Who Rides A Tiger. Anne Mather

and also time to get what you want for the apartment. We have some good stores and Mrs. Rawlings has said you can borrow her sewing machine to run up curtains and such like.’

      Dominique drew on her cigarette. ‘It doesn’t seem real somehow,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I mean – being here in Brazil!’

      John laughed. ‘That’s natural. You’ve just flown several thousand miles. It takes time for your mind to catch up with your body!’

      ‘I suppose that’s what it is,’ she nodded.

      ‘Well, anyway, roll on tomorrow. Phones are such inadequate things when I’m longing to see you and hold you and kiss you.’ John’s voice was husky. ‘I love you, Dom!’

      ‘And I love you, John,’ she murmured.

      ‘I’ll go now, then. Go have some dinner and then have an early night. You must be exhausted!’

      ‘Not now. I’ve just had about three hours’ rest. But I will go and get some dinner. Will you meet me when we land, John?’

      ‘Of course. G’bye, honey.’

      ‘Good-bye, John.’

      After he had rung off she sat staring at the telephone for several minutes. It was strange how different John sounded now from the man she had known in England. Or maybe he didn’t sound any different, she was just hearing him differently.

      She sighed and stubbed her cigarette out in a brass ashtray. She had the strongest suspicion that she should not have had these six months away from John. What if they had both changed? What if her opinion of him was different now that he was taken out of his normal environment?

      But that was ridiculous. If you loved somebody, you loved them no matter what. You didn’t change because of circumstances or environment.

      She slid off the bed and opened her overnight case. Apart from the suit she had been wearing when she left London and which she had changed at the airport there was a navy blue uncrushable dress which she had packed for her first night at Bela Vista to save her tackling her other trunks. Taking it out, she laid it on the bed and then sluiced her face before applying a light make-up. Her lashes were naturally long and she darkened them with a little mascara, smoothing some eye-shadow on to the lids. Then she applied a pale lipstick and wriggled into the navy dress. Her hair was thick and long and heavy, but she couldn’t be bothered to attempt a sophisticated knot, so she added an Alice band which kept it back off her face. Then she left her room and took the lift down to the restaurant.

      At this hour of the evening it was not too busy and the waiter showed her deferentially to a table. Maybe he thought she was some close friend of Vincente Santos, she thought dryly. Certainly she had never experienced such obsequious attention before. She chose a dish comprising beef, black beans and rice, which while being rather rich and spicy, was rather delicious. Then she had an orange dessert, with real fresh oranges that somehow tasted different from the ones she was used to eating back in England, and finished with cheese and coffee.

      ‘You enjoyed the meal, senhorita?’ It was the head waiter bowing beside the table.

      Dominique flicked ash from the end of her cigarette and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Thank you. It was delicious!’

      ‘I am very happy. Perhaps a liqueur with your coffee? Brandy perhaps?’

      Dominique shook her head regretfully. ‘Oh, really, no. The wine with the meal was quite enough for me. I don’t have a strong head for alcohol.’ She offered the explanation with a smile.

      ‘Are you endeavouring to lead the innocent into temptation, my friend?’ remarked a deep voice lazily, and Dominique looked up, startled, to see Vincente Santos standing behind the head waiter, looking dark and lean and disturbingly masculine in a dark dinner suit.

      The head waiter glanced round and smiled with real pleasure. ‘Ah, Senhor Santos,’ he said, nodding. ‘You startled me. I was merely offering the young lady a liqueur, but she seems unwilling to accept.’

      Vincente Santos moved round the table, pulling out a chair and straddling it lazily. ‘So, Miss Mallory. You are afraid to take any risks, is that right?’

      Dominique controlled her blushes with difficulty. ‘I didn’t say that, Mr. Santos. I don’t have a head for spirits, that’s all.’

      ‘But that is sad!’ he mocked her gently. ‘Particularly as I know my good friend Enrico here possesses some of the finest brandy in the whole of Brazil.’ He looked up at the head waiter. ‘The senhorita will drink with me later, Enrico. You may go.’

      ‘Sim, senhor.’ The waiter left them, and Vincente Santos gave her an appraising glance.

      ‘You look very charming, Miss Mallory. It seems a shame to waste such beauty on the restaurant of the Maria Magdalena.’

      Dominique felt her nerves jumping. She was quite sure he wasn’t seriously suggesting that he had come here for any other purpose than to ascertain that she was being adequately looked after.

      ‘What would you suggest, Mr. Santos?’ she parried coolly, endeavouring to appear composed while her stomach was churning with suppressed excitement.

      Vincente Santos smiled. ‘What would I suggest? Well let me see – I know a night club, called the Piranha, where we could dance, and there is a good cabaret.’

      Dominique shivered. ‘Piranha? Aren’t they the fish that can destroy a living creature in minutes?’

      ‘That’s right.’ His reply was laconic. ‘I’m not considering offering you as a sacrifice, Miss Mallory.’

      Dominique bit her lip. ‘You have relieved my mind,’ she retorted quickly. ‘However, as I’m quite sure you’re not seriously suggesting that we spend the rest of the evening together, I’ll wish you good night again.’ She got to her feet, but he rose also, blocking her way.

      ‘You do not think I am serious?’ he questioned. ‘Why? Surely, entertaining the fiancée of my colleague is the least I can do in the circumstances.’

      ‘You are hardly a colleague of my fiancé,’ returned Dominique quietly, looking down at her handbag.

      ‘Ah! You have spoken to the good fellow!’ he said sardonically. ‘And has he warned you against me?’

      ‘Of course not. Why should he do that?’ Dominique made a movement. ‘Please – excuse me!’

      ‘In a moment. Do you object to my asking for your company?’

      Dominique sighed. ‘Of course not.’

      ‘But you refuse?’

      Dominique gave a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘Mr. Santos, it may amuse you to make fun of me, but I’m growing a little tired of it. Excuse me.’

      Vincente Santos moved aside. ‘I was mistaken, obviously,’ he said indifferently. ‘I had thought you looked lonely.’

      Dominique looked up at him in exasperation. ‘So you took pity on me?’

      ‘Hardly that. However, I am quite prepared to show you a little of the cultural capital of my country.’

      Dominique took a step, hesitated, and glanced back at him. ‘It was very kind of you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘And – I would like to have seen a little more of the city.’

      ‘Yet you still hesitate. Am I such a terrifying person? Does the prospect of a few hours in my company repel you so?’

      Dominique smiled. ‘You know perfectly well that you are deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she said.

      He came round the table to her side, looking down at her intently. His fingers stroked the bare skin of her forearm almost absently. ‘As I said before, Miss Mallory, you are a beautiful young woman, and I should like to take you to the Piranha.’

      Dominique