Dark Ransom. Sara Craven

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      Charlie patted her arm. ‘It’s not your fault, Rosita.’ Desperately she pointed at a relatively simply styled cornflower-blue model on top of the pile. ‘Perhaps we can do something with that.’

      And perhaps we can’t, she added in silent resignation as Rosita pinned, pulled and experimented. Fay Preston had been lushly, even voluptuously curved. Charlie was on the skinny side of slender.

      Although Riago da Santana’s crushing words still galled her, Charlie’s sense of justice forced her to admit he had a point.

      He’d wanted Fay Preston. He’d been expecting Fay Preston. If he genuinely thought that Charlie had taken her place, with an eye to the main chance, then he had every reason to feel aggrieved.

      But he couldn’t have thought that, Charlie told herself. Her own lack of experience and sophistication must have been obvious from the first seconds of their encounter.

      No, he didn’t think she’d turned up here as his alternative mistress. He’d just been in a foul mood, and taken it out on her because she happened to be handy. It was the kind of situation she should have been used to. After all, she came across it enough at home, and with some of the more cantankerous of her old ladies.

      Yet somehow, coming from a man, and a devastatingly attractive man, as she was forced to admit, it seemed more wounding than usual.

      She sighed. Men as unpleasant as Riago da Santana deserved to have a hump, crossed eyes—and warts.

      Later, trying to find some redeeming feature in the hastily adapted blue dress, she took a long critical look at herself.

      Her lack of inches in vital places was only part of the problem, she decided gloomily. She was—ordinary-looking. Not ugly exactly, but nondescript. Sonia had inherited the warm chestnut hair with the glowing auburn lights, and the enormous eyes, dark and velvety as pansies against her creamy skin.

      Charlie, on the other hand, had been left with hair that was plain brown and very fine, accepting only the simplest of styles and requiring frequent shampooing. Her eyes were hazel, and her skin was generally pale. Except when she started blushing.

      But her appearance really made little difference, she told herself, turning away from the mirror with a shrug. Riago da Santana had made it insultingly clear that she held no attraction for him—and that should have been reassuring.

      As, of course, it was, she told herself hastily. And yet … She brought herself swiftly and guiltily to order, and went in search of her dinner.

      Riago da Santana was waiting for her in the sala de jantar. It was a low-ceilinged, rather dark room, and the long, heavily polished table was clearly designed for a large family.

      Charlie saw that a place had been set for her on the right of her host’s seat at the head of the table, and groaned inwardly. She would have preferred to sit at the opposite end of that vast table, almost out of sight and out of earshot.

      He surveyed the cornflower dress without expression, but Charlie could guess what he was thinking.

      He said politely, ‘Would you like a drink? A batida, perhaps?’

      Charlie repressed a shudder, remembering the popular fermented canejuice aperitif she’d been persuaded to try in Belém. On the other hand, some alcohol might get rid of that shaky feeling in the pit of her stomach.

      ‘Could I have a straight whisky, please?’

      ‘Of course.’ He was drinking whisky himself, she noticed. She took the glass he handed her and sipped. It was a local brand with a distinctive, pungent flavour that stung at the back of her throat and made her blink a little.

      He noticed. ‘You are used to single malt, perhaps?’

      She wasn’t accustomed to spirits at all, as it happened, and returned a non-committal murmur.

      The food, when it came, was good—a peppery soup, thick with rice and vegetables, followed by duck in a mouth-tingling herby sauce. Charlie ate so much that she was forced to refuse the rich chocolate pudding that duly made its appearance, although she accepted a cup of strong coffee. And that was a mistake, she realised instantly. She should have kept eating. It was impolite to talk with one’s mouth full, but conversation over coffee was unavoidable.

      He said, ‘With your permission, I shall call you Carlotta. And I hope you will honour me by using my given name too.’

      Charlie stared down at her cup. She said, ‘You must do as you please, of course, senhor.’

      ‘You prefer formality?’ Amusement quivered in his voice.

      She said shortly, ‘I would prefer to be elsewhere.’

      ‘You don’t like my house? It has an interesting history. It was built originally by my great grandfather at the height of the rubber boom in our country. Our fortune was founded on the hévea—the rubber tree.’

      ‘Of course,’ Charlie said instantly. ‘Manaus—the opera house and all those fantastic mansions. They were all built by rubber millionaires.’

      ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘For a while Manaus must have been the richest city in South America. The mistake lay in thinking the outside world would not want a share in such riches.’ He paused, and Charlie shifted uncomfortably, remembering that it had been British botanists who’d brought the first rubber tree seedlings out of Brazil to Kew Gardens, and ultimately to Malaysia.

      He went on levelly, ‘While the industry declined, my family’s concern for the house and the plantation dwindled also, as they diversified their interests into other fields. They were not alone in that. Many similar homes have been allowed to die—to go back to the jungle. I decided that should not happen here.’

      ‘It’s certainly very impressive.’ Charlie glanced around her. ‘Have you lived here long?’ She sounded very prim and English, she thought with irritation. In a minute she’d be discussing the weather.

      There was another silence, then he said, ‘A year—two years. It suits me to spend this part of my life here.’ His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘And you, Carlotta. Why did you come to Brazil?’

      She supposed the simple answer to that was ‘for adventure’, but she’d already had far more of that than she could handle, so she hesitated.

      She said slowly, ‘I suppose you could say … I came to find someone.’

      ‘A man?’ He drew a pack of cheroots from the breast pocket of his shirt and lit one from the branched candlestick that illuminated the table.

      Charlie was taken aback. She’d really meant herself, but there was a slight truth in what he’d said.

      ‘I don’t think that concerns you.’

      ‘Then I have my answer.’

      ‘I don’t see why you needed to ask the question,’ Charlie said with a slight snap.

      His brows lifted. ‘You are staying in my house,’ he pointed out with deceptive mildness. ‘Am I not, then, permitted a certain curiosity about you?’

      ‘As СКАЧАТЬ