in there was so thick that you could have cut it with a knife, and she had no desire to see Bruce make a fool of himself over a few crocodile tears.
She walked outside. It was appreciably darker now, the sun sinking in a blaze of glory in the west. The hotel stood on the cliffs and to the right a steep road led down to the sea-front where lights were beginning to twinkle in the twilight. She could see a harbour and a small jetty with several fishing boats moored along its length. There was something warm and reassuring about these everyday sights and on impulse she walked down the road to the sea-front and leant on the harbour wall. She had no wish to return to the hotel yet. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do. It was all very well for Bruce to force Sheila to accept her, but what kind of life would she have with her sister-in-law picking on her every minute of the day? Could she stand it? Even for Bruce’s sake?
Leaving the wall, she skirted the harbour and jumped down on to the stretch of beach beyond it. The soft sand ran between her toes and she walked slowly on, her hands thrust into the pockets of her jeans.
Ahead a wall of rock divided one cove from the other, but there was an aperture wide enough for Christina to slide through and she found herself on an isolated stretch of shoreline where the water creamed with inviting coolness.
There seemed no access to the beach, other than through the aperture she had breached, and she walked towards the sea, kicking off her sandals and allowing the water to ripple over her toes. It was a sensuous feeling. She had never bathed in warm waters before, and she wished she had had the good sense to bring her bathing suit with her. The idea of submerging her hot, sticky body in those cooling depths was almost more than she could bear.
Without stopping to consider the advisability of her actions, Christina quickly stripped off all her clothes and ran to dive headlong into the waves. It was glorious, the water still warm from the rays of the sun, and the heat of the day melted from her body leaving her refreshed and alert.
She swam and played for fully fifteen minutes, her hair like seaweed about her in the water, before she became aware that she was no longer alone. Out on the shore, silhouetted against the darkening velvet of the sky and partially hidden by the shadow of the cliffs, stood a man, the tip of his cigarette, or cigar, visible as it was regularly raised to his lips to glow more brightly before becoming subdued again.
Christina trod water and considered her position. Her clothes lay on the beach, some distance from the intruder, it was true, but nevertheless far enough up the beach to cause her some discomfort. She sighed. Had he seen her, or was he simply out for an evening stroll? Could he be unaware that someone was swimming only a hundred yards away?
She wrinkled her nose impatiently. In half an hour, maybe less, it would be dark, but already she was beginning to feel cold, and in half an hour she would be much colder. Truthfully, until then she had not realised how cold she was, but anxiety produced its own lowering of the temperature.
To her horror, the man began to walk down the beach to the water’s edge and he halted by her small pile of clothes regarding them intently. Now she could see he was a tall man, lean and dark, sideburns growing down almost to his jawline. Although the features of his face were indistinct in the fading light, she sensed an air of authority, of haughty arrogance about him, and she wondered who he could be. He did not appear like one of the villagers and she was pondering the possibility of him being a tourist when he turned his dark head in her direction. Immediately her hopes of remaining unobserved vanished.
‘Tenha a bondade de sair, menina,’ he snapped shortly. ‘Vai-se fazendo tarde!’
Christine hadn’t the faintest idea what he was saying, but it seemed obvious from his attitude and the uncompromising tone of his voice that he was not at all pleased at her appearance.
Endeavouring to remember the right words from her phrase book, Christina called: ‘Nao falo portugues, senhor!’
The man threw away the butt of his cigarette and advanced to the water’s edge. Now Christina could see the patrician cast of his features and the slightly cruel line of his mouth. But what caught her attention most was the long, jagged scar which ran down his left cheek, from the corner of his eye almost to his jawline. The livid whiteness of that grim disfiguration was all the more pronounced because of the swarthiness of his skin, and it gave his aquiline face an almost satanic appearance.
‘So, menina, you are English!’ he was saying coldly now, his expression revealing his awareness of her scrutiny. ‘Then please to come out. This is a private beach, and you are trespassing!’
His faint accent was attractive, and so was his voice, but what he was saying was not. There was a contemptuous twist to his lips and he was regarding her as though she was some particularly obnoxious specimen washed up on his beach. To be charitable she supposed his disfiguration might account for a little of his bitterness, but to Christina it was nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, if anything it gave strength and character to a face which might otherwise have been merely handsome in an aristocratic, Latin way.
‘My clothes are behind you, senhor!’ she said now, glad of the concealing depths of the water as his cold gaze raked her. ‘If you’ll go away I’ll do exactly as you ask.’
The man’s curiously light eyes narrowed. ‘You are trespassing, menina, as I have said. I prefer to stay and escort you off my property myself.’
Christina sighed, wrinkling her nose. ‘As you wish, senhor. But at least have the goodness to turn the other way.’
He frowned. ‘You mean—–’ He stared at her incredulously. ‘Dues nao permita! Tu adolescentes!’ The narrow fingers clenched. ‘Esta bem, menina, I will walk towards the cliffs. But you will not disappear in my absence!’
Christina did not reply, and he hesitated a moment. ‘Wait! I have seen you before, menina, have I not? You were—how do you say it—hitching—is that right? Sim, hitching a lift earlier this evening on the road from Lagos, were you not?’
Christina nodded, and then her eyes widened. ‘You were in the limousine?’
‘Where I was is not important, menina. What concerns me is where you intended to sleep tonight. On my beach, perhaps?’
‘Of course not!’ Christina was stung by his accusation.
‘Why—of course not?’ The man’s lip curled. ‘Believe me, menina, we have had trouble with young people like yourself before. What is it you call yourselves? Freedom-lovers—is that right? We have other names for what you do!’
‘How charming!’ Christina refused to show the outrage she felt at the disparaging way he was dismissing her. It was not often anyone got under her skin, but this man did. ‘I’m cold, senhor,’ she went on indolently. ‘Unless you want me to put on my clothes under your malevolent gaze, go away!’
The man’s nostrils flared, and Christina thought almost detachedly that he was a most disturbingly masculine animal. Despite the formal attire, the expensive silk grey suit, the fine shirt, and grey tie, the soft suede boots on his feet, there was an air of indomitability about him, of ruthless overbearing strength, that no amount of civilisation could entirely subdue. She wondered what mixture of blood ran in his veins that he could at once appear cool and clinical, hard and passionate. And that scar, that unholy blemish, added the final touch to a cruel, and possibly violent, nature.
Without another word he turned and walked away up the beach and Christina hastened out of the water, shivering quite forcefully now. She put her clothes
