Stronger Than Passion Read Online Free PDF

what he had really told the Indian if only she had asked more.
    *
    “Señor Malone, you are certain you cannot explain why this man would be looking for you?” Christina’s voice was dispassionate. She had expected his denial.
    The American stretched beneath the sheet, taking his time, the late afternoon sun shining in from the kitchen, yellowing the bedclothes and bronzing his exposed skin. “Sorry, ma’am, there must be another Gringo in these parts.”
    Christina looked away, frustrated, not seeing the shelves of foodstuff that lined the walls. He was lying; she knew he was - she had caught the flash of something in his light eyes - pleasure, recognition, satisfaction - when she’d asked about the Indian. He knew the man. But what now? Had the Indian moved on, convinced that Jim Malone was somewhere else? Or would he bide his time and corner more of her people, until one of them talked? And what then? Was the Indian dangerous?
    How easy it would be for her to take her indecision out on this Malone! She disliked him intensely. There was an air of satisfaction about him now, almost as though he were here at his choice and was using her hospitality to recuperate, only to walk out when he pleased. Her distrust of him was even stronger now than it had been when she had first spoken to him, the night before last. She wondered if he were planning something, and if the Indian were somehow involved. Por Dios, what was she to do? Malone certainly appeared helpless enough; it was her own intuition which worried her of something more.
    Perhaps she should show him who was the real authority around here. Her eyes narrowed. Prove to him that it was she who was in control - that she could literally starve him to death, if she wished, or have him beaten, or almost anything else a cruel mind could devise. Mexico was still, in some ways, and some areas, a feudal society; she and her kind, the rich, the aristocracy, still wielded a great deal of power over those less fortunate, despite reforms made in the last forty or fifty years. Christina knew that she could do as she pleased on her own land, and no civil authority would stop her. If the Yanqui died, he would merely be one less Yanqui.
    But would any pressure she could apply to this man be enough to make him talk? He was stubborn - that he was still alive, and doing very well, proved it. Ane he was tough. According to her servants, Malone had never cried out during the pain of his healing wounds. And besides . . . she was no torturer.
    Better to wait for her father-in-law to arrive, and let him take action. Don Ignacio was just as determined in his own way as this Norte Americano. And, in the test of wills between those two, the Condé would certainly win.
    She glanced back at Malone and found him staring at her. What was he thinking, to give him such a sardonic look? He almost appeared to be holding her in contempt. Why, when she had treated him better than most would, short of unlocking his door? Anger at his presumption ignited within her again. Why did this man’s every reaction seem to be the opposite of what it should be?
    Their gaze caught for a few tense seconds. During that time, some of what Christina had been thinking seemed to be drawn out of her and into him, pulled by his own will and without her consent. She sensed that even if she could never comprehend him or what he was, he understood her only too well . . . a feeling which left her bewildered and confused. Who was this man, and by what right did he attempt to know her? But there were no conclusions in his gaze.
    He was waiting for her to speak.
    Her voice emerged tonelessly. “I suppose there is no way I can force you to tell me the truth.” Now that she said it aloud, the honesty seemed to erect a fence against which they would both take sides.
    He smiled, the lines deepening into his beard. “The truth is, ma’am, that I have no idea who your Indian might be.” His grayish-blue eyes were still locked on