Anne Mather - Who Rides A Tiger

Dominique drew on her cigarette. ‘It doesn’t seem real somehow,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I mean – being here in Brazil!’

John laughed. ‘That’s natural. You’ve just flown several thousand miles. It takes time for your mind to catch up with your body!’

‘I suppose that’s what it is,’ she nodded.

‘Well, anyway, roll on tomorrow. Phones are such inadequate things when I’m longing to see you and hold you and kiss you.’ John’s voice was husky. ‘I love you, Dom!’

‘And I love you, John,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll go now, then. Go have some dinner and then have an early night. You must be exhausted!’

‘Not now. I’ve just had about three hours’ rest. But I will go and get some dinner. Will you meet me when we land, John?’

‘Of course. G’bye, honey.’

‘Good-bye, John.’

After he had rung off she sat staring at the telephone for several minutes. It was strange how different John sounded now from the man she had known in England. Or maybe he didn’t sound any different, she was just hearing him differently.

She sighed and stubbed her cigarette out in a brass ashtray. She had the strongest suspicion that she should not have had these six months away from John. What if they had both changed? What if her opinion of him was different now that he was taken out of his normal environment?

But that was ridiculous. If you loved somebody, you loved them no matter what. You didn’t change because of circumstances or environment.

She slid off the bed and opened her overnight case. Apart from the suit she had been wearing when she left London and which she had changed at the airport there was a navy blue uncrushable dress which she had packed for her first night at Bela Vista to save her tackling her other trunks. Taking it out, she laid it on the bed and then sluiced her face before applying a light make-up. Her lashes were naturally long and she darkened them with a little mascara, smoothing some eye-shadow on to the lids. Then she applied a pale lipstick and wriggled into the navy dress. Her hair was thick and long and heavy, but she couldn’t be bothered to attempt a sophisticated knot, so she added an Alice band which kept it back off her face. Then she left her room and took the lift down to the restaurant.

At this hour of the evening it was not too busy and the waiter showed her deferentially to a table. Maybe he thought she was some close friend of Vincente Santos, she thought dryly. Certainly she had never experienced such obsequious attention before. She chose a dish comprising beef, black beans and rice, which while being rather rich and spicy, was rather delicious. Then she had an orange dessert, with real fresh oranges that somehow tasted different from the ones she was used to eating back in England, and finished with cheese and coffee.

‘You enjoyed the meal, senhorita ?’ It was the head waiter bowing beside the table.

Dominique flicked ash from the end of her cigarette and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Thank you. It was delicious!’

‘I am very happy. Perhaps a liqueur with your coffee? Brandy perhaps?’

Dominique shook her head regretfully. ‘Oh, really, no. The wine with the meal was quite enough for me. I don’t have a strong head for alcohol.’ She offered the explanation with a smile.

‘Are you endeavouring to lead the innocent into temptation, my friend?’ remarked a deep voice lazily, and Dominique looked up, startled, to see Vincente Santos standing behind the head waiter, looking dark and lean and disturbingly masculine in a dark dinner suit.

The head waiter glanced round and smiled with real pleasure. ‘Ah, Senhor Santos,’ he said, nodding. ‘You startled me. I was merely offering the young lady a liqueur, but she seems unwilling to accept.’

Vincente Santos moved round the table, pulling out a chair and straddling it lazily. ‘So, Miss Mallory. You are afraid to take any risks, is that right?’

Dominique controlled her blushes with difficulty. ‘I didn’t say that, Mr. Santos. I don’t have a head for spirits, that’s all.’

‘But that is sad!’ he mocked her gently. ‘Particularly as I know my good friend Enrico here possesses some of the finest brandy in the whole of Brazil.’ He looked up at the head waiter. ‘The senhorita will drink with me later, Enrico. You may go.’

‘ Sim, senhor .’ The waiter left them, and Vincente Santos gave her an appraising glance.

‘You look very charming, Miss Mallory. It seems a shame to waste such beauty on the restaurant of the Maria Magdalena.’

Dominique felt her nerves jumping. She was quite sure he wasn’t seriously suggesting that he had come here for any other purpose than to ascertain that she was being adequately looked after.

‘What would you suggest, Mr. Santos?’ she parried coolly, endeavouring to appear composed while her stomach was churning with suppressed excitement.

Vincente Santos smiled. ‘What would I suggest? Well let me see – I know a night club, called the Piranha, where we could dance, and there is a good cabaret.’

Dominique shivered. ‘Piranha? Aren’t they the fish that can destroy a living creature in minutes?’

‘That’s right.’ His reply was laconic. ‘I’m not considering offering you as a sacrifice, Miss Mallory.’

Dominique bit her lip. ‘You have relieved my mind,’ she retorted quickly. ‘However, as I’m quite sure you’re not seriously suggesting that we spend the rest of the evening together, I’ll wish you good night again.’ She got to her feet, but he rose also, blocking her way.

‘You do not think I am serious?’ he questioned. ‘Why? Surely, entertaining the fiancée of my colleague is the least I can do in the circumstances.’

‘You are hardly a colleague of my fiancé,’ returned Dominique quietly, looking down at her handbag.

‘Ah! You have spoken to the good fellow!’ he said sardonically. ‘And has he warned you against me?’

‘Of course not. Why should he do that?’ Dominique made a movement. ‘Please – excuse me!’

‘In a moment. Do you object to my asking for your company?’

Dominique sighed. ‘Of course not.’

‘But you refuse?’

Dominique gave a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘Mr. Santos, it may amuse you to make fun of me, but I’m growing a little tired of it. Excuse me.’

Vincente Santos moved aside. ‘I was mistaken, obviously,’ he said indifferently. ‘I had thought you looked lonely.’

Dominique looked up at him in exasperation. ‘So you took pity on me?’

‘Hardly that. However, I am quite prepared to show you a little of the cultural capital of my country.’

Dominique took a step, hesitated, and glanced back at him. ‘It was very kind of you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘And – I would like to have seen a little more of the city.’

‘Yet you still hesitate. Am I such a terrifying person? Does the prospect of a few hours in my company repel you so?’

Dominique smiled. ‘You know perfectly well that you are deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she said.

He came round the table to her side, looking down at her intently. His fingers stroked the bare skin of her forearm almost absently. ‘As I said before, Miss Mallory, you are a beautiful young woman, and I should like to take you to the Piranha.’

Dominique felt the muscles of her arm tense beneath his casual touch. Her breathing seemed difficult, and there was a trembling sensation somewhere near her knees. Was he aware of the effect he was having on her? He didn’t seem so, but that was no guide. For all his urbanity his innermost thoughts were enigmatic, this she sensed.

She tried to shrug these thoughts away. She must be crazy, allowing him to disturb her so. It was too long since she had seen John, known the company of a man. She was behaving like a schoolgirl. Why didn’t she just refuse his offer point blank and go back to her room? That was what she ought to do, what John would expect her to do. Why then did the prospect seem so dreary? Had the sleep she had had destroyed any further chance of rest for some time? Why couldn’t she feel pleasantly tired instead of vigorously alive?

‘I really think I must refuse,’ she murmured reluctantly.

Vincente Santos lifted his shoulders, the fine material of his suit gleaming in the artificial light. His thin face wore that slightly cruel expression as he said accusingly: ‘You’re afraid, Miss Mallory!’

She could have agreed with him, she was afraid, and she wasn’t quite sure of what.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snapped.

‘Then come with me. Prove I’m wrong!’ he taunted her.

Dominique’s fingers tortured the strap of her handbag. ‘All right, Mr. Santos. All right, since you insist, I’ll come with you.’

‘Good.’ His fingers gripped her arm, guiding her across the almost deserted room. ‘I admire your courage!’

Dominique wrenched her arm out of his grasp. ‘One doesn’t need courage, Mr. Santos. Only fortitude!’

But he just laughed at this, and she could have hit him.

Rio at night was a magical place, lit with a million electric bulbs. The traffic was just as congested, but now music could be heard from every street corner, and the rhythm of the guitar beat into Dominique’s brain like some seductive drug. The Piranha was near Copacabana, a huge neon-lighted building with a brilliant decor that was toned down by discreet lighting. It was the kind of place Dominique had always abhorred, following her father’s tastes in music, and later John’s. But with Vincente Santos she saw it through different eyes.

There were several rooms; in one you could dance, in another drink, in another eat, and in yet another gamble. Dividing the rooms were aquariums filled with a variety of species, and only in the foyer was there a huge tank of the fish that gave the club its name. Dominique shivered when she saw them, and Vincente Santos said:

‘They can reduce a man to a skeleton in minutes, did you know that?’

Dominique wrinkled her nose. ‘I did know, as a matter of fact,’ she said. ‘Devil fish!’

‘Hmm.’ He slid an arm around her shoulders casually. ‘Come on, we’ll have a drink.’

‘Just tomato juice for me, please,’ she said, uncomfortably aware of his arm, and walking just a little quicker so that he had to drop it.

However when he handed her a drink a few moments later it was certainly not tomato juice. ‘Heavens, what’s this?’ she gasped at the tall glass of liquid.

‘My own recipe. Taste it!’

She did so, and found it was delicious. It seemed to be lime and perhaps lemon, with something else added, something that certainly gave it a lift. Deciding that one drink couldn’t possibly harm her, she accepted a cigarette and they walked into the room where a cabaret was taking place on the dance floor.

There was a Brazilian fire-eater followed by a Portuguese guitarist who sang quite appealingly. Dominique sipped her drink, smoked her cigarette, and listened to the cacophony of sound around her. There was a mixture of accents, from Portuguese and Spanish to pure North American. She heard the guttural sound of a German voice, followed by a very British accent, and she glanced at Vincente Santos. He was watching her. He seemed to be constantly watching her, she thought, and it embarrassed her. She had never experienced such intense appraisal before.

‘Must you?’ she asked.

‘Must I what?’

‘Stare at me.’

‘Why not? I like staring at you.’

Faced with such candour, Dominique was at a loss for a reply, and he said: ‘Leave your drink here. Let’s dance.’