Who Rides A Tiger

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 [e-mail] and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Who Rides A Tiger

Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE international airport at Galeao was like all international airports; cool, efficient, but impersonal. Sitting in the airport bar drinking her second glass of Coca-cola, Dominique thought that she might have been anywhere in the world were it not for the predominantly Portuguese accent, and the dark skins of the men around her, who all seemed to find the silvery glint of her hair and the Scandinavian blue of her eyes rather arresting.

Sighing, she glanced again at her watch, wondering how much longer she was going to have to wait. The message which had been handed to her on her arrival had been less than explicit. It had merely stated that John had been unavoidably delayed, and would she wait at the airport if he was not there to meet her as arranged.

She lit a cigarette, conceded a slight smile to the youth who had been eyeing her avidly for the last half hour, and drew on it deeply. It was difficult not to feel impatient even though she knew that Bela Vista was some distance inland. After all, John had known for over a week the date and time of her arrival, so surely he could have arranged to stay overnight in Rio, rather than leave her waiting at the airport for an indefinite period.

Since arriving she had taken advantage of every facility the airport offered. She had visited the ladies’ room and showered and changed into a cool cotton shift, much more suitable to the heat outside the air-conditioned walls of the airport buildings than the mohair suit she had been wearing when she left London thirty-six hours ago. She had done her hair, taking time to loop it into the rather sophisticated style John preferred, and she had applied a light make-up to the smooth, creamy skin of her face, accentuating the curve of her cheeks and the curling length of her lashes. But now, as time wore on, she was beginning to wish she hadn’t bothered. She had explored the airport shops for genuine examples of Brazilian wood-carvings, had a meal, a modest European meal, in the airport restaurant, and had finally taken refuge in the airport bar, hoping her stay would be short-lived.

Earlier in the day when the giant Boeing had circled Galeao prior to landing excitement had held her in its thrall. There were so many exciting landmarks to see and exclaim at: the gentle Sugar Loaf mountain, and the peak of Corcovado with its vast statue of Christ, standing arms outstretched, as though encompassing the whole sweep of Guanabara Bay. The peaks beyond these two were so jagged and impressive that she almost lost sight of the white smear of Copacabana beach, faced by the skyscraper hotels that are such a violent contrast to the favellas, those slums that cling to the hillsides around Rio. She had sensed the atmosphere and known instinctively that all the weeks of waiting had been worthwhile. It was incredible to imagine that soon she would see John again, feel his arms around her, and find that security in his presence that had attracted her to him in the first place. The dismay she had felt when he had first announced he was going to work in Brazil had all disappeared, to be replaced with a sense of gratitude that through him she was to see a little more of the world. But six months ago, when he left England, she had still been in the process of recovering from the death of her beloved father, and maybe that was why she had been unable to look ahead with any degree of confidence.

Her mother had died many years ago, when she was only a baby, and her father had become the mainstay of her existence. That he should be killed on his way to attend a patient had seemed doubly painful, particularly as that patient had been one of his ‘regulars’, a man convinced he was capable of contracting every tiny ailment that might be about. But Doctor Mallory had never neglected to answer any call, and in the blanketing fog in which London had been wrapped that evening it had been only too easy to collide with another vehicle. For weeks Dominique had been numb with grief, unable to believe that her father was dead and she was alone in the world. There were distant relatives, an aunt and uncle and some cousins in the north of England, but Dominique had not wanted to share her grief with strangers who at the most could offer sympathy.

It was during these weeks of misery that she had first met John Harding. John was the son of Adam Harding, her father’s solicitor and close friend, and he had recently returned from the Middle East where he had been working in the laboratory of an oil company. He was a pleasantly attractive young man, in his late twenties, and Dominique was attracted by the warmth and gentleness of his manner.

Aware of her recent bereavement, John had gently prised her out of the shell she had wrapped about herself, and endeavoured to show her that life went on in the same way as it had always done. At first, Dominique was reluctant, unwilling to allow anyone to witness the painful apathy that possessed her. But gradually, in John’s presence, she began to smile again, to live again.

The worst part of all had been finding another job. She had always acted as her father’s receptionist and of course although another doctor was to take over the practice she couldn’t bear the thought of continuing in that capacity. It was John who found her another position. He had a colleague, a dentist in fact, who was looking for an attractive young woman to take charge of his records, do a little typing, and admit his patients. Dominique had accepted the job gladly, and when the house in which she and her father had spent so many happy years was sold she allowed John to find her a flat.

Adam Harding had encouraged their friendship, and Dominique knew that he and his wife were hoping that this friendship would blossom into something more binding. Dominique, who had always thought herself so self-confident, found it was very pleasant allowing someone else to do all her thinking for her, and when John obtained a position in a laboratory in London, she was content to allow her life to drift along smoothly.

However, after several months, John was offered another position – in Brazil.

Dominique was horrified. Somehow, she had imagined John would always work in England now, and sooner or later it was taken for granted they would get married. John’s parents were as keen as he was, and probably in other circumstances, if Dominique had not so recently lost her father they might already have been married. But the job in Brazil demanded an immediate decision, and although John was eager that she should go with him, as his wife, Dominique hesitated, too uncertain still to do anything impulsively. So they got engaged, and it had been agreed that as soon as John was settled there, and had an apartment suitable to accommodate a wife, Dominique should join him and they would get married in Brazil. Naturally, John’s parents were a little disappointed that they would not be at the wedding, but they understood Dominique’s situation.

During the weeks after John’s departure Dominique had suffered many pangs of regret that she had not taken the plunge and gone with him, but eventually she orientated herself to her new circumstances, and began to enjoy life again. She made friends with the two girls who lived in the adjacent flat to her own and went out with them from time to time, to the cinema or the theatre, and sometimes even to a party. Every week she visited the Hardings and most week-ends she spent with them, either visiting their country cottage in Wiltshire, or going down to Sussex to see their daughter who was married with three children of her own. Dominique adored the children and she felt an immense sense of gratitude to the Hardings for providing so many diversions to fill her days so that her life with her father was not a painful thing to recall, but rather a pleasant feeling of nostalgia. With their help she had erased the hopelessness which had engulfed her at the time of his death.

John wrote quite eagerly, his letters long and descriptive, providing Dominique with a pictorial record of his life in South America. She learned of the contrasts of the country where she was soon to live; the painful poverty and excessive wealth of its people, the extremes of climate it possessed, but most dramatic of all its savage beauty that assaulted the eyes and gripped the senses. Already Dominique felt familiar with the country, and with Bela Vista in particular, the area where John was living and working. This community was composed of a mixture of nationalities including North Americans, Germans and British, as well as the Brazilians themselves. The oil company was owned by the Santos Corporation who presently employed John, and according to his letters it was quite a large concern.

Dominique glanced at her watch. She had adjusted it to the local time scale, and it read a little after four-thirty. As her plane had landed at eleven that morning she was naturally becoming a little disturbed at the delay. Surely if John was going to be so late he could have suggested that she book herself into a hotel overnight and thus alleviate these hours of waiting?

She was in the process of deciding whether or not to order a third glass of Coca-cola when she became aware that a man was scrutinizing her very intently from a table half-way across the room. She gave him a cool quelling stare, but it produced no result that she could see. Instead, he lifted his glass of spirit from the table and tipping his chair back on two legs surveyed her rather appraisingly.

Really, she thought impatiently, this was too much!

Sliding off the bar-stool on which she had been perched, she lifted her overnight case and marched purposefully towards the door. However, she was forced to pass the man’s table and despite her annoyance at his insolence she could not resist taking a second look at him. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she had ever seen – dark-haired and dark-skinned, with eyes of a strange light tawny colour that gave her a rather mocking stare as she passed. He was lean, with hard features that she thought could look almost cruel on occasions. He seemed to epitomize all that was alien and unfamiliar and dangerous in this alien, unfamiliar and dangerous country. She shivered, and pushing open the door emerged into the wide reception hall.

Sighing, she looked about her, praying for a sight of John. Didn’t he realize how strange and nervous she was bound to feel here? What could possibly have delayed him for so long? Surely he couldn’t have had an accident! Could he?

She walked across the hall and seated herself on one of the comfortable chairs, and taking out her cigarettes she lit one, drawing on it deeply. Tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair, she was absorbed with her own anxieties and was unaware of anyone approaching her until a deep, masculine voice said:

‘You are Miss Mallory, are you not? Miss Dominique Mallory?’

Dominique started, and her eyes widened as she looked up into the face of the man from the bar.

Recovering her composure, she said, with as much coolness as she could muster: ‘You know my name?’

The man stood before her, regarding her almost derisively, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of the trousers of the immaculate dark silk suit he was wearing.

‘There are not too many unescorted English women filling in time at Galeao,’ he remarked lazily.

Dominique stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. She felt at less of a disadvantage that way. Even so, despite her own height, he was still much taller than she was.

‘Please be more explicit,’ she said, trying to sound cold and aloof, and failing.

He shrugged. ‘Of course, Miss Mallory. Forgive me for wasting your most valuable time!’ He was mocking her again. ‘My name is Vincente Santos. I am a – shall we say – colleague of your fiancé’s.’

Dominique relaxed a little. ‘Oh, I see,’ she exclaimed. ‘Is John not coming after all?’

‘Unfortunately no. He has been delayed. I will explain more fully in a few moments. Is this all your luggage?’

Dominique hesitated, glanced down at her case, and rubbed her nose thoughtfully. ‘Er – do you – I mean – have you any means of identification?’

The man half-smiled. ‘You do not trust me?’

Dominique compressed her lips. He was making it very difficult for her.

‘It’s not you in particular, you understand,’ she said hastily. ‘Only you might be anybody. You could easily have heard my name from one of the airport officials, and – well ….’ She spread her hands expressively.

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 fiancé 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 fiancé? 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 fiancé 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 Domnique 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: