Dark Ransom. Sara Craven

of the tub.

      ‘Get out.’ Her words emerged as a strangled yelp.

      ‘Deus.’ No amusement now, only angry disbelief. He tossed the package he was carrying down on to the floor, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

      Charlie stayed where she was for a few moments, until her heartbeat had settled back to something near normal and she’d finally stopped blushing.

      Fay Preston’s interpretation of ‘friends’ had indeed been ambiguous, she thought sickly. And the explanation she was planning was going to need considerably more thought than she’d anticipated.

      To say that the next few moments promised to be profoundly awkward was an understatement, she thought wretchedly. Merely having to face him again would be an ordeal.

      She got slowly out of the tub, and reached for a towel.

      The package on the floor had burst open, revealing the contents as a satin robe in a shade of deep amethyst. Charlie shook out the folds, viewing it gloomily. It was sinuous, sexy and obviously expensive. It was also definitely not intended for her, but it was the only thing she had to put on apart from the damp towel, so …

      Slowly and reluctantly she slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash round her slender waist in a double knot. But a brief glance in the big brass-framed mirror on one wall only served to reinforce her misgivings.

      It was far too big for her, she thought, rolling up the sleeves and trying to pull the wide, all too revealing lapels further together. She looked like a child dressing up in adult’s clothing, and therefore was at a disadvantage before she even began.

      She took a last despairing glance, then turned away. It was no use skulking here any longer. She squared her shoulders and walked into the bedroom.

      He was standing by the window, staring out through the rain-lashed panes. But, as if some instinct had warned him of her barefooted approach, he turned slowly and looked at her.

      Charlie moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘Who—who are you?’

      ‘I think that should be my question, don’t you?’ His English was accented but good.

      Charlie found his tone altogether less acceptable. Nor did she like the dismissive glance which flicked her from head to toe.

      She lifted her chin. ‘My name is Charlotte Graham.’

      ‘That,’ he said softly, ‘I already know, senhorita.’ He lifted his hand, and she saw with a sense of shock that he was holding her passport.

      ‘You’ve actually been through my bag?’ Her voice shook. ‘How—how dare you?’

      He shrugged almost negligently. ‘Oh, I dare. I think I am entitled to know the identity of those I shelter beneath my roof. And now I would like to know why you have so honoured me, senhorita. What exactly are you doing here?’

      ‘You’ve got a nerve to ask that,’ Charlie said hotly. ‘After your … thugs kidnapped me in Mariasanta.’

      His brows snapped together. ‘What are you saying?’

      ‘You heard me.’ She wished that her voice would stop trembling. ‘I was having a drink in the hotel when they … marched in, and told me the boat was waiting. I thought they meant the Manoela, so I went with them. When I realised, I—I told them over and over again they were making a mistake, but they took no notice.’

      He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, senhorita. I don’t know what game you are playing, but the mistake is yours, I assure you. So—where is Senhorita Preston?’

      Charlie bit her lip. ‘She—she isn’t coming. She’s gone back—gone home.’

      The bronzed face was impassive, but underneath he was angry. She could sense the violence of temper in him, and shrank from it.

      ‘So,’ he said too pleasantly, ‘you have come in her place. Do you expect me to be grateful?’

      He made no attempt to move, or lay a hand on her, but suddenly, shatteringly, Charlie felt naked under his mocking, contemptuous gaze.

      She knew an overwhelming impulse to drag the satin lapels together, cover herself to the throat, but controlled it. She would not, she thought, give him that satisfaction.

      She said quietly and coldly, ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. I haven’t come in anyone’s place. I only went to the hotel to deliver a letter on Miss Preston’s behalf.’ She paused. ‘I presume that your name is Santana.’

      ‘You are correct.’ The dark eyes narrowed. ‘Where, then, is this letter?’

      Charlie felt faint colour steal into her face. ‘I don’t know. Still at the hotel, I suppose.’

      ‘What a tragedy,’ he said silkily. ‘Then I shall never know how the beautiful Fay chose to give me my dismissal.’

      She said haltingly, ‘I think she found the trip—on the Manoela—rather hard to take. Conditions are a bit … primitive.’

      His mouth twisted. ‘Clearly, senhorita, you are made of sterner stuff—contrary to appearances.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you will need to be.’

      ‘I’m sure there must be some deep, cryptic meaning in that,’ Charlie said wearily. ‘But I’m too tired and too upset to work it out just now. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed over Miss Preston’s non-arrival, but—’

      ‘I am more than disappointed,’ his voice bit. ‘I am devastated that my lovely Fay can forget me so easily. We met while I was on leave in the Algarve last year, visiting some of my cousins in Portugal. I was introduced to Fay at a party, and … a relationship developed between us.’ He gave her a cynical glance. ‘I am sure I do not have to go into details.’

      ‘No.’ Charlie’s colour deepened. ‘But this is really none of my business, senhor—’

      ‘Riago,’ he corrected her. ‘Riago da Santana. And I must point out that you made this your business when you chose to intervene. So—eventually, when my leave came to an end and it was time to return to Brazil, Fay told me that she could not bear to be parted from me. She was flatteringly convincing, so I suggested she should join me here for a while, at my expense, naturalmente.’

      ‘Oh, of course.’ Charlie’s voice was hollow. And clearly no expense had been spared, she thought, conscious of the sensuous cling of the satin robe against her skin.

      She swallowed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Senhor da Santana, but she’s obviously had second thoughts.’ She wondered if she should add the civil hope that he was not too much out of pocket but, looking at the short flare of his upper lip and the cleft in his chin, decided that any further comment would be not only superfluous, but positively unwise.

      ‘And so you have come in her place.’ He sounded almost reflective as the dark eyes made another disturbing appraisal of her quivering person. ‘If you imagine your charms are an adequate substitute for hers, senhorita, then you are wrong.’

      Nothing had—or could ever have—prepared her for an insult like that. Charlie stared at him mutely, the colour draining out of her face.

      She wanted to reach out and claw his face—draw blood, make him suffer—but instead she let her nails curl into the palms of her hands.

      She said with brave politeness, ‘You seem to be under some kind of misapprehension, senhor. No substitution is intended, or will take place. As I’ve already explained, your men brought me here by mistake and against my will.’

      ‘You fought them?’ he asked. ‘You kicked and screamed and struggled? I noticed no marks on either of them, I confess, but my mind was elsewhere …’

      ‘No—not exactly.’ Charlie bit her lip. ‘I—I tried to explain … to reason with them.’ She stopped, realising how lame it must sound.