Dark Ransom (3 page)

of piranha and other horrors which might lurk under the brown

water was an equally effective deterrent.

She got into the boat and sat where they indicated, watching as they

fussed over the unrolling of a small awning set on poles.

If she was going to a fate worse than death it seemed she was going

in comparative comfort.

The motor spluttered into life then settled to a steady throb, and the

mooring rope was released.

And as they moved away upstream Charlie heard in the distance,

like some evil omen, the long, slow grumble of thunder.

THE
storm struck an hour later. Charlie had been only too aware of

its approach—the sullen clouds crowding above the trees, the

occasional searing flash followed by the hollow, nerve-jangling

boom. But she'd hoped, childishly, that they'd have reached

whatever destination they were heading for before its full force hit

them.

She'd experienced an Amazon storm her first day on the
Manoela,

but at least there had been adequate shelter. The awning provided no

protection at all against the apparently solid sheet of water

descending from the sky.

There were other problems too. This was obviously the latest in a

series of storms, and the river was badly swollen. The boat was

having to battle against a strong, swirling current, as well as avoid

the tree branches and other dangerous debris being carried down

towards them.

Charlie wondered fatalistically if this was where it was all going to

end—on some anonymous Amazon tributary, among total strangers,

with her family forever wondering what had happened to her.

Her clothes were plastered to her body, and her brown hair was

hanging in rats' tails round her face. She felt numb, but couldn't

decide whether this was through cold or fear. Probably both.

Her companions were clearly concerned at the situation, but no

more than that, and she supposed she should find this reassuring.

At that moment the boat's bow turned abruptly inshore, and Charlie,

blinking through wet lashes, saw another landing stage. They

seemed to have arrived.

She was too bedraggled and miserable to worry any more about

what was waiting for her. All she wanted was to get out of this..

.cockleshell before some passing tree trunk ripped its side away or

tore off the motor.

Muffled figures were waiting. They were expected, she realised as

hands reached out to help her on to shore, and a waterproof cape,

voluminous enough to cover her from head to toe, was wrapped

round her.

She was hurried away. Swathed in the cape, she had no idea where

they were heading, only that she was being half led, half carried up

some slope. There were stones under her feet as well as grass, and

she stumbled slightly, her soaked canvas shoes slipping on the

sodden surface. A respectful voice said,
'Tenho muita pena,

senhorita.'

Did kidnappers really apologise to their victims? she wondered

hysterically.

The battering of the rain stopped suddenly, although she could still

hear it drumming close at hand. She could hear women's voices—an

excited gabble of Portuguese. Her cape was unwrapped, and Charlie

looked dazedly into a plump brown face whose smile held surprise

as well as welcome.

'Pequena.'
The woman, tutting, touched Charlie's dripping hair.

'Venha comigo, senhorita.'

She found herself in a passage lit by oil lamps. She could hear her

shoes squelching on a polished wood floor as she walked along. But

she was aware of a faint flicker of hope inside her. Her reception

made her think that maybe she hadn't been kidnapped but was just

the victim of some idiotic and embarrassing misunderstanding.

Perhaps these were the friends Fay Preston had planned to join, and

this motherly soul, urging her along with little clicks of her tongue,

was actually her hostess. If so, she didn't seem particularly miffed

that the wrong guest had come in from the rain.

It was an awkward situation, but not impossible to sort out with a

little goodwill on both sides, she thought as she was brought to a

large bedroom. The furniture was dark and cumbersome, but not out

of place in its environment, Charlie thought, casting a yearning

glance at the big, high bed with its snowy sheets and pillows as she

was hustled past it.

But, when she saw what awaited her in the smaller adjoining room,

she drew a sigh of utter relief and contentment. A capacious bath tub

with claw feet and amazingly ornate brass taps stood there, filled

with water which steamed faintly and invitingly.

The woman pulled forward a small folding screen, vigorously

pantomiming that Charlie should undress behind it. Charlie hesitated

before complying. She preferred rather more privacy when she took

off her clothes. She could still remember petty humiliations at

boarding-school and on the occasions when she'd had to share a

bedroom with her sister.

'You really are the most horrendous little prude,' Sonia had accused

scornfully more than once in those unhappy days. 'God knows,

you've little enough to hide anyway.'

So she was grateful for the woman's discreetly turned back.

Thankful, too, to be able to strip off the sodden clothes from her

damp body. Even her underwear was soaked, she thought as she

wriggled out of it.

She lowered herself into the water with a small, blissful murmur.

The woman sent her a twinkling glance, gathered all the wet clothes

up into a bundle and vanished with them.

Which was all very well, Charlie thought, but what the hell was she

going to wear while they were drying? Or had no one yet noticed

that their temporary visitor had no luggage with her?

I'll worry about that when the time comes, she told herself. In the

meantime, the bath was wonderfully soothing, easing away the

aches and tensions of the journey, and reviving her chilled flesh.

Charlie stirred the water with a languid hand, enjoying the faint

scent that rose from it.

Perhaps I'll just stay here, she thought idly. Until I wrinkle like a

prune.

She sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against the high

back of the tub, while she silently rehearsed what explanation she

could make to her surprised hosts when the time came.

She was so lost in her reverie that she didn't notice the opening of

the bathroom door.

But a man's voice, deep-timbred and amused, saying '
Querida
, were

you nearly drowned... ?' brought her swiftly and shockingly back to

reality.

For an unthinking moment she sat bolt upright, staring at the

doorway in blank, paralysed horror, her confused brain registering

an impression of height, black hair, and a thin, bronzed face

currently registering an astonishment as deep and appalled as her

own.

Then she reacted, sliding in panic down into the concealment of the

water behind the high sides of the tub.

'Get out.' Her words emerged as a strangled yelp.

'Deus.'
No amusement now, only angry disbelief. He tossed the

package he was carrying down on to the floor, then walked out,

slamming the door behind him.

Charlie stayed where she was for a few moments, until her heartbeat

had settled back to something near normal and she'd finally stopped

blushing.

Fay Preston's interpretation of 'friends' had indeed been ambiguous,

she thought sickly. And the explanation she was planning was going

to need considerably more thought than she'd anticipated.

To say that the next few moments promised to be profoundly

awkward was an understatement, she thought wretchedly. Merely

having to face him again would be an ordeal.

She got slowly out of the tub, and reached for a towel.

The package on the floor had burst open, revealing the contents as a

satin robe in a shade of deep amethyst. Charlie shook out the folds,

viewing it gloomily. It was sinuous, sexy and obviously expensive.

It was also definitely not intended for her, but it was the only thing

she had to put on apart from the damp towel, so...

Slowly and reluctantly she slid her arms into the sleeves and tied the

sash round her slender waist in a double knot. But a brief glance in

the big brass-framed mirror on one wall only served to reinforce her

misgivings.

It was far too big for her, she thought, rolling up the sleeves and

trying to pull the wide, all too revealing lapels further together. She

looked like a child dressing up in adult's clothing, and therefore was

at a disadvantage before she even began.

She took a last despairing glance, then turned away. It was no use

skulking here any longer. She squared her shoulders and walked into

the bedroom.

He was standing by the window, staring out through the rain-lashed

panes. But, as if some instinct had warned him of her barefooted

approach, he turned slowly and looked at her.

Charlie moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. 'Who—who

are you?'

'I think that should be my question, don't you?' His English was

accented but good.

Charlie found his tone altogether less acceptable. Nor did she like

the dismissive glance which flicked her from head to toe.

She lifted her chin. 'My name is Charlotte Graham.'

'That,' he said softly, 'I already know,
senhorita
.' He lifted his hand,

and she saw with a sense of shock that he was holding her passport.

'You've actually been through my bag?' Her voice shook. 'How—

how dare you?'

He shrugged almost negligently. 'Oh, I dare. I think I am entitled to

know the identity of those I shelter beneath my roof. And now I

would like to know why you have so honoured me,
senhorita.
What

exactly are you doing here?'

'You've got a nerve to ask that,' Charlie said hotly. 'After

your...thugs kidnapped me in Mariasanta.'

His brows snapped together. 'What are you saying?'

'You heard me.' She wished that her voice would stop trembling. 'I

was having a drink in the hotel when they... marched in, and told me

the boat was waiting. I thought they meant the
Manoela,
so I went

with them. When I realised, I—I told them over and over again they

were making a mistake, but they took no notice.'

He shook his head. 'Oh, no,
senhorita.
I don't know what game you

are playing, but the mistake is yours, I assure you. So—where is

Senhorita Preston?'

Charlie bit her lip. 'She—she isn't coming. She's gone back—gone

home.'

The bronzed face was impassive, but underneath he was angry. She

could sense the violence of temper in him, and shrank from it.

'So,' he said too pleasantly, 'you have come in her place. Do you

expect me to be grateful?'

He made no attempt to move, or lay a hand on her, but suddenly,

shatteringly, Charlie felt naked under his mocking, contemptuous

gaze.

She knew an overwhelming impulse to drag the satin lapels

together, cover herself to the throat, but controlled it. She would not,

she thought, give him that satisfaction.

She said quietly and coldly, 'You couldn't be more wrong. I haven't

come in anyone's place. I only went to the hotel to deliver a letter on

Miss Preston's behalf.' She paused. 'I presume that your name is

Santana.'

'You are correct.' The dark eyes narrowed. 'Where, then, is this

letter?'

Charlie felt faint colour steal into her face. 'I don't know. Still at the

hotel, I suppose.'

'What a tragedy,' he said silkily. 'Then I shall never know how the

beautiful Fay chose to give me my dismissal.'

She said haltingly, 'I think she found the trip- on the
Manoela—

rather hard to take. Conditions are a bit... primitive.'

His mouth twisted. 'Clearly,
senhorita,
you are made of sterner

stuff—contrary to appearances.' He paused. 'Perhaps you will need

to be.'

'I'm sure there must be some deep, cryptic meaning in that,' Charlie

said wearily. 'But I'm too tired and too upset to work it out just now.

I'm sorry that you're disappointed over Miss Preston's non-arrival,

but -'

'I am more than disappointed,' his voice bit. 'I am devastated that my

lovely Fay can forget me so easily. We met while I was on leave in