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‘Agua mineral?’ she asked, adding a precautionary, ‘Sem gelo.’
The man shrugged, clearly contemptuous of anyone who would ask for a drink without ice in such heat. He waved her towards one of the stools at the bar, and uncapped a bottle taken from a primitive refrigerator.
But the glass she was handed, along with the bottle, was surprisingly clean, and the drink tasted magical. Good old Coca Cola, she thought, taking a healthy swig.
The hotel proprietor had vanished back into the domain behind the beaded curtain. Charlie suspected that he was probably steaming open Senhor da Santana’s letter at that very moment, and wondered whether it would ever reach its rightful destination. Well, fortunately that wasn’t her problem. She was simply the messenger girl.
She glanced at her watch, decided there was time for another Coke, and tapped on the counter with a coin. There was no response, so she knocked again more loudly. The bead curtain stirred, and this time two men entered, both strangers.
More customers, she decided, dismissing a faint uneasiness as they came round the bar to stand beside her.
‘Senhorita.’ It was the smaller and swarthier of the two men who spoke. He was wearing denims and a faded checked shirt, his hair covered by an ancient panama hat which he lifted politely. ‘Senhorita, the boat, he wait.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Charlie slid off her stool, thrusting a handful of coins on to the bar-top. Either she’d lost all track of time, or her watch must have stopped. Thank heavens Captain Gomez had sent someone to find her. The last thing she wanted was to remain here in Mariasanta, possibly at this hotel, until the Manoela came downstream again.
A battered jeep was waiting outside the hotel. The small man opened its door, motioning Charlie on to the bench seat.
Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have dreamed of accepting such a lift, but time was of the essence now, and she scrambled in. However, she was slightly taken aback when the other man, taller, with a melancholy black moustache, climbed in beside her, effectively trapping her between the two of them.
Her uneasiness returned in full force. She began, ‘I’ve changed my mind …’ but got no further as the jeep roared into life with a jerk that nearly sent her through its grimy windscreen.
By the time she’d recovered her equilibrium they were heading out of town—in the opposite direction to the dock and Manoela, she realised with horror.
Suddenly she was very frightened indeed. She turned to the driver, trying to speak calmly. ‘There’s been a mistake—um engano. Let me out of here, please.’
The driver beamed, revealing several unsightly gaps in his teeth. ‘We go boat,’ he assured her happily.
‘But it’s the wrong way,’ Charlie protested, but to no avail. The jeep thundered on towards the heavy green of the forest, and if she was going to scream, now was the time, before they got completely out of town. But she wasn’t in the least sure that her throat muscles would obey her.
She took a deep breath, trying to think rationally, then reached in her bag for her wallet.
‘Money,’ she said, tugging notes out of their compartment. ‘Money for you—to let me go.’ She thrust the cash at the man with the moustache. ‘It’s all I’ve got, really.’
The man inspected the cash, nodded with a sad smile, and handed it back.
‘I haven’t any more,’ she tried again desperately. ‘I’m not rich.’
Or were all tourists deemed to be millionaires in the face of the poverty she saw around her? Maybe so.
But if they didn’t want her money—what did they want? Her mind quailed from the obvious answer.
The road was little more than a track now, and the jeep rocketed along, taking pot-holes and tree roots in its stride. It occurred to Charlie that if and when she emerged from this adventure it would be with a dislocated spine.
The driver was whistling cheerfully through one of the gaps in his teeth, and the sound made her shiver.
He glanced at her and nodded. ‘Boat soon.’
She said wearily, ‘The bloody boat’s in the other direction,’ no longer caring whether they understood or not.
The track forked suddenly, and they were plunged deeper into the forest. It was like entering a damp green tunnel. Animal and bird cries echoed raucously above the sound of the engine, and tall ferns and undergrowth scratched at the sides of the vehicle as they sped along.
Charlie had a feeling of total unreality. This couldn’t be happening to her, she thought. Presently she would wake up and find herself safely in her hammock on board the Manoela. And when she did her first action would be to tear up Fay Preston’s letter.
The jeep began to slow, and Charlie saw a dark gleam of water ahead of them. Perhaps there was going to be a miracle after all, she thought incredulously. Maybe this was just a very roundabout way to the dock, and the Manoela would be there, waiting for her.
But the age of miracles was definitely past. Journey’s end was a makeshift landing stage, at which a small craft with an outboard motor was moored.
The driver nudged Charlie. ‘Boat,’ he said triumphantly.
‘But it’s the wrong boat,’ she said despairingly. ‘Um engano.’
They looked at each other, and shook their heads as if in pity. Charlie dived for her wallet again.
‘Look,’ she said rapidly, ‘turn the jeep round, and take me back to Mariasanta, and I won’t tell a living soul about all this. You can take the money, and there’ll be no trouble—I swear it. But—please—just—let me go …’
The driver said, ‘Boat now, senhorita,’ and his voice was firm.
She walked between them to the landing stage. They didn’t touch her, or use any form of restraint, and she was tempted to make a run for it—but where?
People, she knew, had walked into the Brazilian jungle and never emerged again. And by the time she managed to make it back to Mariasanta, if she ever did, Captain Gomez would have sailed anyway. He waited for no one.
For the first time in her life she understood why extreme danger often made its victims passive.
You clung to the hope, she thought, that things couldn’t possibly be as bad as they seemed—or get any worse—right up to the last minute.
She could always dive into the river, she thought almost detachedly, except that she was a lousy swimmer. And the thought of the shoals of piranha and other horrors which might lurk under the brown water was an equally effective deterrent.
She got into the boat and sat where they indicated, watching as they fussed over the unrolling of a small awning set on poles.
If she was going to a fate worse than death it seemed she was going in comparative comfort.
The motor spluttered into life then settled to a steady throb, and the mooring rope was released.
And as they moved away upstream Charlie heard in the distance, like some evil omen, the long, slow grumble of thunder.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_013801af-a211-546f-9275-af3f207c1dad)
THE STORM STRUCK an hour later. Charlie had been only too aware of its approach—the sullen clouds crowding above the trees, the occasional searing flash followed by the hollow, nerve-jangling boom. But she’d hoped, childishly, that they’d have reached whatever destination they were heading for before its full force hit them.
She’d experienced an Amazon storm her first day on the Manoela, but at least there had been adequate shelter. The awning provided no protection at all against the apparently solid sheet of water descending from the sky.
There were other problems too. This was obviously the latest in a series of storms, and the river was badly swollen. The boat was having to battle against a strong, swirling current, as well as avoid the tree branches and other dangerous debris being carried down towards them.
Charlie wondered fatalistically if this was where it was all going to end—on some anonymous Amazon tributary, among total strangers, with her family forever wondering what had happened to her.
Her clothes were plastered to her body, and her brown hair was hanging in rats’ tails round her face. She felt numb, but couldn’t decide whether this was through cold or fear. Probably both.
Her companions were clearly concerned at the situation, but no more than that, and she supposed she should find this reassuring.
At that moment the boat’s bow turned abruptly inshore, and Charlie, blinking through wet lashes, saw another landing stage. They seemed to have arrived.
She was too bedraggled and miserable to worry any more about what was waiting for her. All she wanted was to get out of this … cockleshell before some passing tree trunk ripped its side away or tore off the motor.
Muffled figures were waiting. They were expected, she realised as hands reached out to help her on to shore, and a waterproof cape, voluminous enough to cover her from head to toe, was wrapped round her.
She was hurried away. Swathed in the cape, she had no idea where they were heading, only that she was being half led, half carried up some slope. There were stones under her feet as well as grass, and she stumbled slightly, her soaked canvas shoes slipping on the sodden surface. A respectful voice said, ‘Tenho muita pena, senhorita.’
Did kidnappers really apologise to their victims? she wondered hysterically.
The battering of the rain stopped suddenly, although she could still hear it drumming close at hand. She could hear women’s voices—an excited gabble of Portuguese. Her cape was unwrapped, and Charlie looked dazedly into a plump brown face whose smile held surprise as well as welcome.
‘Pequena.’ The woman, tutting, touched Charlie’s dripping hair. ‘Venha comigo, senhorita.’
She found herself in a passage lit by oil lamps. She could hear her shoes squelching on a polished wood floor as she walked along. But she was aware of a faint flicker of hope inside her. Her reception made her think that maybe she hadn’t been kidnapped but was just the victim of some idiotic and embarrassing misunderstanding. Perhaps these were the friends Fay Preston had planned to join, and this motherly soul, urging her along with little clicks of her tongue, was actually her hostess. If so, she didn’t seem particularly miffed that the wrong guest had come in from the rain.
It was an awkward situation, but not impossible to sort out with a little goodwill on both sides, she thought as she was brought to a large bedroom. The furniture was dark and cumbersome, but not out of place in its environment, Charlie thought, casting a yearning glance at the big, high bed with its snowy sheets and pillows as she was hustled past it.
But, when she saw what awaited her in the smaller adjoining room, she drew a sigh of utter relief and contentment. A capacious bath tub with claw feet and amazingly ornate brass taps stood there, filled with water which steamed faintly and invitingly.
The woman pulled forward a small folding screen, vigorously pantomiming that Charlie should undress behind it. Charlie hesitated before complying. She preferred rather more privacy when she took off her clothes. She could still remember petty humiliations at boarding-school and on the occasions when she’d had to share a bedroom with her sister.
‘You really are the most horrendous little prude,’ Sonia had accused scornfully more than once in those unhappy days. ‘God knows, you’ve little enough to hide anyway.’
So she was grateful for the woman’s discreetly turned back. Thankful, too, to be able to strip off the sodden clothes from her damp body. Even her underwear was soaked, she thought as she wriggled out of it.
She lowered herself into the water with a small, blissful murmur. The woman sent her a twinkling glance, gathered all the wet clothes up into a bundle and vanished with them.
Which was all very well, Charlie thought, but what the hell was she going to wear while they were drying? Or had no one yet noticed that their temporary visitor had no luggage with her?
I’ll worry about that when the time comes, she told herself. In the meantime, the bath was wonderfully soothing, easing away the aches and tensions of the journey, and reviving her chilled flesh. Charlie stirred the water with a languid hand, enjoying the faint scent that rose from it.
Perhaps I’ll just stay here, she thought idly. Until I wrinkle like a prune.
She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against the high back of the tub, while she silently rehearsed what explanation she could make to her surprised hosts when the time came.
She was so lost in her reverie that she didn’t notice the opening of the bathroom door.
But a man’s voice, deep-timbred and amused, saying ‘Querida, were you nearly drowned …?’ brought her swiftly and shockingly back to reality.
For an unthinking moment she sat bolt upright, staring at the doorway in blank, paralysed horror, her confused brain registering an impression of height, black hair, and a thin, bronzed face currently registering an astonishment as deep and appalled as her own.
Then she reacted, sliding in panic down into the concealment of the water behind the high sides of the tub.
‘Get out.’ Her words emerged as a strangled yelp.
‘Deus.’ No amusement now, only angry disbelief. He tossed the package he was carrying down on to the floor, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Charlie stayed where she was for a few moments, until her heartbeat had settled back to something near normal and she’d finally stopped blushing.
Fay Preston’s interpretation of ‘friends’ had indeed been ambiguous, she thought sickly. And the explanation she was planning was going to need considerably more thought than she’d anticipated.
To say that the next few moments promised to be profoundly awkward was an understatement, she thought wretchedly. Merely having to face him again would be an ordeal.
She got slowly out of the tub, and reached for a towel.
The package on the floor had burst open, revealing the contents as a satin robe in a shade of deep amethyst. Charlie shook out the folds, viewing it gloomily. It was sinuous, sexy and obviously expensive. It was also definitely not intended for her, but it was the only thing she had to put on apart from the damp towel, so …
Slowly and reluctantly she slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash round her slender waist in a double knot. But a brief glance in the big brass-framed mirror on one wall only served to reinforce her misgivings.
It was far too big for her, she thought, rolling up the sleeves and trying to pull the wide, all too revealing lapels further together. She looked like a child dressing up in adult’s clothing, and therefore was at a disadvantage before she even began.
She took a last despairing glance, then turned away. It was no use skulking here any longer. She squared her shoulders and walked into the bedroom.
He was standing by the window, staring out through the rain-lashed panes. But, as if some instinct had warned him of her barefooted approach, he turned slowly and looked at her.
Charlie moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Who—who are you?’
‘I think that should be my question, don’t you?’ His English was accented but good.
Charlie found his tone altogether less acceptable. Nor did she like the dismissive glance which flicked her from head to toe.
She lifted her chin. ‘My name is Charlotte Graham.’
‘That,’ he said softly, ‘I already know, senhorita.’ He lifted his hand, and she saw with a sense of shock that he was holding her passport.
‘You’ve actually been through my bag?’ Her voice shook. ‘How—how dare you?’
He shrugged almost negligently. ‘Oh, I dare. I think I am entitled to know the identity of those I shelter beneath my roof. And now I would like to know why you have so honoured me, senhorita. What exactly are you doing here?’
‘You’ve got a nerve to ask that,’ Charlie said hotly. ‘After your … thugs kidnapped me in Mariasanta.’
His brows snapped together. ‘What are you saying?’
‘You heard me.’ She wished that her voice would stop trembling. ‘I was having a drink in the hotel when they … marched in, and told me the boat was waiting. I thought they meant the Manoela, so I went with them. When I realised, I—I told them over and over again they were making a mistake, but they took no notice.’
He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, senhorita. I don’t know what game you are playing, but the mistake is yours, I assure you. So—where is Senhorita Preston?’
Charlie bit her lip. ‘She—she isn’t coming. She’s gone back—gone home.’
The bronzed face was impassive, but underneath he was angry. She could sense the violence of temper in him, and shrank from it.
‘So,’ he said too pleasantly, ‘you have come in her place. Do you expect me to be grateful?’
He made no attempt to move, or lay a hand on her, but suddenly, shatteringly, Charlie felt naked under his mocking, contemptuous gaze.
She knew an overwhelming impulse to drag the satin lapels together, cover herself to the throat, but controlled it. She would not, she thought, give him that satisfaction.
She said quietly and coldly, ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. I haven’t come in anyone’s place. I only went to the hotel to deliver a letter on Miss Preston’s behalf.’ She paused. ‘I presume that your name is Santana.’
