Brazilian Escape

Not once, as rough hands pulled her dress up, did she fear him.

He lifted her up and onto him and positioned her, pulling her roughly down to him. The most basic sex was their only release and she wrapped her legs tight around him, locked her arms around his neck. His kiss was violent now, and she felt the clash of their teeth and tongues and the rapid angry stabs of him. The rough feel of denim on her thighs was nothing compared to the roughness deep inside, and her back was hard against the wall. Meg could feel his anger, it blasted deep inside her, and it let Meg be angry too—angry at so many things: that she was here, that she still wanted him, even that this man still moved her so.

Her moans and shouts that he blocked with his mouth shocked Meg even more—scared her, almost—but she was not scared of him as he pulled her down on him, as she felt the bruise of his fingers in her hips. She could feel her orgasm building rapidly, as if she had waited eleven months just to come to him, as if her body had been waiting for him to set it free.

There was a flash of confusion for Niklas too, for her cries and the grip of intimate muscles, the arch of her back and the spasm of her thighs, could never be faked. He had thought this was charity, a paid act at best, a sympathy screw at worst, but she was craving him again, the way she once had, and as he shot into her he remembered all the good again—the way they had been. He never cried, but he was as close to it now as he had ever been. They were both drenched in brief release and escape and his kisses turned softer now, to bring her back to him. Then he heard the drizzle of the tap and his eyes opened to his surroundings, to the reality they faced. There were no more kisses to be had and he lifted her off.

Stood her down.

But she would not lose him to his pride and she carried on kissing him, opened his shirt and put her palms to his chest. He felt as if her hands seared him, for there had been no contact, no touch of another on his skin for many months, and he loathed the exposure, the prying of her hands. It was just sex he wanted, not her, but her hands were still moving, exploring the defined muscles. Her fingers were a pleasure and he did not want her to be here—yet he wanted her for every second that they had.

There would be hours later for thinking, for working out what to do about Miguel. For now he wanted every minute he had left with her.

He took her to the bed and undressed her, took his clothes off too, and she looked at all the changes to his body. He was thinner, but more muscled, and his face wasn’t the one she had turned to on the plane—it was closed and angry, and yet she had felt his pain back there, felt him slip into affection, and for a small moment had glimpsed the man she had once met.

‘Is that why you ended things?’ She looked over to him as he joined her on the bed, but he just lay and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Did you find out the trouble you were in?’

‘I didn’t know then.’ It would be easier for her if he lied.

‘So what happened that morning to change things?’

‘I spoke to my people at work, realised how much I had on …’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Believe in your fairytale if you want.’ Niklas shrugged.

‘Are you going to tell me to grow up again?’ she asked. ‘Because I grew up a long time ago—long before you met me. I’ve realised that I wasn’t being weak staying in my job—I simply won’t ride roughshod over the people I care about. And I don’t believe that you would either and,’ she finished, ‘I do believe that you cared about me.’

‘Believe what you want to.’

‘I will,’ Meg said. ‘And I care about you.’

‘It makes no difference to me.’

She had been paid plenty to be here with him so he should turn and start things. She had told him what she had came to say and the clock was counting down. He should use every minute wisely. They should not bother with talking—there were more basic things to be getting on with. Except this was Meg, and she didn’t know how to separate the two.

‘How are you dealing with being in here? How—?’ she started, but he soon interrupted.

‘I was right the first time.’ He turned to look at her face—the face he had first seen on a plane. ‘You talk too much. And I don’t want to talk about me.’ But before he moved to kiss her he allowed himself the luxury of just one question. ‘Are you still working for your parents?’

‘I resigned …’ Meg said. ‘I’m trying to choose my course at the moment …’

‘Good,’ Niklas said. He should push her hand down to where he was hardening again, but first there was something else he wanted to know. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘Are you happy?’

‘Working on it.’

‘Do your parents know you are here?’

‘They know that I am in Brazil …’ he saw tears pool in her eyes ‘… they don’t know I have a husband that I’m visiting in prison.’

‘You need to get away from here,’ Niklas said. ‘As soon as this visit is over.’

‘I fly to Hawaii tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’ Tomorrow should be okay, he told himself, but he wasn’t sure. ‘Maybe change it to tonight …’

‘I fly out at six a.m.’

He saw her grimace at the thought, remembered the first time they had met and the conversation they had had.

‘How was your landing?’ And for the first time he smiled. He didn’t care how much they’d paid her, that she’d flown into Congonhas was enough for him to know that this had nothing to do with money.

‘It wasn’t so bad …’ she attempted, and then told him the truth. ‘I was petrified. I thought I was going to throw up. Although,’ she added, ‘that might have been the gin!’

He laughed, and so did she. He hadn’t laughed for almost a year, but this afternoon he did. She kicked him and they fought for a bit—a nice fight, a friendly fight—and he took her back to when they’d been lovers so easily, far, far too easily. But, given this was the last time she would be here, she let him. No one could kiss like he did. It was quite simply perfect, and the feel of him hard in her hands was perfect too.

This time he would be gentle, Niklas decided, worried that he had been too rough before. He didn’t just kiss her mouth, he kissed her everywhere—her hair and her ears and down to her neck, breathing in her scent. He kissed down to her waist and then further, to where he wanted to be. He had been too rough, for she was hot and swollen, but Meg lay there and felt his soft kiss and was lost to it.

When he couldn’t hold on any more he reached for the condom that was a requirement in here. Her hands reached for it too, and he let her put it on, but before she did she kissed him there, and he closed his eyes as she did so. Two hours could never be enough for all they wanted to do. She slid it on. He should roll her over and take her, but he let her climb on top of him, because if he looked up to her hair and her body for a little while he could forget where he was.

And she looked down as she moved on him and knew exactly why she was here. She loved him. Still. Her real fear at coming here had nothing to do with the flight or the prison or the danger, it was him—because she’d known all along that this was the only way she would ever be over him.

She should be grilling him about his involvement in the charges, insisting she find out, or just lying on her back martyred as he took her, ready to get the hell out once he’d finished. Instead she’d told him she cared about him. Instead she was riding him, and his hands were busy elsewhere, roaming her body. He was watching her. She was moaning, and he told her to hush, for he would not give the guards the turn-on of the sounds that she made. He put his hand over her mouth and she licked it, bit it, and he pushed his fingers into her mouth. He was coming, and so was she, and when the moment finally came she folded on top of him, buried his face with her hair, and he felt the silent scream inside her as she clutched him tightly over and over till it ended.

That was when she told him she loved him.

‘You don’t know me,’ he said.

‘I want to, though.’

‘Divorce me,’ he said, still inside her, and pulled her close. ‘Send the papers to Rosa and I’ll sign them.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘You do.’

She didn’t.

‘I can see you again in three weeks …’ She was drunk on him. ‘I can come to the trial.’

‘You are to leave!’

‘I can ring you on Wednesday each week …’

He was scared now as to what he’d unleashed. Scared not of her passion, but that she might stay.

‘No.’

‘I can. I’m allowed one phone call a week.’

He looked up at her and all he knew was that she was not coming back here. With his own lawyer working against him he was probably done. Here was where he would always be and he would not do this to her. Even with new lawyers, trials took for ever in Brazil. Even with the best legal team he would be here for years at best. He lifted her off him and swore in three languages when he saw the condom was shredded. ‘Get the morning-after pill and when I speak with my new lawyers I will have them file for divorce …’

‘No …’

‘You are to go to Hawaii.’

‘Niklas—’

The guards were knocking at the door. Their time was up. He stood and threw her clothes at her, telling her to dress quickly for he did not want them getting one single glimpse of her. She continued to argue with him as he picked up her bra and clipped it on her, before lifting each leg into her panties, followed by her dress, and even as he zipped it up still she argued.

‘We’re finished,’ he told her.

And he wasted time telling her that they had to be over when he should have told her how dangerous this was, just how little he knew about what was going on, and that he was scared for her life. But the guards were here now and he could not say.

He gave her a brief kiss, his eyes urging her. ‘Have a safe flight.’

CHAPTER NINE

SHE DIDN’T WANT to lie on a beach in Hawaii.

There could be no healing from him.

She wanted to be close to him, wanted to be there for his trial hearing at least. She hoped for a miracle.

He would not want her there. Meg knew that.

But he was her husband, and she could at least be here in the city for him. Could watch it on the news, could be close even if he didn’t know it.

And then she could visit him again before she left. She did not want a divorce from him now, and she wanted one more visit to argue her case.

She was probably going insane, Meg realised as she cancelled Hawaii and stayed on in Brazil, but that was how he made her feel.

She ventured out onto the busy streets and toured the amazing city. The sights, the smells, the food, the noise—there was everything to meet her moods.

And without Niklas she might never have seen any of this—might never have visited the Pinacoteca, a stunning art museum, nor seen the sculptured garden beside it.

At first Meg did guided tours with lots of other tourists around her, but gradually she tuned in to the energy of the place, to the smiles and the thumbs-up from the locals and ventured out more alone. She was glad to be here—glad for everything she got to see, to hear, to feel. Every little thing. She could have lived her whole life and never tasted pamonah, and there were vendors selling them everywhere—from the streets, from cars, ringing triangles to alert they were here. The first time Meg had bought one and had sunk her teeth into the new taste of mashed and boiled corn she had been unable to finish it. But the next day she had been back, drawn by the strange sweet taste—inadvertently she’d bought savoury, and found that was the one she liked best.

There were so many things to learn.

So badly she wanted to visit the mountains, to take a trip to the rainforests Niklas had told her about, yet it felt too painful to visit the mountains without him.

She didn’t dare ring him that first week. Instead when six p.m. on Wednesday neared she sat in a restaurant the concierge had told her was famed for its seafood and ordered feijoada. Maybe it wasn’t the same restaurant Niklas had told her about, but she felt as if angels were feeding her soul and that she was right to be there.

As the days passed she fell more and more in love with the city—the contrasts of it, the feel of it and the sound of it. The people were the most beautiful and elegant she had seen, yet the poverty was confrontational. It was a world that changed at every turn and she loved the anonymity of being somewhere so huge, loved being lost in it, and for two weeks she was.

As instructed, she did not contact Rosa. The only people she spoke to were her parents, and she gave Niklas no indication that she was there until the night before his trial date.

His face was on the TV screen, a reporter was already outside the court, and Meg had worked out that amanhã meant tomorrow. Until amanhã she simply could not wait. She just had to hear his voice. She had fallen in love with a man who was in prison and she should be signing paperwork, should be happily divorced, should be grateful for the chance to resume her life—but instead she sat in her hotel room, staring at the phone …

Confused was all she was without him. The passion and love she felt for him only made real sense when he was near her and she had an overwhelming desire to talk to him. She counted down the moments until she could make that call.

He knew that she would call.

Niklas could feel it.

Andros came and got him from his cell and he sat by the phone at the allotted time. The need for her to be safe overrode any desire to hear her voice.

His teeth gritted when he heard the phone ring, and he wondered if he should let it remain unanswered, but he needed her to get the message—to get out of his life and leave him the hell alone.

And then he heard her voice and realised just how much he craved it, closed his eyes in unexpected relief just to hear the sound of her.

‘I told you not to ring.’

‘I just wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow.’

‘It is just to arrange a trial date …’ He did not trust the phones. He did not trust himself. For now he wanted her to visit him again. He wanted her living in a house in the mountains right behind the prison and wanted her to ring him every Wednesday, to come in to see him every three weeks. What scared him the most was that she might do it. ‘You did not need to ring for that. It will all be over in ten minutes.’

She understood the need to be careful. ‘Even so, I hope they give you a date soon.’

‘What are you doing now?’

‘Talking to you.’

‘Is everything okay?’

She knew what he was referring to—had seen his face when he’d removed the condom.

‘It’s fine.’

‘Did you go to a pharmacia?’

He closed his eyes when she didn’t answer, thought again of her in a home in the mountains, but this time he pictured her with his baby at her side and selfish hope glimmered.

‘How’s Hawaii?’

He heard her pause, heard that her voice was a little too high as she answered him. ‘You know …’ She attempted. ‘Nice.’

‘I don’t know,’ Niklas said, and it was not about what he wanted, it was not about him, it was about keeping her safe. His words were harsh now. ‘I’ve never been and I want a postcard,’ he said. ‘I want you, tonight, to write me a postcard from Hawaii.’

He was telling her what to do and she knew it.

‘Niklas,’ she attempted, ‘I still have some holidays left. I thought maybe next week …’

‘You want to be paid again?’

‘Niklas, please—’ She hated that he’d mentioned money. ‘I just want to see you.’

‘You’ve already earned your keep … go spend your money on holiday.’

‘Niklas … I know you don’t mean that.’

‘What do you know?’ His voice was black. ‘We were married for one day; we screwed an awful lot. You know nothing about me.’

‘I know that you care. I know when you saw me—’

‘Care?’ he sneered down the phone. ‘The only way I can get sex in here is if they bring in my wife—that’s it. I am sick of conversations, and you seem to want just as many of those as you give of the other.’

‘Niklas, please …’

But he would not let her speak. He had to get her away from here. Did she not get that she could be in danger? He had no idea what was happening on the outside, had no idea what was going on, and he wanted her safely away—had to make sure she was safe.

So again he drowned her with words.

‘Meg, if you want to come back and suck me, then do. But just so long as you know you mean nothing to me.’

He slammed down the phone—not in fury but in fear. He put his hands through the door and felt the cool of the cuffs. His mind was racing. Since her visit, since getting the information that Miguel was working against him, his mind had been spinning, trying to work out what the hell was going on, trying to figure things out. But now he had a head full of her, and he had more to be concerned with than that she was still here in Brazil.

He needed to speak with Rosa—had to work out what the hell was going on.

As he was walked back to his cell his face was expressionless, but his mind was pounding like a jackhammer and he cursed under his breath in Portuguese as Andros made some reference to his wife, about his nice little family, and asked how scum from the streets had managed that. Then Andros pushed him up the stairs and Niklas cursed again, but in French this time.

‘Watch it, Dos Santos …’ Andros told him, sensing his prisoner’s rising anger and slamming him up against the wall.

The move was not meant to overpower him, Niklas realised, simply to provoke him, because Dos Santos was an orphan’s name. Niklas went to swear again, in Spanish, but his brain was working quickly, far more quickly than his mouth, and in that second he knew what was happening.

Dos Santos meant something different in Spanish.

And it was a Spanish nun who had named him.

Dos Santos in Spanish meant two saints.

He had a twin.

In that very second it was as if a bomb had exploded in his brain and he worked it all out. He knew instantly how he had got to be here. Knew that his double was out there and had been working with Miguel against him. And with a lurch of fear that was violent to his soul he knew that Meg was in serious danger.

Niklas said nothing when Andros jeered again, just stood silent against the wall as Andros spoke filth about his wife. He stood still and refused to react as another guard came over. A decent guard this time, because there were plenty of them around.

‘Trouble?’ the guard asked.

‘No trouble,’ Niklas said, because he did not want to go to solitary tonight. He really needed to get to his cell.

He stood compliant as his cuffs were removed and went quietly into his cell. There he met the eyes of Fernando, and for the first time since his arrival he spoke with the other man.

‘I need your help,’ Niklas said, for he had worked out what was happening and urgent help was required. ‘I need you to make contact on the outside.’

CHAPTER TEN

ANOTHER NIGHT CRYING over Niklas Dos Santos and Meg swore it would be the last.

Part of her could almost convince herself that he was just trying to get her to leave, that that was the reason behind his cruel words, but the more sensible part of Meg soon talked herself round. Her sensible side reminded her that this was a man she knew nothing about—a man who had caused her nothing but heartache and trouble since the day that they had met.

Hawaii sounded pretty good to Meg right now.

A week lying on the beach concentrating on nothing but how best to forget him.

It was well after lunchtime now, and Meg was still waiting for the travel agent to return her call. When she did, Meg would ask to be booked onto the earliest flight that could be arranged, and she packed her suitcase in preparation. Very deliberately she did not turn on the vast television to see how his trial was going, or to catch a glimpse of him on the news, because one glimpse of Niklas and she was lost to him—that much she knew.

She wanted her divorce now, wanted to be the hell away from him, would not waste even one more single minute on him.

But as she packed up her toiletries Meg threw tampons into her make-up bag and suddenly realised that it might be rather more complicated than that.

She looked at the unopened packet, an Australian brand because she hadn’t bought any since she had arrived here, and tried to remember when she’d last had a period.

She tried to remember the days in Australia before her life had been changed so dramatically by the visit from Niklas’s lawyers. No, she hadn’t had her period for a while.

There should be the reassurance that they’d used condoms, but the last one hadn’t held.

Could she be pregnant?

Would she tell him if she was?

Meg looked in the mirror and decided that, no, she could not deny him that. Even if his life was to be spent on the inside, he would have to know the truth, and it wasn’t the kind of news she could reveal in a letter—maybe she would have to visit him again.

Maybe not.

A letter was probably more than he deserved.

But first she had to know for sure.

She was probably overreacting, Meg told herself as she headed out of her hotel room and to the elevators. Worrying too much, she tried to convince herself as she headed onto the street. With all that she’d been through these past weeks it was no wonder that her period was late.

The streets were busy, as always—the cars jammed together, horns blaring, and sirens blazing as police tried to thread their way through the impossible madness that was downtown São Paulo. She found a pharmacia and inside it was the same as the world over, with numerous pregnancy testing kits sitting on the shelves. Meg didn’t need to speak the language to know she was making the right purchase.

What was different from Australia, though, was that instead of being pounced on by an assistant the second she entered the store, here Meg was pretty much ignored. Even when she tried to pay the pharmacist and his checkout assistants were all taking an impromptu break and watching the television, and Meg could feel mounting impatience. She really had to know now if she was pregnant. Had to make the decision of facing Niklas and telling him while she was still here.

Finally someone came over to serve her, still talking to her colleagues, and Meg froze when she heard one of them shout the name Dos Santos. She felt sweat bead on her forehead as she paid, because despite herself—despite all this—she wanted to turn the television on, wanted to know how he was.

She almost ran back to the hotel, terrified of her feelings for him, that even a mention of his name could reduce her to this petrified state.

It was blissfully cool and quiet in her room—such a contrast to the chaos down below. She fought not to turn on the television, picked up the remote and hurled it, tried not to look where it landed. The light on the phone said she had a new message. She hoped it was the travel agent and played it back, but heard her mum’s voice instead. Meg honestly didn’t know how she could ever begin tell her parents all that had happened. She had always hoped she would never have to, but if this test proved positive …

She could feel the tears starting again but refused to give in to them—just bit them back and headed to the bathroom, put her purchase in its bag on the bench, ready to find out. Then there was a knock on the door and Meg assumed it was the cleaner. She didn’t want her coming in now. She wanted privacy for this at least.

So she went to tell them. She didn’t even look through the peephole, just opened the door, and what was left of the sensible part of her mind struggled to remain calm because standing at her door was Niklas. She froze for a moment, unable to respond to seeing him in such an ordinary setting. She wanted to sob at him, to rage at him, to ask him how on earth he was here—except she just stood there.