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 the Algarve last year, visiting some of my cousins in Portugal. I was introduced to Fay at a party, and … a relationship developed between us.’ He gave her a cynical glance. ‘I am sure I do not have to go into details.’
‘No.’ Charlie’s colour deepened. ‘But this is really none of my business, senhor—’
‘Riago,’ he corrected her. ‘Riago da Santana. And I must point out that you made this your business when you chose to intervene. So—eventually, when my leave came to an end and it was time to return to Brazil, Fay told me that she could not bear to be parted from me. She was flatteringly convincing, so I suggested she should join me here for a while, at my expense, naturalmente.’
‘Oh, of course.’ Charlie’s voice was hollow. And clearly no expense had been spared, she thought, conscious of the sensuous cling of the satin robe against her skin.
She swallowed. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Senhor da Santana, but she’s obviously had second thoughts.’ She wondered if she should add the civil hope that he was not too much out of pocket but, looking at the short flare of his upper lip and the cleft in his chin, decided that any further comment would be not only superfluous, but positively unwise.
‘And so you have come in her place.’ He sounded almost reflective as the dark eyes made another disturbing appraisal of her quivering person. ‘If you imagine your charms are an adequate substitute for hers, senhorita, then you are wrong.’
Nothing had—or could ever have—prepared her for an insult like that. Charlie stared at him mutely, the colour draining out of her face.
She wanted to reach out and claw his face—draw blood, make him suffer—but instead she let her nails curl into the palms of her hands.
She said with brave politeness, ‘You seem to be under some kind of misapprehension, senhor. No substitution is intended, or will take place. As I’ve already explained, your men brought me here by mistake and against my will.’
‘You fought them?’ he asked. ‘You kicked and screamed and struggled? I noticed no marks on either of them, I confess, but my mind was elsewhere …’
‘No—not exactly.’ Charlie bit her lip. ‘I—I tried to explain … to reason with them.’ She stopped, realising how lame it must sound. She said defeatedly, ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand. But you’ve got to believe that coming here was not my idea, and my only wish now is to leave, and get back to Mariasanta.’
‘An admirable aim.’ Still that mockery. ‘But impossible to gratify, to my infinite regret. There is no way out of here, except by boat, as you came. And while these rains continue the river is too dangerous to navigate.’
Charlie gasped. ‘But how long will all this go on?’ she demanded frantically. ‘I have to get back—to rejoin the Manoela on her way downstream.’
Riago da Santana shrugged. ‘For as long as it takes, senhorita. Until the river falls again you are going nowhere.’ His smile seemed to rasp across her sensitive skin. ‘In the meantime, you are my honoured guest.’
‘But there must be some other way out,’ Charlie protested, her whole being flinching from the prospect of having to be beholden to this man, even on a temporary basis. ‘I mean, isn’t there a helicopter—or something for emergencies?’
‘I regret that your presence in my house does not qualify as an emergency, senhorita.’
‘Well, it does as far as I’m concerned.’ Charlie realised she was perilously close to tears, and fought them back determinedly. ‘I—I haven’t even a change of clothes with me.’
‘Of course not. Why should you have?’ He sounded impatient. ‘But there is no great problem. As you must be aware, I made provision for my … other guest. Feel free to use whatever you need.’
‘How generous,’ Charlie said stonily. ‘But, as you’ve already implied, Miss Preston and I are hardly the same size—or shape.’
‘Rosita, my housekeeper, will be happy to carry out any alterations required.’ He sounded bored. ‘I will give her the necessary instructions.’
She wanted to fling his instructions, his hospitality, and Fay Preston’s entire wardrobe back in his face, screaming loudly while she did so, but she kept silent. She had no idea how long she was going to be here, and if it was to be days rather than hours she could hardly alternate between the cotton trousers and shirt she’d arrived in and this hateful dressing-gown.
Undressing-gown, she amended crossly, hitching the slipping satin back on to a slender shoulder.
‘Thank you,’ she said tightly.
He inclined his head courteously. ‘It is my pleasure, senhorita.’ There wasn’t an atom of conviction in his voice. ‘We shall meet at dinner.’
Charlie watched his tall figure walk out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him as he went. Then her legs gave way under her, and she sank down in a welter of amethyst satin on to the elderly rug which was the floor’s sole covering.
Under her breath she slowly and painstakingly recited every bad word she had ever known, heard, or imagined, applying each and every one of them to Riago da Santana. Then, at last, she burst into tears.
Charlie had every intention of declaring that she wasn’t hungry and of spending the evening alone in her room, but as suppertime approached she found she was getting more and more ravenous. And the savoury smells wafting through the house were also undermining her determination to remain aloof.
Finding something suitable to wear had been a depressing and even humiliating process. Riago da Santana knew exactly what colours and styles would appeal to his former lover, and every item in the capacious guarda-roupa had been chosen with her taste in mind. They were glamorous and exciting, with the kind of labels she’d only ever dreamed about.
‘But they are not me,’ she muttered as each garment was brought out for her inspection.
