Sara Craven - Dark Ransom

‘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.