Who Rides A Tiger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vincente Santos moved towards the door. He moved with a sinuous feline grace, like a tiger, the muscles across his back rippling smoothly beneath the thin material of his suit. And like his counterpart in the animal kingdom Dominique realized he could be dangerous. She didn’t quite know how she knew this. Certainly his manner towards her had not suggested the predatory male; even so he had spent several minutes staring at her in the airport bar when he must have known full well who she was, and she shivered slightly at the recollection. He looked back at her as he reached the doors.

‘You are satisfied?’ he asked smoothly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

Then she said: ‘Hello, Dominique Mallory speaking.’

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

‘Yes, of course, John.’ Dominique wriggled into a sitting position. ‘Oh, it’s marvellous to hear your voice after all this time. I’m fine. The hotel is very comfortable.’

‘Good, good. Have you had dinner?’

‘Actually no. I must have fallen asleep,’ exclaimed Dominique, with a laugh. ‘But I’m ravenous now. Looking forward to seeing you. Has the landslide been cleared yet?’

‘Cleared? You must be joking! Things don’t move at that pace round here. Landslides can take anything from a week to a month to be cleared.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘Why? You’re not nervous about coming in on the chopper, are you?’ John sounded worried. ‘Santos is a good pilot.’

‘No – of course not.’ Dominique reached for her cigarettes. ‘Tell me, John, who is this man Santos? Is he something to do with your company?’

‘Yeah. His father founded the corporation, actually.’

‘I see. So he’s your boss, then?’

‘Heck, no! Vincente Santos doesn’t worry over-much about the corporation. He’s far too busy spending the money it earns!’ John sounded slightly bitter.

Dominique frowned. ‘You don’t sound as though you like him.’

‘Santos?’ John snorted. ‘We have nothing in common. As for not liking him, that’s quite an understatement. But as he hates my guts, too, I’m not too worried about that!’

Dominique felt disturbed. She had never heard John talk this way before. ‘Then – then how come he was the only person you could ask to meet me?’ she exclaimed.

‘Helicopters are not two a penny,’ remarked John dryly. ‘Besides, when I phoned in about the landslide someone else asked him to come. He was the logical person to ask in the circumstances.’

‘I see.’ Dominique digested this. ‘What – what are you doing now?’ She lit her cigarette. ‘Where are you phoning from?’

‘My apartment. You’ll like it, Dom. It’s in one of the new blocks and it’s spacious. I’ve not got much furniture yet. I’m leaving that to you. You’re to stay with the Rawlings like I wrote you. I’ve fixed the wedding for five weeks hence. That will give you time to get acclimatized and also time to get what you want for the apartment. We have some good stores and Mrs. Rawlings has said you can borrow her sewing machine to run up curtains and such like.’

Dominique drew on her cigarette. ‘It doesn’t seem real somehow,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I mean – being here in Brazil!’

John laughed. ‘That’s natural. You’ve just flown several thousand miles. It takes time for your mind to catch up with your body!’

‘I suppose that’s what it is,’ she nodded.

‘Well, anyway, roll on tomorrow. Phones are such inadequate things when I’m longing to see you and hold you and kiss you.’ John’s voice was husky. ‘I love you, Dom!’

‘And I love you, John,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll go now, then. Go have some dinner and then have an early night. You must be exhausted!’

‘Not now. I’ve just had about three hours’ rest. But I will go and get some dinner. Will you meet me when we land, John?’

‘Of course. G’bye, honey.’

‘Good-bye, John.’

After he had rung off she sat staring at the telephone for several minutes. It was strange how different John sounded now from the man she had known in England. Or maybe he didn’t sound any different, she was just hearing him differently.

She sighed and stubbed her cigarette out in a brass ashtray. She had the strongest suspicion that she should not have had these six months away from John. What if they had both changed? What if her opinion of him was different now that he was taken out of his normal environment?

But that was ridiculous. If you loved somebody, you loved them no matter what. You didn’t change because of circumstances or environment.

She slid off the bed and opened her overnight case. Apart from the suit she had been wearing when she left London and which she had changed at the airport there was a navy blue uncrushable dress which she had packed for her first night at Bela Vista to save her tackling her other trunks. Taking it out, she laid it on the bed and then sluiced her face before applying a light make-up. Her lashes were naturally long and she darkened them with a little mascara, smoothing some eye-shadow on to the lids. Then she applied a pale lipstick and wriggled into the navy dress. Her hair was thick and long and heavy, but she couldn’t be bothered to attempt a sophisticated knot, so she added an Alice band which kept it back off her face. Then she left her room and took the lift down to the restaurant.

At this hour of the evening it was not too busy and the waiter showed her deferentially to a table. Maybe he thought she was some close friend of Vincente Santos, she thought dryly. Certainly she had never experienced such obsequious attention before. She chose a dish comprising beef, black beans and rice, which while being rather rich and spicy, was rather delicious. Then she had an orange dessert, with real fresh oranges that somehow tasted different from the ones she was used to eating back in England, and finished with cheese and coffee.

‘You enjoyed the meal, senhorita?’ It was the head waiter bowing beside the table.

Dominique flicked ash from the end of her cigarette and nodded enthusiastically. ‘Thank you. It was delicious!’

‘I am very happy. Perhaps a liqueur with your coffee? Brandy perhaps?’

Dominique shook her head regretfully. ‘Oh, really, no. The wine with the meal was quite enough for me. I don’t have a strong head for alcohol.’ She offered the explanation with a smile.

‘Are you endeavouring to lead the innocent into temptation, my friend?’ remarked a deep voice lazily, and Dominique looked up, startled, to see Vincente Santos standing behind the head waiter, looking dark and lean and disturbingly masculine in a dark dinner suit.

The head waiter glanced round and smiled with real pleasure. ‘Ah, Senhor Santos,’ he said, nodding. ‘You startled me. I was merely offering the young lady a liqueur, but she seems unwilling to accept.’

Vincente Santos moved round the table, pulling out a chair and straddling it lazily. ‘So, Miss Mallory. You are afraid to take any risks, is that right?’

Dominique controlled her blushes with difficulty. ‘I didn’t say that, Mr. Santos. I don’t have a head for spirits, that’s all.’

‘But that is sad!’ he mocked her gently. ‘Particularly as I know my good friend Enrico here possesses some of the finest brandy in the whole of Brazil.’ He looked up at the head waiter. ‘The senhorita will drink with me later, Enrico. You may go.’

‘Sim, senhor.’ The waiter left them, and Vincente Santos gave her an appraising glance.

‘You look very charming, Miss Mallory. It seems a shame to waste such beauty on the restaurant of the Maria Magdalena.’

Dominique felt her nerves jumping. She was quite sure he wasn’t seriously suggesting that he had come here for any other purpose than to ascertain that she was being adequately looked after.

‘What would you suggest, Mr. Santos?’ she parried coolly, endeavouring to appear composed while her stomach was churning with suppressed excitement.

Vincente Santos smiled. ‘What would I suggest? Well let me see – I know a night club, called the Piranha, where we could dance, and there is a good cabaret.’

Dominique shivered. ‘Piranha? Aren’t they the fish that can destroy a living creature in minutes?’

‘That’s right.’ His reply was laconic. ‘I’m not considering offering you as a sacrifice, Miss Mallory.’

Dominique bit her lip. ‘You have relieved my mind,’ she retorted quickly. ‘However, as I’m quite sure you’re not seriously suggesting that we spend the rest of the evening together, I’ll wish you good night again.’ She got to her feet, but he rose also, blocking her way.

‘You do not think I am serious?’ he questioned. ‘Why? Surely, entertaining the fiancée of my colleague is the least I can do in the circumstances.’

‘You are hardly a colleague of my fiancé,’ returned Dominique quietly, looking down at her handbag.

‘Ah! You have spoken to the good fellow!’ he said sardonically. ‘And has he warned you against me?’

‘Of course not. Why should he do that?’ Dominique made a movement. ‘Please – excuse me!’

‘In a moment. Do you object to my asking for your company?’

Dominique sighed. ‘Of course not.’

‘But you refuse?’

Dominique gave a helpless movement of her shoulders. ‘Mr. Santos, it may amuse you to make fun of me, but I’m growing a little tired of it. Excuse me.’

Vincente Santos moved aside. ‘I was mistaken, obviously,’ he said indifferently. ‘I had thought you looked lonely.’

Dominique looked up at him in exasperation. ‘So you took pity on me?’

‘Hardly that. However, I am quite prepared to show you a little of the cultural capital of my country.’

Dominique took a step, hesitated, and glanced back at him. ‘It was very kind of you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘And – I would like to have seen a little more of the city.’

‘Yet you still hesitate. Am I such a terrifying person? Does the prospect of a few hours in my company repel you so?’

Dominique smiled. ‘You know perfectly well that you are deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she said.

He came round the table to her side, looking down at her intently. His fingers stroked the bare skin of her forearm almost absently. ‘As I said before, Miss Mallory, you are a beautiful young woman, and I should like to take you to the Piranha.’

Dominique felt the muscles of her arm tense beneath his casual touch. Her breathing seemed difficult, and there was a trembling sensation somewhere near her knees. Was he aware of the effect he was having on her? He didn’t seem so, but that was no guide. For all his urbanity his innermost thoughts were enigmatic, this she sensed.

She tried to shrug these thoughts away. She must be crazy, allowing him to disturb her so. It was too long since she had seen John, known the company of a man. She was behaving like a schoolgirl. Why didn’t she just refuse his offer point blank and go back to her room? That was what she ought to do, what John would expect her to do. Why then did the prospect seem so dreary? Had the sleep she had had destroyed any further chance of rest for some time? Why couldn’t she feel pleasantly tired instead of vigorously alive?

‘I really think I must refuse,’ she murmured reluctantly.

Vincente Santos lifted his shoulders, the fine material of his suit gleaming in the artificial light. His thin face wore that slightly cruel expression as he said accusingly: ‘You’re afraid, Miss Mallory!’

She could have agreed with him, she was afraid, and she wasn’t quite sure of what.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snapped.

‘Then come with me. Prove I’m wrong!’ he taunted her.

Dominique’s fingers tortured the strap of her handbag. ‘All right, Mr. Santos. All right, since you insist, I’ll come with you.’

‘Good.’ His fingers gripped her arm, guiding her across the almost deserted room. ‘I admire your courage!’

Dominique wrenched her arm out of his grasp. ‘One doesn’t need courage, Mr. Santos. Only fortitude!’

But he just laughed at this, and she could have hit him.

Rio at night was a magical place, lit with a million electric bulbs. The traffic was just as congested, but now music could be heard from every street corner, and the rhythm of the guitar beat into Dominique’s brain like some seductive drug. The Piranha was near Copacabana, a huge neon-lighted building with a brilliant decor that was toned down by discreet lighting. It was the kind of place Dominique had always abhorred, following her father’s tastes in music, and later John’s. But with Vincente Santos she saw it through different eyes.

There were several rooms; in one you could dance, in another drink, in another eat, and in yet another gamble. Dividing the rooms were aquariums filled with a variety of species, and only in the foyer was there a huge tank of the fish that gave the club its name. Dominique shivered when she saw them, and Vincente Santos said:

‘They can reduce a man to a skeleton in minutes, did you know that?’

Dominique wrinkled her nose. ‘I did know, as a matter of fact,’ she said. ‘Devil fish!’

‘Hmm.’ He slid an arm around her shoulders casually. ‘Come on, we’ll have a drink.’

‘Just tomato juice for me, please,’ she said, uncomfortably aware of his arm, and walking just a little quicker so that he had to drop it.

However when he handed her a drink a few moments later it was certainly not tomato juice. ‘Heavens, what’s this?’ she gasped at the tall glass of liquid.

‘My own recipe. Taste it!’

She did so, and found it was delicious. It seemed to be lime and perhaps lemon, with something else added, something that certainly gave it a lift. Deciding that one drink couldn’t possibly harm her, she accepted a cigarette and they walked into the room where a cabaret was taking place on the dance floor.

There was a Brazilian fire-eater followed by a Portuguese guitarist who sang quite appealingly. Dominique sipped her drink, smoked her cigarette, and listened to the cacophony of sound around her. There was a mixture of accents, from Portuguese and Spanish to pure North American. She heard the guttural sound of a German voice, followed by a very British accent, and she glanced at Vincente Santos. He was watching her. He seemed to be constantly watching her, she thought, and it embarrassed her. She had never experienced such intense appraisal before.

‘Must you?’ she asked.

‘Must I what?’

‘Stare at me.’

‘Why not? I like staring at you.’

Faced with such candour, Dominique was at a loss for a reply, and he said: ‘Leave your drink here. Let’s dance.’

The cabaret was over and the band was beginning to play. The music from guitars, organs and drums was vibrant and pulsating with rhythm, and the lights were lowered as couples gathered on the dance floor.

‘I don’t. That is—’ she began, as he took her hand and drew her through the tables where people were sitting to the far end of the room.

‘You don’t what?’ he asked softly, as he turned and slid his arms around her, pulling her close against the hard muscular strength of his body.

Dominique shook her head. With Vincente’s eyes upon her, so near now, she found it difficult to think coherently.

‘I’ve never danced to beat music before,’ she confessed. ‘I’m quite a square really.’

He gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, Miss Mallory, whatever gave you that idea?’

They moved slowly, and Dominique found after all that it was easy to follow Vincente’s movements. Besides, the dancing seemed of secondary importance to their actual situation. If John could see me now, she thought, a trifle wildly. He would be absolutely astounded! And with good reason, she added silently. She had known what kind of a man Vincente Santos was from the moment she saw him watching her in the airport bar. Why then had she succumbed to the temptation of going out with him? Was it because all her life she had thought before acting, never doing anything on impulse? Or was it simply because the strength of his personality and the way he had taunted her had aroused her indignation, and she had wanted to prove she could be as impulsive as anyone else? Certainly he made the men she had met back in England seem a trifle tame by comparison, and there was an addictive sense of excitement in taking such risks. After all, tonight would soon be over and then she would be with John again, and Vincente Santos would fade into obscurity.

Once, while they danced, she glanced up at him, her hair brushing his cheek, and he looked down at her with his tawny eyes, eyes that seemed too penetrating, and his mouth was very close to hers. Hastily, she looked down again, endeavouring to control the fast beating of her heart. So far and no further, she told herself firmly.

The dance was soon over, and as they were leaving the floor they were halted by an excited cry from a woman who was also leaving the dance floor with her escort. Tall and slender, with jet black hair piled high with jewelled combs into a French knot, she was easily the most beautiful and exotic creature that Dominique had ever seen. Her gown, a long clinging affair of heavy crêpe which moulded her perfect body, was in a brilliant shade of red, and it contrasted vividly with her magnolia colouring and dark hair.

‘Vincente!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him rapidly on both cheeks and then lingeringly on his mouth. ‘But I did not know you were in Rio! Why did you not let me know? I have been back two weeks from Europe, and I am desolate. You have not been to see me!’

Vincente glanced at Dominique over the woman’s head, seeing her embarrassment, and then disentangling himself firmly.

‘I have been busy, Sophia,’ he said, his voice cool, so that the woman looked at Dominique and gave her a studious glance.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said questioningly. ‘I can see you have. I would have thought she was a little young and unsophisticated for your tastes, my sweet!’

Vincente’s eyes darkened. ‘Did I ask for your opinion, Sophia?’ he remarked icily.

‘No. But then I feel I have the right to voice my inmost thoughts to you. After all, you invariably come back, chéri!’

Dominique turned away, sickened by this exchange. She made her way back to their table, and re-seated herself, wishing she had the courage to walk out of the night club. But outside was a strange alien city and she didn’t much fancy trying to get a taxi alone at this time of night.

A few moments later a shadow fell across the table and she looked up into Vincente’s dark face. ‘Do not do that again,’ he snapped.

‘Do what? Leave you to your mistress?’ she exclaimed, stung by his assumption that he had the right to dictate her affairs.

He caught her wrist and wrenched her up out of her seat. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘We will go somewhere else.’

Dominique struggled uselessly. ‘I want to go home, Mr. Santos,’ she said coldly. ‘At least – back to my hotel!’

He did not reply, but merely turned and walked out of the restaurant, practically dragging her along behind him.

Outside the night air was warm and velvety, and millions of stars twinkled overhead, vying with the myriad strings of lights that edged the promenade adjacent to Copacabana beach. The sound of the ceaseless surf was like thunder in their ears, and Dominique took several deep breaths to rid her lungs of the smoky atmosphere of the club.