Authors: Sara Craven
He looked down at the letter, and the grim expression on his face deepened alarmingly. Abby had never seen him like this. On
their previous encounters, he had always been at his most charming. Now, once again, it occurred to her that he was a
formidable man, and Della was insane if she imagined she could force him down any path he did not choose to go.
He said curtly, 'I think you had better come in after all, Abigail.' His hand closed on her arm in a grip which brooked no denial,
and he drew her forward into the flat. She found herself in a large, comfortably furnished drawing-room. 'Sit down,' Vasco
directed, indicating an enormous leather sofa.
'I really can't stay,' she protested weakly. 'I only came to deliver that and…'
'Ah, yes.' His smile was wintry. 'Abigail at one time meant "handmaiden", I think. You should not allow Della to impose on you.
However, even a messenger deserves some reward. May I offer you some coffee, or perhaps you would prefer a drink.'
'Neither, thanks. I do have to go…'
'You have not been instructed to wait for an answer to that?' He pointed to the letter she was still clutching.
'Good God, no!' Abby dropped the letter on to a coffee table as if it was a hot coal. 'I think you should read it, Vasco,' she said,
trying to edge past him towards the door. 'Della was very anxious that I should deliver it right now, and there's probably a
reason for that.'
'I don't doubt it,' he said curtly. 'Over these past weeks I have been made well aware of the way her mind works. Do you perhaps
know the terms of her message?' There was a slight derisive emphasis on the last word.
'Not really,' Abby denied swiftly and unconvinsingly, a faint, betraying colour rising in her face.
'I see,' he said icily.
'No, you don't.' She punched a small clenched fist into the palm of her other hand. 'Oh God, this is so embarrassing. I could kill
Della! Believe me, the last thing I want is to be—involved in any way in any—problem you might be having.'
'Thank you for the assurance,' he said sarcastically. 'But any problems are of Della's own making. In my world, when a woman
agrees to marry a man, she consents to share his life, no matter where or how that life is to be lived. Your cousin knew my home,
my work was at Riocho Negro. I made no secret of it.'
She gave a quick meaningless smile. 'Well, it's really none of my business. Now you must excuse me. I—I have a date, and you'll
want to read your letter in peace.'
'Peace is hardly the word I should have chosen,' Vasco said with sudden harshness, making her flinch. He saw this, and his
face gentled. '
Tenho muita pena
, Abigail—I am sorry. You are not to blame, after all. But you should not allow Della to use you
like this.'
She shrugged lightly. 'Well, it isn't for much longer. I'm sure you'll settle your differences together, Vasco. Goodnight.'
'
Boa tarde
, Abigail.'
Reaction set in almost as soon as she was safely back in the corridor, with the door closed between them. Her legs were
shaking so much suddenly that she had to stop and lean against a wall until she regained her equilibrium. Another door opened
and an elderly couple emerged, the woman giving Abby a surprised and frosty glance as they passed.
She probably thinks I'm drunk, Abby decided, and, God, I wish I was!
As she waited in the bus queue, she realised it was the first time she had ever been completely alone with Vasco. It had been a
tense interview, and nothing like any of the childishly romantic dreams she had occasionally indulged herself with.
Despising herself for a fool, she began, almost obsessively, to recreate him in her mind, to go over every tiny detail of his
appearance. Her mind's eye dwelt lingeringly on the length of the black lashes which veiled his brilliant dark eyes, the way his
hair grew back from a distinct peak on his forehead, the expanse of coppery skin revealed by the open neck of his shirt, the
long-fingered, well kept hands.
She gave a little shaky sigh, telling herself that she should be ashamed. It was not only wrong but futile to allow him to fill her
thoughts like this. He belonged to Della. They would resolve their difficulties with some compromise, and get married, and if she
was lucky she would never see them again.
Especially now that she was firmly established in his mind as an interfering busybody, she reminded herself ironically. But it
was better to be regarded as a nuisance rather than a lovesick idiot. And if Della ever carried out her threat and told him her dull
little cousin had fallen for him in a big way, Brazil was far enough away for her to be spared the knowledge.
And one day, she hoped, she would wake up cured.
Although not, she was forced to acknowledge, by Keith with whom she had a date that evening. He was pleasant enough, and
one of the junior executives in the company she worked for, and they shared a mutual interest in the theatre, but that was as far
as it went, on her side at least.
Not that Keith ever showed any sign of wishing to become wildly amorous, she thought wryly. He was far too cautious for that,
far too aware of where he was going in life. Abigail often speculated that she was being put through a series of suitability tests
by him, but they were leisurely enough not to cause her any anxiety. Even if she had never met Vasco, she would still have
known there was no future with Keith, or anyone else she had come across, for that matter.
Perhaps she was basically cold, she thought. Maybe in her case, still waters ran shallow, and she permitted herself her fantasies
about Vasco because he was forbidden territory and therefore no real threat.
In a way, she thought detachedly, as she climbed on to the bus and settled in her seat, she would rather believe that than the
other nightmare which haunted her—that Vasco would marry Della and vanish from her life, taking with him, all unwit-tingly, all
the love, warmth, and passion she would ever be capable of, leaving her to face the future bereft and emotionally destitute.
'I found the second act rather disappointing,' Keith said, frowning. 'I thought he'd failed to establish the intruder's personality
strongly enough, and, of course, the whole thing hinges on that.'
'Yes,' Abby agreed, smothering a discreet yawn. She'd found the entire production rather long-winded, and less than gripping.
No matter how determinedly she tried to concentrate on what was happening on stage, her mind had kept travelling inexorably
back to Vasco, and the letter she had brought him, and his reactions to it. He was a man who liked to dictate terms, not agree to
them, she thought uneasily.
She'd come out of the theatre with a slight headache, and had demurred when Keith suggested going for the usual drink, but he
had looked so disappointed when she'd murmured something about having an early night that she had relented.
The pub was one they often used, but it seemed extra crowded that night, with no vacant tables, so that they were forced to
stand near the bar. Which was all to the good, Abby thought idly, as Keith continued to hold forth on the playwright's failure to
develop his characters fully. It meant they would probably not be staying long. Keith hated standing up to drink.
The crowd shifted suddenly, giving her a new perspective of the other side of the room. Suddenly Abby seemed to stop
breathing, her fingers tightening convulsively round the stem of her glass as she stared at the table right in the corner.
It couldn't be! she thought feverishly. She was seeing things. She had allowed Vasco to occupy her thoughts so much that now
she was hallucinating about him, imagining that he was there, in the corner, alone.
'I don't think you're listening to a word I'm saying!' Keith's faintly indignant tones broke into her trance, shattering it, and she
turned to him apologetically.
'I'm sorry—I thought I saw someone I knew.'
'Oh?' Keith craned his neck. 'He doesn't look familiar to me at all.'
'He wouldn't be. His name is Vasco da Carvalho, and he's engaged to my cousin.'
'I thought he didn't look English,' Keith commented. He gave the corner a concentrated stare. 'Been drinking heavily too, by the
looks of things.'
'Oh, no!' Abby was appalled. 'He hardly drinks at all. It must be that damned letter. There must be something terribly wrong.'
As she began to move through the crowd towards his table, Keith detained her. 'Well, whatever it is, Abby, it's none of our
business. Leave it.'
'I can't,' she said wretchedly. 'I feel partly responsible.'
'Don't be ridiculous.' He regarded her with disfavour. 'You want to steer well clear of him, my dear girl, especially in that
condition. Although I suppose you could phone his fiancée—tell her to come and collect him.'
'She's in Paris.' Abby began to move forward again. 'Please, Keith—I must help him!'
'And I see no reason why you should do any such thing.' Keith sounded really ruffled. 'Drink up, and we'll go somewhere else
and leave him to his bender.
Whatever's wrong, he won't thank you for poking your nose in, believe me.'
'You don't know how right you are,' she muttered.
'Now look here, Abby.' Keith's temper seemed to be deteriorating by the second. 'Just what's your connection with this fellow?
What's this letter got to do with it?'
'I wish I could explain.' She gave him an appealing glance. 'But I can't. Nor can I just—walk away and leave him in this state.'
'Well, I can,' he announced grandly. 'If you persist in interfering, Abby, then you're on your own. I'm not ruining a pleasant
evening by getting into any hassle with some drunk, whoever he happens to be engaged to. You don't know what you're taking
on.'
'Then I'm about to find out.' She sent him an impatient glance. 'And I'm not asking you to be involved.'
He gave her an outraged look, opened his mouth, closed it again, then turned and stalked away. She couldn't even feel sorry.
She reached the table and sank down on the bench seat next to him. 'Vasco,' she said urgently.
He gave her a long, concentrated stare as if he was having difficulty focusing, as he probably was, she realised, as she counted
the empty glasses on the table. Apart from the fact that his silk tie had been loosened and the top button of his shirt undone, his
appearance was as immaculate as usual. Only that unwavering gaze, and his too-relaxed posture, gave him away.
'Ah,' he said, carefully enunciating each word, 'the little handmaiden.
Que encantamento
.' He reached for his glass, but Abby
forestalled him, moving it away.
'Don't you think you've had enough?' She was aware her voice was shaking a little.
'No,
senhorita
, I do not.' The smile he gave her was almost limpid, but Abby sensed it masked an abyss of darker, wilder
emotions than she had ever dreamed existed. He was angry, but that was only part of it. And although she knew the anger was
not directed at her, it hurt as much as if he had lifted his fist and struck her down.
'It's nearly closing time,' she tried again.
'But they have not yet called last orders,' he said. 'See how well I have learned your English customs!'
'Good for you,' Abby said grittily, reflecting that this was one custom she would have preferred him not to know. 'The thing is, I
want to get home, and it's such a hassle finding a taxi after closing time.'
Vasco shrugged. 'Then go now, and find your taxi.'
'But I hoped you'd come with me.'
'Did you,
querida
?' he drawled. 'How flattering of you!'
Abby bit her lip. 'Please don't play games, Vasco. You know perfectly well I can't leave you here like this. Della would never
forgive me.'
'Now there you are wrong,
senhorita
.' He removed Abby's hand from his glass with insulting ease, and drank. 'My wellbeing is
no longer any concern of your cousin.'
'Oh, God!' Abby's throat tightened. 'Vasco, you mustn't take any notice of anything she said in that letter. She's used to having
her own way in everything. She doesn't realise how strongly you feel about Riocho Negro.'
'Oh yes, she does,' he said softly. 'Or she would not have offered me the choice she did. At least we both now know the strength
of each other's feelings on the subject.'
'Then isn't that—grounds for negotiation?' she suggested.
'Unfortunately, no.' He lifted his wrist and ostentatiously consulted the thin gold watch he wore. 'Particularly as, at this very
moment, my former
namorada
is in bed with another man.'
Abby stared at him. 'That—isn't amusing!'
'On that we are in perfect agreement. But it is no joke. The letter you were so good as to bring me made that quite clear. I was
informed that unless I telephoned your cousin at some Paris hotel by six-thirty to tell her I had changed my mind, and would be