Anne Mather - Who Rides A Tiger

Dominique ventured down the steps and seated herself in one of the armchairs with the leopardskin seats. They were superbly comfortable, and she wriggled back comfortably, wishing she could kick off her shoes and relax completely. But that would have been like betraying herself, and she had no intention of doing that.

He handed her a drink, flung himself into a chair opposite and offered her a cigarette. When they were both lighted, he said:

‘There, it’s not so bad, is it?’

‘Why have you brought me here, Mr. Santos?’

‘Make it Vincente,’ he said easily. ‘Mr. Santos sounds ridiculous when you consider our situation. And your name is Dominique. I like it. It suits you.’

The way he said it, with a faintly foreign inflection, made it sound different from the way she had heard it before, and she liked it.

‘Tell me, Mr. Santos,’ she said, ignoring his edict, ‘why did you come back to the hotel tonight?’

‘I was curious.’

‘About me?’

‘Hmm. You intrigued me. You’re frankly not the sort of woman I would have thought would find a man like Harding attractive.’

Dominique was staggered. He made outrageous remarks sound so ordinary.

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she exclaimed annoyedly.

‘Don’t I?’ He drew on his cigarette lazily. ‘I know you are what Sophia said you are – young and unsophisticated. Such a combination is a novelty to me. The women of my acquaintance acquire knowledge at a very early age.’

‘Don’t you mean experience?’ asked Dominique tautly.

He shrugged. ‘If you like,’ he agreed equably.

He swallowed the remainder of his drink and left his seat to get another. As he did so, Dominique’s eyes were drawn to a photograph on the low table nearby. It was the picture of a girl of perhaps nineteen or twenty. She was very attractive with short black curly hair and a small heart-shaped face. She wondered who it was a photograph of. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the woman Sophia.

He turned from the cocktail cabinet and intercepted her interest. ‘And what thoughts are penetrating your devious little mind now?’ he asked, a little harshly. ‘That is my sister!’

‘Oh!’ Dominique took a sip of her drink. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’

‘Yes, isn’t she?’ His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Beautiful – but unhappy.’

‘Unhappy?’ Dominique looked up.

‘That is perhaps too weak an expression,’ he said bleakly. ‘Devastated is maybe nearer the truth.’

‘But why?’ Unwillingly, Dominique was curious.

‘She fell in love with a man who was merely playing with her emotions,’ replied Vincente grimly. ‘When she discovered his true character she was distraught. She refused all offers of sympathy, and has locked herself away in the convent of St. Teresa.’

‘I see.’ Dominique stood down her glass. ‘I’m sorry.’

He studied her thoughtfully. ‘Are you? Are you, Dominique?’

Dominique ignored his penetrating gaze with difficulty. She glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens! It’s after one,’ she exclaimed. ‘I must go!’

‘After one,’ he mimicked her lazily. ‘So late! You are tired?’

‘Of course.’ Dominique stood up.

‘There are plenty of beds here,’ he remarked mockingly.

Dominique turned a little pale. ‘Please, Mr. Santos! Don’t tease me!’

Vincente Santos stood down his own glass and came round to her side. ‘Did I sound as though I was teasing?’ he asked huskily.

Dominique stood her ground. ‘I chose to take it that way,’ she said, her own voice rather small and insignificant.

He hesitated, still looking at her, and then with an angry exclamation he turned and lifted his jacket. ‘All right, all right, we go,’ he said abruptly, and mounted the shallow steps in a single stride.

Dominique heaved a shaky sigh of relief and followed him.

Outside the air was deliciously cool, and she climbed into the car with trembling legs. Suddenly she felt very tired, as though the last half hour in Vincente’s apartment had reduced her stamina to nil.

It seemed only seconds before they were drawing up outside the Hotel Maria Magdalena, and Vincente thrust open her door and indicated that she should get out. Obviously now he was eager to be rid of her.

She got out unsteadily, but he did not wait to see her into the hotel. As she mounted the steps the car roared away into the night.

In her room she stripped off her outer garments and then flung herself on the bed, aware of a sense of anti-climax. All of a sudden the evening had gone sour on her. She wasn’t really sure why. It could be because of his easy acceptance of her resistance, but mainly she thought it was because to him the night was still young, and there would be other women, just like Sophia, eager and willing to satisfy his desires. But that was nothing to do with her. If he had attempted to make love to her she would have been horrified.

Or would she?

As she rolled miserably on to her stomach she acknowledged the plain fact that she would have liked to have known what it was like to have him touch her, caress her, and to feel that hard, cruel mouth exploring her own.

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