Who Rides A Tiger

She was in the process of deciding whether or not to order a third glass of Coca-cola when she became aware that a man was scrutinizing her very intently from a table half-way across the room. She gave him a cool quelling stare, but it produced no result that she could see. Instead, he lifted his glass of spirit from the table and tipping his chair back on two legs surveyed her rather appraisingly.

Really, she thought impatiently, this was too much!

Sliding off the bar-stool on which she had been perched, she lifted her overnight case and marched purposefully towards the door. However, she was forced to pass the man’s table and despite her annoyance at his insolence she could not resist taking a second look at him. He was certainly one of the most attractive men she had ever seen – dark-haired and dark-skinned, with eyes of a strange light tawny colour that gave her a rather mocking stare as she passed. He was lean, with hard features that she thought could look almost cruel on occasions. He seemed to epitomize all that was alien and unfamiliar and dangerous in this alien, unfamiliar and dangerous country. She shivered, and pushing open the door emerged into the wide reception hall.

Sighing, she looked about her, praying for a sight of John. Didn’t he realize how strange and nervous she was bound to feel here? What could possibly have delayed him for so long? Surely he couldn’t have had an accident! Could he?

She walked across the hall and seated herself on one of the comfortable chairs, and taking out her cigarettes she lit one, drawing on it deeply. Tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair, she was absorbed with her own anxieties and was unaware of anyone approaching her until a deep, masculine voice said:

‘You are Miss Mallory, are you not? Miss Dominique Mallory?’

Dominique started, and her eyes widened as she looked up into the face of the man from the bar.

Recovering her composure, she said, with as much coolness as she could muster: ‘You know my name?’

The man stood before her, regarding her almost derisively, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of the trousers of the immaculate dark silk suit he was wearing.

‘There are not too many unescorted English women filling in time at Galeao,’ he remarked lazily.

Dominique stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. She felt at less of a disadvantage that way. Even so, despite her own height, he was still much taller than she was.

‘Please be more explicit,’ she said, trying to sound cold and aloof, and failing.

He shrugged. ‘Of course, Miss Mallory. Forgive me for wasting your most valuable time!’ He was mocking her again. ‘My name is Vincente Santos. I am a – shall we say – colleague of your fiancе’s.’

Dominique relaxed a little. ‘Oh, I see,’ she exclaimed. ‘Is John not coming after all?’

‘Unfortunately no. He has been delayed. I will explain more fully in a few moments. Is this all your luggage?’

Dominique hesitated, glanced down at her case, and rubbed her nose thoughtfully. ‘Er – do you – I mean – have you any means of identification?’

The man half-smiled. ‘You do not trust me?’

Dominique compressed her lips. He was making it very difficult for her.

‘It’s not you in particular, you understand,’ she said hastily. ‘Only you might be anybody. You could easily have heard my name from one of the airport officials, and – well ….’ She spread her hands expressively.

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘You are right, of course, Miss Mallory,’ he replied, with a slight bow of his head. ‘It is always safer to take precautions. However, I can assure you I am who I say I am. There is only one Vincente Santos!’

Dominique stared at him. Was he serious? Really, the conceit of the man!

‘Don’t you have any papers?’ she asked stiffly. ‘A driver’s licence, perhaps?’

Vincente Santos patiently withdrew his wallet from his pocket and produced a passport and an international driving licence. Dominique barely glanced at them, certain that no would-be abductor could be so sure of himself.

‘Thank you,’ she said, glancing down at her case. ‘This is all my luggage. My other cases were sent independently.’

Vincente Santos nodded, and putting away his wallet bent and lifted the case. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and strode away across the hall so that Dominique had almost to run to keep up with him.

Outside the airport buildings the heat hit her like an actual physical force, and she gasped. The air-conditioning inside had not prepared her for this. Santos glanced her way.

‘This is cooler than in the middle of the day,’ he remarked. ‘You’ll soon get used to it.’

Dominique managed a faint smile. Already she was wishing that John had asked someone else to meet her. Someone who was less blatantly attractive and sure of himself. With Vincente Santos she felt at a disadvantage, and despite the fact that he was faultlessly polite, she had the feeling that he was merely amusing himself at her expense.

A sleek green convertible awaited them outside the airport, and Vincente Santos threw her case unceremoniously into the back, and then opened the door for her to climb in. Dominique slid in and waited for him to join her, taking in the delicious perfumes of a positive riot of flowers that grew beside the paved car park. The colours were brilliant and various and she felt an unwilling shiver of excitement slide along her spine. Towering above were the ragged peaks of the Serras, and away in the distance the blue wash of the Atlantic. It was exotic and exhilarating after the greyness of London, and even Santos’s lazy tolerance seemed to lose some of its mockery.

He climbed in beside her, saw her expressive face, and smiled, revealing even white teeth that contrasted sharply with the dark tan of his features.

‘You have not been to Brazil before?’ he murmured, turning the ignition.

Dominique shook her head. ‘No.’

‘But already you feel the pulse of our country,’ he remarked casually, and drove the car out of the parking area.

Dominique liked his expression. That was exactly how she did feel. The excitement which had gripped her before the plane landed was returning, and with it a sense of awareness of her surroundings. There was something primitive and untamed about the country, even with its soaring skyscrapers and luxury apartments. How could anyone forget that the Matto Grosso was not too far away with its impenetrable forests and dangerous rivers where a man could be lost without trace? Just another of the facets of a country as complex as its history. Maybe it was that sense of the unknown that thrilled her so. Like the impetus that drove a man to risk his life to discover the savagery of primitive civilizations.

She became aware that Vincente Santos was speaking to her and endeavoured to orientate herself to her present situation.

‘You used to live in London, I believe,’ he was saying.

Dominique nodded. ‘That’s right. At least, in the suburbs. Tell me, why didn’t John come to meet me? And where are we going now?’

He smiled again. ‘I was beginning to think you had forgotten the purpose for your visit here,’ he remarked lazily. And then: ‘Bela Vista where you are to live is in these mountains, but the roads are not to be recommended. They are little more than tracks in places. Do not imagine though that Bela Vista is an uncivilized place. It has its museum and its art gallery and its university. But to get there – ah, that is another matter.’

Dominique wrinkled her nose. ‘Go on.’

He shrugged expressively. ‘There was a landslide on the road.’

Dominique gasped. ‘Was – was anyone hurt?’

‘No. But your fiancе was – what do you say? – stranded. So he telephoned me.’

‘You – you were in Rio?’ questioned Dominique slowly.

‘No, I was in Bela Vista.’

Dominique gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Please, Mr. Santos, don’t tease me. How could you get here and not John?’

Vincente Santos swung the car round a precipitous bend in the road, causing Dominique to cling apprehensively to her seat, and then said: ‘I have other means of transport. A helicopter!’

‘Oh! Oh, I see!’ Dominique nodded. ‘I naturally assumed ….’ She shrugged. ‘Do you live in Bela Vista, Mr. Santos?’

‘I live in many places,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘But I do have a house at Bela Vista, yes.’

Dominique digested this, and as she did so she wondered whether he might be John’s employer. After all, the names were the same, but Santos was a common enough name in Brazil. If this man was part of the organization what was his connection with her fiancе? How well did he know John, and conversely, how well did John know him? There were a hundred questions she wanted to ask but couldn’t. Instead, she said:

‘Are we going to Bela Vista now?’