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Mask Of Scars
Anne Mather


Mills & Boon are excited to present The Anne Mather Collection – the complete works by this classic author made available to download for the very first time! These books span six decades of a phenomenal writing career, and every story is available to read unedited and untouched from their original release. Perfect wife material…? Christiana can’t think of a better way to spend her summer vacation than sun, sea and sand in the Algarve, Portugal. But when she arrives at her brother’s hotel, the reception from her sister-in-law is decidedly frosty. So she is grateful when she is offered a job by local ‘lord of the manor’ Dom Carlos Ramirez – despite his positively feudal attitude to women!Perhaps it is his dark good looks, but Christiana can’t help but be drawn to difficult Dom Carlos. But the Dom is already betrothed – and surely a suitable fiancée would make a better wife than an argumentative young English student anyway?!










Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous

collection of fantastic novels by

bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun— staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Mask of Scars

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#uc83d42bb-f849-508a-81f2-52ec8010cc2e)

About the Author (#u062118f1-e555-5e75-aa60-5856475e340f)

Title Page (#u5ad6e694-db76-5b91-b523-32a0b7d0261e)

CHAPTER ONE (#ud9d9cd5b-6847-5dad-8369-a2e3e4864036)

CHAPTER TWO (#u91b69f0b-3273-588f-9c62-6b9d74248c40)

CHAPTER THREE (#u65727caf-76af-512a-88b7-dfcc7d8cd64d)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_fb7ccfb9-9e07-5121-a2ca-c239f23d9fca)


BY the time the train pulled into the station at Lagos, Christina felt she had had a surfeit of glorious countryside and even more delightful coastline lit by the brilliance of the Mediterranean sun, and she would have been prepared to forgo such beauty in favour of a cooling shower and a change of clothes. Although she was wearing the minimum in underwear, the thin cotton jeans were clinging to her slender legs and the pink shirt which had been crisp and attractive when she set out from the pensao in Lisbon that morning was now limp, too. She felt hot and sticky and she half wished she had buried her pride and used the money Bruce had sent to buy an air ticket to Portugal.

But knowing her sister-in-law as she did she was firmly convinced that she knew nothing of her husband’s generosity, and it was quite within Sheila’s capabilities for her to question how Christina, who was apparently without funds, could afford the air fare to Faro. And the very last thing Christina wanted was to create friction between her brother and his wife at the start of her stay.

Lagos was the train terminal and there were several other passengers disembarking as Christina tugged her duffel bag and rather shabby suitcase on to the platform. Some of the other passengers were tourists, and in expensive continental gear and with porters carrying their blatantly new suitcases they were in complete contrast to Christina’s crumpled appearance. But she didn’t mind. With the inconsequence of youth it never troubled her what anyone thought about her, and she tossed back the curtain of corn-coloured hair that fell straightly about her shoulders as she bent to lift the duffel bag on to her back, and regarded her fellow passengers with something like amused tolerance in her clear grey eyes.

Outside the station the taxis were quickly commandeered and Christina looked about her doubtfully, wondering which way was the bus station. If she had troubled to inform Bruce of her estimated time of arrival, she knew he would have either sent someone to meet her or come himself, but she preferred the independence of making her own arrangements, a trait which had landed her in trouble at the University on more than one occasion.

Lagos seemed an attractive little town and even at this early hour of the evening, there were plenty of people strolling about, enjoying the sunshine or taking coffee at one or other of the exotic little open-air cafés and restaurants. Christina would have liked to have had some coffee and a sandwich herself, but Bruce’s small hotel was not here, it was at Porto Cedro, and she realised she would have to make some definite move towards getting there before it was dark.

Dropping her suitcase, she rummaged in her duffel bag and brought out a rather tattered-looking map which she had picked up for a few pence in Chelsea High Street, and spreading it awkwardly, she traced the line of her route from Lagos to the small village where her brother lived. According to the map it was some five miles west on the road to Sagres, and with an indifferent shrug she folded the map again and put it away. Five miles wasn’t far. She could probably walk it more easily than she could struggle to find the bus station when her knowledge of Portuguese was limited to a phrase book tucked into her jeans’ pocket.

Swinging the duffel bag back on to her shoulders, she made her way towards the outskirts of the small town, using the coastline as a guide. But as she neared the steep cliffs which fell away to a beach bleached almost white by the sun she wanted to linger and savour the knowledge that for three months she would be able to feast her eyes on such scenes and luxuriate in the deepening warmth of the sun. She longed to go down on the beach and find coolness in the creaming blue waters that lapped the shoreline, but common sense told her that she could not do so now. But tomorrow, she promised herself fiercely, tomorrow …

The road to Sagres was dusty and narrow, and although the sun was sinking it was still very hot. Christina ran a hand round the back of her neck under the weight of her hair and sighed in incredulity when she considered that it had been raining when she left London yesterday and for June the weather was unseasonably cold. Or was it? she thought wryly. Wasn’t English weather always unseasonable?

A lumbering cattle truck passed her, throwing up a cloud of dust which made her stop and cough chokingly for a moment. The driver halted and waved to her, obviously offering a lift, but although the prospect was inviting Christina declined. It wasn’t that she had never accepted a lift before, but simply that she preferred to take this slower pace. After all, no matter how attractive these three months in Porto Cedro might seem, she was quite aware that Sheila would demand and get value for her so-called hospitality, and Christina was prepared to make beds and scrub floors and wash dishes and do all the mundane tasks necessary to the efficient upkeep of a small hotel. But no matter how arduous these three months might be, at the end of each day she would be her own mistress, and there was always Bruce to share her enjoyment with.

She trudged on, the suitcase getting heavier by the minute and the duffel bag’s ropes digging into her shoulders. She should have taken the lift she had been offered. She would have been in Porto Cedro by now. She sighed. The last signpost a few yards back had said only four more kilometres to the village. Surely they would not take her much longer now.

A couple of cars passed her going in the opposite direction and she thought how wonderful it would be if she were to meet Bruce in that way. But then perhaps not, she amended to herself dryly. If Sheila were with him she would be horrified at Christina choosing to walk all this way along roads she did not know when anyone might happen along to molest her. But then Sheila was a very correct person, and perhaps that was why she and Christina had never got along very well together. It was not that Christina was entirely irresponsible; it was simply that Sheila did not and had not ever understood the independence of youth.

The sound of tyres on the dusty road came to Christina’s ears and she glanced round in time to see a huge black limousine approaching. With a casual movement she jerked her thumb in the direction she was going, her thoughts of Sheila goading her into doing the very thing she knew her sister-in-law would most disapprove of.

But she need not have bothered. The huge car with its sleek lines and a rather curious insignia engraved on its side swept past in complete indifference to her presence, although as the dust surged over her Christina was indignantly aware that the car had passed deliberately closely, almost forcing her on to the grass verge.

Hunching her shoulders, Christina looked resentfully after the retreating chauffeur-driven vehicle and then with a characteristic shrug, she again pressed on.

At last the outlying cottages of the village came into view and Christina could not suppress the wave of excitement that enveloped her. It was almost a year since she had last seen her brother and previously they had been very close, not even Sheila’s jealous hostility causing more than a brief ripple on the surface of their friendship.

In his letter Bruce had told her that the Hotel Inglês stood above a small cove. He had said that the whole area was riddled with small coves and rocky promontories giving way to caves and rock-pools when the tide was out. He had said the swimming was excellent and that he himself had taken up snorkelling and skin-diving. He had said the sea was amazingly clear, and looking down on its lucid depths Christina could quite believe it.

Porto Cedro nestled on the side of the cliffs, a market square providing a small bus station and its focal point a stone fountain. The houses around the square were painted in pastel shades with white shutters and deliciously hanging eaves that provided slanting patches of shade on the paths. Some had grilles in wrought iron, and arches, relics of Moorish occupation and influence. There was something faintly eastern about it and Christina found it all very picturesque. Her vivid imagination conjured up scenes of Moorish pirates swarming along these narrow streets swinging cutlasses and carrying off the most beautiful women for their harems.

She smiled to herself suddenly and in so doing attracted the attention of a group of young men passing by so that they spoke to her invitingly in their own language, raising their dark eyebrows and allowing their breath to be expelled in low whistles.

Christina shook her head almost imperceptibly and turned determinedly through a walk between tall dark houses that led to the sea-front, to her relief she saw the sign for the Hotel Inglês almost immediately. Porto Cedro did not sport many hotels, and in fact the Hotel Inglês was little more than a glorified pensao. In the glittering rays of the setting sun, it looked less glamorous somehow than she had imagined it, some of the paintwork peeling in the heat, the tables standing carelessly before it still covered in dirty crockery where someone, tourists possibly, had taken afternoon tea. But for all that she felt a surge of pride that Bruce should have such an establishment, and she walked quickly up the shallow steps and through the screen of hanging plastic beads that protected the hall from the glare of the sun.

The hall was tiled in plastic tiles and there was a small reception desk on which was a bell which indicated its use for attention. But Christina hesitated a moment before pressing it. She wanted to look around and absorb her surroundings before she warned anyone of her arrival.

From the hall, arched doorways led into the dining room and another room which could have been a lounge. To the left was the small bar, deserted at the moment, without even a barman to attend to any customer who might suddenly appear. Everywhere was clean, spotlessly so, and Christina’s spirits rose. It was foolish to allow this ominous feeling of anti-climax to cloud her happiness at being here—with Bruce.

The sound of footsteps coming along the corridor to her right caused her to swing round sharply just as Sheila, her sister-in-law, was beginning: ‘Sinto muito, menina—–’ But she broke off in obvious astonishment as she recognised Christina and her face changed remarkably from smiling welcome to veiled hostility: ‘Christina! In heaven’s name, Christina, what are you doing here?’

Christina felt the first twinges of real anxiety. ‘I—I walked here—from the station at Lagos!’

Sheila shook her head incredulously. ‘But what are you doing here in Portugal? I thought you were at university!’

Christina’s fingers fumbled with the ropes of her duffel bag. ‘I was. It’s the summer vac, Sheila.’

Sheila Ashley spread a hand helplessly. ‘Christina, maybe I’m phrasing my questions badly, or maybe you’re deliberately misunderstanding me, I don’t know, but I want to know why, even if it is the summer vacation, you’re here!’

Christina’s anxieties crystallised into real doubts. ‘Do—do you mean to say—I’m not expected?’ she ventured carefully, her grey eyes never leaving her sister-in-law’s face.

Sheila Ashley was an attractive woman. In her early thirties she had all the poise and elegance of a fashion model. Tall and slim, with sleek dark hair knotted at the back of her head, she had none of the slightly harassed air sometimes visible in the faces of married women, and Christina privately thought that that was because nothing ever moved Sheila. Nothing ever troubled her more than slightly, and as she had no children no disfiguring bulk of pregnancy had ever marred that slender frame. But right now Sheila was disturbed. It was visible in the tightening of her lips, in the narrowing of her dark eyes, in the way she plucked almost nervously at the fine material of her thin dress.

‘How could you be?’ she began now, in answer to Christina’s question. ‘We didn’t even know the term was over.’

Christina felt an overwhelming sense of impatience. It was obvious now. Bruce had not told his wife she was coming. And because she had not written to let him know when she was arriving he had not had a chance to tell her. She should have known that Sheila would be the last person to welcome her young sister-in-law into their home.

But now Christina had to say something, and realising it would serve no useful purpose to explain that Bruce had written to her inviting her to stay and help them with the hotel, she said:

‘I naturally assumed that once the university closed I would be welcome here for a couple of weeks. Now that Father’s dead—–’

‘But you should have let us know you were coming, Christina,’ Sheila burst out. ‘I mean, your father’s been dead ten months now, and you must have realised before the term ended that you would have to find a job of sorts to support yourself now that university’s closed!’

Christina hesitated. ‘Actually, I thought I might help you here, Sheila.’

Sheila’s eyes widened in amazement. ‘You mean—you mean work here—in the hotel!’

‘Yes.’ Christina glanced through the open doorway towards the uncleared tables on the forecourt. ‘Don’t you need some help?’

Sheila was clearly battling within herself now, unable to find any logical reason to reject such a suggestion. ‘We manage,’ she began. ‘There’s not just Bruce and me, you know. Julio serves in the bar in the evenings, and Maria does all the cooking.’

Christina wondered where Bruce could be. Standing here in the hall like this, arguing with Sheila, was hardly the welcome she had envisaged, and she had the distinct feeling that Sheila would send her away without even seeing her brother if she could.

‘Where is Bruce?’ she questioned now. ‘Isn’t he here?’

‘No—yes—that is, he’s out right now.’ Sheila bit her lip. ‘Look, Christina, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but quite honestly you’re not the type to work in the hotel.’ She surveyed Christina’s appearance critically. ‘What on earth could you do?’

‘I can make beds, wash dishes—anything you like.’ Christina sighed. ‘Do you think I could have a cup of tea? I’m terribly thirsty.’

Sheila gave in with ill grace. Short of physically ejecting Christina from the building there was little else she could do. ‘Very well,’ she agreed shortly. ‘Come through here. Our rooms are at the back of the hotel.’

Christina followed her sister-in-law along a white-emulsioned passage to a room at the back of the building which overlooked a walled garden. It was not a big garden, but it was a veritable wilderness of flowers and flowering shrubs. Christina stared out at the confusion in delight, wondering how anyone could allow such beauty to go to waste.

Sheila, noticing her interest, commented off-handedly: ‘We don’t have time to attend to the garden. When Bruce has the time, he’s going to find a gardener.’

Christina thought she might have added, when Bruce can afford it, but she refrained from making any response and dropping her duffel bag and suitcase thankfully, she flung herself into a low basket weave chair. Sheila walked through into a small kitchen, and Christina could hear her filling the kettle and setting cups on saucers. There was a kind of suppressed violence about the way each cup clattered into its place, and Christina sighed, cupping her chin on one hand dejectedly. She had expected antipathy from Sheila, but not to this extent.

Sheila came back into the room. ‘How long did you expect to stay?’ she asked abruptly.

Christina was taken aback. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Of course it matters. Christina, this is Porto Cedro, not the Kings Road! Things are different here. Oh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to you, but—well, your ways are so very different from ours. People here are not so—easy-going, as they are back in England. I can’t speak for Portugal as a whole, of course, but here in the Algarve, in Porto Cedro particularly, we observe the codes of conduct that have been upheld here for centuries!’

Christina frowned. ‘Don’t you mean the rules for the Portuguese?’

‘Yes, of course. And as we live here—we make our living in this village—we are expected to conform, too.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ Christina stared at her.

‘Of course I’m serious. That’s why I find your presence here so hard to condone. Christina, you’re a nice girl, and I’ve no doubt in England your attitudes would go unnoticed—–’

‘What do you mean? My attitudes?’ Christina was stung by the scathing note in Sheila’s voice.

‘Well, honestly, dear, one doesn’t wear slacks, let alone jeans, unless one is going sailing, of course. And young women are protected here. They’re not even allowed to mix with their fiancés unless a chaperon is on hand—–’

‘But I’m not Portuguese, Sheila—–’

‘But can’t you see, Christina, I’m trying to explain. When one lives in a country—when one makes one’s living from that country—one is expected to observe the rules,’

‘Rules!’ Christina raised her eyes heavenward. ‘Honestly, Sheila, you can’t expect me to believe that no tourists appear here dressed as I’m dressed. That everyone who visits Porto Cedro observes these so-called rules!’

‘Of course I’m not saying that. As a tourist I suppose you’d go unnoticed. But you’re not a tourist, are you, Christina? You’re Bruce’s sister. And once that gets about, you’ll be expected to behave as we do.’

Christina hunched her shoulders. ‘Why don’t you just say you don’t want me here whatever the circumstances and be done with it?’ she demanded hotly. ‘You don’t really expect me to stomach all that rubbish about my clothes and mixing with the opposite sex—and being protected, do you?’

Sheila stiffened. ‘All right, Christina. As you insist on putting everything in such crude terms, I’ll be honest. I admit I don’t want you here. But regardless of anything I feel personally, the situation remains the same. You simply wouldn’t fit in.’

‘What’s going on here? Christina!’

The male voice that broke into their conversation brought both women up short. Bruce Ashley stood in the doorway, tall and broad and to Christina, dearly familiar. She flung herself out of her chair and across the room into his arms, uncaring what Sheila might think.

Bruce held her closely for a few minutes and then he held her at arm’s length and stared at her as though he could not believe his eyes. ‘Christina! What the hell do you mean by appearing like this? Why didn’t you let me know so that I could meet you? Have you come by air?’

Christina shook her head quickly. ‘Where would I get the money to buy an air ticket?’ she asked meaningfully, holding his eyes with hers, trying to convey wordlessly what had passed between herself and Sheila.

Bruce frowned, but he seemed to gather what she meant, for he inclined his head slowly, and said: ‘Well, anyway, you should have written and told us when to expect you.’

Sheila looked at him suspiciously. ‘Did you know Christina was coming, Bruce?’ she asked sharply.

Bruce hesitated. ‘I thought she might. Why not? We’re her only kin. Why shouldn’t she come here? This is her home?’

‘Christina is eighteen, Bruce. Not a child.’

‘Eighteen? What’s eighteen?’ Bruce chewed his lip. ‘If we’d still been living in Kensington, she’d have come to us then, wouldn’t she?’

‘Maybe. But we’re not still living in Kensington, Bruce. The situation here is different—I’ve been trying to explain. Christina just wouldn’t fit in here. She’s not used to restrictions.’

‘What nonsense!’ Bruce released Christina and felt about in his pockets for his cigarettes. ‘Why shouldn’t she fit in here? She—er—she could help about in the hotel. That way she’d earn her keep.’

Sheila pushed past him and walked into the kitchen to make the tea. When she came back with the tray a few moments later Christina could see she was having difficulty controlling her temper.

Meanwhile Bruce had flung himself into a comfortable chair and was asking Christina about her work at the university. It had been unfortunate that Mr. Ashley had died within a week of her taking up her studies, but the different environment had in some ways allayed the grief she would otherwise have suffered. They had been very close, she and her father, particularly since Bruce was married and his wife had never shown any desire to involve herself with her husband’s family. Christina’s mother had died when she was twelve, and she remembered her only as a rather fragile individual, always suffering from headaches and ill health, spending her days on the couch in the lounge of the house they had had in Wimbledon.

The previous May, Bruce and Sheila had left England to open this hotel in Porto Cedro, and the last time Christina had seen Bruce had been when he flew home for her father’s funeral. During the subsequent Christmas and Easter holidays she had found accommodation and work to support herself, but it had been Bruce’s suggestion that she should come and spend the long summer vacation with them. The little money her father had left barely kept her in spending money during term time and she had been glad of the chance to see Bruce and possibly help him in whatever capacity she could. She had fondly imagined Sheila had mellowed towards her. It was only now she realised how hopeless that thought had been.

Now Sheila placed the tray on the low table before Bruce and added milk to the cups, pouring the tea with precise movements.

‘Sugar?’ she enquired of Christina, but Christina shook her head awkwardly.

‘No, thanks.’

Sheila left her husband’s tea on the tray and then went to sit in another chair. ‘And where is she to sleep?’ she asked, at last.

Christina stood down her cup. ‘Really, Sheila, I think it would be as well if I left,’ she said carefully. ‘It’s obvious you don’t want me here, and it would be impossible for me to stay under those circumstances.’

Sheila’s features relaxed slightly. ‘I’m glad you see—–’ she was beginning, when Bruce interrupted her.

‘Sheila!’ He bit out the word angrily, and got to his feet. ‘I will not allow you to speak to my sister like this! I don’t give a damn what your opinion is, this is my home, too, and I’ll invite who I like to it, do I make myself clear?’

Sheila froze. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Just because Christina chooses to land herself upon us—–’

‘She didn’t choose to land herself upon us!’ snapped Bruce shortly, and waved away the restraining hand Christina placed on his sleeve. ‘I wrote and invited her to stay with us for the summer vacation. I also sent her enough money to cover the air fare. As she hasn’t used it, I can only assume she didn’t want to feel beholden to me to that extent!’

Sheila rose now. ‘You sent her the money!’ she exclaimed disbelievingly.

‘Yes. Why not? For God’s sake, Sheila, be reasonable—–’

‘Reasonable! Reasonable! When I’m slaving my fingers to the bone to make this place pay, and your blessed sister spends her days doing nothing more arduous than attending lectures and writing up a few notes in a book! She’s eighteen, Bruce! In the circumstances, I think it’s high time she was earning a living!’

‘Oh, please—–’ began Christina helplessly. ‘Don’t go on! I’ll—I’ll go back to England tomorrow.’

‘You will not!’ Bruce turned an angry face towards her. ‘Leave this to me!’ He looked back at Sheila. ‘Must I remind you that it was my money that leased this hotel? You haven’t done a stroke of work outside our home since we got married, and if I choose to send a little of my money to my sister, then I don’t think you should complain.’

Sheila’s face suffused with colour. ‘That’s a foul thing to say!’ she exclaimed, her voice less belligerent now.

‘Yes. Well, don’t you think what you’ve already said is foul, too? Making Christina feel as though she’s some kind of hanger-on? I repeat—this is Christina’s home for as long as she wants it to be.’

Sheila sought the refuge of her chair, putting a hand to her forehead. ‘I’ve got the most dreadful headache now,’ she said, rather faintly. ‘You don’t care about me at all, Bruce. Just so long as your sister doesn’t suffer.’

‘For God’s sake, Sheila, that’s not true.’

‘It is true.’ To Christina’s horror tears of self-pity overflowed from Sheila’s eyes and ran down her pale cheeks.

Bruce looked helplessly at his sister and with a sigh Christina got to her feet and left the room. She was glad to go. The atmosphere in there was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife, and she had no desire to see Bruce make a fool of himself over a few crocodile tears.

She walked outside. It was appreciably darker now, the sun sinking in a blaze of glory in the west. The hotel stood on the cliffs and to the right a steep road led down to the sea-front where lights were beginning to twinkle in the twilight. She could see a harbour and a small jetty with several fishing boats moored along its length. There was something warm and reassuring about these everyday sights and on impulse she walked down the road to the sea-front and leant on the harbour wall. She had no wish to return to the hotel yet. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do. It was all very well for Bruce to force Sheila to accept her, but what kind of life would she have with her sister-in-law picking on her every minute of the day? Could she stand it? Even for Bruce’s sake?

Leaving the wall, she skirted the harbour and jumped down on to the stretch of beach beyond it. The soft sand ran between her toes and she walked slowly on, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans.

Ahead a wall of rock divided one cove from the other, but there was an aperture wide enough for Christina to slide through and she found herself on an isolated stretch of shoreline where the water creamed with inviting coolness.

There seemed no access to the beach, other than through the aperture she had breached, and she walked towards the sea, kicking off her sandals and allowing the water to ripple over her toes. It was a sensuous feeling. She had never bathed in warm waters before, and she wished she had had the good sense to bring her bathing suit with her. The idea of submerging her hot, sticky body in those cooling depths was almost more than she could bear.

Without stopping to consider the advisability of her actions, Christina quickly stripped off all her clothes and ran to dive headlong into the waves. It was glorious, the water still warm from the rays of the sun, and the heat of the day melted from her body leaving her refreshed and alert.

She swam and played for fully fifteen minutes, her hair like seaweed about her in the water, before she became aware that she was no longer alone. Out on the shore, silhouetted against the darkening velvet of the sky and partially hidden by the shadow of the cliffs, stood a man, the tip of his cigarette, or cigar, visible as it was regularly raised to his lips to glow more brightly before becoming subdued again.

Christina trod water and considered her position. Her clothes lay on the beach, some distance from the intruder, it was true, but nevertheless far enough up the beach to cause her some discomfort. She sighed. Had he seen her, or was he simply out for an evening stroll? Could he be unaware that someone was swimming only a hundred yards away?

She wrinkled her nose impatiently. In half an hour, maybe less, it would be dark, but already she was beginning to feel cold, and in half an hour she would be much colder. Truthfully, until then she had not realised how cold she was, but anxiety produced its own lowering of the temperature.

To her horror, the man began to walk down the beach to the water’s edge and he halted by her small pile of clothes regarding them intently. Now she could see he was a tall man, lean and dark, sideburns growing down almost to his jawline. Although the features of his face were indistinct in the fading light, she sensed an air of authority, of haughty arrogance about him, and she wondered who he could be. He did not appear like one of the villagers and she was pondering the possibility of him being a tourist when he turned his dark head in her direction. Immediately her hopes of remaining unobserved vanished.

‘Tenha a bondade de sair, menina,’ he snapped shortly. ‘Vai-se fazendo tarde!’

Christine hadn’t the faintest idea what he was saying, but it seemed obvious from his attitude and the uncompromising tone of his voice that he was not at all pleased at her appearance.

Endeavouring to remember the right words from her phrase book, Christina called: ‘Nao falo portugues, senhor!’

The man threw away the butt of his cigarette and advanced to the water’s edge. Now Christina could see the patrician cast of his features and the slightly cruel line of his mouth. But what caught her attention most was the long, jagged scar which ran down his left cheek, from the corner of his eye almost to his jawline. The livid whiteness of that grim disfiguration was all the more pronounced because of the swarthiness of his skin, and it gave his aquiline face an almost satanic appearance.

‘So, menina, you are English!’ he was saying coldly now, his expression revealing his awareness of her scrutiny. ‘Then please to come out. This is a private beach, and you are trespassing!’

His faint accent was attractive, and so was his voice, but what he was saying was not. There was a contemptuous twist to his lips and he was regarding her as though she was some particularly obnoxious specimen washed up on his beach. To be charitable she supposed his disfiguration might account for a little of his bitterness, but to Christina it was nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, if anything it gave strength and character to a face which might otherwise have been merely handsome in an aristocratic, Latin way.

‘My clothes are behind you, senhor!’ she said now, glad of the concealing depths of the water as his cold gaze raked her. ‘If you’ll go away I’ll do exactly as you ask.’

The man’s curiously light eyes narrowed. ‘You are trespassing, menina, as I have said. I prefer to stay and escort you off my property myself.’

Christina sighed, wrinkling her nose. ‘As you wish, senhor. But at least have the goodness to turn the other way.’

He frowned. ‘You mean—–’ He stared at her incredulously. ‘Dues nao permita! Tu adolescentes!’ The narrow fingers clenched. ‘Esta bem, menina, I will walk towards the cliffs. But you will not disappear in my absence!’

Christina did not reply, and he hesitated a moment. ‘Wait! I have seen you before, menina, have I not? You were—how do you say it—hitching—is that right? Sim, hitching a lift earlier this evening on the road from Lagos, were you not?’

Christina nodded, and then her eyes widened. ‘You were in the limousine?’

‘Where I was is not important, menina. What concerns me is where you intended to sleep tonight. On my beach, perhaps?’

‘Of course not!’ Christina was stung by his accusation.

‘Why—of course not?’ The man’s lip curled. ‘Believe me, menina, we have had trouble with young people like yourself before. What is it you call yourselves? Freedom-lovers—is that right? We have other names for what you do!’

‘How charming!’ Christina refused to show the outrage she felt at the disparaging way he was dismissing her. It was not often anyone got under her skin, but this man did. ‘I’m cold, senhor,’ she went on indolently. ‘Unless you want me to put on my clothes under your malevolent gaze, go away!’

The man’s nostrils flared, and Christina thought almost detachedly that he was a most disturbingly masculine animal. Despite the formal attire, the expensive silk grey suit, the fine shirt, and grey tie, the soft suede boots on his feet, there was an air of indomitability about him, of ruthless overbearing strength, that no amount of civilisation could entirely subdue. She wondered what mixture of blood ran in his veins that he could at once appear cool and clinical, hard and passionate. And that scar, that unholy blemish, added the final touch to a cruel, and possibly violent, nature.

Without another word he turned and walked away up the beach and Christina hastened out of the water, shivering quite forcefully now. She put her clothes on to her wet skin, allowing them to dry her, and wrung out her hair carelessly. As her body grew warmer she realised that her trembling was due as much to nerves as cold.

Darkness was dropping like a blanket about her and she looked longingly towards the cleft in the rock wall that divided this cove from the public one beyond. The man was some distance away now lighting another cigarette, and he probably thought she would need time to dry herself before dressing.

Christina hesitated only a moment before picking up her sandals and sprinting towards the rocks. Her feet made no sound on the soft sand, and the muted roar of the waves disguised her heavy breathing. But in spite of that, every minute she expected him to appear behind her, reaching for her like some avenging god.

She reached the rocks and slid into the crevice, emerging on to the beach beyond. She could see the lights of the harbour now, and she ran towards the jetty swiftly, not stopping to put on her sandals until she had scrambled on to the rough concrete of the harbour wall.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b4378336-28fc-517d-b131-b83533ee8e69)


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.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_22f796df-c3a7-5973-8418-ba5fb2abe9b4)


CHRISTINA held the basket almost defensively in front of her, both hands gripping the handle tightly. ‘Yes, senhor!’ she responded automatically, more calmly than she felt. All of a sudden she could feel the panic which had assailed her the other evening on the beach when confronted by his almost sinister attraction, and she wondered what it was about him that disturbed her so. His dark clothes fitted him so well, while she was intensely conscious of the faded cotton of her dress and the shortness of its skirt.

‘And now you know who I am, do you not?’ he continued, glancing round meaningfully towards his sleek limousine.

Christina made an indifferent gesture. ‘I suppose you must be Dom Carlos Ramirez,’ she conceded reluctantly.




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