Brazilian Escape. Sandra Marton

      There could be no healing from him.

      She wanted to be close to him, wanted to be there for his trial hearing at least. She hoped for a miracle.

      He would not want her there. Meg knew that.

      But he was her husband, and she could at least be here in the city for him. Could watch it on the news, could be close even if he didn’t know it.

      And then she could visit him again before she left. She did not want a divorce from him now, and she wanted one more visit to argue her case.

      She was probably going insane, Meg realised as she cancelled Hawaii and stayed on in Brazil, but that was how he made her feel.

      She ventured out onto the busy streets and toured the amazing city. The sights, the smells, the food, the noise—there was everything to meet her moods.

      And without Niklas she might never have seen any of this—might never have visited the Pinacoteca, a stunning art museum, nor seen the sculptured garden beside it.

      At first Meg did guided tours with lots of other tourists around her, but gradually she tuned in to the energy of the place, to the smiles and the thumbs-up from the locals and ventured out more alone. She was glad to be here—glad for everything she got to see, to hear, to feel. Every little thing. She could have lived her whole life and never tasted pamonah, and there were vendors selling them everywhere—from the streets, from cars, ringing triangles to alert they were here. The first time Meg had bought one and had sunk her teeth into the new taste of mashed and boiled corn she had been unable to finish it. But the next day she had been back, drawn by the strange sweet taste—inadvertently she’d bought savoury, and found that was the one she liked best.

      There were so many things to learn.

      So badly she wanted to visit the mountains, to take a trip to the rainforests Niklas had told her about, yet it felt too painful to visit the mountains without him.

      She didn’t dare ring him that first week. Instead when six p.m. on Wednesday neared she sat in a restaurant the concierge had told her was famed for its seafood and ordered feijoada. Maybe it wasn’t the same restaurant Niklas had told her about, but she felt as if angels were feeding her soul and that she was right to be there.

      As the days passed she fell more and more in love with the city—the contrasts of it, the feel of it and the sound of it. The people were the most beautiful and elegant she had seen, yet the poverty was confrontational. It was a world that changed at every turn and she loved the anonymity of being somewhere so huge, loved being lost in it, and for two weeks she was.

      As instructed, she did not contact Rosa. The only people she spoke to were her parents, and she gave Niklas no indication that she was there until the night before his trial date.

      His face was on the TV screen, a reporter was already outside the court, and Meg had worked out that amanhã meant tomorrow. Until amanhã she simply could not wait. She just had to hear his voice. She had fallen in love with a man who was in prison and she should be signing paperwork, should be happily divorced, should be grateful for the chance to resume her life—but instead she sat in her hotel room, staring at the phone …

      Confused was all she was without him. The passion and love she felt for him only made real sense when he was near her and she had an overwhelming desire to talk to him. She counted down the moments until she could make that call.

      He knew that she would call.

      Niklas could feel it.

      Andros came and got him from his cell and he sat by the phone at the allotted time. The need for her to be safe overrode any desire to hear her voice.

      His teeth gritted when he heard the phone ring, and he wondered if he should let it remain unanswered, but he needed her to get the message—to get out of his life and leave him the hell alone.

      And then he heard her voice and realised just how much he craved it, closed his eyes in unexpected relief just to hear the sound of her.

      ‘I told you not to ring.’

      ‘I just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow.’

      ‘It is just to arrange a trial date …’ He did not trust the phones. He did not trust himself. For now he wanted her to visit him again. He wanted her living in a house in the mountains right behind the prison and wanted her to ring him every Wednesday, to come in to see him every three weeks. What scared him the most was that she might do it. ‘You did not need to ring for that. It will all be over in ten minutes.’

      She understood the need to be careful. ‘Even so, I hope they give you a date soon.’

      ‘What are you doing now?’

      ‘Talking to you.’

      ‘Is everything okay?’

      She knew what he was referring to—had seen his face when he’d removed the condom.

      ‘It’s fine.’

      ‘Did you go to a pharmacia?’

      He closed his eyes when she didn’t answer, thought again of her in a home in the mountains, but this time he pictured her with his baby at her side and selfish hope glimmered.

      ‘How’s Hawaii?’

      He heard her pause, heard that her voice was a little too high as she answered him. ‘You know …’ She attempted. ‘Nice.’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Niklas said, and it was not about what he wanted, it was not about him, it was about keeping her safe. His words were harsh now. ‘I’ve never been and I want a postcard,’ he said. ‘I want you, tonight, to write me a postcard from Hawaii.’

      He was telling her what to do and she knew it.

      ‘Niklas,’ she attempted, ‘I still have some holidays left. I thought maybe next week …’

      ‘You want to be paid again?’

      ‘Niklas, please—’ She hated that he’d mentioned money. ‘I just want to see you.’

      ‘You’ve already earned your keep … go spend your money on holiday.’

      ‘Niklas … I know you don’t mean that.’

      ‘What do you know?’ His voice was black. ‘We were married for one day; we screwed an awful lot. You know nothing about me.’

      ‘I know that you care. I know when you saw me—’

      ‘Care?’ he sneered down the phone. ‘The only way I can get sex in here is if they bring in my wife—that’s it. I am sick of conversations, and you seem to want just as many of those as you give of the other.’

      ‘Niklas, please …’

      But he would not let her speak. He had to get her away from here. Did she not get that she could be in danger? He had no idea what was happening on the outside, had no idea what was going on, and he wanted her safely away—had to make sure she was safe.

      So again he drowned her with words.

      ‘Meg, if you want to come back and suck me, then do. But just so long as you know you mean nothing to me.’

      He slammed down the phone—not in fury but in fear. He put his hands through the door and felt the cool of the cuffs. His mind was racing. Since her visit, since getting the information that Miguel was working against him, his mind had been spinning, trying to work out what the hell was going on, trying to figure things out. But now he had a head full of her, and he had more to be concerned with than that she was still here in Brazil.

      He needed to speak with Rosa—had to work out what the hell was going on.

      As he was walked back to his cell his face was expressionless, but his mind was pounding like a jackhammer and he cursed under his breath in Portuguese as Andros made some reference to his wife, about his nice