The Man Behind the Mask (5 page)

‘I'm not feeble, for God's sake—and you know what you can do with those!'

Shoving the pills back into the younger man's hand, Eduardo wished he could control the cantankerous mood that was upon him, but he could not. He had barely had even an hour's sleep during the night, and his eyes felt as if they were burning holes in their sockets. Coupled
with the re lent less knifing agony in his leg, he could hardly be expected to be at his best, could he? As the day went on he knew the pain would ease a little…
if
he could relax sufficiently enough. Then the discomfort would ebb
without
the need for painkillers. But right now that was like hoping for the impossible.

Into his consciousness stole another thought. For some in explicable reason he recalled the newest addition to his house hold softly enquiring if he was all right and if she could help, and a longing so compelling and powerful surged through him that he was almost overcome…
almost
. Quickly he caught himself, regained the tight rein he usually kept on his emotions. What the hell was he thinking of? She might smell sweeter than a spring garden after a summer shower, but the fact was she couldn't possibly help him—and he would hate her to be labouring under the delusion that she could.

He had only
one
use for an attractive female right now, and as far as that was concerned he would be utterly
crazy
to think of his little roadside waif in that way! His honour simply wouldn't allow it. Not when he had offered her a job and a home, and probably the first safe place she had known for some while.

Getting to his feet, he reached for his walking cane, his glance swinging briefly to Ricardo. ‘I didn't mean to chew your head off.' He grimaced. ‘You know how it is.'

‘One day it will change for the better, I am certain.'

The compassion and understanding that shone from the other man's eyes, undimmed and loyal as ever, almost
made Eduardo stumble. Leaving his home and family behind in Rio de Janeiro, Ricardo had un questioningly chosen to accompany his employer to a new unknown life in England, with no certainty of when he would be returning home. He had merely been absolutely convinced that after the tragedy that had taken Eduardo's wife and unborn child he would need a familiar face to turn to whenever things got rough. Ricardo would be that face. He had served the De Souza family since he had come to them from the poor slums of the city at seventeen. They had given him a job and a home, and he saw it as his proud duty to continue to serve until his boss told him different.

Now, at the memory of all that had transpired, the burning inside Eduardo's throat made him swallow hard.

‘I cannot agree that things will change for the better, my friend. How could that be possible? The fact is I am damned…
damned
for eternity…and whether my physical pain heals or not nothing will alter that.'

Not commenting immediately, Ricardo turned to wards the kitchen worktop, picked up a nearby cloth and rubbed it over the already gleaming marble that Marianne had cleaned earlier. ‘I do not think Eliana…your wife…would want you to suffer like this…to
blame
yourself for so long,' he murmured. ‘I do not think she would want that at all.'

‘Let's drop the subject, shall we? I'm going to my office now. I've got plenty of work to do, and no doubt
that will help distract my mind from dwelling on less than pleasant things.'

‘If you are going to your office then I will bring you the newspapers and another cup of coffee.'

‘Thanks.' His voice gruff, Eduardo started to move towards the door. Before he reached it he paused for a moment. ‘By the way…how did my new house keeper do this morning?' he asked.

Ricardo's expression immediately lightened. ‘I can tell already that she is a hard worker,' he answered. ‘She is skinny, but I think tough too.'

‘Well…let me know if there are any problems,' Eduardo threw over his shoulder as he left. And, in spite of his irritability and pain, he was unable to stop his lips from twitching at his valet's rather blunt, yet in his view
well-meant
description of Marianne as ‘skinny but ‘tough'.

 

There was a tentative knock at his office door. Tearing his glance from the neat rows of text on the computer screen in front of him—an e-mail from an international children's charity, thanking him for his continued support and generosity—Eduardo rotated his shoulders to ease the spasm of tension that flashed between his shoulder blades.

‘Come in!' he called out.

‘Sorry to disturb…'

It was Marianne, her cheeks flushed from being near some kind of heat, her light brown hair caught up in a precarious topknot that, judging by the silken tendrils
floating free down the sides of her face, appeared in imminent danger of collapsing at any moment. Wearing a navy and white striped apron over scarlet cotton trousers and a man's baggy cream sweater that all but drowned her small slim frame, she looked delicate and somehow in explicably appealing all at the same time.
Had she been wearing that outfit this morning, when he'd met her in the corridor?
Eduardo could not swear to it. He had been too taken aback by her offer of help, and the gentleness and concern in her almond-shaped hazel eyes to notice.

‘What is it?' he asked interestedly, the tension and fatigue he had been battling with somehow for got ten.

‘I'm sorry it's a bit late, but lunch is ready. I've been baking bread and making soup, and it took longer than I thought.'

‘You have been baking bread
and
making soup? What kind of soup?'

‘Leek and potato… It's really good for you, especially in this weather. I'm sure you'll like it. Anyway…' Her expression was suddenly shy, as if she'd assumed too much and was embarrassed by her own enthusiasm. ‘Where would you like to eat? Up here in your office? Or I could lay a place in the dining room if that's what you'd prefer.'

‘Where are
you
going to eat? In the kitchen?'

‘Yes. Ricardo's gone to town for some supplies, and he said he'll have his food later.'

Suddenly tired of his own morose company, and the thought of home-made bread and soup enticing
him more than he would ever have believed possible, Eduardo reached for his cane and stood up. ‘I will join you in the kitchen,' he answered firmly.

‘All right, then.' The rather sombrely furnished room with its dark cherry leather sofas and crammed bookshelves was suddenly lit by her golden smile and—still smiling—Marianne stood back to let Eduardo precede her out of the room…

Marianne had been
thinking about miracles.
She knew they existed because she had prayed hard for someone kind to come into her life and then Donal had appeared. Now, as she surveyed the lean-angled, handsome face on the opposite side of the table from her, with its preoccupied and enigmatic air, she silently pondered on why such a man needed a miracle in his life. Again she considered the disturbing possibility that he had a life-threatening illness, and in the middle of lifting her spoon to her lips she felt her throat lock tight and her appetite flee.

‘This is very good.' Having no such similar dilemma, Eduardo glanced up appreciatively from sampling his own soup. His piercing blue eyes bored into hers, and Marianne's stomach fluttered hard.

‘Thank you.'

Tearing off a hunk of bread from the generous-sized, still warm loaf on the bread board, he experimentally chewed some, then laid the rest on his side plate.

‘You really know how to cook. This is delicious too.'

‘They say necessity is a great teacher. There wasn't
much money around when I was growing up, but my parents had a small vegetable patch for a while, and one year we had an abundance of leeks, carrots and turnips. Something had to be done with them. Soup was the easiest solution. After that I got quite interested in cooking and experimented a little. Making bread was therapeutic, too, I found.'

The interest in her companion's face deepened. ‘I thought you had no parents?'

‘That was a long time ago.' Feeling her chest tighten, Marianne scooped a small portion of soup into her mouth, then fell silent.

‘What happened to them?'

Clearly not deflected from pursuing the subject, Eduardo stilled as he waited to hear her answer.

‘My mother left when I was fourteen to go to America with a man she'd been having an affair with. My father—?'

‘Yes?'

‘Right now my father is probably lying dead or drunk beneath a bridge some where in London. Tower Bridge was a particular favourite. At least…that was where I saw him last.'

‘When was that?'

Marianne lowered her gaze. ‘About three years ago. He was—
is
—a hopeless alcoholic. That's why my mother couldn't stay with him. Eat your soup. It will get cold.'

Pushing to her feet, she strode across the ample-sized kitchen to the butler sink to pour herself a glass of cold
water. Her throat felt as if it had swelled to twice its size at the tormenting tide of child hood memory that washed over her. Talking about it only deepened her distress.

As if realising the discrepancy in her parenting of her only daughter, her mother had beseeched Marianne to go with her to America.
But even at the tender age of fourteen years old she'd found she could not abandon the dejected wreck bent on self-destruction that her father had become. Not when at the back of her mind some where had been more
loving
memories of him hugging her, playing childish games with her when she was little, calling her his angel. Afterwards, when there had just been the two of them in a house that was no longer a home, there were sadder, hear trending recollections—him crying un bearably, begging Marianne to forgive him for losing his business, needing to drink to dull the pain of driving her mother away.

Yes, she under stood
why
her mother hadn't been able to stay with such a man—even at fourteen she'd seen that she was in an un tenable situation—but that hadn't made it any easier for her to cope. And it hadn't lessened the sense of betrayal she felt either. The brutal reality of being left behind to be responsible for a man who no longer seemed to care whether he lived or died as long as he could have the next drink was something that she would
never
forget.

‘Marianne?'

‘I'm sorry. I just needed some water.' Returning to the table, she sat down. Inadvertently catching Eduardo's eye, she made a valiant attempt to smile.

‘You should eat something,' he said brusquely, but the expression in his disturbing glance was compassionate and steady, and even more unsettling was the supreme difficulty Marianne had in tearing her gaze from his. ‘Children need fathers…I am sorry that yours was not able to care for you as he should have done.'

‘Do you have parents? Siblings?' she asked.

‘My parents live in Leblon, which is west of Ipanema where I have my beach house. They are retired now. Unfortunately I was not blessed with brothers or sisters. I am their only son.'

‘I longed for a brother or sister when I was young,' Marianne confessed, ‘but perhaps it was best that there was only me in the long run. Parenting didn't come naturally to my mum and dad, I'm afraid.'

After this silence reigned, and she was grateful that Eduardo did not quiz her further on her unhappy past. She guessed that he appreciated her own perceived lack of curiosity where he was concerned. Her assessment that he was the most private of men was becoming more evident. Understanding that, she would not bombard him with intrusive questions. He just given her a job and a home, and she would respect his need to withhold certain information.
Even if the fact he might be ill secretly ate away at her and caused her imagination to run riot.
Maybe she could discreetly ask Ricardo about it if she got the chance?

‘I generally take a walk in the grounds after lunch.' Reaching for his walking cane, Eduardo rose from the table. ‘Would you care to join me?'

Patting her lips with her linen napkin, Marianne glanced longingly out at the snowy scene evident through the window. Above them was a cloud less cobalt sky, the kind of winter sunshine that skiers were used to in the Alps, and spark ling frost and snow carpeted everything. In truth, she would have liked nothing better than to walk in such an inviting magical landscape. But she was conscious that she was now an employee of this man…
not
his guest.

‘I would love a walk…but I was planning on dusting and polishing in some of the rooms—there's so many of them it will probably take most of the afternoon to get round.'

‘Dusting and polishing can wait. It's not important,' her companion countered a touch irritably, already making his way to the door. ‘I will meet you at the back entrance in fifteen minutes. You have the necessary foot wear to walk in? If not, there is an array of boots in the mud room. I am sure you will find a pair your size.'

‘Thanks…but I have boots of my own that I brought with me.'

‘Good.' His glance briefly flicked over her. ‘Fifteen minutes!' he called over his shoulder, and he looked away, his broad back in the navy cable-knit sweater the last glimpse Marianne had of his imposing physique as he left.

 

It had started to snow again.
How many more days would the sky continue to empty its frozen cargo down
upon the earth?
One minute Eduardo welcomed the deadening silence it left in its wake in a landscape in which he'd deliberately sought escape from the rest of the world and the next…the next he wrestled with an irrepressible longing for the warmth, sounds, smells and the sheer sense of
alive ness
that denoted his birthplace.

Releasing a sigh, he glanced sideways at his walking companion to see that Marianne's bright woolly hat was covered in rapidly melting crystals of ice. There were two spots of intense pink staining the pale satin of her cheek bones too, and her breath made little plumes of steam as she breathed.

‘If you are too cold we will go back inside,' he offered, strangely reluctant to do any such thing.

‘I'm quite happy.' she answered, hazel eyes shining. ‘The thing about getting cold is that you can always get warm again. What's up there?'

They had crossed a wooden latticework bridge over the moat, its previously peeling and weathered green paint work having recently been restored by Ricardo, and now they faced a fork in the road. One path led deeper into the extensive grounds of the house, and the other wound its snowy way into the thick ness of the surrounding forest. It was this path that Marianne's gloved hand pointed towards.

Eduardo shrugged. ‘The forest…I have never person ally followed the trail to see where it goes.'

‘Are you serious? Whenever I'm some where I haven't been before and I see a bend in the road—especially
in the countryside—I wonder what adventures may be waiting round the corner! Aren't you at all curious?' As she came to an abrupt stop, the incredulity on her face was plain to see.

‘Not so far,' he admitted. ‘And as for adventures…they are not something I per son ally crave.' Almost without his realising it, Eduardo's glance travelled down towards his injured leg and the cane he leaned on to help support it.

‘You mean because of your leg?' Marianne deduced.

So far she had been extraordinarily polite when it came to not enquiring about his injury, but now he himself had in advertently brought the subject to her attention. Momentarily his exasperation with himself knew no bounds. A large black crow streaked across the sky, cawing. The discordant sound seemed to amplify the tension inside him. Worryingly, the tight control that he kept coiled inside threatened to unravel at the claustrophobic and discomfiting sensation of being under siege.

‘The weather seems to be worsening. Perhaps it would be best if we returned to the house.' His voice sounded cold and disconnected even to his own ears.

‘Does it give you a lot of pain?' Gentle concern shone from Marianne's eyes, and Eduardo felt frighteningly cornered. Snow continued to fall—fat icy flakes bombarding them, turning them into human snowmen. ‘I would rather not discuss it, if you don't mind.'

‘I only ask because I'm concerned.'

‘Then please do not be!'

‘I'm sorry if you think I'm invading your privacy. I don't mean to. It's just that—well…if you're ill, and it's something serious, it might be helpful for me to know that.'

‘That is where you are
wrong
!' Now Eduardo was furious—at her, and at himself for suggesting she accompany him in the first place. ‘I have heard that the off spring of alcoholics often feel the need to try and fix the problems of others. Please do not make the arrogant mistake of thinking that you can fix mine!'

And with that he found himself turning back towards the bridge they had just crossed, more self-conscious than ever that his injured leg impeded more rapid progress, and angry too because he had lost control and lashed out at Marianne per son ally. Her father was lying either dead or drunk under a bridge some where, and she'd clearly been traumatised by an upbringing with parents that he deduced had been too self-absorbed even to notice their daughter's distress…else why had she ended up singing at the roadside for a living? He simply had no right to vent at her as he just had, whether he was feeling over whelmed or
not
.

He didn't think that he had ever disliked himself more than he did right then.
Except for the day of the accident, that was…that day he had positively
hated
himself…

 

Marianne was certain she must have polished the same spot on the grand mahogany side board at least a dozen
times, if not more. As the light was leeched from the sky and fires lit and curtains drawn Eduardo's angry words bounced round her brain like a ping-pong ball run amok.
I've heard that the off spring of alcoholics often feel the need to fix the problems of others…
As well as putting her firmly in her place, the brutal words had sent her thoughts hurtling towards the past again…but this time with startling new insight.
Was that what she had tried to do with everyone she loved?
Fix their problems? As if she didn't
deserve
hap pi ness unless she could somehow make everything right for everyone else?

Was that why she had stayed with her father instead of seizing a chance of hap pi ness with her mother in a new country, with a different life from the painful existence she'd endured for so long? Her mother still wrote to her, pleading with her to join her and Geoff—her new husband—in California…
especially
now that Donal was gone. In her last reply, nine months ago, Marianne had told her that she definitely wanted to remain in England, and at the back of her mind she had found herself thinking
just in case dad needs me
. But she hadn't seen her father for three years, and had lost all contact.

It wasn't easy to keep tabs on where he was when he had effectively become a vagrant, and in the end the constant worry and fruitless searching had all but made her ill. But maybe there was some kind of organisation or agency she could contact to help her locate him? And if not what about the hospitals, just in case he had—?
Her mind wouldn't let her go there. Chewing anxiously down on her thumb, she tasted the bitter tang of beeswax polish and withdrew it almost instantly.

‘Marianne?'

‘Ricardo… Sorry—I didn't hear you come in.'

Stepping into the beautiful library, with its polished wooden floor, various exotic rugs and tightly packed dark wood book shelves crammed with a myriad books that he had told Marianne during their tour of the house had been shipped over from Brazil, the young man thoughtfully crossed his arms.

‘Mr De Souza would like some coffee. I could have made it for him, but he told me he would like you to see to it.'

‘Of course.' Gathering up the soft dust cloth and polish she'd been using, Marianne moved towards the door—but halfway across the room she stopped, frowned, and shrugged her shoulders.

‘I think he's angry with me, Ricardo.'

‘Why should that be so?'

‘I asked him about his leg…if it was hurt because he was ill or something. He didn't like it and he got quite cross with me. I'm quite anxious that he doesn't think I'm some kind of interfering busybody.'