Anne Mather - Who Rides A Tiger

Dominique stared entranced for a few moments, and then gathering her thoughts, she said briefly: ‘You must know what I mean!’

He inclined his head, the wheel of the car sliding through the hard strength of his brown fingers. ‘Yes, I know. And I realize you are eager to meet your fiancé again. After all, it is some time since he left England, and a lot can happen in only a few months. However, it will be dark soon now and I do not care to risk putting down the helicopter among these mountains in darkness.’

Dominique twisted the strap of her handbag. ‘So?’

‘So I regret to tell you that you must spend this night in Rio. A room has been booked for you at a hotel there where you will be very comfortable, and tomorrow – well, tomorrow you will be able to cast yourself into the arms of your beloved!’

Dominique gave him a hard stare. ‘Thank you,’ she said, coldly. ‘I don’t need you to give me instructions!’

‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he agreed mockingly, allowing his gaze to slide over her so that she flushed uncomfortably in spite of herself.

Then he frowned: ‘You still distrust me, don’t you, Miss Mallory? Why?’

Dominique sighed. ‘I didn’t say that!’

‘No,’ he remarked. ‘It is your whole attitude. Perhaps you think I have kidnapped you. When you reach the hotel you will be able to speak to Harding on the telephone.’

The telephone, thought Domnique with relief. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that?

Vincente Santos was still giving her a slightly sardonic look. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Miss Mallory, but I regret to tell you I have known many beautiful women, and in my experience I do not have to kidnap them to make them submit!’

Dominique could not have felt more embarrassed, and it was with relief that she saw the outer environs of the city appearing. Even so, she was unprepared for the poverty and squalor of some of those dwellings which were little more than shacks, their occupants looking little better, with thin angular bodies and dirty faces. Her horror at these revelations must have communicated itself to him, for he said:

‘Where there are very rich there are also very poor. You are like everyone else, Miss Mallory. You want to see only what you expect to see.’

Dominique looked at him. ‘And how do you see it, Mr. Santos? Or perhaps you do not see it at all?’

Vincente Santos’s expression darkened. ‘Oh, I see it, Miss Mallory!’

Dominique glanced at him. There was a bitterness in his voice that was different from the casual amusement that had been there before. Then he said: ‘You imagine perhaps that I have only known this kind of life, this affluence, perhaps?’

Dominique bit her lip. ‘I didn’t think about it, Mr. Santos.’

‘Then perhaps you should think before you speak,’ he said, somewhat bleakly, and she wondered what unknowing spark she had ignited.

The city of Rio de Janeiro was unbelievably beautiful. Even Venice, which she had visited with her father, had not the individuality of architecture that Rio possessed in such abundance. Or maybe it was the grim overhanging buttresses of the Serras that brought such grandeur to an otherwise contemporary scene. The streets were thronged with cars and people and the noise was deafening. There was a predominance of young people, dressed casually in beach clothes. The girls in their bikinis and the young men with their sun-bronzed torsos resembled nothing so much as the high priests and priestesses who worshipped at the shrine of the Sun-god. Dominique saw old dowagers dressed entirely in black, like old crows in their severity among birds of paradise. There were dozens of children, ragged urchins with filthy faces, but so dark and attractive that they drew the eye. There were churches and museums, and tall skyscraper buildings, among streets lined with trees and paved in black and white mosaic.

The hotel Vincente Santos drove to stood in a quiet side-street, off the main thoroughfare near the centre of the city. The hotel was tall and handsome, grey-stoned and respectable, not one of the monolithic palaces that faced the beach at Copacabana. It had a strange kind of old-world charm that was in variance to the almost blatant modernity of its neighbours. Yet despite its appearance inside it was modern, with lifts and wall-to-wall carpeting. Dominique was to learn that to Brazilians wall-to-wall carpeting was considered extremely desirable, even if it did make bedrooms stiflingly hot.

The car was left in the car-park and they entered the hotel, Vincente Santos going ahead to speak to the receptionist. From the amount of deference he received Dominique gathered he was a valued client, and she hovered near the swing doors, unwilling to interfere. Then he turned and said:

‘Your room is ready. I expect you are tired and would like to shower and change before dinner. It will be served in the restaurant any time after seven-thirty. Harding has already telephoned to question your arrival, and will ring you back later, I imagine. I do not think there is anything else—’

Dominique linked her fingers. Somehow now that he appeared to have discharged his duty she was loath to let him go. Perhaps it was the strangeness of everything and this sense she had of being completely alone, but she hesitated uncertainly, wishing they could have left for Bela Vista right away.

Vincente Santos moved towards the door. He moved with a sinuous feline grace, like a tiger, the muscles across his back rippling smoothly beneath the thin material of his suit. And like his counterpart in the animal kingdom Dominique realized he could be dangerous. She didn’t quite know how she knew this. Certainly his manner towards her had not suggested the predatory male; even so he had spent several minutes staring at her in the airport bar when he must have known full well who she was, and she shivered slightly at the recollection. He looked back at her as he reached the doors.

‘You are satisfied?’ he asked smoothly.

‘Of course.’ Dominique was hasty. Whatever her feelings she had no intention of letting him realize her uncertainty.

‘That is good. I will pick you up at ten in the morning. Good night, Miss Mallory.’

‘Good – good night, Mr. Santos.’ Dominique was conscious of a page picking up the case which Vincente Santos had stood beside her, and then he gave a brief nod and disappeared through the swing doors.

‘This way, senhorita ,’ said the page in heavily accented English, and Dominique recalled that Vincente Santos had had little accent. Then she gave the page a faint smile and followed him across to the lift.

Her rooms were spacious and luxurious, with many windows overlooking the city. She could not see the favellas from here, and despite the noise of the traffic in the distance it was peaceful. A fan whirred lazily causing a cooling draught of air and the water in the shower was lukewarm.

Afterwards, she lay on her bed, staring at the telephone, willing it to ring. Maybe if she could hear John’s voice she could dispel the feeling of anxiety which seemed to have taken possession of her.