Under the Brazilian Sun

‘Desculpe me, Doutora,’ said the man to Katherine. ‘I waited for the Patrao.’

‘You should have served my guest without waiting for me,’ said his employer, frowning. ‘Please sit, Dr Lister.’

Jorge filled one of the fragile cups with tea, the other with black coffee, and offered Katherine a platter of cakes she refused with a friendly smile for him as she sat down.

Roberto de Sousa sat opposite, smouldering in silence again across the table. This time, he could just sit there, lip-zipped for ever as far as she was concerned, decided Katherine irritably. Gorgeous he might be, but once she’d drunk the tea she’d ask for transport to Viana do Castelo.

‘Please tell me how well you know Mr James Massey,’ he said at last.

‘All my life,’ she said briefly.

‘He is a relative?’

‘No, just a close friend of my father. How do you know him, Mr de Sousa?’

‘By reputation and by information I acquired on the Internet. I contacted Mr Massey after my research showed he is the best man to authenticate my painting. I bought it for relatively little—a song, as you say.’

‘But you think it’s valuable?’

Roberto de Sousa shrugged indifferently. ‘The value is unimportant. It is not for resale. My interest is the identity of the artist and, if possible, the subject.’ He was silent again, as though turning something over in his mind. ‘If you would consent to stay to examine it,’ he said at last, ‘I would be most grateful…Doctor.’

Her first instinct was a flat refusal. But, conscious that she represented the Massey Gallery, also deeply curious about the painting, Katherine changed her mind about a quick getaway. For pride’s sake she paused as though considering her answer, and finally nodded graciously. ‘Since you’ve paid so generously for my time, I have no choice.’

‘Obrigado, Dr Lister. You shall see the painting in the morning in the full light of day, and tell me your requirements. Mr Massey warned there must be cleaning before any opinion is possible.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But now you must be tired after your journey. Please rest before joining me for dinner.’

So she was to have the honour of dining at his table. And the mere mention of dinner reminded her that now her thirst was gone she was hungry. ‘Thank you, Mr de Sousa.’

‘De nada.’ He paused. ‘A small thing. If I am addressed correctly it is Mr Sousa.’

‘I see. I’ll remember that.’ She got up.

He escorted her across the hall. ‘Ate logo—until later, Doctor.’

She nodded politely, and mounted the curving stairs with back very erect.

Roberto de Sousa watched her out of sight, then returned, deep in thought, to the veranda. He sat down, absently rubbing the leg which gave him hell if he stood too long. His surprise at finding that Dr Lister was not a man had obviously—and unfortunately—offended his guest. But if she were fully qualified to give an informed opinion on his painting, in theory he had no problem with a female expert. His lips tightened. In practice, however, he deeply resented the need to welcome a woman to his home now he was disfigured; even an efficient intellectual in spectacles like Dr Lister, with her scraped back hair and masculine clothes. At the Quinta the only females in his life were on his staff, whereas at one time he had been surrounded on all sides by beautiful, willing women. His face set in harsh lines as he ran a finger down his scar. All that, and many other things, had changed forever the day his luck had finally run out.

Katherine’s equilibrium was in normal working order again by the time she settled down on the bed with a book. Roberto de Sousa’s reaction to her had been more of a blow than she cared to admit. Her mane of brown hair and opalescent green eyes were assets which generally did her no harm with the opposite sex. But from the reaction of her client she’d obviously disguised her assets too well in an attempt to minimise the figure which curved a little too much in some places for her own taste, but had never been a drawback where men were concerned. She bit her lip. The client’s preference for a male expert was another blow. If she informed Roberto de Sousa that his painting was a fake, or of no intrinsic value, he might refuse to accept her findings. She shrugged. Not the end of the world; she would simply rely on backup from James. Photographs of the painting would be emailed to him for his verdict—and earn her undying gratitude from Judith Massey for keeping her bored, convalescent husband in the loop.

Katherine had wondered beforehand whether she would be invited to join her host’s family for the meal, but so far no mention had been made of a wife, or of any other relative. Indeed, James had known so little about the client Katherine had speculated quite a bit about Roberto de Sousa during the flight, but nothing had prepared her for her reaction to him, which was a first in her life when it came to men. She had also been unprepared for his hostility too, which was as surprising as his relative youth and scarred, darkly handsome face. She shrugged. He might have wanted a man to pass judgement on his painting but she would soon show him she was more than equal to the task. Nevertheless, the prospect of dinner was a bit daunting.

Katherine had fully intended wearing a sleeveless leaf-green shift with a clever bit of draping to flatter her curvier bits, but she put it back on its hanger, her eyes glittering coldly as she chose minimising black linen instead. With no jewellery to soften the starkly plain dress and only the merest touch of make-up, tonight she would play the intellectual role to the hilt to dine with a man whose aura of sardonic melancholy was so intriguing—and surprising. She would have expected someone of his age and race to be more outgoing. Perhaps he had been before the scar.

A minute before eight the slightly panting Lidia arrived to announce that Senhor Roberto awaited his guest. Katherine put the glasses on and gave a last look in the mirror to make sure no strand of hair had escaped from its ruthless twist. At last, feeling like Boudicca going into battle, she followed the woman down the curving staircase to the hall, where Jorge was waiting to escort her out on the veranda, which looked even more inviting with soft lights glowing in the greenery wreathing the pillars.

Roberto de Sousa rose slowly from one of the cane chairs and stared at her in total silence, his spirits sinking at the sight of his starkly elegant guest. He recalled himself hurriedly and bade her good evening.

Did he ever say anything without thinking it over first? Katherine wondered.

‘Lidia is not pleased because I wished to dine out here,’ he said, leading her to a table. ‘The sala de jantar is big for two people. I thought you would prefer this.’ But in truth the preference was his, in the hope that his scar would look less prominent in the soft lighting.

‘I do,’ she assured him, noting that the table was laid for only two. No wife in evidence then; at least not here.

He pulled out a chair for her. ‘What will you drink? Gin and tonic, perhaps?’

Katherine glanced at the frosted bottle sitting in a silver ice bucket. ‘May I have a glass of wine?’

‘Pois e. This is the vinho verde of the Minho.’ He removed the cork with a twist of his wrist and filled two glasses. ‘I will join you.’ He gave her a glass and, reminding himself that she was his guest, touched his own to it. ‘What shall we toast?’

‘A successful outcome for your painting?’

He nodded. ‘To success.’

The cool wine went down like nectar, the perfect accompaniment to the dish of hot appetisers Jorge set in front of Katherine.

‘The national dish,’ Roberto informed her, ‘bolinhas de bacalhau. You have tasted these before?’

‘No, but they smell delicious.’ She popped one of the miniature cod balls in her mouth. ‘And they taste even better. I’ll remember my first food in Portugal with pleasure.’

Roberto sat facing her, his scar stark in his dark face against the white of his shirt, soft lighting or not. ‘You have eaten nothing since you arrived?’ he said, frowning.

She shook her head. ‘Lidia offered, but I was too hot and thirsty.’

‘Then you must eat more of these.’ He pushed the plate towards her.

‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly. ‘Otherwise I shan’t need any dinner.’

‘You must eat well, or the chef will take offence.’

The chef! Katherine digested that, along with the bolinha, and set out to be a polite dinner guest. ‘Have you lived here long, Senhor Sousa?’

‘I do not live here, Doctor.’ He smiled crookedly, the scar much in evidence. ‘The Quinta das Montanhas is the retreat I escape to for a holiday alone from time to time.’

Some holiday home! ‘This is such a beautiful part of the world,’ she remarked, ‘but totally unknown territory to me. Unlike the majority of my fellow Brits, I’ve never been to Portugal before.’

‘Then it is most important that you enjoy your first visit.’

Roberto de Sousa, however reluctant, was an attentive host, but Katherine found it hard to relax as they ate crisp grilled chicken fragrant with herbs.

‘Is the food to your taste?’ said Roberto, refilling her glass.

She nodded politely. ‘My compliments to your chef. He’s a genius.’

He eyed her in amusement. ‘I was joking. Jorge’s wife, Lidia, is cook here.’

‘Then she’s the genius,’ said Katherine, and smiled warmly at Jorge as he came to take their plates. ‘That was utterly delicious. Please tell your wife.’

He bowed, gratified. ‘Obrigado, senhora. You would like pudim?’