Mask Of Scars

Christina shrugged lightly. ‘I’m interested, that’s all. It’s not every day one hears of such a person.’

Bruce seemed satisfied with her explanation, for he said: ‘He lives at the Quinta Ramirez. His estate.’

Christina ran her finger over the surface of the table. ‘I suppose that’s some distance away,’ she ventured probingly.

‘Not far. The estate begins just beyond the village. He owns most of the land hereabouts. The Quinta itself is quite a showplace, I’m told. Naturally I’ve never been there.’

‘Why naturally?’

Bruce smiled. ‘Men like Ramirez don’t mix with people like us. Besides, I believe he doesn’t encourage social callers.’

‘But you have met him?’

‘Oh, yes. At the time I leased the hotel, I met him at his office in Faro, and since I’ve seen him a couple of times. Why? Why this curiosity about a man you’re never likely to meet?’

Christina coloured. ‘Just feminine inquisitiveness, I suppose,’ she replied, realising she could not go on asking questions. But Bruce had not said the one thing which would have identified Dom Carlos once and for all as the man she had encountered on the beach.

Sheila returned with the tray of coffee and placed it on the low table and Christina suppressed all thoughts of the man. Besides, what did it matter? No doubt Dom Carlos, if that indeed was his name, had forgotten all about her by now.

During the afternoon, Bruce took Christina on her promised tour of the village, finishing at the harbour where Bruce’s boat, Fantasma, was moored. There were several tourists down at the harbour looking at the boats, but although this was the height of the season there was none of the commercialisation in Porto Cedro that could be found further along the coast. Christina wondered how long it would remain unspoilt, but when she mentioned her doubts to Bruce, he replied:

‘So long as Dom Carlos wants it this way, it will stay as it is. He owns the land. If he doesn’t sell, the developers can’t build their ghastly concrete monstrosities that they call hotels in Porto Cedro.’

Christina was tempted to use the opening to ask more questions, but something distracted her attention and the moment passed.

After the evening meal, she was glad to sit in the lounge of the hotel until bedtime. It had been an extraordinarily exhausting day and she decided to go to bed soon after nine o’clock. But although she was tired she could not sleep. Thoughts of the man from the beach haunted her. How did he come to be scarred so dreadfully? What kind of experience had been responsible for that disfiguration that was at once ugly and attractive? What kind of effect had it had on his life? His family? Was he married? Did he have any children of his own? He could have, quite easily. She judged his age to be somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, but it was difficult to be certain.

She sighed. It was crazy lying here pondering over a man who had treated her with nothing but arrogance and contempt, and yet her naturally responsive nature would not allow her to bear malice for long and she was passionately curious to learn more about him.

The next morning, she bathed before seven, returning to the hotel before Sheila had chance to comment on her non-appearance. Julio looked at her wet hair reproachfully as she came in.

‘You did not tell me,’ he said, indicating the swimsuit dangling wetly from her fingers. ‘I would have come with you.’

Christina smiled. ‘I didn’t think your mother would approve!’ she taunted him.

‘I approve—and that is what counts,’ he murmured insistently, and she laughed and went up to her room.

Later in the morning, Sheila sent her to the market to buy some fresh fruit. Clad in her poplin dress, her still damp hair secured with an elastic band, a basket on her arm, she felt she mingled well with the other Portuguese women there, but she was unaware that her golden colouring could not help but distinguish her from the crowd.

She was considering the price of melons when there was a murmur about her, and she looked round in surprise, wondering what had disturbed everyone. A tall man was making his way between the stalls coming in her direction, nodding and giving an occasional smile to the people he passed. The women in the crowd drew back respectfully, pulling their children out of his path so that Christina was reminded of peasants in the presence of royalty. But it was the man himself who imprisoned her attention, a lean, dark man, dressed immaculately in a navy silk suit with a matching navy shirt and tie. And as he neared Christina her stomach muscles tightened as she saw again the livid scar on his tanned cheek.

She lifted her startled eyes and met his curiously light ones, and as her nerves tingled she noticed the length and thickness of his lashes. He had recognised her, she knew, and she turned to the stallholder with almost desperate urgency, asking the price of the melons.

‘Momento, menina,’ he exclaimed, almost scandalised that she should expect him to serve her when obviously someone of importance was approaching.

Christina turned away, pushing through the throng carelessly, only wanting to avoid a further encounter. But her pursuer had the advantage, she soon found, for his way was made clear for him while she had to force a pathway.

‘Menina!’ The curt tone of his voice halted her, and she was intensely conscious of the curious speculation around her.

Sighing, she turned slowly to face him, and he inclined his head in satisfaction. But he said nothing, merely passed her and indicated that she should follow him.

Unwillingly Christina complied, for she had the distinct feeling that had she attempted to disobey him these people would have forcibly made her do exactly as he had indicated.

Outside the throng of humanity, he halted and now she could see the black limousine parked in the square, Alfredo Seguin at the wheel. He must have noticed her eyes move past him to the automobile, for a cynical expression invaded his eyes. She could see his eyes clearly now, and they were a most peculiar tawny colour, sometimes palest amber, sometimes almost yellow around the irises.

‘So we meet again, menina,’ he observed, his accent more pronounced than she remembered.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_22f796df-c3a7-5973-8418-ba5fb2abe9b4)

CHRISTINA held the basket almost defensively in front of her, both hands gripping the handle tightly. ‘Yes, senhor!’ she responded automatically, more calmly than she felt. All of a sudden she could feel the panic which had assailed her the other evening on the beach when confronted by his almost sinister attraction, and she wondered what it was about him that disturbed her so. His dark clothes fitted him so well, while she was intensely conscious of the faded cotton of her dress and the shortness of its skirt.

‘And now you know who I am, do you not?’ he continued, glancing round meaningfully towards his sleek limousine.

Christina made an indifferent gesture. ‘I suppose you must be Dom Carlos Ramirez,’ she conceded reluctantly.