Free Going Too Far by Unknown Page A

explained it in a postcard.
    Kip, you bastard, you did it on purpose. You knew I’d get addicted to him, and I bet you’ve been rubbing your scarred lily-white little hands together in glee at the thought of me bound and gagged. Well I’ve escaped after a mere four days, and I don’t mean the Houdini style of escape, out of the black bag and chains, I just got on a plane and left. Love, Bliss.
    PS: Escaped, my arse, I’m meeting him in Chile in a few weeks’ time.
    I had to go. I’d only meant to stay in Lima for two nights and after the third I got Carlos to book me on to a plane out. After all, I’d come to South America to see the sights: what was the point of being blindfold? And instead of trekking bravely through the cloud forest I had been happily and helplessly tottering around Lima in four-inch heels. But as I explained to Kip, I only managed to tear myself away from him because we’d be meeting later. After a dose of sightseeing and intrepid adventuring I’d be more than ready to submit to Carlos’s chains.
    I’d arrived in Cuzco early the previous morning and had spent the day rambling around the pretty town, trying to get my breath. It was at a high altitude and the guidebooks advised a few days’ acclimatisation was necessary before starting off on the Inca Trail. Carlos had been right: there were plenty of indigenous Indians in traditional dress here, though when I say that I mean the women. Traditional dress for the men seemed to consist of jeans and bomber jackets. All the women were selling something, and though I guessed that I’d end up with at least one alpaca sweater, so far I’d restricted myself to a woven braid for my wrist. When I pulled it tight it reminded me of Carlos.
    I turned to the next postcard. The guesthouse had an ideal set-up for chilling out, with its rooms arranged around a central hall with a glass roof, and furnished with sofas for lounging around on. Already I’d struck up conversations with a German couple and two English girls, though this afternoon everyone was obviously out sightseeing.
    Dear Rachel, I bet you’re kicking yourself. . .
    ‘G’day! Do you mind if I join you?’
    The accent was obviously Australian, which was fine by me. Even finer was the sight that met my eyes when I looked up.
    Tall, probably six two, three? Broad and, while not rippling with muscle gym-style, a real sportsman’s body. Combat shorts and T-shirt, both khaki. Skin tanned, face big and square. And short hair as blond as a peroxide bottle can get it. I found myself forgetting about Carlos, even about Gabriel Byrne, and denying that I’d ever had a thing for dark men.
    ‘I’ve got a few to do too,’ he said sympathetically, waving his own clutch of cards. ‘Fantastic here, eh? We only got in this morning from Lima.’
    ‘I only got here myself yesterday,’ I confessed. ‘Not that I’ve done much in the last two days, just a bit of walking around town, acclimatising.’
    ‘You’ll be doing the Inca Trail though, won’t you?’ he asked.
    ‘Of course. I haven’t booked up with anyone yet.’
    ‘Oh, we’re not going in a group, I can’t stand being organised. This is the last chance to go alone, you know.’
    ‘Do I know? Let me tell you . . .’
    And I explained my solo predicament, looking into his quite stunningly blue eyes as I did so, thinking that once I had a tan and the sun had lightened my hair a bit we could pass for brother and sister, but then did I want to think of him as a brother? What a lovely golden couple we would make.
    While he was sympathising with my predicament another oversized crop-haired clone, though more mouse than blond, came out of one of the rooms and flopped down on the sofa next to him.
    ‘Hey, Red, thought I heard your voice. Got the beers?’ He smiled at me and held out his hand. He didn’t compare with his friend as far as looks were concerned, but his attraction was in his deep, slightly rough, sexy voice. ‘Robbie. How’s