Dark Ransom
Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘EXCUSE ME, I wonder if you’d do me a favour …’

Charlie Graham’s lips parted in a soundless gasp of disbelief and her hands clenched on the rail of the boat until her knuckles turned white.

She went on staring down into the brown waters of the river, hoping against hope that the tentative remark might have been addressed to someone else—anyone else—but knowing at the same time that it wasn’t possible. Because there was only one other European on the boat with her—the blonde girl who’d boarded at Manaus.

I’ve come thousands of miles across the world, she thought, for some peace and quiet. To get away from appeals like that. Yet here—even here …

‘Excuse me,’ the voice insisted, and Charlie turned unsmilingly.

‘Yes?’

‘I was wondering …’ The other girl beamed ingratiatingly at her as she fished into her shoulder-bag and produced an envelope. ‘Could you deliver this for me to the hotel in Mariasanta?’

On the surface it seemed a harmless enough request, but Charlie’s interest was aroused just the same, especially as the newcomer, whose name she knew from the scrappy passenger list was Fay Preston, had stayed aloof, barely addressing one remark to her until now.

She said, ‘Why don’t you deliver it yourself? We’ll be arriving in Mariasanta the day after tomorrow.’

‘I’m not going that far,’ the girl said shortly. ‘I’m getting off at the fuel stop, and catching the next boat back to Manaus.’ She shuddered dramatically. ‘I’ve had Brazil and the mighty Amazon river right up to here.’ She gestured, giving an awkward little laugh. ‘I mean—have you seen what they call first-class accommodation on this thing?’

‘Why, yes,’ Charlie admitted levelly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m occupying some of it.’

Fay Preston tossed her head. ‘Well, so am I, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. This whole trip’s been a disaster from day one. I just didn’t think it would be like this—so primitive and awful. I’m getting out now, while I can.’

Charlie looked at her with faint amusement. She had to admit that the other girl looked completely out of place on the unsophisticated Manoela. She exuded the high gloss that only money could buy, from her extravagant mane of streaked hair to her designer clothes and elegant sandals. Charlie had wondered more than once why Fay Preston had been attracted to such a holiday in the first place, when she’d have been far more at home on the Riviera or some other expensive European playground.

So she wasn’t surprised to learn that four days of drawing water for washing out of the river in a bucket of her own providing had been enough for Fay, not to mention the curtained-off hole in the deck which served as a toilet, and the uninterrupted diet of rice and black beans, eked out by fish and occasional pork if they tied up at an Amerindian settlement.

She said lightly, ‘That sounds serious. Have you had secret information that Manoela’s about to sink?’

‘Oh, no.’ The blue eyes seemed suddenly evasive. ‘Perhaps I phrased it badly.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I mean—I just don’t want to go any further up-river, otherwise I might miss the return trip.’ She proffered the envelope. ‘So—if you would be so kind …’

Charlie took it, making little effort to conceal her reluctance. She was being mean, she supposed, but she was fed up with doing favours for people. Of hearing them say confidently, ‘Oh, Charlie will do it’—no matter how much inconvenience might be involved.

‘Charlie by name, and Charlie by nature. The universal dogsbody,’ she’d once heard her sister Sonia say with a giggle, and it still hurt.

She would be going ashore at Mariasanta, so she wasn’t really going to be put out at all, yet at the same time she was aware of an inexplicable uneasiness.

She glanced briefly at the superscription on the envelope before tucking it into her own bag. ‘Senhor R. da Santana’ it said in a childishly rounded script. No address—not even that of the hotel, although she supposed it was doubtful whether Mariasanta would boast more than one.

Fay’s smile was anxious. ‘I’d arranged to meet friends,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d better drop them a line—explain why I couldn’t make it after all.’

Curiouser and curiouser, Charlie thought, especially as these ‘friends’ appeared to be male and in the singular. But what the hell? she called herself to order. It was really none of her business.

She said drily, ‘So—I just leave this at the hotel for collection?’

The other nodded eagerly. ‘If you wouldn’t mind. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘It’s all right,’ Charlie returned with more civility than truth, and Fay flashed her another brittle smile before walking off, her heels wobbling on the uneven deck, leaving Charlie to return to her fascinated scrutiny of the passing scenery.

When she’d begun this cruise the Amazon had seemed as wide as some vast ocean, but now it had narrowed, closed in on the Manoela, the high green forest which bordered it seeming almost accessible—as if she could stretch out her arm and touch it. Reminding her of one of the reasons behind this journey. One which she’d barely acknowledged, even to herself, before throwing off the shackles and restraints of home.

She sighed, remembering the furore when she’d announced her intention of taking a holiday in the Brazilian interior.

‘You surely aren’t serious.’ Her mother’s face had been totally outraged. ‘What on earth will you do—miles from civilisation like that?’

Be on my own for once, Charlie had thought fiercely. Enjoy a few weeks of independence.

But she hadn’t said so aloud. Like so many selfish and demanding people, her mother had feelings all too easily wounded, and any such remark from Charlie would have been met with days of sulks and pointed remarks. She’d learned to her cost and long ago that it simply wasn’t worth it.

Instead she’d said quietly, ‘It’s always been an ambition of mine.’

‘What curious ambitions you do have,’ Sonia had drawled, putting down her coffee-cup. ‘One minute you’re skivvying for a pack of ungrateful old biddies. The next you’re vanishing up the Amazon. What will the local geriatric brigade do without you?’

‘Oh, don’t even talk about it,’ Mrs Graham said pettishly. ‘It’s enough disgrace having a daughter in domestic service, without allowing it to become a topic of conversation in my own sitting-room.’

‘I’m a home help,’ Charlie said patiently. ‘And I happen to like my old ladies very much.’

Sonia gave a silvery laugh. ‘Well, you have every reason to adore the late Mrs Hughes, leaving you that weird legacy to be spent on foreign travel. Although I bet she didn’t have the Amazon in mind. She probably expected you’d do a guided educational tour round the European capitals and meet some suitable man.’ She gave her sister’s slight figure a disparaging look. ‘But then, of course, she didn’t really know you very well, did she?’

‘Perhaps not,’ Charlie agreed colourlessly. She wondered if by ‘suitable’ Sonia was thinking of someone like her own husband. In Charlie’s view, Gordon was a smug, self-opinionated bore, smart and sleek on the surface, but already running to fat in his designer suits like an over-stuffed sofa. But as Sonia and their mother were totally complacent about the marriage, Charlie kept her opinions carefully to herself.

‘So, cleaning all that silver and listening to her endless ramblings paid dividends in the end.’ Sonia lit a cigarette. ‘Really quite clever of you, sweetie.’

Charlie boiled inwardly, and silently. It hadn’t been clever at all. Mrs Hughes had seemed to enjoy her visits, and they’d struck up quite a friendship in the relatively short time available, but that was all there was to it. Charlie had been genuinely grieved when Mrs Hughes had succumbed to a final heart attack, and the subsequent letter from a solicitor informing her of her bequest had left her stunned.

Apart from anything else, Mrs Hughes had lived very modestly. There’d been nothing to suggest she’d had that sort of money at her disposal.

‘To my dear young friend Charlotte Graham, so that she may spread her wings abroad at last,’ the codicil had stated.

‘I can’t accept it,’ Charlie had said at first, and the solicitor, Mr Beckwith, had smiled understandingly.

‘You won’t be depriving some deserving relative, my dear young lady. Far from it,’ he commented with a certain dryness. ‘The rest of the estate goes to Mrs Hughes’s nephew Philip, and he, unfortunately, has not been in contact with his aunt for several years. In fact, it isn’t certain where he is, or even if he’s still alive.’ He sighed. ‘Rather a self-willed, adventurous young man, I understand.’

‘Mrs Hughes thought he was still alive,’ Charlie said. ‘She was convinced of it. She talked about him a lot—said he’d gone to South America to prospect for gold, swearing he’d come back a millionaire.’

Mr Beckwith tutted. ‘A very risky undertaking, and a great grief to his aunt. We shall advertise, of course, but he could be anywhere. South America—so vast.’

In the days that had followed Charlie had found herself thinking more and more about the missing Philip Hughes.

‘We quarrelled,’ Mrs Hughes had told her sadly. ‘I wanted him to continue training for his late father’s profession—so worthwhile—and he wanted to see the world. Neither of us was prepared to compromise.’ She sighed. ‘I, at least, know better now. He wrote a few times from Paraguay, and then from Brazil, but for the last two years—nothing.’

She’d shown Charlie a photograph. Philip Hughes was tall and fair, staring self-consciously at the camera, an arm draped across his aunt’s shoulders. There was nothing in his conventional good looks to suggest that underneath there was a wild adventurer yearning for escape.

But then, no one would think that of me either, Charlie thought with a faint grin. Especially when I’m still living at home at twenty-two.

She’d made several attempts to strike out on her own and find a bed-sitter, but each time her mother had reacted with tears and hysterical outbursts about neglect and ingratitude.

Charlie had always hated scenes, and raised, angry voices made her feel physically sick. But some inner voice told her she had to weather the storm about her holiday, or she would never have any personal freedom again.

And when she returned to England, she reasoned, the break would have been made, and she could start, in earnest, to plan a life for herself.

Her grin widened as she imagined her mother’s reaction to the fact that Charlie had bought her own hammock and cutlery in Belém for this trip. Mrs Graham, when she went abroad, insisted on every creature comfort known to the mind of man, and then some.

Charlie, on the other hand, intended to travel on the Manoela as far as the boat went, and decide what to do next when she got there.

It was odd, she thought, that all her mother’s objections to the trip had been rooted in the personal inconvenience to herself. She’d never once referred to the dangers her younger daughter might encounter en route in this alien world.

‘Probably thinks I’m too dull to worry about,’ Charlie told herself philosophically, and, compared with Sonia, for example, she undoubtedly was. Her sister had been the high flier where looks were concerned, and Charlie had existed in her shadow, learning not to resent the astonishment in people’s faces when they realised she and Sonia were related.

Now it was wonderful just to be alone, and at no one’s beck and call. To be able to stand at this rail, and watch the jungle world of the Amazon passing slowly in front of her.

And somewhere in the depths of all that greenery, on the banks of some hidden tributary, Philip Hughes might be panning for gold.

Now that she was actually here she could admit openly to herself that the idea of finding him had crossed her mind more than once. It might be a stupid romantic dream, but she had the last place-name Mrs Hughes had mentioned firmly fixed in her head. And if by some remote chance she found herself in the vicinity of Laragosa it would do no harm to make some enquiries.

Captain Gomez and some of the crew spoke a smattering of English, but they’d stared in total incomprehension at her hesitant questions.

But that hadn’t deterred her, and she planned to make some further enquiries when she went ashore at Mariasanta—and deliver that letter at the same time.

She shook her bobbed hair, smooth and shining as a shower of spring rain, back from her face.

Life might have been something of a non-event so far, but all that was going to change now—and this trip to Brazil was only the start.

Laragosa—here I come, she thought with a swift stab of excitement.

Her first glimpse of Mariasanta two days later damped her optimism a little. There was a wooden dock, built on piles, and flanked by the usual leaf-thatched Amerindian houses, rising on stilts out of the water. Behind these was a huddle of buildings with corrugated-iron roofs, and beyond them—the rain forest.

Charlie found herself wondering if there would actually be a hotel at all.

She’d had no further contact with Fay Preston, who’d left the boat at yesterday’s fuel stop without even the courtesy of a goodbye.

Before Charlie went ashore she took the usual precaution of stowing her passport and few valuables in her shoulder-bag, along with her mug and cutlery, as these items, she’d been warned, might disappear if left on the boat.

As it turned out, finding the hotel was no problem. It was a small wooden building with a sign, faded to illegibility, hanging over the front entrance, and a small veranda, which, like the paintwork, had seen better days. Charlie mounted the rickety steps with care, and went in.

The fan, affixed to the ceiling, kept the heavy, humid air moving, but did nothing to lower the temperature, she thought, wiping her face with a handkerchief as she looked round. She seemed to be in the bar, but the place was deserted. Charlie went over and rapped smartly on the unpolished wooden counter. There was a pause, then a small, fat man in a sleeveless vest and baggy trousers pushed his way through a beaded curtain behind the bar and stood looking at her in silently amazed enquiry.

Charlie said stiltedly, ‘Bom dia, senhor. Faia inglês?’

‘Não.’

Well, she supposed it had been too much to hope for, she thought resignedly as she delved for her phrase book.

She produced the letter. ‘Tenho uma carta.’ She’d looked that up already. And also how to ask if the recipient was in residence. ‘O Senhor da Santana mora aqui?’

The man’s bemused expression deepened, and the shake of his head was a decided negative, but he took the letter from her, first wiping his hand on his trousers, and examined it as if it might bite him.

Charlie was almost relieved that the unknown Senhor da Santana didn’t live at the hotel after all. She hadn’t relished the prospect of trying to explain in her minimal Portuguese that Fay Preston had chickened out on his family’s hospitality. But then Ms Preston hadn’t seemed exactly a linguist either, so perhaps the senhor spoke a modicum of English.

She shrugged mentally. Well, she’d done all that she’d been asked, and now she could see something of the town before the Manoela sailed. It was clearly no use in pursuing any enquiries about Laragosa with the hotel proprietor, but tracing Philip Hughes had only been a silly dream anyway.

She realised the man was gesturing at her, pantomiming a drink, and she hesitated. Judging by what she’d seen on the way, this was the only bar in town, she thought, touching her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, so she might as well take advantage of it, unprepossessing though it was.

‘Agua mineral?’ she asked, adding a precautionary, ‘Sem gelo.’

The man shrugged, clearly contemptuous of anyone who would ask for a drink without ice in such heat. He waved her towards one of the stools at the bar, and uncapped a bottle taken from a primitive refrigerator.

But the glass she was handed, along with the bottle, was surprisingly clean, and the drink tasted magical. Good old Coca Cola, she thought, taking a healthy swig.

The hotel proprietor had vanished back into the domain behind the beaded curtain. Charlie suspected that he was probably steaming open Senhor da Santana’s letter at that very moment, and wondered whether it would ever reach its rightful destination. Well, fortunately that wasn’t her problem. She was simply the messenger girl.

She glanced at her watch, decided there was time for another Coke, and tapped on the counter with a coin. There was no response, so she knocked again more loudly. The bead curtain stirred, and this time two men entered, both strangers.

More customers, she decided, dismissing a faint uneasiness as they came round the bar to stand beside her.

‘Senhorita.’ It was the smaller and swarthier of the two men who spoke. He was wearing denims and a faded checked shirt, his hair covered by an ancient panama hat which he lifted politely. ‘Senhorita, the boat, he wait.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Charlie slid off her stool, thrusting a handful of coins on to the bar-top. Either she’d lost all track of time, or her watch must have stopped. Thank heavens Captain Gomez had sent someone to find her. The last thing she wanted was to remain here in Mariasanta, possibly at this hotel, until the Manoela came downstream again.

A battered jeep was waiting outside the hotel. The small man opened its door, motioning Charlie on to the bench seat.

Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t have dreamed of accepting such a lift, but time was of the essence now, and she scrambled in. However, she was slightly taken aback when the other man, taller, with a melancholy black moustache, climbed in beside her, effectively trapping her between the two of them.

Her uneasiness returned in full force. She began, ‘I’ve changed my mind …’ but got no further as the jeep roared into life with a jerk that nearly sent her through its grimy windscreen.

By the time she’d recovered her equilibrium they were heading out of town—in the opposite direction to the dock and Manoela, she realised with horror.

Suddenly she was very frightened indeed. She turned to the driver, trying to speak calmly. ‘There’s been a mistake—um engano. Let me out of here, please.’

The driver beamed, revealing several unsightly gaps in his teeth. ‘We go boat,’ he assured her happily.

‘But it’s the wrong way,’ Charlie protested, but to no avail. The jeep thundered on towards the heavy green of the forest, and if she was going to scream, now was the time, before they got completely out of town. But she wasn’t in the least sure that her throat muscles would obey her.

She took a deep breath, trying to think rationally, then reached in her bag for her wallet.

‘Money,’ she said, tugging notes out of their compartment. ‘Money for you—to let me go.’ She thrust the cash at the man with the moustache. ‘It’s all I’ve got, really.’

The man inspected the cash, nodded with a sad smile, and handed it back.

‘I haven’t any more,’ she tried again desperately. ‘I’m not rich.’

Or were all tourists deemed to be millionaires in the face of the poverty she saw around her? Maybe so.

But if they didn’t want her money—what did they want? Her mind quailed from the obvious answer.

The road was little more than a track now, and the jeep rocketed along, taking pot-holes and tree roots in its stride. It occurred to Charlie that if and when she emerged from this adventure it would be with a dislocated spine.

The driver was whistling cheerfully through one of the gaps in his teeth, and the sound made her shiver.

He glanced at her and nodded. ‘Boat soon.’

She said wearily, ‘The bloody boat’s in the other direction,’ no longer caring whether they understood or not.

The track forked suddenly, and they were plunged deeper into the forest. It was like entering a damp green tunnel. Animal and bird cries echoed raucously above the sound of the engine, and tall ferns and undergrowth scratched at the sides of the vehicle as they sped along.

Charlie had a feeling of total unreality. This couldn’t be happening to her, she thought. Presently she would wake up and find herself safely in her hammock on board the Manoela. And when she did her first action would be to tear up Fay Preston’s letter.

The jeep began to slow, and Charlie saw a dark gleam of water ahead of them. Perhaps there was going to be a miracle after all, she thought incredulously. Maybe this was just a very roundabout way to the dock, and the Manoela would be there, waiting for her.

But the age of miracles was definitely past. Journey’s end was a makeshift landing stage, at which a small craft with an outboard motor was moored.

The driver nudged Charlie. ‘Boat,’ he said triumphantly.

‘But it’s the wrong boat,’ she said despairingly. ‘Um engano.’

They looked at each other, and shook their heads as if in pity. Charlie dived for her wallet again.

‘Look,’ she said rapidly, ‘turn the jeep round, and take me back to Mariasanta, and I won’t tell a living soul about all this. You can take the money, and there’ll be no trouble—I swear it. But—please—just—let me go …’

The driver said, ‘Boat now, senhorita,’ and his voice was firm.

She walked between them to the landing stage. They didn’t touch her, or use any form of restraint, and she was tempted to make a run for it—but where?

People, she knew, had walked into the Brazilian jungle and never emerged again. And by the time she managed to make it back to Mariasanta, if she ever did, Captain Gomez would have sailed anyway. He waited for no one.

For the first time in her life she understood why extreme danger often made its victims passive.

You clung to the hope, she thought, that things couldn’t possibly be as bad as they seemed—or get any worse—right up to the last minute.

She could always dive into the river, she thought almost detachedly, except that she was a lousy swimmer. And the thought of the shoals 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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 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.

‘Não percebo, senhorita.’ Rosita’s face was becoming increasingly worried as the pile of rejected dresses mounted.

Charlie patted her arm. ‘It’s not your fault, Rosita.’ Desperately she pointed at a relatively simply styled cornflower-blue model on top of the pile. ‘Perhaps we can do something with that.’

And perhaps we can’t, she added in silent resignation as Rosita pinned, pulled and experimented. Fay Preston had been lushly, even voluptuously curved. Charlie was on the skinny side of slender.

Although Riago da Santana’s crushing words still galled her, Charlie’s sense of justice forced her to admit he had a point.

He’d wanted Fay Preston. He’d been expecting Fay Preston. If he genuinely thought that Charlie had taken her place, with an eye to the main chance, then he had every reason to feel aggrieved.

But he couldn’t have thought that, Charlie told herself. Her own lack of experience and sophistication must have been obvious from the first seconds of their encounter.

No, he didn’t think she’d turned up here as his alternative mistress. He’d just been in a foul mood, and taken it out on her because she happened to be handy. It was the kind of situation she should have been used to. After all, she came across it enough at home, and with some of the more cantankerous of her old ladies.

Yet somehow, coming from a man, and a devastatingly attractive man, as she was forced to admit, it seemed more wounding than usual.

She sighed. Men as unpleasant as Riago da Santana deserved to have a hump, crossed eyes—and warts.

Later, trying to find some redeeming feature in the hastily adapted blue dress, she took a long critical look at herself.

Her lack of inches in vital places was only part of the problem, she decided gloomily. She was—ordinary-looking. Not ugly exactly, but nondescript. Sonia had inherited the warm chestnut hair with the glowing auburn lights, and the enormous eyes, dark and velvety as pansies against her creamy skin.

Charlie, on the other hand, had been left with hair that was plain brown and very fine, accepting only the simplest of styles and requiring frequent shampooing. Her eyes were hazel, and her skin was generally pale. Except when she started blushing.

But her appearance really made little difference, she told herself, turning away from the mirror with a shrug. Riago da Santana had made it insultingly clear that she held no attraction for him—and that should have been reassuring.

As, of course, it was, she told herself hastily. And yet … She brought herself swiftly and guiltily to order, and went in search of her dinner.

Riago da Santana was waiting for her in the sala de jantar. It was a low-ceilinged, rather dark room, and the long, heavily polished table was clearly designed for a large family.

Charlie saw that a place had been set for her on the right of her host’s seat at the head of the table, and groaned inwardly. She would have preferred to sit at the opposite end of that vast table, almost out of sight and out of earshot.

He surveyed the cornflower dress without expression, but Charlie could guess what he was thinking.

He said politely, ‘Would you like a drink? A batida, perhaps?’

Charlie repressed a shudder, remembering the popular fermented canejuice aperitif she’d been persuaded to try in Belém. On the other hand, some alcohol might get rid of that shaky feeling in the pit of her stomach.

‘Could I have a straight whisky, please?’

‘Of course.’ He was drinking whisky himself, she noticed. She took the glass he handed her and sipped. It was a local brand with a distinctive, pungent flavour that stung at the back of her throat and made her blink a little.

He noticed. ‘You are used to single malt, perhaps?’

She wasn’t accustomed to spirits at all, as it happened, and returned a non-committal murmur.

The food, when it came, was good—a peppery soup, thick with rice and vegetables, followed by duck in a mouth-tingling herby sauce. Charlie ate so much that she was forced to refuse the rich chocolate pudding that duly made its appearance, although she accepted a cup of strong coffee. And that was a mistake, she realised instantly. She should have kept eating. It was impolite to talk with one’s mouth full, but conversation over coffee was unavoidable.

He said, ‘With your permission, I shall call you Carlotta. And I hope you will honour me by using my given name too.’

Charlie stared down at her cup. She said, ‘You must do as you please, of course, senhor.’

‘You prefer formality?’ Amusement quivered in his voice.

She said shortly, ‘I would prefer to be elsewhere.’

‘You don’t like my house? It has an interesting history. It was built originally by my great grandfather at the height of the rubber boom in our country. Our fortune was founded on the hévea—the rubber tree.’

‘Of course,’ Charlie said instantly. ‘Manaus—the opera house and all those fantastic mansions. They were all built by rubber millionaires.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘For a while Manaus must have been the richest city in South America. The mistake lay in thinking the outside world would not want a share in such riches.’ He paused, and Charlie shifted uncomfortably, remembering that it had been British botanists who’d brought the first rubber tree seedlings out of Brazil to Kew Gardens, and ultimately to Malaysia.

He went on levelly, ‘While the industry declined, my family’s concern for the house and the plantation dwindled also, as they diversified their interests into other fields. They were not alone in that. Many similar homes have been allowed to die—to go back to the jungle. I decided that should not happen here.’

‘It’s certainly very impressive.’ Charlie glanced around her. ‘Have you lived here long?’ She sounded very prim and English, she thought with irritation. In a minute she’d be discussing the weather.

There was another silence, then he said, ‘A year—two years. It suits me to spend this part of my life here.’ His eyes didn’t leave her face. ‘And you, Carlotta. Why did you come to Brazil?’

She supposed the simple answer to that was ‘for adventure’, but she’d already had far more of that than she could handle, so she hesitated.

She said slowly, ‘I suppose you could say … I came to find someone.’

‘A man?’ He drew a pack of cheroots from the breast pocket of his shirt and lit one from the branched candlestick that illuminated the table.

Charlie was taken aback. She’d really meant herself, but there was a slight truth in what he’d said.

‘I don’t think that concerns you.’

‘Then I have my answer.’

‘I don’t see why you needed to ask the question,’ Charlie said with a slight snap.

His brows lifted. ‘You are staying in my house,’ he pointed out with deceptive mildness. ‘Am I not, then, permitted a certain curiosity about you?’

‘As our acquaintance will be short, probably not.’

‘Sometimes when the storms are bad we are trapped here for weeks,’ he said softly, and laughed at her alarmed expression.

She said crossly, ‘My entire holiday has been spoiled, and you think it’s funny.’

‘I am not altogether amused.’ He drew on his cheroot. ‘As for the ruin of your vacation—well, I shall have to try and make that up to you in some way.’

‘Please don’t put yourself to any further trouble,’ Charlie said dispiritedly. She had more or less abandoned hope of seeing the Manoela or her luggage again, and thanked her stars that she’d been travelling light. When she got back to Mariasanta, she thought, she would catch any boat that offered to Manaus, and spend the rest of her holiday in the civilised confines of Rio.

‘So, in England, Carlotta, where do you live?’

‘In the south.’ She paused. ‘If you must call my by my first name, I’m generally known as Charlie.’

‘Charlie?’ he repeated. ‘But that is a man’s name.’

Charlie shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, that’s what they call me.’

‘And who are “they”?’

‘My family—friends—the people I work for. Well, not all of them,’ she amended with a slight sigh, remembering Mrs Hughes.

‘You live in a city?’

‘Heavens, no. In quite a small town—what we call a market town.’

‘And what is this work you do?’

The Inquisition is alive, well, and living in Brazil, she thought resignedly.

‘I look after people,’ she said shortly.

His brows lifted. ‘It must be very well paid—if you can afford a vacation such as this.’

‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime trip,’ she said. ‘From now on I’ll stick to the Greek Islands. I’ve never been abducted there.’

‘You still claim that is what happened.’ His smile annoyed her.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ she returned with something of a snap.

‘Without a doubt.’ There was a trace of grimness in his tone. ‘So, where did you meet with Fay? In this market town of yours?’

She looked at him in astonishment. ‘I met her here in Brazil—on the Manoela. She boarded at Manaus. I’d joined the boat at Belém.’

He examined his cheroot as if it fascinated him. ‘So, you had never met before, and you were just … travelling companions. Tell me, did you find a great deal to talk about together?’

‘Not really,’ Charlie said wryly. ‘We didn’t actually have a great deal in common.’

Fay certainly hadn’t been a woman’s woman, she thought, and he must know that. On the other hand, perhaps he just needed to talk about her.

She found herself saying awkwardly, ‘She was very beautiful. I—I hope you aren’t too disappointed …’ She hesitated, aware that she was getting into deep water.

He said silkily, ‘Are you asking if I was in love with her? The answer is no. Does that set your mind at rest?’

Why should it? Charlie wondered, discreetly smothering a yawn with her hand. His private life was none of her business. She’d just been trying to make conversation.

But now the events of the day, coupled with the meal she had eaten, were beginning to catch up with her, and she felt desperately sleepy.

She drank the rest of her coffee, and pushed back her chair. She said politely, ‘I’d like to go to my room now, if you don’t mind.’ She gave him a strained smile. ‘Boa noite.’

He flicked some ash from the end of his cheroot. ‘Até logo, Carlotta.’

She wasn’t familiar with the phrase, but presumed it meant ‘sleep well’.

She said, ‘I hope so very much,’ and forced another smile.

In the bedroom a lamp had been lit beside the bed, and the covers had been turned down. In addition to the mesh screens, shutters had been drawn across the windows.

Charlie thought sadly about her light cotton pyjamas on board the Manoela. She’d noticed there were no nightgowns among the froth of silk and lace lingerie that Riago da Santana had provided for his lover.

‘Surplus to requirements, I suppose,’ she muttered. But, whatever the world did, she just wasn’t used to sleeping in the nude. It was just another aggravating aspect of this whole miserable mess, she thought as she slid under the fine linen sheet, determinedly closing her eyes.

Yet she found sleep elusive. The rain seemed to have stopped, but the air was warm and still, as if threatening more storms, and this made her uneasy. She’d pushed away the elaborately embroidered coverlet, wrapping herself in the sheet alone.

‘Relax,’ she told herself impatiently. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

And, even as she accepted her own reassurance, the door opened and Riago da Santana sauntered into the room.

CHAPTER THREE

PARALYSED, CHARLIE WATCHED him approach and sit down on the edge of the bed. Riago da Santana was carrying, she noticed, the whisky bottle and two glasses.

He said, ‘I’ve brought you a nightcap, Carlotta. Isn’t that the English custom?’

‘Yes—I mean, I don’t know.’ Charlie tried to slide further under the sheet, without making it too obvious. She said, her voice croaking a little, ‘I don’t really want another drink—thank you, senhor.’

‘But you won’t object if I have one?’ He poured out some whisky, and drained the glass with one swift, practised movement of his wrist.

He was, she realised, far from drunk. But he wasn’t stone-cold sober either. And, drunk or sober, he spelled trouble that she didn’t feel equipped to deal with.

He put the bottle down on the chest beside the bed, and began to unbutton his shirt under her horrified gaze.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She hardly recognised her own voice.

‘Taking off my clothes.’ His eyes slid insolently the length of her sheet-veiled body. ‘Don’t you undress before you go to bed, carinha?’ The look, as well as the tone of his voice, told her that he knew the answer to that already. The damned sheet clung.

She made herself meet his glance firmly and directly. ‘Then I’d prefer you to continue undressing in your own room.’

‘This is my room.’

They were the words she’d been dreading, and her stomach lurched in panic. But she tried not to show it. ‘Then maybe you’d be good enough to call Rosita, and get her to make me up a bed somewhere else.’

‘No, querida, I shall not be “good enough”.’ He gave the words a jeering emphasis. ‘You are where you belong, as we both know, although it seems to please you to play the innocent.’ He shrugged off his shirt and tossed it to the floor. He grinned at her, and ran his fingers with calculating delicacy along the top hem of the sheet, just not touching her bare skin. ‘It has been an amusing game, in its way, but now I require a different kind of entertainment from you.’

She slapped the marauding hand away. ‘How dare you?’

Sighing, he began to unbuckle his belt. ‘A little modesty can be charming,’ he said. ‘But too much becomes tedious.’ He stripped off his trousers and threw them after the shirt. ‘You will find me generous, Carlotta,’ he added almost casually. ‘But don’t imagine a show of reluctance will force up the price I’m prepared to pay.’

For a moment Charlie thought she could hear thunder again, but it was only the beat of her own heart, harsh and erratic, filling her head, filling her mind, making it impossible for her to think coherently, to act …

But she had to—had to. She should make a run for it, she thought wildly, but the enveloping sheet was wound round her like the tendrils of some man-eating plant. And, if she could scramble free of it, where could she go, naked and barefoot? She was in the middle of a jungle, miles from any help she could count on.

Somehow, somehow she would have to reason with him.

She sounded young and very breathless. ‘Senhor—you’re making a terrible mistake. I don’t—I’m not …’ She gulped some of the hot, languid air and tried again. ‘I … just met Fay Preston on the boat. I agreed to deliver a letter, that’s all. I—I had no idea …’ Her voice faltered as she saw his cynical grin, because that wasn’t the exact truth, and she knew it.

He said silkily, ‘And you just … happened to ask for me at the hotel—and then you … happened to go with my men? A whole series of mistakes. Is that how it was?’

She nodded desperately. ‘Yes. Oh, how can I make you believe me?’

‘You cannot,’ he said succinctly. ‘And this pretence of yours wearies me.’ The dark eyes glittered dangerously down at her. ‘Especially when there are other … more pleasurable ways of achieving exhaustion, querida.’ His hands moved to his hips to strip off his remaining covering, and Charlie twisted on to her side, cursing the strangling sheet, closing her eyes almost convulsively. She felt the mattress dip as he came to lie beside her.

She said huskily, ‘If you touch me I’ll scream.’

‘And who is there to hear you—or to care?’ Impatience mingled with amusement in his voice. ‘I hope you have strong lungs, carinha, because I intend to touch every inch of you.’

‘Oh, God.’ Her voice cracked. ‘You don’t even want me …’

He laughed. ‘Ah, does that rankle with you, my little one? I regret if my reaction was less than tactful when we first met. I promise I am becoming more reconciled to your presence with every moment that passes.’

Strong, deft hands rid her of the encircling sheet and gathered her into his arms.

Charlie’s mind and body recoiled from the contact in shocked outrage. Her sole experience of men so far had been a few fumbling kisses at parties, generally from those who’d been unable to get to Sonia and were salving their disappointment. Charlie had put up with them politely, but there had never been any stir in her blood, no chemical reaction with any of them to cause her the slightest regret when they had walked away, as they inevitably had.

All she knew of sex was what she’d learned in school biology lessons. And now, in a few shattering moments, that safe, sheltered world had been destroyed. She was in bed with a man—a stranger, naked in his arms, the hard urgency of his flesh against hers spelling out an imperative message even her innocence could interpret.

Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening to her. It couldn’t …

Some still, cold voice in her head warned her not to fight him. He was infinitely stronger than she was, the muscles in his shoulders and arms like whipcord. If she struggled then he might respond with violence, and she would be damaged—emotionally, at least—forever.

Whereas if she … let him …

If she closed off her mind, her senses and her emotions—everything that went to make up the real Charlotte Graham—then nothing could really happen to her. She could stop thinking … stop feeling … retreat to some hidden place inside herself and wait until the storm was over.

It was just a meaningless physical act that was going to take place. It couldn’t touch her as a person at all.

He said softly, ‘How sweet you feel, querida. How smooth and cool, like water in a desert.’ His hand captured her chin, turning her face up to his, and he kissed her on the mouth, his lips warm and tinglingly sensuous.

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