Dark Ransom (4 page)

the Algarve last year, visiting some of my cousins in Portugal. I was

introduced to Fay at a party, and... a relationship developed between

us.' He gave her a cynical glance. 'I am sure I do not have to go into

details.'

'No.' Charlie's colour deepened. 'But this is really none of my

business,
senhor -'

'Riago,' he corrected her. 'Riago da Santana. And I must point out

that you made this your business when you chose to intervene. So—

eventually, when my leave came to an end and it was time to return

to Brazil, Fay told me that she could not bear to be parted from me.

She was flatteringly convincing, so I suggested she should join me

here for a while, at my expense,
naturalmente.'

'Oh, of course.' Charlie's voice was hollow. And clearly no expense

had been spared, she thought, conscious of the sensuous cling of the

satin robe against her skin.

She swallowed. 'Well, I'm sorry, Senhor da Santana, but she's

obviously had second thoughts.' She wondered if she should add the

civil hope that he was not too much out of pocket but, looking at the

short flare of his upper lip and the cleft in his chin, decided that any

further comment would be not only superfluous, but positively

unwise.

'And so you have come in her place.' He sounded almost reflective

as the dark eyes made another disturbing appraisal of her quivering

person. 'If you imagine your charms are an adequate substitute for

hers,
senhorita,
then you are wrong.'

Nothing had—or could ever have—prepared her for an insult like

that. Charlie stared at him mutely, the colour draining out of her

face.

She wanted to reach out and claw his face- draw blood, make him

suffer—but instead she let her nails curl into the palms of her hands.

She said with brave politeness, 'You seem to be under some kind of

misapprehension,
senhor.
No substitution is intended, or will take

place. As I've already explained, your men brought me here by

mistake and against my will.'

'You fought them?' he asked. 'You kicked and screamed and

struggled? I noticed no marks on either of them, I confess, but my

mind was elsewhere...'

'No—not exactly.' Charlie bit her lip. 'I—I tried to explain... to

reason with them.' She stopped, realising how lame it must sound.

She said defeatedly, 'Oh, you wouldn't understand. But you've got to

believe that coming here was not my idea, and my only wish now is

to leave, and get back to Mariasanta.'

'An admirable aim.' Still that mockery. 'But impossible to gratify, to

my infinite regret. There is no way out of here, except by boat, as

you came. And while these rains continue the river is too dangerous

to navigate.'

Charlie gasped. 'But how long will all this go on?' she demanded

frantically. 'I have to get back—to rejoin the
Manoela
on her way

downstream.'

Riago da Santana shrugged. 'For as long as it takes,
senhorita.
Until

the river falls again you are going nowhere.' His smile seemed to

rasp across her sensitive skin. 'In the meantime, you are my

honoured guest.'

'But there must be some other way out,' Charlie protested, her whole

being flinching from the prospect of having to be beholden to this

man, even on a temporary basis. 'I mean, isn't there a helicopter—or

something for emergencies?'

'I regret that your presence in my house does not qualify as an

emergency,
senhorita.'

'Well, it does as far as I'm concerned.' Charlie realised she was

perilously close to tears, and fought them back determinedly. 'I—I

haven't even a change of clothes with me.'

'Of course not. Why should you have?' He sounded impatient. 'But

there is no great problem. As you must be aware, I made provision

for my...other guest. Feel free to use whatever you need.'

'How generous,' Charlie said stonily. 'But, as you've already implied,

Miss Preston and I are hardly the same size—or shape.'

'Rosita, my housekeeper, will be happy to carry out any alterations

required.' He sounded bored. 'I will give her the necessary

instructions.'

She wanted to fling his instructions, his hospitality, and Fay

Preston's entire wardrobe back in his face, screaming loudly while

she did so, but she kept silent. She had no idea how long she was

going to be here, and if it was to be days rather than hours she could

hardly alternate between the cotton trousers and shirt she'd arrived

in and this hateful dressing-gown.

Undressing-gown, she amended crossly, hitching the slipping satin

back on to a slender shoulder.

'Thank you,' she said tightly.

He inclined his head courteously. 'It is my pleasure,
senhorita'
There

wasn't an atom of conviction in his voice. 'We shall meet at dinner.'

Charlie watched his tall figure walk out of the bedroom, closing the

door behind him as he went. Then her legs gave way under her, and

she sank down in a welter of amethyst satin on to the elderly rug

which was the floor's sole covering.

Under her breath she slowly and painstakingly recited every bad

word she had ever known, heard, or imagined, applying each and

every one of them to Riago da Santana. Then, at last, she burst into

tears.

Charlie had every intention of declaring that she wasn't hungry and

of spending the evening alone in her room, but as suppertime

approached she found she was getting more and more ravenous.

And the savoury smells wafting through the house were also

undermining her determination to remain aloof.

Finding something suitable to wear had been a depressing and even

humiliating process. Riago da Santana knew exactly what colours

and styles would appeal to his former lover, and every item in the

capacious
guarda-roupa
had been chosen with her taste in mind.

They were glamorous and exciting, with the kind of labels she'd

only ever dreamed about.

'But they are not me,' she muttered as each garment was brought out

for her inspection.

'Nao percebo, senhorita.'
Rosita's face was becoming increasingly

worried as the pile of rejected dresses mounted.

Charlie patted her arm. 'It's not your fault, Rosita.' Desperately she

pointed at a relatively simply styled cornflower-blue model on top

of the pile. 'Perhaps we can do something with that.'

And perhaps we can't, she added in silent resignation as Rosita

pinned, pulled and experimented. Fay Preston had been lushly, even

voluptuously curved. Charlie was on the skinny side of slender.

Although Riago da Santana's crushing words still galled her,

Charlie's sense of justice forced her to admit he had a point.

He'd wanted Fay Preston. He'd been expecting Fay Preston. If he

genuinely thought that Charlie had taken her place, with an eye to

the main chance, then he had every reason to feel aggrieved.

But he couldn't have thought that, Charlie told herself. Her own lack

of experience and sophistication must have been obvious from the

first seconds of their encounter.

No, he didn't think she'd turned up here as his alternative mistress.

He'd just been in a foul mood, and taken it out on her because she

happened to be handy. It was the kind of situation she should have

been used to. After all, she came across it enough at home, and with

some of the more cantankerous of her old ladies.

Yet somehow, coming from a man, and a devastatingly attractive

man, as she was forced to admit, it seemed more wounding than

usual.

She sighed. Men as unpleasant as Riago da Santana deserved to

have a hump, crossed eyes— and warts.

Later, trying to find some redeeming feature in the hastily adapted

blue dress, she took a long critical look at herself.

Her lack of inches in vital places was only part of the problem, she

decided gloomily. She was— ordinary-looking. Not ugly exactly,

but nondescript. Sonia had inherited the warm chestnut hair with the

glowing auburn lights, and the enormous eyes, dark and velvety as

pansies against her creamy skin.

Charlie, on the other hand, had been left with hair that was plain

brown and very fine, accepting only the simplest of styles and

requiring frequent shampooing. Her eyes were hazel, and her skin

was generally pale. Except when she started blushing.

But her appearance really made little difference, she told herself,

turning away from the mirror with a shrug. Riago da Santana had

made it insultingly clear that she held no attraction for him—and

that should have been reassuring.

As, of course, it was, she told herself hastily. And yet... She brought

herself swiftly and guiltily to order, and went in search of her

dinner.

Riago da Santana was waiting for her in the
sala de jantar.
It was a

low-ceilinged, rather dark room, and the long, heavily polished table

was clearly designed for a large family.

Charlie saw that a place had been set for her on the right of her

host's seat at the head of the table, and groaned inwardly. She would

have preferred to sit at the opposite end of that vast table, almost out

of sight and out of earshot.

He surveyed the cornflower dress without expression, but Charlie

could guess what he was thinking.

He said politely, 'Would you like a drink? A
batida,
perhaps?'

Charlie repressed a shudder, remembering the popular fermented

canejuice aperitif she'd been persuaded to try in Belem. On the other

hand, some alcohol might get rid of that shaky feeling in the pit of

her stomach.

'Could I have a straight whisky, please?'

'Of course.' He was drinking whisky himself, she noticed. She took

the glass he handed her and sipped. It was a local brand with a

distinctive, pungent flavour that stung at the back of her throat and

made her blink a little.

He noticed. 'You are used to single malt, perhaps?'

She wasn't accustomed to spirits at all, as it happened, and returned

a non-committal murmur.

The food, when it came, was good—a peppery soup, thick with rice

and vegetables, followed by duck in a mouth-tingling herby sauce.

Charlie ate so much that she was forced to refuse the rich chocolate

pudding that duly made its appearance, although she accepted a cup

of strong coffee. And that was a mistake, she realised instantly. She

should have kept eating. It was impolite to talk with one's mouth

full, but conversation over coffee was unavoidable.

He said, 'With your permission, I shall call you Carlotta. And I hope

you will honour me by using my given name too.'

Charlie stared down at her cup. She said, 'You must do as you

please, of course,
senhor.'

'You prefer formality?' Amusement quivered in his voice.

She said shortly, 'I would prefer to be elsewhere.'

'You don't like my house? It has an interesting history. It was built

originally by my great grandfather at the height of the rubber boom

in our country. Our fortune was founded on the
hevea—
the rubber

tree.'

'Of course,' Charlie said instantly. 'Manaus— the opera house and

all those fantastic mansions. They were all built by rubber

millionaires.'

'Ah, yes,' he said. 'For a while Manaus must have been the richest

city in South America. The mistake lay in thinking the outside world

would not want a share in such riches.' He paused, and Charlie

shifted uncomfortably, remembering that it had been British

botanists who'd brought the first rubber tree seedlings out of Brazil

to Kew Gardens, and ultimately to Malaysia.

He went on levelly, 'While the industry declined, my family's

concern for the house and the plantation dwindled also, as they

diversified their interests into other fields. They were not alone in

that. Many similar homes have been allowed to die—to go back to

the jungle. I decided that should not happen here.'

'It's certainly very impressive.' Charlie glanced around her. 'Have

you lived here long?' She sounded very prim and English, she

thought with irritation. In a minute she'd be discussing the weather.

There was another silence, then he said, 'A year—two years. It suits

me to spend this part of my life here.' His eyes didn't leave her face.

'And you, Carlotta. Why did you come to Brazil?'

She supposed the simple answer to that was 'for adventure', but she'd