Who Rides A Tiger. Anne Mather
that. However, I am quite prepared to show you a little of the cultural capital of my country.’
Dominique took a step, hesitated, and glanced back at him. ‘It was very kind of you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘And – I would like to have seen a little more of the city.’
‘Yet you still hesitate. Am I such a terrifying person? Does the prospect of a few hours in my company repel you so?’
Dominique smiled. ‘You know perfectly well that you are deliberately misunderstanding me,’ she said.
He came round the table to her side, looking down at her intently. His fingers stroked the bare skin of her forearm almost absently. ‘As I said before, Miss Mallory, you are a beautiful young woman, and I should like to take you to the Piranha.’
Dominique felt the muscles of her arm tense beneath his casual touch. Her breathing seemed difficult, and there was a trembling sensation somewhere near her knees. Was he aware of the effect he was having on her? He didn’t seem so, but that was no guide. For all his urbanity his innermost thoughts were enigmatic, this she sensed.
She tried to shrug these thoughts away. She must be crazy, allowing him to disturb her so. It was too long since she had seen John, known the company of a man. She was behaving like a schoolgirl. Why didn’t she just refuse his offer point blank and go back to her room? That was what she ought to do, what John would expect her to do. Why then did the prospect seem so dreary? Had the sleep she had had destroyed any further chance of rest for some time? Why couldn’t she feel pleasantly tired instead of vigorously alive?
‘I really think I must refuse,’ she murmured reluctantly.
Vincente Santos lifted his shoulders, the fine material of his suit gleaming in the artificial light. His thin face wore that slightly cruel expression as he said accusingly: ‘You’re afraid, Miss Mallory!’
She could have agreed with him, she was afraid, and she wasn’t quite sure of what.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she snapped.
‘Then come with me. Prove I’m wrong!’ he taunted her.
Dominique’s fingers tortured the strap of her handbag. ‘All right, Mr. Santos. All right, since you insist, I’ll come with you.’
‘Good.’ His fingers gripped her arm, guiding her across the almost deserted room. ‘I admire your courage!’
Dominique wrenched her arm out of his grasp. ‘One doesn’t need courage, Mr. Santos. Only fortitude!’
But he just laughed at this, and she could have hit him.
Rio at night was a magical place, lit with a million electric bulbs. The traffic was just as congested, but now music could be heard from every street corner, and the rhythm of the guitar beat into Dominique’s brain like some seductive drug. The Piranha was near Copacabana, a huge neon-lighted building with a brilliant decor that was toned down by discreet lighting. It was the kind of place Dominique had always abhorred, following her father’s tastes in music, and later John’s. But with Vincente Santos she saw it through different eyes.
There were several rooms; in one you could dance, in another drink, in another eat, and in yet another gamble. Dividing the rooms were aquariums filled with a variety of species, and only in the foyer was there a huge tank of the fish that gave the club its name. Dominique shivered when she saw them, and Vincente Santos said:
‘They can reduce a man to a skeleton in minutes, did you know that?’
Dominique wrinkled her nose. ‘I did know, as a matter of fact,’ she said. ‘Devil fish!’
‘Hmm.’ He slid an arm around her shoulders casually. ‘Come on, we’ll have a drink.’
‘Just tomato juice for me, please,’ she said, uncomfortably aware of his arm, and walking just a little quicker so that he had to drop it.
However when he handed her a drink a few moments later it was certainly not tomato juice. ‘Heavens, what’s this?’ she gasped at the tall glass of liquid.
‘My own recipe. Taste it!’
She did so, and found it was delicious. It seemed to be lime and perhaps lemon, with something else added, something that certainly gave it a lift. Deciding that one drink couldn’t possibly harm her, she accepted a cigarette and they walked into the room where a cabaret was taking place on the dance floor.
There was a Brazilian fire-eater followed by a Portuguese guitarist who sang quite appealingly. Dominique sipped her drink, smoked her cigarette, and listened to the cacophony of sound around her. There was a mixture of accents, from Portuguese and Spanish to pure North American. She heard the guttural sound of a German voice, followed by a very British accent, and she glanced at Vincente Santos. He was watching her. He seemed to be constantly watching her, she thought, and it embarrassed her. She had never experienced such intense appraisal before.
‘Must you?’ she asked.
‘Must I what?’
‘Stare at me.’
‘Why not? I like staring at you.’
Faced with such candour, Dominique was at a loss for a reply, and he said: ‘Leave your drink here. Let’s dance.’
The cabaret was over and the band was beginning to play. The music from guitars, organs and drums was vibrant and pulsating with rhythm, and the lights were lowered as couples gathered on the dance floor.
‘I don’t. That is—’ she began, as he took her hand and drew her through the tables where people were sitting to the far end of the room.
‘You don’t what?’ he asked softly, as he turned and slid his arms around her, pulling her close against the hard muscular strength of his body.
Dominique shook her head. With Vincente’s eyes upon her, so near now, she found it difficult to think coherently.
‘I’ve never danced to beat music before,’ she confessed. ‘I’m quite a square really.’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh, Miss Mallory, whatever gave you that idea?’
They moved slowly, and Dominique found after all that it was easy to follow Vincente’s movements. Besides, the dancing seemed of secondary importance to their actual situation. If John could see me now, she thought, a trifle wildly. He would be absolutely astounded! And with good reason, she added silently. She had known what kind of a man Vincente Santos was from the moment she saw him watching her in the airport bar. Why then had she succumbed to the temptation of going out with him? Was it because all her life she had thought before acting, never doing anything on impulse? Or was it simply because the strength of his personality and the way he had taunted her had aroused her indignation, and she had wanted to prove she could be as impulsive as anyone else? Certainly he made the men she had met back in England seem a trifle tame by comparison, and there was an addictive sense of excitement in taking such risks. After all, tonight would soon be over and then she would be with John again, and Vincente Santos would fade into obscurity.
Once, while they danced, she glanced up at him, her hair brushing his cheek, and he looked down at her with his tawny eyes, eyes that seemed too penetrating, and his mouth was very close to hers. Hastily, she looked down again, endeavouring to control the fast beating of her heart. So far and no further, she told herself firmly.
The dance was soon over, and as they were leaving the floor they were halted by an excited cry from a woman who was also leaving the dance floor with her escort. Tall and slender, with jet black hair piled high with jewelled combs into a French knot, she was easily the most beautiful and exotic creature that Dominique had ever seen. Her gown, a long clinging affair of heavy crêpe which moulded her perfect body, was in a brilliant shade of red, and it contrasted vividly with her magnolia colouring and dark hair.
‘Vincente!’ she exclaimed, flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him rapidly on both cheeks and then lingeringly on his mouth. ‘But I did