Under the Brazilian Sun

Katherine smiled regretfully. ‘I can’t eat another thing.’

Jorge returned the smile with warmth that won him a wry look from his employer. ‘Cafе, senhora? Or tea?’

‘Not even that, thank you.’

‘I would like coffee, Jorge, por favor,’ said his employer sardonically. ‘And bring agua mineral for the lady.’

‘Agora mesmo, Senhor.’

Once Jorge was assured later that nothing more was needed, Katherine sat back, gazing out at moonlight which added magic to the scene. ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ she commented. ‘I see why you think of it as a haven.’

His eyes shuttered. ‘Because I have never stayed here long enough to tire of such peace—until now.’ He looked up at her in enquiry. ‘I trust that taking Mr Massey’s place so suddenly caused no problems for you?’

She shook her head. ‘None that I couldn’t solve, Mr Sousa.’

‘Muito bem. I am most interested in your work. What, exactly, do you do at the gallery, Doctor?’

Katherine seized on the subject in relief. ‘My job mainly involves searching the Internet for sleepers,’ she began, ‘the unidentified or wrongly catalogued works that slip through the net unnoticed. It can be very exciting.’

‘I hope that my painting is equally so.’

‘So do I,’ she said with feeling.

‘That was a most heartfelt remark!’

She smiled wryly. ‘When paintings are brought to us at the gallery, James breaks the bad news when they’re copies or fakes.’

He nodded, enlightened. ‘And you do not welcome the task of giving me such news.’

‘No. I don’t.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘But I will if I have to.’

‘Have no fear, Dr Lister. I will not blame you if my painting is a fake. Or doubt your findings,’ he added.

‘Thank you. I admit that worried me when—’ she stopped, flushing.

‘When?’ he prompted.

‘When you were so taken aback because I was a woman.’

‘Only because I had been expecting a man,’ he said smoothly. ‘But if Senhor Massey trusts you to pass judgement on my painting I shall do the same.’

‘Thank you!’

‘De nada. Let me give you more wine.’

‘Just water, thank you. I need a clear head for my detective work in the morning.’

His sudden smile altered his face so much it cancelled all impression of familiarity. A smiling Roberto de Sousa was so breathtaking he was definitely like no man Katherine had ever seen before.

‘You regard your work as solving a mystery?’ he said, intrigued.

‘In a way. It’s hugely rewarding—and exciting—to reveal the true identity of a lost work of art.’

‘Perhaps my painting will be one of these.’

She hoped so. Fervently. ‘Do you have any idea who the artist might be?’

‘It is more hope than idea. But I shall say nothing until you give me your opinion. Do you rise early?’ he added.

‘During the working week, yes. I’ll start on your painting as early as convenient in the morning.’

Conscious that his initial reception of his guest had been anything but warm, Roberto steeled himself to make amends. ‘Before you begin tomorrow, perhaps you would like to explore the gardens—a short walk before your mystery-solving.’

Recognising an olive branch when she saw one, she nodded, smiling. ‘I’d like that very much indeed. And now it’s time I said goodnight.’

‘Your breakfast will be brought to your room. I shall await you here later at nine. Sleep well. Dorme bem, as we say in my country.’

She smiled politely. ‘My first day in Portugal has been so full I’m sure I will. Now I’m here, I can’t imagine why I’ve never been to your country before.’

‘Ah, but Portugal is not minha terra, the land of my birth,’ he informed her. ‘The Quinta das Montanhas is my retreat here in the Minho from time to time, but my family home is in Rio Grande do Sul in the south of Brazil.’ He gave her the graceful bow again. ‘I am a gaucho.’

She had an instant vision of pampas grasslands and cattle herded by men in flat hats and leather breeches. ‘You live on a cattle ranch?’ she asked, secretly impressed.

He nodded. ‘My father is patrao. I rode as soon as I could walk, but long hours in the saddle are not possible for me right now.’ His face darkened as he collected a walking stick to cross the hall with her. ‘You have noticed I limp?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Katherine, surprised, with such obvious truth his face relaxed slightly. ‘An accident?’

‘A car crash.’ He shrugged. ‘But, as you see, I survived. Boa noite, Doctor.’

It took a long time to fall asleep in the wide bed. Katherine blamed the bright moonlight for keeping her awake, but the real culprit was Roberto de Sousa. She would have been a lot happier about his electrifying effect on her hormones if her impact on him had been anything remotely similar but, mortifyingly, it had not. She felt deeply curious about the accident that had scarred his face and left him with the limp she hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it. Other than the scarred, handsome face, her first impression of him had been coordination and grace—plus his obvious displeasure that a mere woman had come to pass judgement on his precious artwork. She sighed, praying that the painting was in reasonable enough condition for any kind of identification, let alone the one he hoped for. In one way she wished James Massey had come here to do it. But if he had she wouldn’t have come here to Quinta das Montanhas and met Roberto de Sousa, the most attractive man she’d ever met in her life, scarred and hostile or not.

She smiled suddenly, imagining the reaction if she described the charismatic client and his glorious house to Andrew Hastings. She’d known Andrew only a short time, but already he was displaying character traits which made it unlikely that their relationship, such as it was, would last much longer. Katherine enjoyed male company, but so far in her life had managed to keep her relationships light and undemanding, firmly secondary to her work. Orphaned in her teens, she was long accustomed to full autonomy over her life. Loneliness was no problem because she shared the house inherited from her father with two former college friends, both of them male. The three of them lived separate lives on separate floors of her three storey town house, and Hugh and Alastair paid their landlady good money in rent, but Andrew strongly disapproved of the arrangement and had lately begun urging her to share his house instead. Her obdurate refusal was an ongoing bone of contention between them, and her sudden dash to Portugal on the very day that he had tickets for Glyndebourne had been the last straw. But helping James out had been far more important to Katherine than a performance of The Marriage of Figaro, gala or not. Besides, she had no intention of moving in with a man whose outlook on life was so different from her own.

In spite of her restless night, Katherine woke early. She had showered and dressed in her usual working uniform of jeans and T-shirt and yanked her hair back in its twist by the time a knock on her door heralded the entry of Lidia with a tray.

‘Bom dia, Doutora,’ Lidia announced, beaming. She put the tray on a small table at the window and drew up a chair.

Katherine returned the smile warmly. ‘Good morning, Lidia. Obrigada.’

‘Is enough breakfast, or you like bacon? Eggs?’

Katherine laughed and assured Lidia that the array of crisp rolls and fruit was more than enough. ‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

The woman smiled, pleased. ‘Eat well. I come back at nine.’

‘Could you ask Jorge to come with you, and take the tripod and work box downstairs?’

‘Pois e. I tell him.’