Читать книгу Mask Of Scars - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 7

BY the time she reached the Hotel Inglês, Christina had herself in control again, and the nervous trembling had almost disappeared. It was ridiculous, she told herself, allowing one man to disturb her so, and yet there had been something frighteningly intense about that encounter, and she didn’t dare to consider what his reactions to her disappearance might be.

The tables on the forecourt of the hotel had been cleared now, and lights gleamed from all the windows. There was music, too, emanating from the general direction of the bar, and the sound of men’s voices. Christina entered the hall gratefully. Even Sheila’s maliciousness was preferable to what had happened down there on the beach.

She stood hesitatingly in the hall, wondering where Bruce might be, and even as she moved in the direction of the passage leading to their private rooms Bruce himself appeared from the bar, followed closely by her sister-in-law.

‘Christina!’ he exclaimed, and she saw that there was a look of strain about his eyes. ‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried sick!’

Christina made a helpless gesture. ‘I’m sorry,’ she was beginning, when Sheila burst out:

‘You see! I told you she’d be all right. She didn’t even consider we’d be at all perturbed at her disappearance! Why is your hair wet, Christina? Surely you haven’t been swimming while we’ve been worrying—–’

‘That will do, Sheila!’ Bruce looked wearily at his sister. ‘Well, Christina? Where have you been? Do you realise you’ve been gone almost two hours?’

Christina ran a hand over her damp hair. ‘I am sorry, Bruce, truly, I am. I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘But where have you been? You can’t have been swimming without a bathing suit. Why is your hair wet? It hasn’t been raining.’

Christina sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Bruce—–’

‘What she means is, she has been swimming!’ Sheila accused, triumphantly. ‘I told you, Bruce, she doesn’t fit in here. Porto Cedro isn’t Faro! We’re just beginning to make headway here—–’

‘Sheila, please!’ Bruce hunched his shoulders tiredly. ‘Leave this to me. I’m sure Christina must be hungry. She hasn’t had a thing since she arrived and knowing her I doubt whether she stopped to eat en route.’

Sheila stared at him. ‘You want me to make her something?’ she asked resentfully.

‘Well, Maria’s long gone, hasn’t she?’ Bruce ran a hand round the back of his neck. ‘Sheila, please—do as I ask.’

Sheila shrugged, but with ill grace she went to do as she was bidden and Bruce indicated that Christina should follow him. They went round the reception desk into a small office behind and after the door was closed Bruce looked at her reproachfully.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘I want the truth now. Where have you been all this time?’

Christina thrust her hands awkwardly into her pockets. ‘Oh, Bruce!’ she said helplessly.

‘I want to know, Christina.’

She heaved a sigh. ‘Well, all right. I—I—er—went swimming, like Sheila said.’

‘My God!’ Bruce raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Haven’t you any more sense than that, Christina?’

Christina coloured defensively. ‘I was hot. And I couldn’t come back here, could I?’

Bruce shook his head impatiently. ‘You could have. You needn’t have left at all. Not the hotel, at least. You could have sat outside and waited until I came out to you.’

Christina bent her head. ‘I was bored,’ she said. ‘And the lights attracted me.’

Bruce lit another cigarette. ‘You do realise you could have been molested—or arrested!’ he observed sombrely.

Christina turned away. Now was the moment to tell her brother what had happened, but she found she couldn’t. He seemed to have accepted that she had been swimming from the public beach and she didn’t want to disabuse him. To do so would create a whole series of new arguments. So she said nothing and Bruce puffed grimly at his cigarette and then said:

‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to tell Sheila she was right. But you do realise this will only make matters worse so far as she’s concerned?’

‘Yes, I realise that.’ Christina sighed again. ‘Look, Bruce, I meant what I said before. I’ll go back to England. I can easily get a job—–’

‘No, you won’t.’ Bruce ground his cigarette out in an ashtray. ‘I sometimes wonder how you manage to get by without running yourself into serious trouble. You’re so—so—–’

‘Irresponsible!’ inserted Christina dryly. ‘Yes, I know. But honestly, Bruce, I don’t mean to be, I saw no harm—–’

‘No harm!’ Bruce cut her off sharply. ‘If I let you go back to England now I’ll spend the rest of the summer vacation wondering where you are and who you’re with.’

Christina flushed. ‘You make me sound like a liability.’

Bruce half smiled. ‘Perhaps you are, at that.’

Christina looked at him appealingly. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Sheila didn’t know anything about your invitation?’

Bruce looked discomfited now. ‘Oh, Sheila’s all right. I’ve just got to present her with the fait accompli, that’s all, or she makes so many complaints that I eventually end up by changing my mind. Besides, I had thought you could be of some assistance here.’

‘But I can!’ Christina’s features brightened considerably. ‘I told Sheila when I arrived. I’d do anything—wash dishes, make beds, anything! I don’t mind working. I shall enjoy it.’ Then she frowned. ‘But not if Sheila’s going to make—make—well, things difficult for you.’

Bruce shrugged. ‘I can take it, I guess. In any case, that’s what’s going to be, so she’ll have to accept it.’ Then he hesitated. ‘But maybe some of what she says is good sense. Tonight, for instance. You could have offended the local population if anyone had seen you, and you do tend to act first and think later. Portugal is still a rather masculine-dominated society, and women are expected to behave with decorum. The way you dress, too. It’s not very feminine, is it? Don’t you have any skirts—or dresses?’

Christina looked down at her worn jeans. ‘Yes, I have dresses. I make my own, mostly. But quite honestly, Bruce, I’m more at home in trousers. I never wear anything else back—back—–’

She had been about to say back home, when it suddenly occurred to her with rather shattering poignancy that there was no back home any more. There was back in England, or back at the university, but that was all.

Bruce seemed to sense her sudden remorse, for he moved towards the door, swinging it open and saying: ‘Come on! Sheila should have that supper made by now. I’ll show you round the hotel tomorrow. I guess tonight all you need is something to eat and then bed!’

Christina’s room overlooked the sub-tropical brilliance of the walled garden at the back of the hotel. It was not a large room, but it was attractively furnished with light walnut and apricot coverings and curtains. Obviously all the rooms at the front of the hotel overlooking the sweep of beach and ocean were reserved for paying guests, but Christina didn’t mind. The scents from the garden floated in through her open windows and she could hear the sea even if she couldn’t see it.

The morning after her arrival, she awoke with a feeling of something ominous hanging over her head, but the feeling dispersed as she washed and dressed and did her hair. It was early in the morning, only a little after six-thirty, but the air was warm and the entrancingly blue sky was an open invitation to be outdoors which Christina could not resist.

Heeding Bruce’s kindly remonstrances, she dressed in a plain shift of periwinkle poplin and she secured the long weight of her hair with an elastic band. As she seldom wore make-up her skin was smooth and she knew that in a few days the sun would begin to tan her a golden brown. She had not the usual fair skin that went with her hair, and in consequence the sun did not burn her. The skirt of her dress was absurdly short, but that was something she could not help, and she only hoped Sheila would appreciate the change of attire too much to notice details.

Downstairs she found a young man sweeping in the dining room, and he looked up with interest at her appearance. ‘Bom dia, menina!’ he said cheerfully.

Christina smiled. He was a very handsome young man, and it was a relief to meet someone who did not immediately disapprove of her. ‘Bom dia,’ she answered his greeting. ‘You—you must be Julio.’

‘Esta bem, menina.’ The young man nodded. ‘And you are Senhor Ashley’s sister, sim?’

‘Yes.’ Christina was relieved that he spoke English even if his accent was rather pronounced. ‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’

‘A lovely morning,’ he repeated slowly. ‘Sim, menina, muito formoso!’ A smile spread over his face. ‘You are here to stay long?’

Christina shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ She glanced round. ‘You start work very early.’

Julio leant lazily on his brush. ‘Sim, I start early. But then I am free later in the morning.’

‘Ah!’ Christina nodded understandingly. ‘And then what do you do?’

Julio narrowed his eyes. ‘Many things, menina. Sometimes I swim—sometimes I go out in the boat. Senhor Ashley—your brother—and I sometimes go—how do you say it—skin-diving, sim?’

‘Do you? How super!’ Christina was enthusiastic. ‘Does Bruce have a boat?’

Julio nodded. ‘A small one, menina. Do you skin-dive, also?’

Christina shook her head laughingly. ‘Not yet. But I’d like to learn.’

‘Perhaps you would permit me to teach you?’ Julio’s eyes were eloquent with meaning, and Christina felt excitement bubbling up inside her. She could not remain subdued for long, and already the morning which had seemed so foreboding when she awoke had brightened considerably.

Last night when she had gone to bed she had found herself wishing she had never agreed to come here in the first place. Sheila’s antagonism had been like a tangible wall of opposition, and she had felt certain that nothing could alter the situation.

But now, this morning, with the sun spreading its warmth over the magnificent sweep of sea and shoreline visible through the open door of the hotel, and Julio’s undeniable attraction, Christina began to feel entirely different.

‘Perhaps you could,’ she responded now, in answer to Julio’s question, and they shared a mutual smile of anticipation.

‘I suggest you get on with your work, Julio!’ snapped a brittle voice behind them, and Christina swung round to face her sister-in-law.

‘Oh—good morning, Sheila,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘Isn’t it a marvellous morning?’

Sheila raised her eyebrows indifferently. ‘I haven’t had time to notice,’ she commented brusquely. ‘Now—if you’ll come with me, Christina, I’ll find you something to do, and introduce you to Maria, our cook.’

Christina cast one lingering glance at the vista outside before shrugging her shoulders resignedly. Julio, turning back to his own chores, closed one eye deliberately, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she followed Sheila down the hall to a door at the far end.

They entered an enormous kitchen. It was partially tiled and spotlessly clean, with many modern amenities. A rotund Portuguese woman of indeterminate age was in the process of taking a tray of newly baked rolls out of the oven as they entered, and she beamed cheerfully as she placed the tray on the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room. The rolls smelt delicious, and Christina’s mouth watered in anticipation.

‘Bom dia, Maria!’ said Sheila coolly. ‘This is Senhor Ashley’s sister. She’s come to help us for a while.’

Maria nodded smilingly, but Christina didn’t altogether care for Sheila’s method of introduction. It seemed obvious that so far as her sister-in-law was concerned, she was to be treated in exactly the same way as the other employees.

Now Sheila looked round, seemed satisfied with what she could see, and went on: ‘I’ll leave Menina Christina with you, Maria. After she’s had something to eat, perhaps you could give her something to do. Preparing breakfast trays—something like that?’

‘Sim, senhora.’ Maria was polite.

‘Good.’ Sheila nodded and walked to the door. ‘I expect I’ll see you later, Christina.’

Christina didn’t bother to make any comment. Sheila expected none, and besides, what could she say that had not already been said? So she merely nodded, and after Sheila had gone she looked expectantly at the cook.

‘You are hungry, menina?’ Maria’s face was never long without a smile. It was evident from the upward tilt of her wide mouth and the laughter lines beside her eyes.

Now Christina nodded eagerly. ‘Starving,’ she agreed, smiling in return. ‘Do you think I could have some coffee and rolls?’

‘Why not?’ Maria moved to the dresser which stood against one wall and came back with a dish of yellow butter and some plates. ‘There you are, menina.’ She moved back to the stove. ‘I will make the coffee.’

The meal that followed was one of the most delicious Christina had ever had. Maria’s rolls were light and crisp, oozing with butter, while the coffee was strong and creamy. Maria sat with her while she ate, having coffee, and watching her with obvious satisfaction.

‘You English!’ She shook her head. ‘You are so thin! You do not eat the good food there, I think.’

Christina wiped her mouth. ‘In England it’s considered a crime for a woman to be fat.’

‘So?’ Maria shook her head impatiently. ‘Me—I am always like this. Since I am a young girl, I have always these—these—dimensaos!’

‘Proportions,’ put in Christina smilingly. ‘Yes, but then it suits you. It would not suit me to be like you.’

‘There is no fear of that, menina. While you are here I think I do my best to put a little flesh on those bones, sim?’

Christina laughed. ‘I’m sure I shall if I have many breakfasts like this,’ she said. ‘Oh, could I have just one more cup of coffee? That was marvellous!’

After breakfast, Christina helped Maria lay the trays ready to be taken into the dining room to serve the breakfast. Maria told her there were twelve guests in the hotel which meant it was filled to capacity. There were no young children, she said, but there were two boys with their parents as well as several couples. The hotel only catered for bed and breakfast and consequently the guests were out for most of the day, coming back in the evenings sometimes to drink at the bar.

Christina wondered whether she would be expected to serve in the dining room, but she was disabused of this assumption when Sheila returned and summoned her upstairs to help her change the beds of two couples who were leaving that morning.

Unlike while she had been helping Maria, Sheila worked in silence, but whether this was a sullen rejection of Christina’s presence or merely her normal way of going about things, Christina could not be sure.

Downstairs again, Bruce was sitting at the reception desk and Christina greeted him warmly.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s barely nine.’

Christina chuckled. ‘You may not believe this, but I’ve been up since before seven. I’ve had breakfast with Maria, helped to lay the breakfast trays, and changed the beds with Sheila.’

‘Good God!’ Bruce shook his head impatiently. ‘Sheila certainly doesn’t believe in wasting time. Tell me, how do you feel this morning? Happier about everything? I know last night must have been pretty much of an anti-climax for you.’

Christina touched his hand gently. ‘I’m fine, Bruce, really, I am. And I don’t mind helping. I shall enjoy it.’

Bruce rose to his feet. ‘I’m glad. But if you’ve been up and about since early this morning I should take it easy now. You don’t want to overdo it and the heat can be quite enervating. The main rush of the day is over. Why don’t you go out and take a look round the village?’

Christina’s eyes twinkled. ‘Is that permitted?’

Bruce grinned. ‘I don’t see why not. You’re suitably attired. But if I can get these accounts finished, I’ll come with you, if you like.’

‘Could you?’ Christina nodded eagerly, and Bruce bent his head, studying the register.

Julio appeared from the bar just then. ‘I have finished, senhor!’ he said, his eyes flickering over Christina with interest.

Bruce looked up. ‘Fine, Julio. By the way, did that crate of special lager arrive?’

‘This morning, senhor. With the other delivery.’

‘Good.’ Bruce nodded. Have you been introduced to my sister?’

Julio smiled. ‘We met earlier, senhor.’

‘Did you?’ Bruce considered them both for a few seconds, and then he shrugged. ‘Okay, Julio, you can go. Be back around twelve.’

‘Obrigado, senhor.’ Julio inclined his head politely, and walked towards the door with lithe easy strides.

Christina watched him go half-regretfully. She would have liked to have suggested that Julio might show her around, but perhaps he had other commitments.

Bruce watched her expression frowningly. ‘I shan’t be long,’ he said, drawing her attention back to himself, and Christina sighed and nodded, before walking slowly outside.

The sun hit her like a tangible force, the heat burning through the thin poplin of her dress. She longed to be able to go indoors again and collect her swimsuit and spend the morning on the beach. But somehow she sensed that this was not what Bruce had in mind. Was that what Julio intended to do?

She walked out of the forecourt of the hotel and across to the cliff edge, looking down on the harbour below. Away to the right the rocky promontory which guarded the private beach beyond from the public sector looked grim and forbidding. From here it was impossible to discern any breach in its defences, and she sighed again.

Last night, exhaustion had played its part and she had slept dreamlessly, but this morning she was wide awake and everything that had happened down there came back to her with piercing clarity. She could not help but wonder who the man was who lived beyond the headland, who owned that wild and beautiful stretch of shoreline, who had been so badly disfigured by that jagged scar. And yet she did not dare to ask, for to do so would arouse the kind of speculation she did not want to arouse. No one was aware that she knew of that private beach, let alone its owner.

She frowned. The whole interlude had a dreamlike quality somehow. Maybe it had all been a figment of her imagination.

But she knew it had not, and a disturbing finger of apprehension ran down her spine when she considered that she might well meet the man again.

Bruce came out to her just then looking slightly harassed. ‘Two of the guests who are leaving this morning want me to drive them to Lagos,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but we’ll have to leave our tour of the village until later.’

Christina looked disappointed. ‘Couldn’t I come to Lagos with you?’ she asked.

Bruce shook his head. ‘Sheila wants to come to collect some groceries, and the Land-Rover only takes four. Oh, I guess you could sit in the back with the luggage, but—–’

‘It’s all right, Bruce, I understand,’ Christina smiled. ‘I’ll stay here and look after the hotel.’

‘That’s not necessary, Chris! Maria’s quite capable of dealing with anything that comes up. Look, why don’t you walk down to the harbour? We should be back in an hour or so.’

Christina frowned. ‘All right.’

‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ Bruce looked anxious.

Christina shook her head. ‘Of course not. Drive carefully!’

She sat at a table on the hotel forecourt as Bruce got out the Land-Rover from the garage at the back of the building. The guests came out, suitcases, water-skiing equipment, bags and guide books stowed into the vehicle. They smiled at Christina. They were a young married couple, and Christina wondered what the other guests were like. Until now she had felt no desire to find out.

Sheila emerged, sleek and attractive, in a white pleated skirt and a silk overblouse. She glanced casually in Christina’s direction and Christina smiled, determined not to show malice. Sheila’s eyes flickered, but that was all. And then they were gone, Bruce calling goodbye, and the Land-Rover kicking up a cloud of dust until they turned the corner and disappeared from view.

Christina wrinkled her nose and looked down at her fingernails. Obviously there was nothing Sheila wanted her to do or she would have said so. But now that she was at liberty to do what she liked, to go indoors and get her swimsuit and spend the morning on the beach, the inclination had left her.

She sighed, wishing there was someone she could talk to. Then she thought of Maria. Maria would talk to her. And maybe from her she would be able to glean a little knowledge about the other inhabitants of Porto Cedro.

But when she opened the kitchen door, Maria was not alone. Julio was there, perched on the edge of the table, in the process of eating a newly peeled peach. He slid off the table at her entrance and Christina stood there, rather disconcerted by the admiring look in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Maria,’ she said. ‘I thought you might be alone.’

Maria waved her hands. ‘Do not mind Julio, menina,’ she exclaimed cheerfully. ‘He is on his way, are you not, Julio?’

‘If you say so, mae minha!’ remarked Julio good-naturedly.

Christina frowned. ‘Julio is your son, Maria?’

‘Sim, menina. Did not the senhora tell you so?’

‘No, she didn’t.’ Christina shook her head. ‘Where are you going, Julio?’ There was a wistful note in her voice now.

Julio threw the peach stone away and wiped his hands on a cloth at the sink. ‘I am going down to the harbour. My uncle has a boat. I am going to help him paint it.’

Maria frowned at him. ‘You are not polite, menino!’ she said sharply, speaking in English for Christina’s benefit. ‘The menina has a name!’

‘Oh, please!’ Christina was embarrassed. ‘I—I’d like you both to call me Christina, that’s all. I—well, I’m not used to being called miss, or anything like that. Christina is fine, really!’

Maria heaved a sigh. ‘And the senhora? Your sister-in-law? She would approve of this, menina?’

Christina looked mutinous. ‘Does it matter?’

Maria spread her hands. ‘I should say so, sim.’

Christina lifted her shoulders and then let them fall dejectedly. ‘What does it matter? A name is just a name. If you ask me, things are far too formal here!’

Julio laughed, ignoring his mother’s scandalised face. ‘I agree—Christina. And I will use your name. At least, when we are alone.’

‘Julio!’ His mother’s voice was a warning.

Julio raised his dark eyebrows, his eyes glinting with mockery. ‘Perhaps—Christina—would like to come down to paint Tio Ramon’s boat with me.’

Christina’s eyes danced. ‘Could I?’

Maria’s lips were pursed. ‘Julio, she cannot, and you know it.’

‘Why not? Why can’t I?’ Christina stared at the cook appealingly.

‘Your brother—and the senhora—they would not approve.’

‘But they’re not here!’

‘They will not be long.’ Maria was adamant.

Julio shrugged regretfully. ‘You see,’ he said. ‘It is the way.’

‘Well, it’s not my way,’ exclaimed Christina impatiently. ‘Good heavens, I’m English! Not Portuguese!’

Maria shrugged her ample shoulders. ‘These are not my rules, menina,’ she said.

Julio hesitated by the door. ‘I will see you later in the day, Christina.’

Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Oh, I suppose so.’

He went out, and after he had gone, Christina moved about restlessly, fingering a plate here, a sauce-pan there, impatient and defiant, and yet unable to take the step that would put her yet again in Sheila’s disfavour, and cause more trouble for Bruce.

Maria put some dirty dishes into the sink and began to run hot water upon them. She glanced round at Christina sympathetically. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk, menina? The village is small. You won’t get lost.’

Christina sighed. ‘I suppose I could.’

‘Of course. And soon your brother will be back from Lagos.’

Christina nodded, and with a smile of resignation she left the kitchen, walking along the hall to the front door. Two men were sitting outside at one of the tables, looking at some maps. They looked up as she passed them, saying something in their own language which she thought was German. But they were older men, well into their forties, and they held no interest for her.

She looked down the road to the harbour. Julio had gone and she presumed he was already down there, and she envied him. On impulse, she walked down the steep road to the harbour and crossing to the wall she looked down on the shingle that edged the jetty now that the tide was out.

She saw Julio and his uncle at once. They were sitting on an upturned boat, having a cigarette before starting work, and Julio, looking up, saw her immediately. He said something to his uncle, who nodded, and then he bounded across the sand to her side. In denim jeans and an openwork sweater of a faded shade of blue, he was very attractive, and she could not help smiling at him.

He looked up at her, leaning on the wall above him and said: ‘What are you doing? Playing truant?’

Christina’s lips parted. ‘I’m tempted. Is that your uncle?’

‘Yes. Come and meet him?’

‘Should I?’

‘Why not?’ Julio’s dark eyes were amused.

‘All right.’ Christina swung her legs over the wall, and Julio lifted her down on to the sand, his fingers lingering a moment longer than was necessary at her waist. She was very conscious of him, too. It was the normal healthy consciousness of any young woman for any young man and she felt no sense of embarrassment now at the warmth in his eyes.

Julio’s uncle was a garrulous old man, but as he spoke mostly in his own language Christina could understand very little. The job of painting his boat seemed of little importance compared with the chance to gossip and time passed swiftly as other fishermen came to be introduced and smiled appreciatively at the attractive young English girl with her mane of corn-gold hair, and long slender legs.

At last Christina was forced to look at her watch and she saw it was already after eleven. ‘I must go,’ she said to Julio quickly, and he nodded.

‘I’ll walk back with you,’ he said. ‘Surely my mother will see no harm in that.’

As the road flattened out at the head of the slope from the harbour, Christina saw a huge car outside her brother’s hotel, and parked a little ahead of it, the Land-Rover.

‘Your brother has visitors,’ remarked Julio dryly, and Christina felt her nerves stretch a little. The black limousine was familiar. It was the car which had passed her the day before on the road from Lagos. The car with the insignia on the side; the car which belonged to … She swallowed hard. He had not actually said it was his car, but …

Julio noticed her anxious expression, and smiled. ‘Do not look so anxious, Christina. It is merely the car of your brother’s—how do you say it—dono, senhorio?’

Christina frowned. ‘You mean—Bruce’s landlord?’

‘Ah, sim, that is the word I have heard Senhor Ashley use. Landlord!’

Christina’s nerves tightened. ‘But what is he doing here?’

Julio shrugged. ‘Who knows? Is it importante?’

‘I suppose not.’ Christina stiffened her shoulders and bidding Julio goodbye she crossed the road and walked past the magnificent Mercedes with its insignia and crest, the words of which she could read now: Fiel ate Morte—Faithful until Death.

The hall of the hotel was shadowy after the brilliance of the sunlight outside, but she could hear voices in the lounge. She would have liked to have walked straight past, but Bruce had seen her shadow and he came to the door of the lounge and said: ‘Come in, Christina. We were beginning to think you’d disappeared again.’

Christina hesitated in the doorway of the lounge, but the man who was standing in the middle of the floor talking to Sheila was not the scarred man she had met on the beach the night before. He was an older man, fifty at least, with greying dark hair, and rather nice brown eyes. He wore a dark uniform however, and carried a flat hat, and Christina realised that he was the chauffeur. Would he recognise her?

Bruce smiled at his sister now, and said: ‘This is Alfredo Seguin, Christina. Alfredo, I’d like to introduce you to my sister. She’s come to stay with us for a while.’

Alfredo Seguin looked at Christina and for a moment something flickered in the depths of his eyes, and then he smiled and said: ‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Ashley. I hope you will enjoy your stay in the Algarve.’

‘Thank you.’ Christina’s reply was stilted.

‘And now I must be going.’ Alfredo was reluctant. ‘Thank you for that most excellent coffee, Mrs. Ashley. Ate logo, Miss Ashley—senhor!’

Bruce escorted the man to the door and Christina stood for a moment looking after them, biting her lips. Sheila, unaware of her sister-in-law’s discomposure, said: ‘Where have you been this morning?’

Christina gathered her scattered thoughts. ‘Oh—er—just down to the harbour,’ she replied honestly. ‘Who—who was that man?’

‘Alfredo Seguin? He’s chauffeur to Dom Carlos.’

‘Dom Carlos?’ Christina repeated the words slowly.

‘Dom Carlos Martinho Duarte de Ramirez, to be exact,’ said Bruce ceremoniously, from behind them. ‘Lord of all he surveys, and that includes the Hotel Inglês!’

Christina managed a smile. ‘I see.’

‘Not that you’re likely to meet Dom Carlos,’ remarked Sheila carelessly. ‘Alfredo, and another man—his estate manager, Jorge Vicente—they usually attend to his business affairs.’

Bruce glanced at his watch. ‘Time for coffee?’ he suggested.

‘You’ve just had coffee!’ stated Sheila coolly.

‘But Christina hasn’t. And I could surely drink some more of that most excellent beverage,’ her husband mocked her gently, using Alfredo’s words.

Sheila smiled faintly. It was the nearest she had come to good humour in Christina’s presence, and Christina felt an overwhelming sense of relief that some things at least were improving. After Sheila had left them, Bruce said: ‘Where did you go this morning, Christina?’

‘I walked down to the harbour. Tell me something, Bruce, this man—this Dom Carlos—where does he live?’

Bruce frowned. ‘Why?’

Christina shrugged lightly. ‘I’m interested, that’s all. It’s not every day one hears of such a person.’

Bruce seemed satisfied with her explanation, for he said: ‘He lives at the Quinta Ramirez. His estate.’

Christina ran her finger over the surface of the table. ‘I suppose that’s some distance away,’ she ventured probingly.

‘Not far. The estate begins just beyond the village. He owns most of the land hereabouts. The Quinta itself is quite a showplace, I’m told. Naturally I’ve never been there.’

‘Why naturally?’

Bruce smiled. ‘Men like Ramirez don’t mix with people like us. Besides, I believe he doesn’t encourage social callers.’

‘But you have met him?’

‘Oh, yes. At the time I leased the hotel, I met him at his office in Faro, and since I’ve seen him a couple of times. Why? Why this curiosity about a man you’re never likely to meet?’

Christina coloured. ‘Just feminine inquisitiveness, I suppose,’ she replied, realising she could not go on asking questions. But Bruce had not said the one thing which would have identified Dom Carlos once and for all as the man she had encountered on the beach.

Sheila returned with the tray of coffee and placed it on the low table and Christina suppressed all thoughts of the man. Besides, what did it matter? No doubt Dom Carlos, if that indeed was his name, had forgotten all about her by now.

During the afternoon, Bruce took Christina on her promised tour of the village, finishing at the harbour where Bruce’s boat, Fantasma, was moored. There were several tourists down at the harbour looking at the boats, but although this was the height of the season there was none of the commercialisation in Porto Cedro that could be found further along the coast. Christina wondered how long it would remain unspoilt, but when she mentioned her doubts to Bruce, he replied:

‘So long as Dom Carlos wants it this way, it will stay as it is. He owns the land. If he doesn’t sell, the developers can’t build their ghastly concrete monstrosities that they call hotels in Porto Cedro.’

Christina was tempted to use the opening to ask more questions, but something distracted her attention and the moment passed.

After the evening meal, she was glad to sit in the lounge of the hotel until bedtime. It had been an extraordinarily exhausting day and she decided to go to bed soon after nine o’clock. But although she was tired she could not sleep. Thoughts of the man from the beach haunted her. How did he come to be scarred so dreadfully? What kind of experience had been responsible for that disfiguration that was at once ugly and attractive? What kind of effect had it had on his life? His family? Was he married? Did he have any children of his own? He could have, quite easily. She judged his age to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, but it was difficult to be certain.

She sighed. It was crazy lying here pondering over a man who had treated her with nothing but arrogance and contempt, and yet her naturally responsive nature would not allow her to bear malice for long and she was passionately curious to learn more about him.

The next morning, she bathed before seven, returning to the hotel before Sheila had chance to comment on her non-appearance. Julio looked at her wet hair reproachfully as she came in.

‘You did not tell me,’ he said, indicating the swimsuit dangling wetly from her fingers. ‘I would have come with you.’

Christina smiled. ‘I didn’t think your mother would approve!’ she taunted him.

‘I approve—and that is what counts,’ he murmured insistently, and she laughed and went up to her room.

Later in the morning, Sheila sent her to the market to buy some fresh fruit. Clad in her poplin dress, her still damp hair secured with an elastic band, a basket on her arm, she felt she mingled well with the other Portuguese women there, but she was unaware that her golden colouring could not help but distinguish her from the crowd.

She was considering the price of melons when there was a murmur about her, and she looked round in surprise, wondering what had disturbed everyone. A tall man was making his way between the stalls coming in her direction, nodding and giving an occasional smile to the people he passed. The women in the crowd drew back respectfully, pulling their children out of his path so that Christina was reminded of peasants in the presence of royalty. But it was the man himself who imprisoned her attention, a lean, dark man, dressed immaculately in a navy silk suit with a matching navy shirt and tie. And as he neared Christina her stomach muscles tightened as she saw again the livid scar on his tanned cheek.

She lifted her startled eyes and met his curiously light ones, and as her nerves tingled she noticed the length and thickness of his lashes. He had recognised her, she knew, and she turned to the stallholder with almost desperate urgency, asking the price of the melons.

‘Momento, menina,’ he exclaimed, almost scandalised that she should expect him to serve her when obviously someone of importance was approaching.

Christina turned away, pushing through the throng carelessly, only wanting to avoid a further encounter. But her pursuer had the advantage, she soon found, for his way was made clear for him while she had to force a pathway.

‘Menina!’ The curt tone of his voice halted her, and she was intensely conscious of the curious speculation around her.

Sighing, she turned slowly to face him, and he inclined his head in satisfaction. But he said nothing, merely passed her and indicated that she should follow him.

Unwillingly Christina complied, for she had the distinct feeling that had she attempted to disobey him these people would have forcibly made her do exactly as he had indicated.

Outside the throng of humanity, he halted and now she could see the black limousine parked in the square, Alfredo Seguin at the wheel. He must have noticed her eyes move past him to the automobile, for a cynical expression invaded his eyes. She could see his eyes clearly now, and they were a most peculiar tawny colour, sometimes palest amber, sometimes almost yellow around the irises.

‘So we meet again, menina,’ he observed, his accent more pronounced than she remembered.