Witch's Harvest. Sara Craven

      She’d said huskily, ‘That’s nonsense.’

      Della’s smile had widened. ‘Oh, no, it isn’t, and we both know it. You’re incredibly transparent, darling, and if Vasco wasn’t absolutely besotted with me he’d probably have noticed your slavish devotion for himself by now.’ She held out the letter. ‘Believe me, Abby, it would give me great pleasure to point out that you’re dying of love for him. It would give us something to laugh about during the long winter evenings after we’re married.’ She studied the strained lines of Abby’s face with overt satisfaction. ‘And we will be married, you know. He’s crazy about me, and once he realises I mean business over this Amazon jungle fiasco, he’ll come to heel.’ Her lovely face took on a faintly lascivious look. ‘After all, he won’t want to forgo getting me into bed at last. Not that waiting was my idea in the first place, but Ina, after she’d introduced us at that Embassy party, warned me if I wanted marriage, I’d have to be a good, pure girl, and string him along, and it’s certainly worked!’ She giggled. ‘It’s been almost fun, playing the sweet little virgin, and watching him sweat. I think, if it hadn’t been for his damned sense of honour, I’d have let him persuade me. Because he is beautiful, as you’ve managed to work out for yourself, my sweet, like some gorgeous golden-skinned animal.’ She sighed. ‘I bet he’ll be sensational in the sack!’

      Abby had winced at the crudity of it. She said in a low voice, ‘Dell, if you love him …’

      ‘Oh, I do.’ Della’s eyes gleamed. ‘But I don’t consider the world well lost for love. If Vasco imagines I’m going to follow him to the Amazon basin like a little submissive wife, then he can think again. The choice is his: this—Riocho Negro hellhole, or me. It’s quite simple.’

      Abby shuddered as she remembered. She took the letter out of her bag, handling it gingerly as if it was a time-bomb, then rang the bell, praying he would be out.

      But her prayers were not answered. Almost immediately the door swung open, and Vasco stood there surveying her with frank astonishment, and growing grimness.

      ‘Abigail?’ he queried. ‘I was expecting …’

      ‘Della,’ Abby supplied. She sent him a small nervous smile. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

      ‘You have not,’ he told her politely. ‘It is naturally a pleasure to meet you again. It is some weeks, I think …’ He hesitated. ‘Would you like to come in?’

      ‘There’s really no need,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Actually, I’m here on Della’s behalf.’ She held out the letter. ‘She asked me to give you this.’

      He looked down at the letter, and the grim expression on his face deepened alarmingly. Abby had never seen him like this. On their previous encounters, he had always been at his most charming. Now, once again, it occurred to her that he was a formidable man, and Della was insane if she imagined she could force him down any path he did not choose to go.

      He said curtly, ‘I think you had better come in after all, Abigail.’ His hand closed on her arm in a grip which brooked no denial, and he drew her forward into the flat. She found herself in a large, comfortably furnished drawing-room. ‘Sit down,’ Vasco directed, indicating an enormous leather sofa.

      ‘I really can’t stay,’ she protested weakly. ‘I only came to deliver that and …’

      ‘Ah, yes.’ His smile was wintry. ‘Abigail at one time meant “handmaiden”, I think. You should not allow Della to impose on you. However, even a messenger deserves some reward. May I offer you some coffee, or perhaps you would prefer a drink.’

      ‘Neither, thanks. I do have to go …’

      ‘You have not been instructed to wait for an answer to that?’ He pointed to the letter she was still clutching.

      ‘Good God, no!’ Abby dropped the letter on to a coffee table as if it was a hot coal. ‘I think you should read it, Vasco,’ she said, trying to edge past him towards the door. ‘Della was very anxious that I should deliver it right now, and there’s probably a reason for that.’

      ‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said curtly. ‘Over these past weeks I have been made well aware of the way her mind works. Do you perhaps know the terms of her message?’ There was a slight derisive emphasis on the last word.

      ‘Not really,’ Abby denied swiftly and unconvincingly, a faint, betraying colour rising in her face.

      ‘I see,’ he said icily.

      ‘No, you don’t.’ She punched a small clenched fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I could kill Della! Believe me, the last thing I want is to be—involved in any way in any—problem you might be having.’

      ‘Thank you for the assurance,’ he said sarcastically. ‘But any problems are of Della’s own making. In my world, when a woman agrees to marry a man, she consents to share his life, no matter where or how that life is to be lived. Your cousin knew my home, my work was at Riocho Negro. I made no secret of it.’

      She gave a quick meaningless smile. ‘Well, it’s really none of my business. Now you must excuse me. I—I have a date, and you’ll want to read your letter in peace.’

      ‘Peace is hardly the word I should have chosen,’ Vasco said with sudden harshness, making her flinch. He saw this, and his face gentled. ‘Tenho muita pena, Abigail—I am sorry. You are not to blame, after all. But you should not allow Della to use you like this.’

      She shrugged lightly. ‘Well, it isn’t for much longer. I’m sure you’ll settle your differences together, Vasco. Goodnight.’

      ‘Boa tarde, Abigail.’

      Reaction set in almost as soon as she was safely back in the corridor, with the door closed between them. Her legs were shaking so much suddenly that she had to stop and lean against a wall until she regained her equilibrium. Another door opened and an elderly couple emerged, the woman giving Abby a surprised and frosty glance as they passed.

      She probably thinks I’m drunk, Abby decided, and, God, I wish I was!

      As she waited in the bus queue, she realised it was the first time she had ever been completely alone with Vasco. It had been a tense interview, and nothing like any of the childishly romantic dreams she had occasionally indulged herself with.

      Despising herself for a fool, she began, almost obsessively, to recreate him in her mind, to go over every tiny detail of his appearance. Her mind’s eye dwelt lingeringly on the length of the black lashes which veiled his brilliant dark eyes, the way his hair grew back from a distinct peak on his forehead, the expanse of coppery skin revealed by the open neck of his shirt, the long-fingered, well kept hands.

      She gave a little shaky sigh, telling herself that she should be ashamed. It was not only wrong but futile to allow him to fill her thoughts like this. He belonged to Della. They would resolve their difficulties with some compromise, and get married, and if she was lucky she would never see them again.

      Especially now that she was firmly established in his mind as an interfering busybody, she reminded herself ironically. But it was better to be regarded as a nuisance rather than a lovesick idiot. And if Della ever carried out her threat and told him her dull little cousin had fallen for him in a big way, Brazil was far enough away for her to be spared the knowledge.

      And one day, she hoped, she would wake up cured.

      Although not, she was forced to acknowledge, by Keith with whom she had a date that evening. He was pleasant enough, and one of the junior executives in the company she worked for, and they shared a mutual interest in the theatre, but that was as far as it went, on her side at least.

      Not that Keith ever showed any sign of wishing to become wildly amorous, she thought wryly. He was far too cautious for that, far too aware of where he was going in life. Abigail often speculated that she was being put through a series of suitability tests by him, but they were leisurely enough not to cause