handfuls of pasta into a pot of boiling water. “This will be ready in five minutes. While I finish making the salad, you can unpack the groceries.”

  Cleo hurried to do as he asked. While she stacked tins of baked beans, corned beef, tomato purée and mushroom soup into the cupboard, the smell of the food on the stove was making her feel faint. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a proper hot meal.

  Mercifully, he was soon draining the pasta. “Come and eat.”

  They were the best words she’d ever heard. Sitting down, she bolted a huge bowl of pasta, ran her finger down the sides to make sure she got it all, scraped up the last lettuce leaf from the salad bowl and finally looked up. “That was fantastic. Thanks.”

  He nodded without smiling.

  Cleo looked about the kitchen and stiffened. The open window framed a monkey with a wild white bushy head of hair and a long tail. She must be much worse than she thought, she decided. Now she was hallucinating. Cleo blinked but it didn’t go away.

  Connor looked round and clapped his hands. The monkey vanished. “Don’t feed them and don’t ever leave out any food,” he said. “They’re a menace and very quick to take advantage.”

  Cleo breathed again. “I thought I was seeing things,” she confessed.

  “Work will get you over your coke problem. Do the dishes. Then put the rest of the shopping away.”

  He promptly left.

  Not a man of many words, Cleo decided. She did the dishes and put the rest of the groceries away slowly. She felt a little sick. She shouldn’t have eaten so quickly.

  He returned just as she finished putting the last tin on the shelf. Taking one look at her pale sweaty face, he could see she was nauseous. “Come and sit down,” he said steering her to a stool.

  Much to Cleo’s surprise, he poured her a glass of milk. “Drink this, it will settle your stomach.”

  While she sipped it, he poured himself a drink. She watched as he squeezed a lemon into a glas
s and added two fingers of rum and a handful of ice cubes. “My usual. Remember how to make this.”

  “All right.”

  Seeing the colour had returned to her face, he motioned her to follow him. Cleo hoped fervently that they weren’t going to his room. She was hugely relieved when he led her onto the long veranda that ran along the front of the house. A group of chairs and some small tables arranged along the edge revealed it as a favourite spot.

  When Cleo sat down, she could see the gorge and jungle canopy stretching out for miles. It was like sitting in a tree house designed by Tarzan and built by the Ritz-Carlton.

  The sun was setting. Cleo couldn’t see it when it dropped behind the trees but streaks of red and orange light were filtering through the jungle leaves, turning the greens into mysterious brown and purple shadows. When it was dark, Cleo thought to herself, she’d have to go to bed with him. The thought paralysed her. Briefly she wished she’d hanged herself that morning, before the guard had come in.

  Watching her from the next chair, Connor resolved to stick close to her the next few days. He didn’t want her doing something daft like throw herself from the balcony. And looking at her now, it was exactly the sort of thing he could see go through her mind.

  Her hunched shoulders and thin set face reminded him of the women he’d seen in the Congo prison camps. She had the same scared, defeated look. It shamed him. He should have been warmer with her.

  “Come here and sit with me, Cleo.” He stood up, took her by the wrist and pulled her into his lap. Settling her tense body against his and hooking his feet up on the railing again, he lay back in the chair and held her gently. He could feel her trembling with tension. Considering her history, he’d expected her to be more hardened. He decided he’d better talk to her. “Everything will be all right, just relax.” He put his arms around her. “Did you go on any jungle tours when you were in Medellin?”

  “No.” Her voice was the thread of a whisper.

  “It’s quiet during the day and comes alive at night. Listen.”

  Slowly she became aware of the sounds of the jungle. There were birdcalls, crickets and various animal calls.