Dark Ransom (9 page)

herself. Riago da Santana had promised her she had nothing further

to fear from him, at least until they were married, and, as she hadn't

the slightest intention of marrying him, her problems in that context

should be over.

Yet the thought of sharing something even as innocuous as a cup of

mid-morning coffee with him was still very much an ordeal, and

probably would remain so for the duration of her time here.

Every time she was alone with him there were bound to be tensions,

she thought, sinking down on to the over-stuffed cushions of the

cumbersome cane sofa. One day she would be able to treat

everything that had happened in this place, even the events of the

previous night, as a bad dream, but not yet.

And not until she could be certain that the bad dream wasn't going to

turn into an even worse reality, she reminded herself uneasily,

putting a tentative hand on her abdomen.

She could tell herself endlessly that it wasn't possible—that life

couldn't play her such a dirty trick, but, whether she was forced to

stay or managed to make her escape, something like ten

interminable days would have to pass before she could be absolutely

sure that her body, once again, belonged to her and her alone.

She sighed silently and reached for the coffeepot, pausing as a

prickle of awareness along her senses alerted her to the fact that she

was no longer alone.

She glanced up warily, and saw him lounging in the doorway,

watching her, his expression oddly arrested and faintly grim, as if

some unwelcome thought had occurred to him.

But then probably it had, she told herself, filling both cups with a

faintly unsteady hand. He had no more wish to be married—to

spend the rest of his life with a total stranger—than she did herself,

and to come home and find her ensconced in his sitting-room had

undoubtedly brought it home to him with stunning force.

After all, a life sentence was a high price to pay for an hour or so of

dubious pleasure.

Especially when she wasn't even pretty.

He crossed the room with that easy, lithe stride, and sat down

opposite her, taking the cup she handed him.

'Have you spent a pleasant morning?'

'Yes—thank you,' she said stiltedly. 'Rosita has been very kind—

showing me the house.'

'What do you think of it?' He reached into the breast pocket of his

shirt for his cheroots.

Impressive
was the word she'd decided on. so why did she hear

herself saying 'I find it gloomy"?

His brows snapped together, and the look he sent her over the flare

of the match flame was displeased.

'It has belonged to my family -' he began, and she cut across him

swiftly.

'Yes, you told me—at dinner last night. I like a feeling of tradition—

I've learned how important links with the past are from my old

ladies. But here it's gone too far. It could be beautiful, but it's

oppressive, and that's not just because of the surroundings either. It

just seems to have been.. .left, somehow—as if no one cared.'

'No one has cared for some considerable time,' he said after a pause.

'I was astonished to find the whole place hadn't been devoured by

termites when I came here.'

'Why did you come here?'

There was another, longer silence. 'To grow rubber,' he said at last.

'To build a central processing plant for the
caboclos—
the men of the

interior who still tap their own trees. To plant more trees of my

own.' He sent her a cynical smile. 'To compensate perhaps for the

destruction that goes on elsewhere, and restore the balance of

nature. Isn't that what the world wants?'

'It's important, certainly,' she admitted. 'But is it what you want?'

The frown returned. 'Why do you ask me that?'

Charlie pushed her hair back, and returned his gaze levelly. 'Because

it seemed to me that you were going to give me another reason for

being here, then changed your mind.'

His smile was thin. 'You are perceptive, Carlotta.'

'I spend a lot of my time listening to what people don't say.'

'Explain, please?'

'My old ladies, of course. Mrs Jennings, for instance, moans

endlessly about all kinds of little trivial aches and pains because

she's terrified that there might be something seriously wrong with

her and is afraid to ask the doctor. And Mrs Bient is always telling

me how well her son is doing, and showing me pictures of his

expensive house and gorgeous wife, to disguise the fact that he

never comes to see her these days.' She paused. 'There's a lot of

that—loneliness.'

'Yet sometimes it is good to be alone.'

'Oh, that's completely different,' she said scornfully. 'That's

something you choose— cutting yourself off occasionally so that

you can get some serious thinking done about your life— who you

are, where you're going. I like that.'

'But you have been lonely sometimes as well?'

Often, she thought, so often—and most of all when I've been at

home with Mother and Sonia, when I should have felt close and

loved... but haven't...

Her lips parted to tell him so, then she remembered, just in time,

who he was, and where they were, and why, and she shrugged

instead.

'Like everyone, I suppose.'

He smiled. 'Which, also, is not what you meant to say.' He paused

again. 'Who are these old ladies you speak of?'

'My clients, I suppose,' she said. 'I work for a care agency. I told you

so last night.' She counted off on her fingers. 'I do shopping for

them, and housework, and help them remember to pay bills.

Sometimes I take them for little walks too, and just generally keep

them company.'

Riago da Santana stared at her. 'And that is how you spend your

life?'

'Why shouldn't it be?' she demanded defensively, and he shrugged.

'No reason. In fact, it explains a great deal,' he added drily. 'Except

why you chose to come alone to Brazil of all places.'

Charlie lifted her chin. 'Women do travel on their own these days,'

she reminded him. 'You didn't supply an escort for Fay Preston,

after all.'

'Fay was well able to take care of herself. And she worked for a top

travel company in the Algarve, and so spoke good Portuguese.' He

paused. 'You let me think you expected me to come to bed with

you.'

'I did nothing of the sort.' She slammed her cup back on to the tray,

spilling some of its contents. 'How dare you even suggest -?'

'Then why did you agree when I said I would see you later?'

'Is that what you meant?' She was aghast. 'Oh, God, I didn't realise...'

'Do you speak no Portuguese at all, you little fool?'

'I have a phrase book,' she said with dignity. 'I'd been managing

quite well—until yesterday.'

'Yesterday was a turning-point in both our lives,' he said drily. He

studied the glowing end of his cheroot for a moment. Then, 'Tell me

about this man you came to find.'

That was the last thing she was going to do, she thought grimly,

especially if Philip Hughes was in the vicinity, and able to help her.

She lifted her chin. 'I think that's my business.'

'But it has also become mine.' He drew on the cheroot, his eyes

fixed on her face. 'Clearly he is not your lover.'

Charlie flushed. 'Perhaps we've just... lacked the opportunity.' Well,

it was an approximation of the truth.

'And that is how it will remain.' There was an autocratic note in his

voice. 'My wife does not seek out any other man, no matter how

innocent the relationship.'

She said, between gritted teeth, 'But I'm not your wife.'

'Not yet, but then we too lack the opportunity.'

'Opportunity?' Charlie didn't know whether to laugh or cry. 'Twenty-

four hours ago you didn't even know of my existence.'

'You regard that as some difficulty.' He gave her a brief smile as he

stubbed out the cheroot, and rose. 'We shall have time to become

better acquainted before the priest arrives, I promise you.'

'I don't find that particularly reassuring,' she said bitterly.

'Que pena.'
He walked over to her, took her hand and pulled her to

her feet. 'Tell Rosita to prepare another dress for tonight,' he said.

'This one wearies me.'

'Que pena,'
she mimicked savagely. 'What a pity. Have you any

other orders for me?'

'A smile of welcome on my return, perhaps,' he said. 'And this.' He

pulled her against him with a swift strength that she, taken off

guard, had no power to resist. The hardness of his body and the all

too familiar scent of his skin assailed her senses with potent

emphasis as his mouth came down on hers in a warm, sensual

possession that permitted no resistance or denial.

It was a long kiss, and when it was over she stood in his embrace,

dizzy and breathless, her body churning in fright and resentment.

She said huskily, staring down at the rug at her feet, 'You—

promised...'

'And I'll keep my word.' He took her chin in his hand, making her

look up at him. Although he was smiling a little, his eyes were

brilliant, blazing. 'It was only a kiss, Carlotta, and it was just to

remind you that, from this moment on, you will think of no other

man—only me. You understand?'

'Yes.' The word seemed choked out of her dry throat.

'I hope you do.' He lifted her hand and touched her fingers quite

gently to his lips. '
Ate logo, carinha—
for the second time.'

She watched him leave, then sat down again rather suddenly on the

cane sofa for the very good reason that her legs no longer seemed

able to support her.

Her mouth was burning, and her breasts felt tender, crushed as they

had been against the harsh wall of his chest.

'You will think of no other man—only me.' The words echoed and

re-echoed in her brain, and she shivered suddenly, crossing her arms

across her body in an instinctively protective gesture.

Because, it occurred to her, it was a command that could be all too

easy—all too dangerously, fatally easy—to obey.

Oh, dear God, she thought. What's happening to me?

IT RAINED
again during the night. Charlie, wakeful and restless,

could hear the relentless drumming on the roof, and decided that it

was marginally more of a blessing than a curse.

At least while the storms persisted they would keep the priest from

Laragosa at bay, she thought, irritably punching her pillow into

shape.

Dinner had been a difficult meal. Her nervousness about the

confused state of her emotions had imposed constraints upon the

conversation, and they had eaten mainly in silence. As soon as

coffee had been drunk, Charlie had used the feeble excuse of a

headache to slip away to her room.

Well, Riago da Santana's room, she amended, except that all traces

of his presence had now been removed with discreet thoroughness.

But what good did that do, when the bed still remained— a potent

and forceful reminder of his usage of her?

Just as she'd been unable, last night, to move away from his

imprisoning arm, she now found it impossible to escape from her

memories.

But she had to do that. She had to close her mind to the past if she

was ever to have any peace again. Because there could be no future

for her here in this savage wilderness with a stranger.

Although she seemed to be learning more about him all the time, she

admitted unwillingly to herself. She'd managed to discover, for

instance, why Riago spoke such good English. On leaving school,

he'd been at university and business school in both Britain and

America, and he'd spent a year in Malaysia, studying the methods of

rubber production there.

'Although the conditions that exist there and here on the Rio Tiajos

are hardly comparable,' he had supplemented drily. 'It has never

been possible to plant rubber trees in neat rows in Brazil. Henry

Ford tried to do this in his model plantation Fordlandia, and failed.

He did not realise the Amazon imposes its own conditions on those

who try to tame it. The
hevea
needs the protection of other trees and

foliage or it becomes vulnerable to pests and leaf blight.'

'Can't the pests be eradicated?'

'I doubt whether we could even identify them all, although some

progress has been made. But pesticides must be used with care, or