Who Rides A Tiger. Anne Mather

She wondered who it was a photograph of. Certainly it bore no resemblance to the woman Sophia.

      He turned from the cocktail cabinet and intercepted her interest. ‘And what thoughts are penetrating your devious little mind now?’ he asked, a little harshly. ‘That is my sister!’

      ‘Oh!’ Dominique took a sip of her drink. ‘She’s quite beautiful.’

      ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ His mouth twisted sardonically. ‘Beautiful – but unhappy.’

      ‘Unhappy?’ Dominique looked up.

      ‘That is perhaps too weak an expression,’ he said bleakly. ‘Devastated is maybe nearer the truth.’

      ‘But why?’ Unwillingly, Dominique was curious.

      ‘She fell in love with a man who was merely playing with her emotions,’ replied Vincente grimly. ‘When she discovered his true character she was distraught. She refused all offers of sympathy, and has locked herself away in the convent of St. Teresa.’

      ‘I see.’ Dominique stood down her glass. ‘I’m sorry.’

      He studied her thoughtfully. ‘Are you? Are you, Dominique?’

      Dominique ignored his penetrating gaze with difficulty. She glanced at her watch. ‘Heavens! It’s after one,’ she exclaimed. ‘I must go!’

      ‘After one,’ he mimicked her lazily. ‘So late! You are tired?’

      ‘Of course.’ Dominique stood up.

      ‘There are plenty of beds here,’ he remarked mockingly.

      Dominique turned a little pale. ‘Please, Mr. Santos! Don’t tease me!’

      Vincente Santos stood down his own glass and came round to her side. ‘Did I sound as though I was teasing?’ he asked huskily.

      Dominique stood her ground. ‘I chose to take it that way,’ she said, her own voice rather small and insignificant.

      He hesitated, still looking at her, and then with an angry exclamation he turned and lifted his jacket. ‘All right, all right, we go,’ he said abruptly, and mounted the shallow steps in a single stride.

      Dominique heaved a shaky sigh of relief and followed him.

      Outside the air was deliciously cool, and she climbed into the car with trembling legs. Suddenly she felt very tired, as though the last half hour in Vincente’s apartment had reduced her stamina to nil.

      It seemed only seconds before they were drawing up outside the Hotel Maria Magdalena, and Vincente thrust open her door and indicated that she should get out. Obviously now he was eager to be rid of her.

      She got out unsteadily, but he did not wait to see her into the hotel. As she mounted the steps the car roared away into the night.

      In her room she stripped off her outer garments and then flung herself on the bed, aware of a sense of anti-climax. All of a sudden the evening had gone sour on her. She wasn’t really sure why. It could be because of his easy acceptance of her resistance, but mainly she thought it was because to him the night was still young, and there would be other women, just like Sophia, eager and willing to satisfy his desires. But that was nothing to do with her. If he had attempted to make love to her she would have been horrified.

      Or would she?

      As she rolled miserably on to her stomach she acknowledged the plain fact that she would have liked to have known what it was like to have him touch her, caress her, and to feel that hard, cruel mouth exploring her own.

       CHAPTER THREE

      DESPITE her disturbed frame of mind Dominique slept well and was awakened by the sound of the traffic at about eight o’clock. It was a glorious morning, a shroud of mist enveloping the upper slopes of the city that presaged another hot day.

      She showered and dressed in the cotton dress she had worn the previous afternoon, hoping it did not look too crumpled, but it was all she had apart from the navy dress and somehow she didn’t want to wear it again just now. She applied make-up, did her hair, and went down to the restaurant a little before nine. She ate lemon flapjacks, drank several cups of coffee, and had the first and most enjoyable cigarette of the day.

      At nine-forty-five she went back to her room, collected her things together, and carried her case down to the foyer. Then she seated herself on a red banquette to wait. However, after only a few moments the receptionist approached her.

      ‘Ah, good morning, Miss Mallory,’ he said. ‘There is a car waiting for you outside. Will you go out?’

      Dominique hesitated. ‘My bill …’ she began.

      ‘That has all been taken care of,’ replied the receptionist smoothly. ‘I hope you complete your journey in safety.’

      ‘Thank you. I’ve been very comfortable here. Good-bye.’

      Frowning a little, she emerged from the swing doors on to the steps of the hotel. A dark saloon was waiting at the foot of the steps. As she appeared a man in chauffeur’s uniform got out, and held open the rear door for her.

      ‘Is – is this Mr. Santos’s car?’ she asked puzzled.

      ‘Sim, senhorita.’ The chauffeur nodded politely.

      Dominique gave a faint sigh, and moved down the steps to climb into the back of the limousine.

      ‘Where is Mr. Santos?’ she asked as casually as she could.

      The chauffeur got into his place behind the wheel. ‘Senhor Santos offers you his apologies, senhorita, but he has some urgent business to attend to. He has asked me to escort you to Bela Vista.’

      Dominique’s nails bit into the palms of her hands. ‘I see.’

      The vehicle moved smoothly away from the kerb, and she sank back against the soft upholstery. She felt disturbed and confused. Why had he decided not to take her after all? Was it something to do with what had happened last night? But what had happened, after all?

      She lit another cigarette to calm her nerves. Forget Vincente Santos, she advised herself angrily. In an hour or so she would be with John. It was John she had come here to be with, not Vincente Santos.

      The chauffeur drove more carefully than his employer, yet even so they reached the small domestic airport quite quickly. Dominique was ushered ceremoniously out of the limousine and into the gleaming silver and blue helicopter that awaited them. The chauffeur left the car in the hands of one of the airport stewards, and then shedding his peaked cap he climbed behind the controls of the aircraft. Dominique glanced at him. He was a man in his middle forties, she estimated, with dark skin and rather friendly blue eyes.

      The propellers began to revolve, and in a few moments they were airborne. Dominique had never flown in a helicopter before and for a while she was terribly nervous. The panoramic window at the front gave one the impression that one was about to tip forward into oblivion, but after a minute or so she realized she was quite safe and began to enjoy it. Even so, it was quite a nerve-racking experience flying across such a bleak and savage landscape. The saw-tooth peaks of the Serras seemed to beckon like devilish symbols, luring a man to destruction.

      ‘What is your name?’ she asked the man presently as she began to relax.

      He gave her a smile. ‘Salvador, senhorita,’ he replied.

      ‘And you work for Mr. Santos?’

       ‘Sim, senhorita.’

      Dominique nodded. ‘You have known him long?’

      ‘Twenty years, senhorita. Senhor Santos was only a boy when I came to work for him.’

      This was interesting, and although she realized she ought not to feel so curious about Vincente Santos this was a way