Witch’s Harvest
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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Endpage

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE LIFT DOORS slid together, and the steel cage began its upward journey with a faint lurch, which Abigail Westmore’s stomach uneasily echoed.

What the hell, she thought despairingly, was she doing, acting as a reluctant messenger between her cousin and her fiancé? Why hadn’t she refused—stood out for once against Della and her outrageous demands? Because unless she’d totally misunderstood the situation, the letter in her bag contained some kind of ultimatum, and was the last thing she wanted to be involved with, particularly when … Her mind closed off.

For the umpteenth time she looked in her bag to check that the letter was still there, that she hadn’t, by some Freudian slip, lost it on the way here. Then she glanced at her watch, making sure that her timing was exact. Della had been most insistent about that.

‘You’ve got to deliver it just before six,’ she’d said sharply. ‘So don’t go into one of your dreams, Abby, and forget. Everything depends on you.’

Abby had no wish for ‘everything’ to depend on her, particularly when it meant delivering a message to Vasco da Carvalho which he would not want to receive.

They used to execute people who brought bad news in the old days, she thought, grimacing at her reflection in the lift mirror. Not that she thought Vasco would go to those lengths, although she suspected he had a temper, but he would be less than pleased to know that Della had been discussing the rift between them with a third party.

She could always slide the envelope under the door and vanish, she thought, then sighed. No, she had to give the letter to him in person. Della had been adamant about that too.

‘And if he’s not there,’ she added, ‘you must phone me instantly—at this number.’ And she had handed Abby a folded slip of paper.

Abby had been mildly surprised. After all, she’d spent the greater part of her life, since her parents’ death, sharing her cousin’s luxurious home in St John’s Wood. She could, she thought, be expected to remember the phone number, even if she had been living in her own bed-sitter for the past six weeks. But when she glanced at the paper later, she was disturbed to see that Della had written the number of a Paris hotel.

Although she wasn’t sure why she felt uneasy. Della, and her mother, often popped across to Paris on shopping expeditions for Della’s trousseau. And now that Della had learned to her fury and alarm that her future married life would not be spent in the lap of luxury in Rio de Janeiro but on an obscure cocoa plantation in Amazonia, she would probably have to re-think much of her wardrobe. But it seemed odd that she was going shopping when matters between Vasco and herself were so unsettled.

The lift halted, and Abby emerged reluctantly into the corridor, her heels sinking into the deep pile of the carpet. It was the first time she had visited the apartment block where Vasco was staying, and it was all as luxurious as she’d imagined. She could see why Della had fallen into the trap of believing this was the kind of background Vasco belonged to, rather than some obscure corner of the Brazilian rain forest. She could understand, to some extent, why her cousin had been convinced that the cocoa bean plantation was just a temporary aberration—a rich man’s whim—and that when he was married, Vasco would cheerfully take his place in his family’s wealthy export company in Rio, with all that implied.

Abby had never been so sure. She didn’t believe Vasco’s dark, elegant good looks concealed any such weakness of purpose. The firm lines of his mouth, the determined set of his chin belied Della’s conviction that she could wind him round her little finger.

And Della’s shock and outrage when he had made it bluntly clear that the cocoa plantation was his life, and that, as his wife, she would be expected to share it with him, had been almost comical. Except that Abby had never felt like laughing.

She reached the door of the flat and stopped, swallowing nervously. There was a large gilt-framed mirror on an adjoining wall, and she looked herself over, pushing her fingers through her fine mouse-brown hair, silently rehearsing what she was going to say, if he answered the door. ‘Oh, hi. I was just passing, and Della asked me …’

No, that wouldn’t do, she thought ferociously. How could she go for the casual approach when she looked as white as a ghost, her eyes twice their normal size?

But Vasco da Carvalho had looked at her so seldom, she thought without resentment, that he might think her pallor was perfectly usual.

She wished with all her heart that she could have shared his indifference. She wished that the only emotion he had inspired in her could have been the polite interest anyone could expect to feel for her cousin’s fiancé. Only it hadn’t happened like that.

She was an ordinary, practical girl. She didn’t believe in grand passions, or love at first sight. If anyone had told her it could happen, she would have treated it as the joke of the year.

But it isn’t funny, she thought painfully. It isn’t funny at all.

She had walked into her aunt’s drawing-room one evening and found him standing, with Della, in front of the fireplace. And nothing had ever been the same again, nor ever would be.

It had proved the impetus she needed to get her out of her uncle’s home, however. She had made one or two unsuccessful bids for freedom in the past, only to be dissuaded by her aunt’s fretful accusations of ingratitude, but this time she’d stuck to her guns. There was no way she could go on living there, seeing Vasco every day, watching Della bloom as his future wife. She had thought her hidden feelings for Vasco were her own personal secret, but she had been wrong.

That was why she was here, hanging round his door, trying to pluck up courage to ring the bell.

Della’s words, and the malicious smile which had accompanied them, still haunted her. ‘You either do as I ask, Abigail dear, and deliver my letter in person, and on time, or I’ll tell Vasco about the pathetic little crush you have on him.’

She’d said huskily, ‘That’s nonsense.’

Della’s smile had widened. ‘Oh, no, it isn’t, and we both know it. You’re incredibly transparent, darling, and if Vasco wasn’t absolutely besotted with me he’d probably have noticed your slavish devotion for himself by now.’ She held out the letter. ‘Believe me, Abby, it would give me great pleasure to point out that you’re dying of love for him. It would give us something to laugh about during the long winter evenings after we’re married.’ She studied the strained lines of Abby’s face with overt satisfaction. ‘And we will be married, you know. He’s crazy about me, and once he realises I mean business over this Amazon jungle fiasco, he’ll come to heel.’ Her lovely face took on a faintly lascivious look. ‘After all, he won’t want to forgo getting me into bed at last. Not that waiting was my idea in the first place, but Ina, after she’d introduced us at that Embassy party, warned me if I wanted marriage, I’d have to be a good, pure girl, and string him along, and it’s certainly worked!’ She giggled. ‘It’s been almost fun, playing the sweet little virgin, and watching him sweat. I think, if it hadn’t been for his damned sense of honour, I’d have let him persuade me. Because he is beautiful, as you’ve managed to work out for yourself, my sweet, like some gorgeous golden-skinned animal.’ She sighed. ‘I bet he’ll be sensational in the sack!’

Abby had winced at the crudity of it. She said in a low voice, ‘Dell, if you love him …’

‘Oh, I do.’ Della’s eyes gleamed. ‘But I don’t consider the world well lost for love. If Vasco imagines I’m going to follow him to the Amazon basin like a little submissive wife, then he can think again. The choice is his: this—Riocho Negro hellhole, or me. It’s quite simple.’

Abby shuddered as she remembered. She took the letter out of her bag, handling it gingerly as if it was a time-bomb, then rang the bell, praying he would be out.

But her prayers were not answered. Almost immediately the door swung open, and Vasco stood there surveying her with frank astonishment, and growing grimness.

‘Abigail?’ he queried. ‘I was expecting …’

‘Della,’ Abby supplied. She sent him a small nervous smile. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘You have not,’ he told her politely. ‘It is naturally a pleasure to meet you again. It is some weeks, I think …’ He hesitated. ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘There’s really no need,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Actually, I’m here on Della’s behalf.’ She held out the letter. ‘She asked me to give you this.’

He looked down at the letter, and the grim expression on his face deepened alarmingly. Abby had never seen him like this. On their previous encounters, he had always been at his most charming. Now, once again, it occurred to her that he was a formidable man, and Della was insane if she imagined she could force him down any path he did not choose to go.

He said curtly, ‘I think you had better come in after all, Abigail.’ His hand closed on her arm in a grip which brooked no denial, and he drew her forward into the flat. She found herself in a large, comfortably furnished drawing-room. ‘Sit down,’ Vasco directed, indicating an enormous leather sofa.

‘I really can’t stay,’ she protested weakly. ‘I only came to deliver that and …’

‘Ah, yes.’ His smile was wintry. ‘Abigail at one time meant “handmaiden”, I think. You should not allow Della to impose on you. However, even a messenger deserves some reward. May I offer you some coffee, or perhaps you would prefer a drink.’

‘Neither, thanks. I do have to go …’

‘You have not been instructed to wait for an answer to that?’ He pointed to the letter she was still clutching.

‘Good God, no!’ Abby dropped the letter on to a coffee table as if it was a hot coal. ‘I think you should read it, Vasco,’ she said, trying to edge past him towards the door. ‘Della was very anxious that I should deliver it right now, and there’s probably a reason for that.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said curtly. ‘Over these past weeks I have been made well aware of the way her mind works. Do you perhaps know the terms of her message?’ There was a slight derisive emphasis on the last word.

‘Not really,’ Abby denied swiftly and unconvincingly, a faint, betraying colour rising in her face.

‘I see,’ he said icily.

‘No, you don’t.’ She punched a small clenched fist into the palm of her other hand. ‘Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I could kill Della! Believe me, the last thing I want is to be—involved in any way in any—problem you might be having.’

‘Thank you for the assurance,’ he said sarcastically. ‘But any problems are of Della’s own making. In my world, when a woman agrees to marry a man, she consents to share his life, no matter where or how that life is to be lived. Your cousin knew my home, my work was at Riocho Negro. I made no secret of it.’

She gave a quick meaningless smile. ‘Well, it’s really none of my business. Now you must excuse me. I—I have a date, and you’ll want to read your letter in peace.’

‘Peace is hardly the word I should have chosen,’ Vasco said with sudden harshness, making her flinch. He saw this, and his face gentled. ‘Tenho muita pena, Abigail—I am sorry. You are not to blame, after all. But you should not allow Della to use you like this.’

She shrugged lightly. ‘Well, it isn’t for much longer. I’m sure you’ll settle your differences together, Vasco. Goodnight.’

‘Boa tarde, Abigail.’

Reaction set in almost as soon as she was safely back in the corridor, with the door closed between them. Her legs were shaking so much suddenly that she had to stop and lean against a wall until she regained her equilibrium. Another door opened and an elderly couple emerged, the woman giving Abby a surprised and frosty glance as they passed.

She probably thinks I’m drunk, Abby decided, and, God, I wish I was!

As she waited in the bus queue, she realised it was the first time she had ever been completely alone with Vasco. It had been a tense interview, and nothing like any of the childishly romantic dreams she had occasionally indulged herself with.

Despising herself for a fool, she began, almost obsessively, to recreate him in her mind, to go over every tiny detail of his appearance. Her mind’s eye dwelt lingeringly on the length of the black lashes which veiled his brilliant dark eyes, the way his hair grew back from a distinct peak on his forehead, the expanse of coppery skin revealed by the open neck of his shirt, the long-fingered, well kept hands.

She gave a little shaky sigh, telling herself that she should be ashamed. It was not only wrong but futile to allow him to fill her thoughts like this. He belonged to Della. They would resolve their difficulties with some compromise, and get married, and if she was lucky she would never see them again.

Especially now that she was firmly established in his mind as an interfering busybody, she reminded herself ironically. But it was better to be regarded as a nuisance rather than a lovesick idiot. And if Della ever carried out her threat and told him her dull little cousin had fallen for him in a big way, Brazil was far enough away for her to be spared the knowledge.

And one day, she hoped, she would wake up cured.

Although not, she was forced to acknowledge, by Keith with whom she had a date that evening. He was pleasant enough, and one of the junior executives in the company she worked for, and they shared a mutual interest in the theatre, but that was as far as it went, on her side at least.

Not that Keith ever showed any sign of wishing to become wildly amorous, she thought wryly. He was far too cautious for that, far too aware of where he was going in life. Abigail often speculated that she was being put through a series of suitability tests by him, but they were leisurely enough not to cause her any anxiety. Even if she had never met Vasco, she would still have known there was no future with Keith, or anyone else she had come across, for that matter.

Perhaps she was basically cold, she thought. Maybe in her case, still waters ran shallow, and she permitted herself her fantasies about Vasco because he was forbidden territory and therefore no real threat.

In a way, she thought detachedly, as she climbed on to the bus and settled in her seat, she would rather believe that than the other nightmare which haunted her—that Vasco would marry Della and vanish from her life, taking with him, all unwittingly, all the love, warmth, and passion she would ever be capable of, leaving her to face the future bereft and emotionally destitute.

‘I found the second act rather disappointing,’ Keith said, frowning. ‘I thought he’d failed to establish the intruder’s personality strongly enough, and, of course, the whole thing hinges on that.’

‘Yes,’ Abby agreed, smothering a discreet yawn. She’d found the entire production rather long-winded, and less than gripping. No matter how determinedly she tried to concentrate on what was happening on stage, her mind had kept travelling inexorably back to Vasco, and the letter she had brought him, and his reactions to it. He was a man who liked to dictate terms, not agree to them, she thought uneasily.

She’d come out of the theatre with a slight headache, and had demurred when Keith suggested going for the usual drink, but he had looked so disappointed when she’d murmured something about having an early night that she had relented.

The pub was one they often used, but it seemed extra crowded that night, with no vacant tables, so that they were forced to stand near the bar. Which was all to the good, Abby thought idly, as Keith continued to hold forth on the playwright’s failure to develop his characters fully. It meant they would probably not be staying long. Keith hated standing up to drink.

The crowd shifted suddenly, giving her a new perspective of the other side of the room. Suddenly Abby seemed to stop breathing, her fingers tightening convulsively round the stem of her glass as she stared at the table right in the corner.

It couldn’t be! she thought feverishly. She was seeing things. She had allowed Vasco to occupy her thoughts so much that now she was hallucinating about him, imagining that he was there, in the corner, alone.

‘I don’t think you’re listening to a word I’m saying!’ Keith’s faintly indignant tones broke into her trance, shattering it, and she turned to him apologetically.

‘I’m sorry—I thought I saw someone I knew.’

‘Oh?’ Keith craned his neck. ‘He doesn’t look familiar to me at all.’

‘He wouldn’t be. His name is Vasco da Carvalho, and he’s engaged to my cousin.’

‘I thought he didn’t look English,’ Keith commented. He gave the corner a concentrated stare. ‘Been drinking heavily too, by the looks of things.’

‘Oh, no!’ Abby was appalled. ‘He hardly drinks at all. It must be that damned letter. There must be something terribly wrong.’

As she began to move through the crowd towards his table, Keith detained her. ‘Well, whatever it is, Abby, it’s none of our business. Leave it.’

‘I can’t,’ she said wretchedly. ‘I feel partly responsible.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He regarded her with disfavour. ‘You want to steer well clear of him, my dear girl, especially in that condition. Although I suppose you could phone his fiancée—tell her to come and collect him.’

‘She’s in Paris.’ Abby began to move forward again. ‘Please, Keith—I must help him!’

‘And I see no reason why you should do any such thing.’ Keith sounded really ruffled. ‘Drink up, and we’ll go somewhere else and leave him to his bender. Whatever’s wrong, he won’t thank you for poking your nose in, believe me.’

‘You don’t know how right you are,’ she muttered.

‘Now look here, Abby.’ Keith’s temper seemed to be deteriorating by the second. ‘Just what’s your connection with this fellow? What’s this letter got to do with it?’

‘I wish I could explain.’ She gave him an appealing glance. ‘But I can’t. Nor can I just—walk away and leave him in this state.’

‘Well, I can,’ he announced grandly. ‘If you persist in interfering, Abby, then you’re on your own. I’m not ruining a pleasant evening by getting into any hassle with some drunk, whoever he happens to be engaged to. You don’t know what you’re taking on.’

‘Then I’m about to find out.’ She sent him an impatient glance. ‘And I’m not asking you to be involved.’

He gave her an outraged look, opened his mouth, closed it again, then turned and stalked away. She couldn’t even feel sorry.

She reached the table and sank down on the bench seat next to him. ‘Vasco,’ she said urgently.

He gave her a long, concentrated stare as if he was having difficulty focusing, as he probably was, she realised, as she counted the empty glasses on the table. Apart from the fact that his silk tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt undone, his appearance was as immaculate as usual. Only that unwavering gaze, and his too-relaxed posture, gave him away.

‘Ah,’ he said, carefully enunciating each word, ‘the little handmaiden. Que encantamento.’ He reached for his glass, but Abby forestalled him, moving it away.

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ She was aware her voice was shaking a little.

‘No, senhorita, I do not.’ The smile he gave her was almost limpid, but Abby sensed it masked an abyss of darker, wilder emotions than she had ever dreamed existed. He was angry, but that was only part of it. And although she knew the anger was not directed at her, it hurt as much as if he had lifted his fist and struck her down.

‘It’s nearly closing time,’ she tried again.

‘But they have not yet called last orders,’ he said. ‘See how well I have learned your English customs!’

‘Good for you,’ Abby said grittily, reflecting that this was one custom she would have preferred him not to know. ‘The thing is, I want to get home, and it’s such a hassle finding a taxi after closing time.’

Vasco shrugged. ‘Then go now, and find your taxi.’

‘But I hoped you’d come with me.’

‘Did you, querida?’ he drawled. ‘How flattering of you!’

Abby bit her lip. ‘Please don’t play games, Vasco. You know perfectly well I can’t leave you here like this. Della would never forgive me.’

‘Now there you are wrong, senhorita.’ He removed Abby’s hand from his glass with insulting ease, and drank. ‘My wellbeing is no longer any concern of your cousin.’

‘Oh, God!’ Abby’s throat tightened. ‘Vasco, you mustn’t take any notice of anything she said in that letter. She’s used to having her own way in everything. She doesn’t realise how strongly you feel about Riocho Negro.’

‘Oh yes, she does,’ he said softly. ‘Or she would not have offered me the choice she did. At least we both now know the strength of each other’s feelings on the subject.’

‘Then isn’t that—grounds for negotiation?’ she suggested.

‘Unfortunately, no.’ He lifted his wrist and ostentatiously consulted the thin gold watch he wore. ‘Particularly as, at this very moment, my former namorada is in bed with another man.’

Abby stared at him. ‘That—isn’t amusing!’

‘On that we are in perfect agreement. But it is no joke. The letter you were so good as to bring me made that quite clear. I was informed that unless I telephoned your cousin at some Paris hotel by six-thirty to tell her I had changed my mind, and would be content to make my home with her in Rio, she intended to meet a man called Jeremy Portman and remain in Paris with him. He apparently also wishes to marry her, and give her the kind of life I so heartlessly propose to deny her.’

‘She was bluffing,’ Abby insisted desperately. ‘She must be. I’ve met Jeremy Portman. She doesn’t care about him …’

‘It is not important.’ He lifted his hand. ‘Because, in any case, I would never marry any woman capable of making such a threat.’

‘Oh, Vasco, no! She’s confused—unhappy. She didn’t realise what she was saying—how it would affect you …’

‘She knew.’ His voice was flat, the short syllables sounding like a knell.

Abby tried again. ‘But you love her. You have to forgive her.’

‘If she had loved me in the way that I believed—had been the kind of woman I wanted for my wife, then she could not have behaved in this way,’ he said, the words slurring faintly. ‘Anyway, it is finished. She is in Paris with her lover, and I am going to get another drink. Forgive me if I do not, this time, invite you to join me. I prefer my own company.’

She watched unhappily as he made his way to the bar. He was walking steadily, but she knew he was already near some dangerous limit, although this was probably more emotional than alcoholic.

She was shattered by what he had told her. How totally Della had misjudged him by holding Jeremy Portman, rich, blond, and not over-burdened with brains, over his head. Abby shook her head. How could Della even contemplate marrying a man like that, when she could have Vasco?

Yet it was all too probable she had no such intention. Della undoubtedly had expected Vasco to be on the phone immediately, chastened and contrite, agreeing to everything she wanted.

She could imagine Della’s increasing agitation when zero hour came and went without a word from him. She groaned silently. Her cousin was probably at this minute flying back to seek him out. If so, it looked like a wasted journey, although he might feel differently in the morning, when he’d sobered a little.

She glanced up and saw him returning, drink in hand. He sat down, directing an insolently caustic glance at her.

‘Still here, senhorita? How can I convince you I don’t need a handmaiden?’ The slurring was more evident now, and his tone was an insult, but Abby stayed put.

‘I’ve told you, I don’t like being out on my own at this time of night. And you’re surely not too far gone to find me a cab,’ she said with a matter-of-fact shrug.

The dark eyes glinted ominously at her. ‘So—the quiet mouse can roar when she wishes. If I find you this taxi, will you promise then to leave me in peace?’

‘Of course.’ Abby shrugged again. ‘There’s no point in reasoning with you when you’re in this condition.’

He swallowed what remained in his glass and stood up. ‘Come, then.’

It was cool outside the pub, with a hint of rain in the air. A taxi cruised past as they emerged, and Abby watched anxiously as Vasco advanced to the edge of the kerb to hail it. The fresh air was clearly having an effect on him.

When she got there he was leaning against the side of the cab, eyes closed, a faint beading of sweat on his forehead.

She was about to tell the driver to drive them both to Vasco’s flat, but then she thought of the lift, the long corridor to negotiate, possibly having to search his pockets for the key, and her heart quailed. Hastily she gave her own address instead.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ the driver jerked a thumb at Vasco. ‘As if I couldn’t guess,’ he added grimly. ‘I’m not taking him in that condition.’

‘Oh, please,’ Abby said urgently. ‘He—he’ll be all right, I swear he will.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ll pay you double fare if you’ll take him.’

‘Not necessary,’ the driver said. ‘As long as you understand, if he’s ill, I’m going to dump the pair of you, no matter where we are.’

Abby nodded. ‘Agreed,’ she said, then hesitated. ‘Could you—help me with him, please?’

‘Gawd help us!’ grumbled the driver, but he left his seat.

He kept a wary eye on them both in the mirror all the way back to the quiet street where she lived, but the journey was completed without mishap. Vasco lay in his corner of the seat, unspeaking, with his eyes closed. When they arrived at their destination the driver had mellowed sufficiently to offer to help her in with him.

‘Glad I won’t have his head in the morning,’ he muttered, as he supported Vasco’s tall body up the single flight of stairs. ‘Right, I’ll hold him, ducks, while you get the door open.’ As Abby complied, ‘Now where do you want him?’ He looked round the room. ‘On that couch?’

‘I think perhaps on the bed,’ Abby said hurriedly. ‘It’s behind that screen.’

He gave her a good-naturedly knowing look. ‘Just as you like, love, but your boyfriend won’t be much good to you tonight.’

Abby bit her lip. ‘He’s just a friend,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She added a generous tip to the fare on the meter, and saw him off the premises.

When she returned, Vasco was lying on top of the covers where the driver had left him, breathing stertorously. She shook him slightly, but he did not stir. Moving gently, she removed his shoes, and the silk socks beneath, then unfastened his tie, and after a struggle eased him out of his jacket.

And that, she thought ruefully, is as far as I go.

She pushed and heaved him into a more comfortable position, and arranged the bedspread over him, then switched off the bedside lamp and went back into the living area. She found a couple of spare blankets and spread them on the couch, before removing her own coat, dress and shoes and wriggling into their shelter.

The couch felt hard, and she was cramped, but if she’d been occupying a feather bed, she knew she would still not have slept. She lay staring into the darkness, thinking what a mess everything was. Della in Paris with a man she didn’t really love, Vasco drinking himself into a stupor, and herself involved up to her neck once again, and no happier for it.

She didn’t know how Vasco would react when he woke in the morning and discovered where he was, but she could guess. She had given him more than sufficient reason already to resent her interference.

She sighed, burying her face in an unfriendly cushion. It would be hard if she were to find herself the target for his anger and bitterness at their very last encounter, but she supposed it was inevitable.

And there was a curious, bitter-sweet pleasure in knowing that he was lying only a few yards away from her, sharing a roof with her for the first and last time, even if the circumstances were in no way what she had envisaged in her dreams.

She was glad too to know that she had been of service to him, although he was unlikely to welcome the fact.

Abigail Westmore, she thought painfully. The eternal handmaiden. And on that prosaic reflection, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

THE CRASH SEEMED to shake the room.

Abby sat up gasping, totally disorientated for a moment. It was early, she realised, probably not long past dawn, to judge by the pale grey light stealing in between the curtains. She struggled free of the morass of blankets and ran towards the flimsy partition which separated her sleeping area from the rest of the accommodation, her hand frantically searching for the switch of the overhead light.

As the light came on, she saw Vasco sitting up in bed, raking a hand through his dishevelled hair, his eyes blank with astonishment as they met hers. Clearly, he had woken before, because the rest of his clothes were now scattered across the floor. The bedside lamp was with them, she noticed, which explained the crash.

She said, ‘Are you all right? Were you having a bad dream?’

He said ‘Deus!’ and touched his forehead, wincing. ‘If I am, I think it is still going on.’

‘You’ll have a headache—shall I get you something for it? Some soluble aspirin, perhaps?’ Abby was anxious to escape suddenly.

Headache or not, Vasco’s eyes were travelling slowly over her, and she’d just realised the kind of spectacle she was presenting, barefoot, and clad in fragile bra and waist slip. She didn’t wait for his answer, but grabbed her robe from the chair where it was lying and fled to the bathroom on the other side of the landing which she shared with the two other girls on the same floor.

When she returned with the aspirin, he was very much in charge of the situation, sitting up fully now against the pillows.

He looked out of place, almost alien in the narrow bed with its charming frilled covers, like a tiger in a rose garden, and the breath caught in Abby’s throat as she made her way across the littered carpet.

She said huskily, ‘Here you are,’ and held out the glass, which he accepted. She bent and retrieved her lamp, noting thankfully that it didn’t seem to be broken after all.

He said softly, ‘Now, Abigail, where am I, and what am I doing here?’

Abby began to pick up his clothes and put them on the chair.

‘You’d had too much to drink,’ she said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I didn’t fancy trying to get you back into your apartment in that state, so I brought you here instead. End of story,’ she added with an insouciance she was far from feeling.

‘And do you expect me to be grateful for your attentions?’

‘No,’ she admitted wearily. ‘I think that would be unrealistic.’

‘I think that could describe the entire situation,’ drawled Vasco, looking at her through half-closed eyes. ‘Was it you who put me to bed?’

She nodded. ‘As best I could.’

‘I am not complaining, you understand,’ he said. ‘It is merely a new experience for me.’

‘It’s not exactly run of the mill for me either,’ Abby retorted tartly. ‘Now perhaps we could try and get some more sleep. It’s very early.’

‘Presently,’ he said, almost idly. ‘For the moment, all desire for sleep seems to have left me.’

‘But not me.’ She faked a yawn. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the couch.’

Vasco leaned across and switched on the mistreated lamp. ‘Perhaps you would switch off the main light as you go,’ he suggested.

‘Yes, of course.’ Her hand flew to the switch. ‘Well—goodnight.’

‘Boa noite.’ His voice held thinly veiled amusement, as if he recognised her unease, and the reasons for it. ‘And perhaps you would also take the glass away. I find my surroundings a little cramped, and wish to avoid any more noisy accidents which might disturb you again. I seem to have caused enough inconvenience already tonight.’

Abby trailed reluctantly back to the side of the bed and reached for the glass, but as she did so his fingers fastened like iron round her slender wrist, jerking her forward so that she fell in a tangle of robe on to the bed, and across his body.

Winded and gasping, she stared up at him. ‘Are you mad? Let me go at once!’

‘Oh, spare me the conventional protests, little cousin,’ he drawled derisively. ‘Why else did you bring me here?’

‘Because I wanted to help,’ Abby said breathlessly. ‘You—seemed in a bad way, and I didn’t think you should be alone.’

‘How noble of you, querida,’ mocked Vasco. ‘I have no argument with that. I am quite ready to be consoled, as you see.’

‘No!’ Abby wailed. ‘You don’t understand …’

‘I understand quite well.’ The long fingers slid into the neck of her robe, pushing it off her shoulders. ‘Your solicitude for me is charming, especially when you are only half dressed. You have aroused my—er—curiosity, senhorita. I wish to see more of you.’ With cool insolence, he untied her sash so that the robe fell open completely. ‘Bela,’ he said in lazy approval.

She said unevenly, ‘Please let me go. Whatever you may think, I didn’t intend this … I only wanted to help …’

‘And so you are, carinha, believe me.’ The dark eyes glittered down at her. With his fingertips he traced the creamy swell of her breasts above the scalloped edging of her bra, making it crazily difficult for her to breathe properly.

She must be dreaming, she thought faintly.

‘You may not have intended this,’ Vasco continued, making no attempt to disguise the scepticism in his voice, ‘but can you look me in the face and tell me you do not want it?’

It was an escape route, she realised dazedly. A way out of this emotional minefield that she desperately needed if she were to avoid making a total and abject fool of herself.

She felt his hand release the clasp of her bra, and gasped.

‘Tell me quickly.’ His voice deepened in challenge. ‘Do you want me to stop?’

Incredibly, shamingly, she was aware of her trembling mouth shaping, ‘No.’

It was madness, and she knew it. In a few hours, Vasco would be gone from her life for ever. He was taking her because she was there, and because he thought cynically that she had thrown herself at him, and neither of those were good enough reasons for what she was contemplating. Her sense of decency and self-respect alone should be making her draw back, making her reject the sensuous, lingering hands so expertly ridding her of her remaining scraps of clothing, the warm mouth hovering tantalisingly mere inches from her own.

But I love him, she thought feverishly, and at least I’ll have this to remember, when I’m alone again.

‘Touch me, little one.’ Vasco brushed his mouth across hers. ‘Show me what you want.’

Silently cursing her total inexperience, Abby lifted her hands to clasp the broad naked shoulders, pulling him down towards her. Vasco made a satisfied sound, deep in his throat, then kissed her again, stroking his tongue along the curve of her chastely closed mouth in intimate invitation. Her whole body seemed to sigh with pleasure as her lips parted for him. At the same time she was dimly aware that he was kicking aside the concealing covers to draw her closer, so that she lay against the warm, muscular length of his urgent body.

The touch of his bare skin against her own was a wild and potent magic. Of their own volition, it seemed, her shy hands began to move, to explore and caress, discovering the realities of bone, muscle and sinew. She was beyond all fantasy already. The most her wistful dreams had ever created for her was, perhaps, a brief kiss under the mistletoe at some Christmas reunion.

Then the dark head bent towards her breasts, and Abby’s head fell back as a little startled cry escaped her. Vasco’s mouth felt like the brush of silk against her slender, scented curves, his tongue a smoothly sensual torment as it explored the swollen heat of her nipples. For the first time in her life she felt her whole body clench in an agony of fierce and frantic excitement.

So this was desire, some part of her brain thought dazedly. It was light years away from the kind of pallid enjoyment she had experienced from Keith’s kisses.

His hands were moving, gliding caressingly over each curve and hollow, down the length of her body to her hips. He paused then, tantalising her, as his fingers traced slow, erotic spirals across the flat planes of her stomach. She lay still and pliant, letting the need, the anticipation build like a quiet storm within her.

Vasco kissed her mouth again, and this time her response was immediate, her lips parting hungrily in sensuous ardour, her own tongue moving in restless delight against his.

Her body was melting in abandonment, her slender thighs slackening involuntarily, as his hand moved again, sensually insistent, explicitly demanding. Shock jarred through her being, commingled with piercing, blinding desire.

‘Touch me,’ he commanded again, his voice husky.

She knew the kind of intimacy he was demanding from her, and for a moment her inhibitions rushed back to engulf her. It suddenly occurred to her that everything was moving too far too fast. She wasn’t ready for this, any of it. Because no matter how wantonly her body might be reacting to the almost calculated expertise of his lovemaking, in her mind she was still Abigail Westmore, spinster.

Impatient at her hesitation, Vasco captured her hand and carried it to his body in silent exhortation. Momentarily she was stunned, shattered by her own ignorance and inexperience. Then, shyly at first, then with increasing confidence, her caresses paid homage to the strength and power of his maleness, while he murmured his enjoyment against her body.

She had at some point stopped thinking, it seemed. In place of the composed, rational being she’d taken for granted was some wild, mindless creature, wholly at the mercy of her sensations and instincts. Touching, she knew dimly, was not enough. Her body burned and ached for more, and as if he sensed her passionate desperation Vasco moved, poising himself to claim her.

His mouth took hers hungrily, almost violently, and at the same moment his body pushed into hers in stark, compelling demand.

Suddenly, horrifyingly, Abby was in pain. She cried out against his lips, her eyes dilating in panic and confusion, trying to wrench her wincing body away from him.

She thought he would stop. But he did not. Instead, his hands slid under her hips, lifting her slightly towards him as he thrust forward, subjugating her completely. She tore her mouth from his, moaning, biting at her lip.

‘Idiota! Why didn’t you tell me?’ His voice was husky. ‘Be still, or there will be more hurting.’

He made no attempt to move, either to withdraw, or further his possession of her. Instead he held her in his arms until the hurt-frightened trembling subsided, and she was quiescent under the imprisonment of his body.

Then, without giving her time to protest, he began to kiss her again, tiny, fleeting caresses on her face, throat and breasts. The motion of his body inside her was gentle too, coaxing her to join him in some universal rhythm.

She could feel this strange beguilement reaching for her, enfolding her, seducing her against her will, and beyond all control. But she had to fight it. Had to, or she would be lost for ever. Her mind saw this with a cold clarity. This new subtlety, this appearance of tenderness meant nothing at all. He was using her, that was all, manipulating a situation her own naïveté had created.

He didn’t care about her, and why should he? She was merely a convenient body to be enjoyed, and that wasn’t enough. It could never be enough.

A voice she hardly recognised as her own said, ‘Stop—please!’

‘Deus, querida!’ It emerged as a groan of disbelief. ‘You cannot mean it?’ His eyes met hers in a kind of anguish. ‘Are you in pain still?’

‘Yes.’ Her face was set and stony as she looked back at him.

He said something softly in his own language, and for a moment his hand stroked her hair back from her damp forehead. The unexpected caress almost unnerved her. It made her want to cling to him, to tell him everything she felt for him in her heart, and that was impossible.

She saw his dark face tauten, felt his possession of her quicken, deepen almost to savagery, heard a hoarse cry of satisfaction torn from his throat, and then it was over. Vasco collapsed beside her and lay breathing raggedly, his face buried in his folded arms.

Abby lay still, staring up at the ceiling. She felt bemused, cheated, every inch of her body crying out for the fulfilment she had denied it. The risk of self-betrayal now seemed small, compared with the agony she was currently experiencing, but it was still real, and his continuing presence beside her was a threat to her self-command.

Swallowing past the knot in her throat, she put out a tentative hand and touched his sweat-dampened shoulder.

‘Will you go now, please?’

There was a silence, then Vasco lifted himself up on to an elbow and stared at her, the dark brows twisted in a frown.

‘We need to talk,’ he said brusquely.

‘No!’ The sound was almost violent, and Abby made a grab for an appearance of composure at least, when she saw the astonishment in his eyes. ‘There’s—really—nothing to talk about, and I want you to leave. Now.’

For a long moment he watched her broodingly, then the bronze shoulders lifted almost negligently in a brief shrug. ‘As you wish.’

He threw back the covers and got out of bed.

For a few heart-stopping seconds Abby’s eyes drank in every strong, supple line of his magnificent body, then she turned resolutely on to her side and lay, eyes closed, listening to the small sounds of him dressing.

Then there was silence, with Abby desperately conscious that he was standing beside the bed, looking down at her. She lay rigidly, eyes clamped shut, nails curling into the palms of her hands.

Let him think she was asleep, she prayed soundlessly and absurdly. Let him—just go.

At last she heard him sigh, and move away towards the door. Then his voice, quiet and almost mocking. ‘Adeus—handmaiden.’

She didn’t reply, or give the smallest sign that she was aware of his departure. Only when she heard the flat door open and close behind him did she dare relax, and allow herself the luxury of her first slow, bitter tears.

She awoke late the next morning, and lay for a long time, trying to summon the energy to get up and tackle the usual weekend chores.

The other tenants were away, spending the weekend with their parents as usual, so Abby was able to spend a long time in the bath, washing her skin and her hair as if she was taking part in some ritual cleansing ceremony. As she dried herself, she inspected herself almost clinically in the mirror. It seemed impossible she should look the same after what had happened, yet she did, apart from the shadows under her eyes, and a few reddened patches on her body where Vasco’s rougher skin had grazed her.

They would fade soon, she told herself vehemently. Then there would be nothing to remind her what an abject, appalling fool she’d made of herself.

For once she didn’t bother to get dressed. She just put on her robe, while she started straightening her small domain, starting with her sleeping quarters. She dragged the sheets and covers from the bed, turned the mattress, and re-made the bed completely and immaculately, before embarking on a thorough dusting, polishing and vacuuming. She had to push herself to do it, but it seemed the only way in which she could exorcise Vasco’s presence from the room. And she needed to do that if she was to preserve some kind of sanity.

Last night had been madness, from that first moment when she had walked towards him across the crowded bar. In some secret compartment of her mind, she’d known what would happen. She’d wanted it to happen—had created it perhaps from her own need. And now she had to block it out. Forget it.

She knew she ought to go out and buy food, but she couldn’t face the thought of the bustling shopping centre, and the cheerful repartee of the shopkeepers who had become used to her regular custom. She would manage on whatever there was in the tiny fridge.

By evening the flat shone, but it had been the longest day she had ever spent, and the walls were beginning to close in on her claustrophobically.

She heated herself a tin of soup in the communal kitchen, and toasted a bread roll to go with it. She was tempted to eat there too, but the silence seemed oppressive, and eventually she carried the tray back to her flat, and had her meal by the fire. She turned on the television and sat through a raucously cheerful quiz show, before turning to a disaster movie on another channel. But the trials and tribulations of the assorted misfits threatened with total annihilation by an impending tidal wave seemed minor, compared with her own problems.

‘Serves them right,’ she muttered.

She was going to turn the set off, when the doorbell rang, and she stiffened. It was probably Keith, calling to apologise for his bad-tempered departure the previous night. She hadn’t the slightest wish to see him, or hear any apology he might wish to make. And if she kept quiet, he might go away.

The doorbell sounded again imperiously, and she sighed. Of course. The passage was in darkness, and he would see her light shining under the door.

She took a reluctant step towards the door, then halted, as another realisation burst on her. It might not be Keith at all. It could well be Della, hotfoot from Paris, and demanding to know what had happened to her letter.

Abby’s mouth felt dry suddenly, and she passed her tongue rapidly over her lips. Oh God, she couldn’t face Della, or the inevitable scene that would ensue.

Now that her cousin’s scheme for bringing Vasco to heel had gone disastrously wrong, she would be looking round for a scapegoat, and Abby was already too consumed with unhappy guilt to be able to cope.

The bell stopped ringing, and she drew a sigh of relief. But any hope that she was to be left in peace proved shortlived. Her visitor was now knocking on the door in a crescendo of sound which would disturb every other tenant in the building.

‘All right,’ she called wearily. ‘Just a minute!’

As she unfastened the latch, the door was pushed determinedly from the outside, and Vasco da Carvalho walked in. He slammed the door behind him and stood regarding her grimly.

Abby’s hand stole to her throat. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded croakily.

‘To talk to you.’ His tone was silken but implacable. ‘Or did you really think I could be banished so easily?’

‘I told you—there’s nothing to discuss,’ she began, but with a snort of impatience he took her arm and propelled her to the sofa.

‘Sit down,’ he directed curtly, walking to the television set and pressing the off-switch.

Abby’s brows lifted haughtily. ‘Please make yourself at home.’

He sent her a sardonic look. ‘I think I already did so—don’t you?’ Two swift strides brought him back to her side. He seemed to dwarf the room, she thought helplessly, and not merely because of his height either.

He took her small, cold hands in his and drew her down on the sofa beside him.

There was a silence, then, ‘Look at me,’ he ordered softly.

She obeyed reluctantly, looking up into his set, unsmiling face, and wondering whether she felt more wretched than foolish, and if it really mattered anyway.

He said, ‘Why did you not tell me you were a virgin?’

She shook her head, allowing a defensive curtain of hair to fall across her face. ‘I—I didn’t think it made any difference.’

He sighed. ‘You cannot be that naïve. Did you imagine I would be flattered by such a sacrifice from you?’

‘I—I wasn’t thinking very clearly at all.’ To her horror, a tear squeezed under her lashes and ran down her cheek. Vasco said something soft and pungent in his own tongue, then brushed the drop of moisture from her face with his forefinger.

‘It is too late for tears,’ he told her brusquely. ‘Now, we must consider what is to be done.’

‘There’s nothing,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m just being stupid and—and female. It happened, and now it’s over, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘There could be a great deal more.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Has it not occurred to you, little fool, that there could be a child?’

Her breath caught. ‘No—it’s not possible …’ Her voice broke off in a little distressed wail.

‘It is entirely so,’ Vasco assured her grimly. He paused, watching the play of colour under her delicate skin, and the way her hands twisted together in her lap. ‘I blame myself bitterly, if that is any consolation,’ he went on tonelessly. ‘You—learn quickly for a novice, otherwise I might have suspected the truth and brought the situation to a halt before any real harm was done. But I wasn’t thinking clearly either. Having discovered that your cousin was a whore, it suited my purpose to believe that you were one also.’

‘That’s not fair!’ Abby protested.

‘To you—undoubtedly not.’ The dark face hardened into bitter implacability. ‘To her—entirely. When I would not pay her price, she sold herself to another fool.’ He shook his head. ‘But that does not excuse my conduct towards you.’ He gave her a measuring look. ‘Although, as I have said, much of that could have been avoided if you had told me how innocent you were.’

‘It never occurred to me that you’d—know.’ Her gaze fell away. ‘I didn’t realise either what—it would be like …’

Vasco’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘As to that, I think you were a little unlucky, querida. And I could have made it—easier for you, had I known …’ He paused again. ‘Com a breca, what am I saying? Had I been—warned, I would never have taken you at all.’

She still didn’t look at him. ‘Vasco—if you’re thinking that I’ll tell Della, I won’t, I promise. You were angry last night, and you had too much to drink, and you said a lot of things you didn’t mean. You can’t just—stop loving someone, no matter what they do.’

‘Whether or not I still love your cousin is immaterial,’ he said harshly. ‘She has made it impossible for our marriage to take place. I do not take as my wife another man’s leavings.’

‘You won’t give her a chance to explain?’

Vasco shrugged. ‘No explanations are possible. I have spent today telephoning my family and friends and telling them the wedding will not take place. I have also spoken to your aunt and uncle, who will make the necessary announcement in the papers.’

‘It all sounds—very final.’ Abby bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘You have nothing to regret. Both Della and I seem to have—used you as a pawn in our selfish games. I can only ask you to forgive me, Abigail, and allow me to make amends to you.’

‘There’s no need.’ Her face burned. ‘You see, you were right about one thing. I—I wanted it to happen …’

‘Yes, I think that is true,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Which encourages me to say what I must.’ He took one of her nerveless hands and lifted it swiftly to his lips. He said softly, ‘Marry me, querida. Be my wife.’

CHAPTER THREE

ABBY SAID FAINTLY, ‘Have you gone quite mad?’

The dark brows rose. ‘I don’t think so. It seems to me that my—proposition is the only sensible solution to a number of problems.’

He’d said ‘proposition,’ she thought, not ‘proposal’.

She said, ‘I suppose you’re thinking about my being pregnant again.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Well, you have no need to worry. I—I’m on the Pill.’

Vasco’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do not believe you,’ he said flatly. ‘Now think again.’

A mutinous flush rose in her face. She stared down at the carpet. ‘It’s hardly likely, after all. Not after …’

‘You are not merely innocent but ignorant,’ Vasco said acidly. ‘But as proof is beyond both of us at this time, it might be wiser to presume that it has happened. And I cannot return to Brazil, Abigail, and leave you in this uncertainty.’

She bit her lip. ‘I could write to you—if the worst came to the worst.’

‘Thank you,’ he said coldly. ‘You presume that I will then be able to drop my responsibilities to the plantation and rush back to Britain.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘No—when I leave, I shall not return.’ The long fingers cupped her face, making her face him. ‘And when I go, I intend to take my wife with me. You, senhorita.’

Her throat felt constricted. ‘Vasco, you still love Della. It isn’t too late. She doesn’t want to marry Jeremy Portman, I swear it. It was just the thought of Riocho Negro that frightened her. It’s so different from anything she’s ever experienced. She’s used to shops—theatres, restaurants. They’re part of her world.’

‘I know that.’ His face was brooding. ‘I was prepared to make allowances. But not to submit to emotional blackmail.’

‘But you could meet her half-way,’ Abby insisted almost feverishly. ‘Couldn’t you set some time limit—assure her that eventually you’ll take her to live in Rio?’

‘You seem to be suffering from the same misapprehension as your cousin. Understand this, Abigail. Riocho Negro is mine. It belongs to me, and it owns me too, as I tried to explain to Della. There was never the remotest possibility of my returning to live in Rio.’

‘Perhaps she didn’t realise,’ she persisted.

‘Let us be honest. Della did not wish to realise, although I explained the position over and over again.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘Now I must tell you. I inherited the plantation at Riocho Negro from a distant cousin, Afonso da Carvalho. His family had occupied the land there for several generations, growing cacao, and he wrote during one of my vacations from the university inviting me to visit him. As we had almost lost touch with that side of our family, I agreed. I was young enough to consider it an adventure.’

‘And wasn’t it?’

‘At first, yes. Afonso was much older than myself, and had married late. His wife was very young, and an angel, expecting their first child. He had made elaborate arrangements for this important birth. Beatriz was to be taken in good time to a clinic in Manaus. Everything seemed fine.’

His face grew bleak. ‘Then one morning, he was called out to look at some of his young trees. They were showing signs of disease—a fungus called witch’s broom, which can only be cured by destroying and burning the damaged trees. It was a setback he did not need, although God knows he should have been used to it by that time. Ants, pests, a variety of diseases attack the trees constantly. Vigilance is always needed to protect the crop.’ He sighed. ‘We had just begun clearing the diseased trees when a message came from the house. Beatriz was in labour, six weeks before her time. A doctor was sent for from the settlement, but it was too late. There were complications, and within hours both his wife and son were dead.’

He shook his head. ‘Afterwards, he was a different man. He seemed to lose all will to live—to fight, and I worried about him, about what he might do. I should have returned to university to take up my studies, but I knew it was impossible. Afonso needed me, so I stayed.’

‘Wasn’t that rather hard on you?’ asked Abby. ‘You were very young to be faced with such a decision.’

Vasco shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I had grown fond of Afonso, and his Beatriz. I understood his grief, and shared it. As time went by he came to rely on me more and more. He began to drink, and I found I was running the plantation with the help of his overseer. At first, I was interested in the cacao crop because I had to be, but eventually I found my interest was genuine. It presented the kind of challenge I would never have met in the comfortable, cushioned existence planned for me in Rio. When Afonso died, leaving me the plantation, I was elated. It never crossed my mind that I was free to return to Rio and take up my life there again. In my heart I had already become part of Riocho Negro. As,’ he added drily, ‘I tried to tell your cousin.’

‘She couldn’t have understood,’ Abby began, but he interrupted, his dark brows snapping together.

‘No, Abigail. It is you who does not understand. My engagement to your cousin is over, and I have asked you to be my wife. I am still waiting for an answer.’

There was a long silence. Abby’s heart was bumping against her ribs. She said, ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Why is that?’ His eyes were fixed unnervingly on her face. She shrugged. ‘Because—well, we’re strangers to each other.’

‘But intimate strangers, you must agree.’ His grin was slow and amused, and she found her own lips reluctantly curving in acknowledgement. ‘Besides, querida, if I’m honest, the possibility of a child is not the only consideration. My neighbours, the workers on the plantation, are expecting me to return married. To go back to Riocho Negro alone would not be a pleasant experience. In such a small community, there would be gossip—speculation.’

‘And you think they’ll say nothing if you turn up with the wrong woman?’ Abby asked. ‘Or do you expect me to masquerade as Della?’

‘Of course not,’ he said impatiently. ‘Why do you insist on mentioning her at every opportunity?’

‘Because she exists.’ Abby waved a hand, rather wildly. ‘You can’t just—dismiss people from your life like that!’

‘The decision was hers alone.’ His face and voice were implacable. ‘The only decision that now concerns me is your own.’

‘But it seems so cold-blooded,’ she protested.

‘Is that what you think?’ he asked cynically. ‘I thought last night would have taught you differently. I am now trying to be practical, yielding to the pressure of our circumstances.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Yes, we are little more than strangers,’ he went on, more gently. ‘But in my world, still, that is not so unusual. Besides,’ he paused again, ‘you cannot deny that in one area at least, we would be—compatible.’

The note in his voice, the overtly sensual reminiscence in his glance, brought the colour flaring in Abby’s face. She said, stammering a little, ‘I don’t know how you can say that, after—after …’

‘After you allowed your sense of grievance at my brutality to supersede everything else,’ he said sardonically. ‘But you must admit that until the moment of truth you had enjoyed being in my arms. You have admitted you wanted it to happen, and I regret that you found the experience a disappointment. Next time will be very different, I promise, carinha.’

‘You don’t have to promise anything,’ Abby said shakily. ‘I—I never want you to touch me again. I couldn’t bear that. That’s why I can’t marry you, Vasco. If there’s a baby, I’ll cope somehow. People do these days. It isn’t the stigma it once was, really …’

His hand fastened on her arm, the fingers biting into her flesh. ‘And you think I can be content with that?’ he demanded harshly. ‘Going back to Riocho Negro in ignorance, never to know, or set eyes on my firstborn? You imagine, do you, that I have no rights in such a matter?’ He shook his head. ‘You are wrong, senhorita. If you carry the heir to Riocho Negro in your body, then I intend him to be born with my name.’ He paused. ‘As for your not wishing to be touched,’ he smiled derisively, ‘I intend to change your mind on that score.’

He pulled her to him before she could take any form of evasive action, his hand twisting in her soft hair, holding her head still, as his mouth possessed her startled lips.

She braced her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, and instead reviving the aching memory of what it was like to feel the warmth of him under her fingers without the barrier of clothing.

Almost instinctively her hands curled like a small cat’s claws into his hard body, and as if he sensed her yielding, Vasco released his punishing grip to allow his own hands to slide the slender, graceful length of her spine, moulding her body against his as the kiss deepened passionately.

When he lifted his head, Abby was dazed and breathless. He had turned her in his arms so that she was lying across him, cradled on his powerful thighs. There was a faint flush along his high cheekbones, and the dark eyes glittered as they looked down at her.

‘Well, carinha?’ There was mockery in his voice, but overlaid with something rather more potent and disturbing. ‘Shall I prove to you exactly how compatible we could be?’

Her eyes dilated as she looked up into his face. She was afraid suddenly of the fierce emotion his caress had engendered. And coupled with the fear was a knot of almost savage anticipation, as her passion-starved body reminded her of its frustration.

Where would be the harm? the siren’s voice whispered beguilingly in her mind. Why shouldn’t she give herself once more to the man she loved, let herself know fulfilment before she sent him away for ever? It might be madness, but wasn’t it a greater insanity to deprive herself of the last opportunity to know the pleasure he had promised her, and which she craved?

She was at the edge of surrender, her hands lifting wordlessly to touch him, when the sound of the doorbell intruded jarringly, bringing her back to reality with a jolt.

She sat up sharply, pulling away from his gently exploring hands, dragging the loosened folds of her robe more securely round her.

‘There’s someone at the door!’

Vasco restrained her, his hand stroking the nape of her neck. ‘They will go away,’ he whispered.

‘You didn’t,’ she said sharply, as she released herself with renewed determination.

‘No, but I had reason.’ He lifted one shoulder in a shrug of resignation. ‘Get rid of them quickly, querida, and come back to me.’

That was the last thing she would do, Abby thought as she went to the door, almost tripping on her robe in her haste. The unknown caller was her salvation, a blunt reminder of the reality which lurked just outside her sensual dream world with Vasco.

Marrying him, living with him on terms of intimacy, was impossible. And letting him make love to her was equally so, if she wanted to go on keeping the secret of her love for him. When all control was gone, self-betrayal was all too probable.

If it was Keith on the doorstep, she thought as she struggled with the recalcitrant lock—or was it just that her hands were shaking?—she would have to use him somehow to get Vasco out of the flat, and out of her life.

She was rehearsing a greeting as she opened the door, but it was never to be uttered. Her jaw dropped. ‘Della?’

‘Yes, Della,’ her cousin said impatiently. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

Abby said numbly, ‘But you’re in Paris.’

‘I was.’ Della’s lip curled. ‘I’ve come back for an explanation. What did you do with my letter?’

‘I delivered it.’ Abby hung on to the door handle. ‘Dell, I can’t discuss it now. I’ll come tomorrow and …’

‘You’ll talk now,’ snapped Della, her lovely face mottled by an unbecoming flush. ‘And you won’t tell me any more lies. You never delivered that letter. I stayed by that bloody phone until midnight, waiting for him to call, so he can’t have received it. So what did you do with it, you scheming little bitch?’

‘Dell, go home, please!’ Della was trying to push past her, but Abby blocked her way determinedly. ‘Tomorrow everything will be all right again. I—I’ll fix it somehow and …’

‘You’ll fix it?’ echoed Della, rage mingling with astonishment. She took Abby by the shoulders, removing her from her path. ‘What the hell makes you think …’ Her voice froze into silence as she walked into the flat. When she turned back to look at her cousin, the expression of her face made Abby recoil.

‘You mealy-mouthed cow,’ Della said at last, her voice uneven. ‘So this is what’s been going on. You decided to make a grab for yourself. No wonder there was no answer when I called his apartment!’

‘Della.’ Abby’s mouth was dry. ‘This isn’t as it seems …’

But Vasco’s drawl cut across her stumbling. ‘Why bother, carinha? After all, it is exactly as it seems.’ He had discarded his jacket and tie, she noticed dazedly, and undone the buttons of his shirt. He was on his feet, standing hands on hips, regarding Della, his expression enigmatic.

‘Vasco darling!’ Della’s voice throbbed dramatically. ‘How could you do this to me—to us? You knew I was waiting for you in Paris …’

He shrugged. ‘That is not the impression your letter gave,’ he said coldly. ‘In any case, I found your terms unacceptable. You wished to marry a Rio businessman, not an Amazonian cocoa planter. I wish you better fortune in your next foray into matrimony.’

A little muscle jerked in Della’s face. ‘But the wedding’s in two weeks!’

‘It was,’ he corrected with a chill that seemed to penetrate Abby’s bones. ‘I regret the inconvenience the cancellation will cause—unless Senhor Portman can be prevailed on to take my place.’

‘Darling,’ pleaded Della with a sob, ‘Jeremy means nothing to me. I was just saying that—to make you see how strongly I felt …’

‘Then you succeeded admirably,’ Vasco said tersely. His face looked as if it had been chiselled from granite. ‘You have convinced me that there are differences between us which could never be reconciled in marriage.’

‘But you’re being unreasonable,’ Della said rapidly. She was off balance now, really frightened, Abby realised with compassion. ‘I want you—you know that. Perhaps I went too far, but I’m prepared to forgive your little—romp with Goody-Two-Shoes here. Surely you can meet me half-way?’ She gave Abby a look of molten vindictiveness.

Vasco looked at her too, and his voice gentled. ‘Get dressed, querida. I’ve booked a table at a restaurant for our celebration.’

‘What celebration?’ Della almost spat. ‘What the hell’s going on here? Darling,’ she swung back to Vasco, spreading her hands appealingly, ‘I’ve told you—I’ll overlook this. I’ve no doubt the little bitch threw herself at you, and …’

‘You will not speak of my future wife in those terms.’ Vasco’s quiet, even words hit the room like a thunderbolt. ‘Now, it would be better if you left.’

‘Wife?’ Della’s voice was so choked with rage, and other emotions, it was hardly recognisable. ‘My God, you mean you’re actually going to marry this ugly, flat-chested little tart, this bloody little snake in the grass …’

Vasco walked forward and took her by the arm. ‘Allow me to escort you to the street,’ he said coldly. ‘Where your language belongs.’ He glanced back at Abigail. ‘Get dressed,’ he told her again. ‘There isn’t a great deal of time.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.