Flame Of Diablo. Sara Craven
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at the hotel in Bogota about pickpockets who concentrated on unwary turistas.
She unlocked her bedroom door and went in, closing the door behind her.
She knew immediately that there was something wrong, and the hairs rose on the nape of her neck. There was someone else in the room—the stealth of a movement in the darkness, a faint smell of cigar smoke. Her hands tightened around the boots she carried. They weren’t much of a weapon against an intruder, but they were all she had, and if she screamed there was no guarantee that anyone would hear her.
She heard the movement again, and following it another sound—the creak of a bed-spring.
Dear God, was she the one at fault? Had she blundered by mistake in the dark passage into someone else’s room? If so, she could only hope they were asleep and she could leave before her mistake was discovered. She remembered Ramirez’ remarks about unescorted women. Would anyone believe she had made a genuine error?
Her hand reached behind her, fumbling for the door handle, and then a voice spoke mockingly out of the darkness, freezing her into the immobility of disbelief.
‘Are you going to stand there in the dark all night, querida?’
There was a click as the bedside lamp was switched on, and Rachel found herself staring at Vitas de Mendoza.
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