Who Rides the Tiger (2 page)

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. 'You are right, of course, Miss Mallory,' he replied, with a slight bow of his head. 'It is always safer to take precautions. However, I can assure you I am who I say I am. There is only one Vincente Santos!'

Dominique stared at him. Was he serious? Really, the conceit of the man!

'Don't you have any papers?' she asked stiffly. 'A driver's licence, perhaps?'

Vincente Santos patiently withdrew his wallet from his pocket and produced a passport and an international driving licence. Dominique barely glanced at them, certain that no would-be abductor could be so sure of himself.

'Thank you,' she said, glancing down at her case. 'This is all my luggage. My other cases were sent independently.'

Vincente Santos nodded, and putting away his wallet bent and lifted the case. 'Come with me,' he said, and strode away across the hall so that Dominique had almost to run to keep up with him.

Outside the airport buildings the heat hit her like an actual physical force, and she gasped. The air-conditioning inside had not prepared her for this. Santos glanced her way.

'This is cooler than in the middle of the day,' he remarked. 'You'll soon get used to it.'

Dominique managed a faint smile. Already she was wishing that John had asked someone else to meet her. Someone who was less blatantly attractive and sure of himself. With Vincente Santos she felt at a disadvantage, and despite the fact that he was faultlessly polite, she had the feeling that he was merely amusing himself at her expense.

A sleek green convertible awaited them outside the airport, and Vincente Santos threw her case unceremoniously into the back, and then opened the door for her to climb in. Dominique slid in and waited for him to join her, taking in the delicious perfumes of a positive riot of flowers that grew beside the paved car park. The colours were brilliant and various and she felt an unwilling shiver of excitement slide | along her spine. Towering above were the ragged peaks of the Serras, and away in the distance the blue wash of the Atlantic. It was exotic and exhilarating after the greyness of London, and even Santos's lazy tolerance seemed to lose some of its mockery.

He climbed in beside her, saw her expressive face, and smiled, revealing even white teeth that contrasted sharply with the dark tan of his features.

'You have not been to Brazil before?' he murmured, turning the ignition. Dominique shook her head. 'No.'

'But already you feel the pulse of our country,' he remarked casually, and drove the car out of the parking area.

Dominique liked his expression. That was exactly how she did feel. The excitement which had gripped her before the plane landed was returning, and with it a sense of awareness of her surroundings. There was something primitive and untamed about the country, even with its soaring skyscrapers and luxury apartments. How could anyone forget that the Matto Grosso was not too far away with its impenetrable forests and dangerous rivers where a man could be lost without trace? Just another of the facets of a country as complex as its history. Maybe it was that sense of the unknown that thrilled her so. Like the impetus that drove a man to risk his life to discover the savagery of primitive civilizations.

She became aware that Vincente Santos was speaking to her and endeavoured to orientate herself to her present situation.

'You used to live in London, I believe,' he was saying. Dominique nodded. 'That's right. At least, in the suburbs. Tell me, why didn't John come to meet me? And where are we going now?'

He smiled again. 'I was beginning to think you had forgotten the purpose for your visit here,' he remarked lazily. And then: 'Bela Vista where you are to live is in these mountains, but the roads are not to be recommended. They are little more than tracks in places. Do not imagine though that Bela Vista is an uncivilized place. It has its museum and its art gallery and its university. But to get there - ah, that is another matter.'

Dominique wrinkled her nose.
^£
Go on.'

He shrugged expressively. There was a landslide on the road.'

Dominique gasped. 'Was - was anyone hurt?'

'No. But your fiance was - what do you say? - stranded. So he telephoned me.'

'You - you were in Rio?' questioned Dominique slowly.

'No, I was in Bela Vista.'

Dominique gave an exasperated sigh. 'Please, Mr. Santos, don't tease me. How could you get here and not John?'

Vincente Santos swung the car round a precipitous bend in the road, causing Dominique to cling apprehensively to her seat, and then said: 'I have other means of transport. A helicopter!'

'Oh! Oh, I see!' Dominique nodded. 'I naturally assumed. ..She shrugged. 'Do you live in Bela Vista, Mr. Santos?'

'I live in many places,' he replied enigmatically. 'But I do have a house at Bela Vista, yes.'

Dominique digested this, and as she did so she wondered whether he might be John's employer. After all, the names were the same, but Santos was a common enough name in Brazil. If this man was part of the organization what was his connection with her fiance? How well did he know John, and conversely, how well did John know him? There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask but couldn't. Instead, she said:

'Are we going to Bela Vista now?'

The road is blocked,' he reminded her patiently.

'I know. I meant of course by helicopter.'

He looked rather sardonic, causing a faint flush to colour Dominique's cheeks. She was intensely aware of him, and it did not make for relaxation. He was the kind of man of whom she knew nothing. There was a sensual line to his mouth which disturbed her a little. He was obviously used to the company of women, and it was annoying to realize that she hadn't the faintest idea of how to deal with him. It wasn't only the alien cast of his features, or the fact that his clothes and car and whole attitude depicted wealth of a kind she had never before experienced, it was something else, something indefinable that made him different from any other man she had ever known. And it was infuriating to know that he was aware of his attraction, and probably of how she reacted to him. Stiffening her shoulders, she said briskly: 'What do you intend doing with me?'

He gave a lazy laugh. 'Doing with you, Miss Mallory? That's a curious expression. What do you imagine I am going to do with you?' The car curved over a promontory and below them was spread the land-locked harbour of Rio de Janeiro, with Guanabara Bay beyond, studded with islands that glistened like jewels in the rays of the sinking sun.

Dominique stared entranced for a few moments, and then gathering her thoughts, she said briefly: 'You must know what I mean!'

He inclined his head, the wheel of the car sliding through the hard strength of his brown fingers. 'Yes, I know. And I realize you are eager to meet your fiance again. After all, it is some time since he left England, and a lot can happen in
only a few months. However, it will be dark soon now and I do not care to risk putting down the helicopter among these mountains in darkness.'

Dominique twisted the strap of her handbag. 'So?'

'So I regret to tell you that you must spend this night in Rio. A room has been booked for you at a hotel there where you will be very comfortable, and tomorrow - well, tomorrow you will be able to cast yourself into the arms of your beloved!'

Dominique gave him a hard stare. Thank you,' she said, coldly. 'I don't need you to give me instructions!'

'I'm sure you don't,' he agreed mockingly, allowing his gaze to slide over her so that she flushed uncomfortably in spite of herself.

Then he frowned: 'You still distrust me, don't you, Miss Mallory? Why?'

Dominique sighed. 'I didn't say that!'

'No,' he remarked. It is your whole attitude. Perhaps you think I have kidnapped you. When you reach the hotel you will be able to speak to Harding on the telephone.'

The telephone, thought Dominique with relief. Of course! Why hadn't she thought of that?

Vincente Santos was still giving her a slightly sardonic look. 'You are a beautiful woman, Miss Mallory, but I regret to tell you I have known many beautiful women, and in my experience I do not have to kidnap them to make them submit!'

Dominique could not have felt more embarrassed, and it was with relief that she saw the outer environs of the city appearing. Even so, she was unprepared for the poverty and squalor of some of those dwellings which were little more than shacks, their occupants looking little better, with thin angular bodies and dirty faces. Her horror at these revelations must have communicated itself to him, for he said:

Where there are very rich there are also very poor. You are like everyone else, Miss Mallory. You want to see only what you expect to see.'

Dominique looked at him. 'And how do you see it, Mr. Santos? Or perhaps you do not see it at all?'

Vincente Santos's expression darkened. 'Oh, I see it, Miss Mallory!'

Dominique glanced at him. There was a bitterness in his voice that was different from the casual amusement that had been there before. Then he said: 'You imagine perhaps that I have only known this kind of life, this affluence, perhaps?'

Dominique bit her lip. 'I didn't think about it, Mr. Santos.'

'Then perhaps you should think before you speak,' he said, somewhat bleakly, and she wondered what unknowing spark she had ignited.

The city of Rio de Janeiro was unbelievably beautiful. Even Venice, which she had visited with her father, had not the individuality of architecture that Rio possessed in such abundance. Or maybe it was the grim overhanging buttresses of the Serras that brought such grandeur to an otherwise contemporary scene. The streets were thronged with cars and people and the noise was deafening. There was a predominance of young people, dressed casually in beach clothes. The girls in their bikinis and the young men with their sun-bronzed torsos resembled nothing so much as the high priests and priestesses who worshipped at the shrine of the Sun-god. Dominique saw old dowagers dressed entirely in black, like old crows in their severity among birds of paradise. There were dozens of children, ragged urchins with filthy faces, but so dark and attractive that they drew the eye. There were churches and museums, and tall skyscraper buildings, among streets lined with trees and paved in black and white mosaic.

The hotel Vincente Santos drove to stood in a quiet side- street, off the main thoroughfare near the centre of the city. The hotel was tall and handsome, grey-stoned and respectable, not one of the monolithic palaces that faced the beach at Copacabana. It had a strange kind of old-world charm that was in variance to the almost blatant modernity of its neighbours. Yet despite its appearance inside it was modern, with lifts and wall-to-wall carpeting. Dominique was to learn that to Brazilians wall-to-wall carpeting was considered extremely desirable, even if it did make bedrooms stiflingly hot.

The car was left in the car-park and they entered the hotel, Vincente Santos going ahead to speak to the receptionist. From the amount of deference he received Dominique gathered he was a valued client, and she hovered near the swing doors, unwilling to interfere. Then he turned and said:

Tour room is ready. I expect you are tired and would like to shower and change before dinner. It will be served in the restaurant any time after seven-thirty. Harding has already telephoned to question your arrival, and will ring you back later, I imagine. I do not think there is anything else—'

Dominique linked her fingers. Somehow now that he appeared to have discharged his duty she was loath to let him go. Perhaps it was the strangeness of everything and this sense she had of being completely alone, but she hesitated uncertainly, wishing they could have left for Bela Vista right away.

Vincente Santos moved towards the door. He moved with a sinuous feline grace, like a tiger, the muscles across his back rippling smoothly beneath the thin material of his suit.

And like his counterpart in the animal kingdom Dominique realized he could be dangerous. She didn't quite know how she knew this. Certainly his manner towards her had not suggested the predatory male; even so he had spent several minutes staring at her in the airport bar when he must have known full well who she was, and she shivered slightly at the recollection. He looked back at her as he reached the doors.

'You are satisfied?' he asked smoothly.

'Of course.' Dominique was hasty. Whatever her feelings she had no intention of letting him realize her uncertainty.

'That is good. I will pick you up at ten in the morning. Good night, Miss Mallory.'

'Good - good night, Mr. Santos.' Dominique was conscious of a page picking up the case which Vincente Santos had stood beside her, and then he gave a brief nod and disappeared through the swing doors.

'This way,
senhorita,'
said the page in heavily accented English, and Dominique recalled that Vincente Santos had had little accent. Then she gave the page a faint smile and followed him across to the lift.

Her rooms were spacious and luxurious, with many windows overlooking the city. She could not see the
favellas
from here, and despite the noise of the traffic in the distance it was peaceful. A fan whirred lazily causing a cooling draught of air and the water in the shower was lukewarm.

Afterwards, she lay on her bed, staring at the telephone, willing it to ring. Maybe if she could hear John's voice she could dispel the feeling of anxiety which seemed to have taken possession of her.

S
HE
must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes the telephone was ringing, and the room was dark apart from the lights from outside in the street. Shivering slightly, she leaned over arid switched on the bedside lamp. It revealed a cream-coloured telephone beside the bed, and as she lifted the receiver she glanced at her watch. Eight- fifteen! It couldn't be!

Then she said: 'Hello, Dominique Mallory speaking.'

'Dominique! Is that you? Oh, thank heaven!' John sounded relieved and anxious. 'How are you, love? I'm sorry I had to leave you in the lurch at the airport. Did Santos explain?'