скачать книгу бесплатно
‘You are correct.’ The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Where, then, is this letter?’
Charlie felt faint colour steal into her face. ‘I don’t know. Still at the hotel, I suppose.’
‘What a tragedy,’ he said silkily. ‘Then I shall never know how the beautiful Fay chose to give me my dismissal.’
She said haltingly, ‘I think she found the trip—on the Manoela—rather hard to take. Conditions are a bit … primitive.’
His mouth twisted. ‘Clearly, senhorita, you are made of sterner stuff—contrary to appearances.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you will need to be.’
‘I’m sure there must be some deep, cryptic meaning in that,’ Charlie said wearily. ‘But I’m too tired and too upset to work it out just now. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed over Miss Preston’s non-arrival, but—’
‘I am more than disappointed,’ his voice bit. ‘I am devastated that my lovely Fay can forget me so easily. We met while I was on leave in 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.
‘Não 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 Belém. 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 hévea—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 already had far more of that than she could handle, so she hesitated.
She said slowly, ‘I suppose you could say … I came to find someone.’
‘A man?’ He drew a pack of cheroots from the breast pocket of his shirt and lit one from the branched candlestick that illuminated the table.
Charlie was taken aback. She’d really meant herself, but there was a slight truth in what he’d said.
‘I don’t think that concerns you.’
‘Then I have my answer.’
‘I don’t see why you needed to ask the question,’ Charlie said with a slight snap.
His brows lifted. ‘You are staying in my house,’ he pointed out with deceptive mildness. ‘Am I not, then, permitted a certain curiosity about you?’
‘As our acquaintance will be short, probably not.’
‘Sometimes when the storms are bad we are trapped here for weeks,’ he said softly, and laughed at her alarmed expression.
She said crossly, ‘My entire holiday has been spoiled, and you think it’s funny.’
‘I am not altogether amused.’ He drew on his cheroot. ‘As for the ruin of your vacation—well, I shall have to try and make that up to you in some way.’
‘Please don’t put yourself to any further trouble,’ Charlie said dispiritedly. She had more or less abandoned hope of seeing the Manoela or her luggage again, and thanked her stars that she’d been travelling light. When she got back to Mariasanta, she thought, she would catch any boat that offered to Manaus, and spend the rest of her holiday in the civilised confines of Rio.
‘So, in England, Carlotta, where do you live?’
‘In the south.’ She paused. ‘If you must call my by my first name, I’m generally known as Charlie.’
‘Charlie?’ he repeated. ‘But that is a man’s name.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, that’s what they call me.’
‘And who are “they”?’
‘My family—friends—the people I work for. Well, not all of them,’ she amended with a slight sigh, remembering Mrs Hughes.
‘You live in a city?’
‘Heavens, no. In quite a small town—what we call a market town.’
‘And what is this work you do?’
The Inquisition is alive, well, and living in Brazil, she thought resignedly.
‘I look after people,’ she said shortly.
His brows lifted. ‘It must be very well paid—if you can afford a vacation such as this.’
‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip,’ she said. ‘From now on I’ll stick to the Greek Islands. I’ve never been abducted there.’
‘You still claim that is what happened.’ His smile annoyed her.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ she returned with something of a snap.
‘Without a doubt.’ There was a trace of grimness in his tone. ‘So, where did you meet with Fay? In this market town of yours?’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘I met her here in Brazil—on the Manoela. She boarded at Manaus. I’d joined the boat at Belém.’
He examined his cheroot as if it fascinated him. ‘So, you had never met before, and you were just … travelling companions. Tell me, did you find a great deal to talk about together?’
