Dark Ransom

At that moment the boat’s bow turned abruptly inshore, and Charlie, blinking through wet lashes, saw another landing stage. They seemed to have arrived.

She was too bedraggled and miserable to worry any more about what was waiting for her. All she wanted was to get out of this … cockleshell before some passing tree trunk ripped its side away or tore off the motor.

Muffled figures were waiting. They were expected, she realised as hands reached out to help her on to shore, and a waterproof cape, voluminous enough to cover her from head to toe, was wrapped round her.

She was hurried away. Swathed in the cape, she had no idea where they were heading, only that she was being half led, half carried up some slope. There were stones under her feet as well as grass, and she stumbled slightly, her soaked canvas shoes slipping on the sodden surface. A respectful voice said, ‘Tenho muita pena, senhorita.’

Did kidnappers really apologise to their victims? she wondered hysterically.

The battering of the rain stopped suddenly, although she could still hear it drumming close at hand. She could hear women’s voices—an excited gabble of Portuguese. Her cape was unwrapped, and Charlie looked dazedly into a plump brown face whose smile held surprise as well as welcome.

‘Pequena.’ The woman, tutting, touched Charlie’s dripping hair. ‘Venha comigo, senhorita.’

She found herself in a passage lit by oil lamps. She could hear her shoes squelching on a polished wood floor as she walked along. But she was aware of a faint flicker of hope inside her. Her reception made her think that maybe she hadn’t been kidnapped but was just the victim of some idiotic and embarrassing misunderstanding. Perhaps these were the friends Fay Preston had planned to join, and this motherly soul, urging her along with little clicks of her tongue, was actually her hostess. If so, she didn’t seem particularly miffed that the wrong guest had come in from the rain.

It was an awkward situation, but not impossible to sort out with a little goodwill on both sides, she thought as she was brought to a large bedroom. The furniture was dark and cumbersome, but not out of place in its environment, Charlie thought, casting a yearning glance at the big, high bed with its snowy sheets and pillows as she was hustled past it.

But, when she saw what awaited her in the smaller adjoining room, she drew a sigh of utter relief and contentment. A capacious bath tub with claw feet and amazingly ornate brass taps stood there, filled with water which steamed faintly and invitingly.

The woman pulled forward a small folding screen, vigorously pantomiming that Charlie should undress behind it. Charlie hesitated before complying. She preferred rather more privacy when she took off her clothes. She could still remember petty humiliations at boarding-school and on the occasions when she’d had to share a bedroom with her sister.

‘You really are the most horrendous little prude,’ Sonia had accused scornfully more than once in those unhappy days. ‘God knows, you’ve little enough to hide anyway.’

So she was grateful for the woman’s discreetly turned back. Thankful, too, to be able to strip off the sodden clothes from her damp body. Even her underwear was soaked, she thought as she wriggled out of it.

She lowered herself into the water with a small, blissful murmur. The woman sent her a twinkling glance, gathered all the wet clothes up into a bundle and vanished with them.

Which was all very well, Charlie thought, but what the hell was she going to wear while they were drying? Or had no one yet noticed that their temporary visitor had no luggage with her?

I’ll worry about that when the time comes, she told herself. In the meantime, the bath was wonderfully soothing, easing away the aches and tensions of the journey, and reviving her chilled flesh. Charlie stirred the water with a languid hand, enjoying the faint scent that rose from it.

Perhaps I’ll just stay here, she thought idly. Until I wrinkle like a prune.

She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against the high back of the tub, while she silently rehearsed what explanation she could make to her surprised hosts when the time came.

She was so lost in her reverie that she didn’t notice the opening of the bathroom door.

But a man’s voice, deep-timbred and amused, saying ‘Querida, were you nearly drowned …?’ brought her swiftly and shockingly back to reality.

For an unthinking moment she sat bolt upright, staring at the doorway in blank, paralysed horror, her confused brain registering an impression of height, black hair, and a thin, bronzed face currently registering an astonishment as deep and appalled as her own.

Then she reacted, sliding in panic down into the concealment of the water behind the high sides 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.’