Anne Mather - Mask Of Scars

‘So long as Dom Carlos wants it this way, it will stay as it is. He owns the land. If he doesn’t sell, the developers can’t build their ghastly concrete monstrosities that they call hotels in Porto Cedro.’

Christina was tempted to use the opening to ask more questions, but something distracted her attention and the moment passed.

After the evening meal, she was glad to sit in the lounge of the hotel until bedtime. It had been an extraordinarily exhausting day and she decided to go to bed soon after nine o’clock. But although she was tired she could not sleep. Thoughts of the man from the beach haunted her. How did he come to be scarred so dreadfully? What kind of experience had been responsible for that disfiguration that was at once ugly and attractive? What kind of effect had it had on his life? His family? Was he married? Did he have any children of his own? He could have, quite easily. She judged his age to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, but it was difficult to be certain.

She sighed. It was crazy lying here pondering over a man who had treated her with nothing but arrogance and contempt, and yet her naturally responsive nature would not allow her to bear malice for long and she was passionately curious to learn more about him.

The next morning, she bathed before seven, returning to the hotel before Sheila had chance to comment on her non-appearance. Julio looked at her wet hair reproachfully as she came in.

‘You did not tell me,’ he said, indicating the swimsuit dangling wetly from her fingers. ‘I would have come with you.’

Christina smiled. ‘I didn’t think your mother would approve!’ she taunted him.

‘I approve—and that is what counts,’ he murmured insistently, and she laughed and went up to her room.

Later in the morning, Sheila sent her to the market to buy some fresh fruit. Clad in her poplin dress, her still damp hair secured with an elastic band, a basket on her arm, she felt she mingled well with the other Portuguese women there, but she was unaware that her golden colouring could not help but distinguish her from the crowd.

She was considering the price of melons when there was a murmur about her, and she looked round in surprise, wondering what had disturbed everyone. A tall man was making his way between the stalls coming in her direction, nodding and giving an occasional smile to the people he passed. The women in the crowd drew back respectfully, pulling their children out of his path so that Christina was reminded of peasants in the presence of royalty. But it was the man himself who imprisoned her attention, a lean, dark man, dressed immaculately in a navy silk suit with a matching navy shirt and tie. And as he neared Christina her stomach muscles tightened as she saw again the livid scar on his tanned cheek.

She lifted her startled eyes and met his curiously light ones, and as her nerves tingled she noticed the length and thickness of his lashes. He had recognised her, she knew, and she turned to the stallholder with almost desperate urgency, asking the price of the melons.

‘ Momento, menina ,’ he exclaimed, almost scandalised that she should expect him to serve her when obviously someone of importance was approaching.

Christina turned away, pushing through the throng carelessly, only wanting to avoid a further encounter. But her pursuer had the advantage, she soon found, for his way was made clear for him while she had to force a pathway.

‘ Menina! ’ The curt tone of his voice halted her, and she was intensely conscious of the curious speculation around her.

Sighing, she turned slowly to face him, and he inclined his head in satisfaction. But he said nothing, merely passed her and indicated that she should follow him.

Unwillingly Christina complied, for she had the distinct feeling that had she attempted to disobey him these people would have forcibly made her do exactly as he had indicated.

Outside the throng of humanity, he halted and now she could see the black limousine parked in the square, Alfredo Seguin at the wheel. He must have noticed her eyes move past him to the automobile, for a cynical expression invaded his eyes. She could see his eyes clearly now, and they were a most peculiar tawny colour, sometimes palest amber, sometimes almost yellow around the irises.

‘So we meet again, menina ,’ he observed, his accent more pronounced than she remembered.

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