Fire on the Moon. V. J. Banis

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ despite his strangely sullen and unfriendly manner, I smiled brightly and said, “Yes.” My voice rang with affability.

      “Are you Jennifer Carter?” He didn’t smile. On the contrary, his mouth pulled down at the corners and he looked more fierce than before. His eyes narrowed and he gave me a look that said I had better be Jennifer Carter if I knew what was good for me. There was something overbearing in his attitude.

      I never lacked nerve when it came to facing a difficult situation and would maintain an external calm in direct opposition to what I was feeling inside. Furthermore, I had always had a particular dislike for people who tried to dominate, especially men who considered themselves superior to women. Here was one such man, I decided, and I didn’t like him.

      I tilted back my head and purposely let my smile fade. “Yes, I’m Jennifer Carter,” I said meeting his coldness with a coldness of my own. “Why?”

      His scowl deepened. His gaze did not falter. “Your aunt sent me for you. She had to go to Paris.” His English was as clipped and as uncordial as his eyes. He made it very clear that he hadn’t been pleased about having to come for me. “Are those yours?” He glanced down at my pile of luggage. The glance and the inflection of voice made my suitcases shabbier than they were.

      He seemed silently to curse himself for having asked a needless question. He didn’t wait for me to answer yes or no but reached down and gathered up the suitcases. They were far from light, yet he picked them up as though they weighed nothing at all.

      “Hey, wait a mi—”

      “This way.” He turned his back and started away.

      My first impulse was to refuse to follow. He had all the friendliness of a cobra. Even from the back he had a sinister, look about him. He walked like a man who knew precisely where he was going and would get there, regardless of cost.

      He never glanced back to see if I were behind him.

      I didn’t want to follow, but my stubbornness gave way to common sense. I shrugged. After all, Carlotta had obviously sent him.

      I caught up with him just as he reached the door leading out of the terminal. I thought for a moment that he was going to wait and hold the door open for me. He didn’t.

      Neither did he offer any assistance in crossing the busy street. I had to keep one eye out for careening cars and the other on him.

      We crossed—with some difficulty on my part—to a large, old, black limousine. It was a relic—but although it had seen better days it still had an aura of elegance.

      He wasn’t a chauffeur; that was made plain by the way he threw my luggage just inside the back seat, making it necessary for me to go around to the other side of the car to get in.

      I had hardly closed the door before he started up the car and pulled straight out into the heavy stream of traffic. There was an instant blast of horns as we lurched recklessly away from the curb; he hadn’t looked in either direction to see if the way were clear. We suffered no consequences, but I kept a firm grip on my handbag and secretly hoped the trip would be a short one. I found it necessary to keep reminding myself that Aunt Carlotta had, after all, sent this man for me. He must be someone she knew, or trusted or perhaps employed.

      Carlotta hadn’t really forgotten about my arriving today. The thought comforted me somewhat and made the surly driver a little less objectionable.

      I forced myself to be unconcerned and tried to relax against the soft, worn upholstery. I sighed and contented myself with the thought that I was on my way to Carlotta’s villa and that was all that really mattered at the moment

      He drove fast, but expertly. I tried to concentrate on the passing scenery. My first glimpse of Europe. Strange, but it mostly went by unnoticed. The excitement I had felt about coming here had been wiped out by this one dour, unfriendly man. He hadn’t succeeded in completely taking the joy out of my arrival, but he hadn’t made it pleasant.

      My gaze wandered from the window to the back of his head. Despite my disapproval of his manners, I nevertheless found my interest drawn to him and not to the outskirts of Lisbon through which we were passing.

      “Did you say my aunt was in Paris?” I ventured.

      He nodded.

      “When will she be returning?”

      He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

      The strong, silent type, I thought. I realized too late that he hadn’t seen my smile when I said, “Are you always this quiet or are you just being so for my benefit?” I had meant to sound friendly and flippant, but the moment I heard my words I realized they could be construed as sarcasm.

      I was about to apologize when suddenly a taxi swerved and cut directly in front of us. My driver slammed on the brakes and the limousine lurched to one side, toppling me and my luggage down onto the floor of the back seat. I was positive we were going to turn over, but my sullen friend proved a more than capable driver. He righted the car, leaned out the window, and let out what I took to be a solid stream of Portuguese profanity.

      As I lay in an uncomfortable huddle on the floor I felt the car slow down. I thought he was going to stop to help me right myself and my bags. I was wrong. He merely slowed for a left-hand turn, and continued on in unconcerned silence.

      Now with me it is never the big things that annoy me the most, it’s the little things. I was suddenly annoyed; not because of the near serious accident, but because the man didn’t once glance back to see if I were all right. I frowned at his back as I reseated myself, intending to give him a piece of my mind.

      The words never came. I saw the left side of his face for the first time and I had to stifle a gasp. A hideous scar ran the length of his cheek—from cheekbone almost to the line of his chin. Quickly I looked away. When I looked back I found myself being stared at in the rear view mirror. His eyes were thin slivers of ice. I forced my eyes away and felt the car go a little faster.

      I couldn’t say anything. I looked out the window, but all my eyes could see was that horrible scar.

      I could feel him watching me in the rear view mirror. My eyes were drawn to it like a magnet. Our gazes met and held for a moment. He lowered his eyes and fixed them on the road ahead. The tilt was gone from his head. He held it straight and proud.

      Minutes before I had disliked this man; now I pitied him, although I sensed that that was the one thing he would despise most

      I wanted to apologize for my earlier remark. I wanted to say something, anything, just to show that his unfortunate disfigurement didn’t matter. I wanted him to feel that I understood. Unfortunately, whatever I said would only bring attention to the one thing he wanted to forget. The reason for his rude, unfriendly behavior seemed plain enough now, but it was too late to tell him so. He had seen the look of horror on my face; he had heard my stifled gasp; he knew I had been repulsed when I had seen the left side of his face. Strangely enough, however, now that the initial shock was over, I didn’t feel repulsion.

      By now we had left Lisbon far behind and were heading southwest toward the ocean. I could smell it in the air. I rolled down the window and let the wind, thick with the smell of salt, clear my thoughts. We rounded a sweeping curve in the road and there before me lay the most beautiful sight I had ever seen and one I will never forget.

      The bleached sand, dotted with СКАЧАТЬ