Postcards From Rio. Tina Beckett
veil offered the same protection, she thought ruefully. A large raindrop landed on the dusty path in front of her, followed by another and another. She glanced up at the sullen clouds that had covered up the sun. ‘I’m ready to go. I expect you want to get on the road before the weather worsens.’
She expected him to agree, but he did not move, and her intense awareness of him detected his sudden tension.
‘Are you sure you want to continue?’ Beneath the brim of his hat his eyes gleamed as bright and hard as polished steel. ‘It’s not too late for you to change your mind...and choose a different path.’
Clare realised he was not talking about her journey to Torrente. For a split second she was tempted to tell him the truth about why she needed to go to the town, but she could not forget the kidnappers’ threat to kill her sister if she involved anyone else. She did not know if she could trust Diego. She barely knew anything about him and the few facts he had divulged about himself made him even more of an enigma.
‘I am quite sure of the path I must follow,’ she said in a low voice, her throat tightening with fear as she faced the prospect of meeting the kidnappers.
‘Deus. Just because your boyfriend was a jerk, you are going to cut yourself off from life, from love?’ Diego forgot his decision not to get involved in Sister Clare’s life. ‘When we kissed, you were warm and responsive in my arms. What will you do with all your passion and fire when you are shut away in a convent?’
Clare laughed derisively. ‘What do you know about love? A man who describes marriage as limiting himself to choosing only one flavour of chocolates from a selection box?’
He stared at her and then shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re right. I’ve never experienced love.’ He opened the door of the Jeep and, before Clare had time to realise his intention, he lifted her off her feet and dumped her on the passenger seat. She took a deep breath to steady her racing heart as he climbed in beside her and started the engine.
‘Never?’ she asked curiously. ‘Didn’t your parents love you?’
He did not reply while he negotiated a series of deep holes in the road, but after a few minutes he said, ‘I never met my father. He abandoned my mother after he got her pregnant with me. The only information she told me about him was that he was an Englishman called Philip Hawke who had come to work as a travel rep at the hotel in Brazil where my mother was a chambermaid. They had an affair, but when she told him she was expecting his child he returned to England and she never heard from him again.’
But Diego had heard from his father’s family. Soon after his release from prison he had been contacted by a law firm in England, who had explained that Philip Hawke had died some years earlier but had confided to his own father that he had an illegitimate child in Brazil. Geoffrey Hawke had spent his remaining years searching for his grandson without success. Before Geoffrey died he had instructed the law firm to continue the search, and eventually they had tracked Diego down and gave him the astounding news that his grandfather had left him a fortune in his will.
The money had allowed Diego to become a business partner with his friend Cruz Delgado. They had bought the Old Betsy diamond mine where Cruz’s father had found the famous Estrela Vermelha—the Red Star diamond. The discovery in the mine of diamonds worth millions of dollars—including a rare pink diamond, the Estrela Rosa, which Diego had found and kept in his private collection of gems—had made the two men multimillionaires. Recently, another mine that had been abandoned many years ago and was only discovered when Cruz had been given a map of the hidden tunnels by his father-in-law, Earl Bancroft, had been found to contain a huge supply of diamonds, making Diego and Cruz two of the richest men in Brazil.
Wealth certainly had great benefits, Diego mused. But his penthouse apartment in Rio, his various other properties around the world and even his collection of luxury sports cars were simply toys to amuse him. Nothing filled the void inside him or made him forget the poverty and deprivation of his childhood. When he was growing up, what he had wanted more than anything was to feel loved. Love was more precious than gold or glittering gems but, after thirty-seven years without it, his heart had become as hard and unbreakable as the diamonds he mined.
He forced his thoughts back to the present when he realised Sister Clare was speaking. ‘It must have been difficult for your mother to be a single parent. Did you spend your childhood in Manaus?’
‘I grew up in a favela in the city of Belo Horizonte.’ Diego gave a cynical laugh. ‘The name translates to beautiful horizon, but there was nothing beautiful about the overcrowded and filthy slum where my mother and I lived.’
‘Is that why you like being in the rainforest, because it is wild and beautiful and you can be alone?’
Diego glanced at her. ‘I’m not alone now,’ he drawled. His gut clenched as he watched rosy colour stain her cheeks. She was so beautiful. But perhaps it was the fact that she was out of bounds that made her all the more desirable. It was one of life’s ironies that you always wanted what you couldn’t have, he mused.
He was surprised by Sister Clare’s perceptiveness, and also how easy he found it to talk to her. He was an expert at chat-up lines, but he rarely talked to women, probably because they rarely listened, he thought sardonically.
‘I can breathe in the rainforest,’ he admitted. ‘There is an honesty here that I have never found anywhere else. It’s one of the few places on earth where Mother Nature is truly untamed, and that makes her fearsome but fascinating.’
He was an instinctive poet, Clare thought. He wove a pattern with words and revealed his love of the rainforest in his gravelly voice. Who was the real Diego Cazorra? So far she had met the loner gold prospector and the notorious womaniser the Mother Superior had warned her about. But she sensed that Diego rarely allowed anyone to see beyond his outward persona of a laid-back, charismatic charmer.
She remembered the book of poems by the English romantic poet John Keats that she had found in the back of the Jeep.
‘“To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament,”’ she quoted softly.
Diego glanced at her.
‘“Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair A gentle tale of love and languishment?”’ he finished the quote. ‘It seems we have one thing in common, at least. Which other poets do you like, apart from Keats?’
‘Oh, Wordsworth, Shelley. I love the work of many of the poets of the late eighteenth century. I am an unashamed romantic at heart. How about you?’
‘Am I romantic?’ He laughed. ‘What do you think, Sister Clare?’
‘I think you are more than a tough gold prospector.’ She hesitated, then felt compelled to ask, ‘What happened to your ear?’
‘An accident,’ he said abruptly. Instantly the connection between them was severed. Clare wished she had suppressed her curiosity, but it was too late to withdraw her question and Diego’s answer revealed nothing. She could not tell him her interest was not nosiness, but that she carried with her a box containing what was very possibly a piece of her sister’s ear, cut off by the criminals who had kidnapped Becky.
She had only glimpsed Diego’s ear, but it had been enough time for her to notice that the top half appeared to have been sliced off. The skin had healed over, as if the injury had not happened recently. Clare had read that a common tactic used by gangs in Brazil to scare families into paying a ransom for their kidnapped relatives was to send them a piece of the victim’s ear. There were even cosmetic surgeons who specialised in rebuilding mutilated ears. But Diego had told her that he had grown up in a slum after his father had abandoned his mother, and it seemed unlikely that he had been kidnapped and a ransom demanded for his release.
The mystery surrounding him grew ever deeper. She glanced at him as he concentrated on steering the Jeep around the potholes in the road. He had tipped his hat forwards so that