Who Rides A Tiger. Anne Mather

would-be abductor could be so sure of himself.

      ‘Thank you,’ she said, glancing down at her case. ‘This is all my luggage. My other cases were sent independently.’

      Vincente Santos nodded, and putting away his wallet bent and lifted the case. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and strode away across the hall so that Dominique had almost to run to keep up with him.

      Outside the airport buildings the heat hit her like an actual physical force, and she gasped. The air-conditioning inside had not prepared her for this. Santos glanced her way.

      ‘This is cooler than in the middle of the day,’ he remarked. ‘You’ll soon get used to it.’

      Dominique managed a faint smile. Already she was wishing that John had asked someone else to meet her. Someone who was less blatantly attractive and sure of himself. With Vincente Santos she felt at a disadvantage, and despite the fact that he was faultlessly polite, she had the feeling that he was merely amusing himself at her expense.

      A sleek green convertible awaited them outside the airport, and Vincente Santos threw her case unceremoniously into the back, and then opened the door for her to climb in. Dominique slid in and waited for him to join her, taking in the delicious perfumes of a positive riot of flowers that grew beside the paved car park. The colours were brilliant and various and she felt an unwilling shiver of excitement slide along her spine. Towering above were the ragged peaks of the Serras, and away in the distance the blue wash of the Atlantic. It was exotic and exhilarating after the greyness of London, and even Santos’s lazy tolerance seemed to lose some of its mockery.

      He climbed in beside her, saw her expressive face, and smiled, revealing even white teeth that contrasted sharply with the dark tan of his features.

      ‘You have not been to Brazil before?’ he murmured, turning the ignition.

      Dominique shook her head. ‘No.’

      ‘But already you feel the pulse of our country,’ he remarked casually, and drove the car out of the parking area.

      Dominique liked his expression. That was exactly how she did feel. The excitement which had gripped her before the plane landed was returning, and with it a sense of awareness of her surroundings. There was something primitive and untamed about the country, even with its soaring skyscrapers and luxury apartments. How could anyone forget that the Matto Grosso was not too far away with its impenetrable forests and dangerous rivers where a man could be lost without trace? Just another of the facets of a country as complex as its history. Maybe it was that sense of the unknown that thrilled her so. Like the impetus that drove a man to risk his life to discover the savagery of primitive civilizations.

      She became aware that Vincente Santos was speaking to her and endeavoured to orientate herself to her present situation.

      ‘You used to live in London, I believe,’ he was saying.

      Dominique nodded. ‘That’s right. At least, in the suburbs. Tell me, why didn’t John come to meet me? And where are we going now?’

      He smiled again. ‘I was beginning to think you had forgotten the purpose for your visit here,’ he remarked lazily. And then: ‘Bela Vista where you are to live is in these mountains, but the roads are not to be recommended. They are little more than tracks in places. Do not imagine though that Bela Vista is an uncivilized place. It has its museum and its art gallery and its university. But to get there – ah, that is another matter.’

      Dominique wrinkled her nose. ‘Go on.’

      He shrugged expressively. ‘There was a landslide on the road.’

      Dominique gasped. ‘Was – was anyone hurt?’

      ‘No. But your fiancé was – what do you say? – stranded. So he telephoned me.’

      ‘You – you were in Rio?’ questioned Dominique slowly.

      ‘No, I was in Bela Vista.’

      Dominique gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Please, Mr. Santos, don’t tease me. How could you get here and not John?’

      Vincente Santos swung the car round a precipitous bend in the road, causing Dominique to cling apprehensively to her seat, and then said: ‘I have other means of transport. A helicopter!’

      ‘Oh! Oh, I see!’ Dominique nodded. ‘I naturally assumed ….’ She shrugged. ‘Do you live in Bela Vista, Mr. Santos?’

      ‘I live in many places,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘But I do have a house at Bela Vista, yes.’

      Dominique digested this, and as she did so she wondered whether he might be John’s employer. After all, the names were the same, but Santos was a common enough name in Brazil. If this man was part of the organization what was his connection with her fiancé? How well did he know John, and conversely, how well did John know him? There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask but couldn’t. Instead, she said:

      ‘Are we going to Bela Vista now?’

      ‘The road is blocked,’ he reminded her patiently.

      ‘I know. I meant of course by helicopter.’

      He looked rather sardonic, causing a faint flush to colour Dominique’s cheeks. She was intensely aware of him, and it did not make for relaxation. He was the kind of man of whom she knew nothing. There was a sensual line to his mouth which disturbed her a little. He was obviously used to the company of women, and it was annoying to realize that she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to deal with him. It wasn’t only the alien cast of his features, or the fact that his clothes and car and whole attitude depicted wealth of a kind she had never before experienced, it was something else, something indefinable that made him different from any other man she had ever known. And it was infuriating to know that he was aware of his attraction, and probably of how she reacted to him. Stiffening her shoulders, she said briskly: ‘What do you intend doing with me?’

      He gave a lazy laugh. ‘Doing with you, Miss Mallory? That’s a curious expression. What do you imagine I am going to do with you?’ The car curved over a promontory and below them was spread the land-locked harbour of Rio de Janeiro, with Guanabara Bay beyond, studded with islands that glistened like jewels in the rays of the sinking sun.

      Dominique stared entranced for a few moments, and then gathering her thoughts, she said briefly: ‘You must know what I mean!’

      He inclined his head, the wheel of the car sliding through the hard strength of his brown fingers. ‘Yes, I know. And I realize you are eager to meet your fiancé again. After all, it is some time since he left England, and a lot can happen in only a few months. However, it will be dark soon now and I do not care to risk putting down the helicopter among these mountains in darkness.’

      Dominique twisted the strap of her handbag. ‘So?’

      ‘So I regret to tell you that you must spend this night in Rio. A room has been booked for you at a hotel there where you will be very comfortable, and tomorrow – well, tomorrow you will be able to cast yourself into the arms of your beloved!’

      Dominique gave him a hard stare. ‘Thank you,’ she said, coldly. ‘I don’t need you to give me instructions!’

      ‘I’m sure you don’t,’ he agreed mockingly, allowing his gaze to slide over her so that she flushed uncomfortably in spite of herself.

      Then he frowned: ‘You still distrust me, don’t you, Miss Mallory? Why?’

      Dominique sighed. ‘I didn’t say that!’

      ‘No,’ he remarked. ‘It is your whole attitude. Perhaps you think I have kidnapped you. When you reach the hotel you will be able to speak to Harding on the telephone.’

      The telephone, thought Domnique with relief. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that?

      Vincente Santos was still giving her a slightly sardonic look. ‘You are a beautiful woman, Miss Mallory, but I regret to tell you I have known many beautiful women, and in my experience