The man threw away the butt of his cigarette and advanced to the water’s edge. Now Christina could see the patrician cast of his features and the slightly cruel line of his mouth. But what caught her attention most was the long, jagged scar which ran down his left cheek, from the corner of his eye almost to his jawline. The livid whiteness of that grim disfiguration was all the more pronounced because of the swarthiness of his skin, and it gave his aquiline face an almost satanic appearance.
‘So, menina, you are English!’ he was saying coldly now, his expression revealing his awareness of her scrutiny. ‘Then please to come out. This is a private beach, and you are trespassing!’
His faint accent was attractive, and so was his voice, but what he was saying was not. There was a contemptuous twist to his lips and he was regarding her as though she was some particularly obnoxious specimen washed up on his beach. To be charitable she supposed his disfiguration might account for a little of his bitterness, but to Christina it was nothing to be ashamed of. Indeed, if anything it gave strength and character to a face which might otherwise have been merely handsome in an aristocratic, Latin way.
‘My clothes are behind you, senhor!’ she said now, glad of the concealing depths of the water as his cold gaze raked her. ‘If you’ll go away I’ll do exactly as you ask.’
The man’s curiously light eyes narrowed. ‘You are trespassing, menina, as I have said. I prefer to stay and escort you off my property myself.’
Christina sighed, wrinkling her nose. ‘As you wish, senhor. But at least have the goodness to turn the other way.’
He frowned. ‘You mean—–’ He stared at her incredulously. ‘Dues nao permita! Tu adolescentes!’ The narrow fingers clenched. ‘Esta bem, menina, I will walk towards the cliffs. But you will not disappear in my absence!’
Christina did not reply, and he hesitated a moment. ‘Wait! I have seen you before, menina, have I not? You were—how do you say it—hitching—is that right? Sim, hitching a lift earlier this evening on the road from Lagos, were you not?’
Christina nodded, and then her eyes widened. ‘You were in the limousine?’
‘Where I was is not important, menina. What concerns me is where you intended to sleep tonight. On my beach, perhaps?’
‘Of course not!’ Christina was stung by his accusation.
‘Why—of course not?’ The man’s lip curled. ‘Believe me, menina, we have had trouble with young people like yourself before. What is it you call yourselves? Freedom-lovers—is that right? We have other names for what you do!’
‘How charming!’ Christina refused to show the outrage she felt at the disparaging way he was dismissing her. It was not often anyone got under her skin, but this man did. ‘I’m cold, senhor,’ she went on indolently. ‘Unless you want me to put on my clothes under your malevolent gaze, go away!’
The man’s nostrils flared, and Christina thought almost detachedly that he was a most disturbingly masculine animal. Despite the formal attire, the expensive silk grey suit, the fine shirt, and grey tie, the soft suede boots on his feet, there was an air of indomitability about him, of ruthless overbearing strength, that no amount of civilisation could entirely subdue. She wondered what mixture of blood ran in his veins that he could at once appear cool and clinical, hard and passionate. And that scar, that unholy blemish, added the final touch to a cruel, and possibly violent, nature.
Without another word he turned and walked away up the beach and Christina hastened out of the water, shivering quite forcefully now. She put her clothes on to her wet skin, allowing them to dry her, and wrung out her hair carelessly. As her body grew warmer she realised that her trembling was due as much to nerves as cold.
Darkness was dropping like a blanket about her and she looked longingly towards the cleft in the rock wall that divided this cove from the public one beyond. The man was some distance away now lighting another cigarette, and he probably thought she would need time to dry herself before dressing.
Christina hesitated only a moment before picking up her sandals and sprinting towards the rocks. Her feet made no sound on the soft sand, and the muted roar of the waves disguised her heavy breathing. But in spite of that, every minute she expected him to appear behind her, reaching for her like some avenging god.
She reached the rocks and slid into the crevice, emerging on to the beach beyond. She could see the lights of the harbour now, and she ran towards the jetty swiftly, not stopping to put on her sandals until she had scrambled on to the rough concrete of the harbour wall.
BY the time she reached the Hotel Inglês, Christina had herself in control again, and the nervous trembling had almost disappeared. It was ridiculous, she told herself, allowing one man to disturb her so, and yet there had been something frighteningly intense about that encounter, and she didn’t dare to consider what his reactions to her disappearance might be.
The tables on the forecourt of the hotel had been cleared now, and lights gleamed from all the windows. There was music, too, emanating from the general direction of the bar, and the sound of men’s voices. Christina entered the hall gratefully. Even Sheila’s maliciousness was preferable to what had happened down there on the beach.
She stood hesitatingly in the hall, wondering where Bruce might be, and even as she moved in the direction of the passage leading to their private rooms Bruce himself appeared from the bar, followed closely by her sister-in-law.
‘Christina!’ he exclaimed, and she saw that there was a look of strain about his eyes. ‘Where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried sick!’
Christina made a helpless gesture. ‘I’m sorry,’ she was beginning, when Sheila burst out:
‘You see! I told you she’d be all right. She didn’t even consider we’d be at all perturbed at her disappearance! Why is your hair wet, Christina? Surely you haven’t been swimming while we’ve been worrying—–’
‘That will do, Sheila!’ Bruce looked wearily at his sister. ‘Well, Christina? Where have you been? Do you realise you’ve been gone almost two hours?’
Christina ran a hand over her damp hair. ‘I am sorry, Bruce, truly, I am. I didn’t realise it was so late.’
‘But where have you been? You can’t have been swimming without a bathing suit. Why is your hair wet? It hasn’t been raining.’
Christina sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Bruce—–’
‘What she means is, she has been swimming!’ Sheila accused, triumphantly. ‘I told you, Bruce, she doesn’t fit in here. Porto Cedro isn’t Faro! We’re just beginning to make headway here—–’
‘Sheila, please!’ Bruce hunched his shoulders tiredly. ‘Leave this to me. I’m sure Christina must be hungry. She hasn’t had a thing since she arrived and knowing her I doubt whether she stopped to eat en route.’
Sheila stared at him. ‘You want me to make her something?’ she asked resentfully.
‘Well, Maria’s long gone, hasn’t she?’ Bruce ran a hand round the back of his neck. ‘Sheila, please—do as I ask.’
Sheila shrugged, but with ill grace she went to do as she was bidden and Bruce indicated that Christina should follow him. They went round the reception desk into a small office behind and after the door was closed Bruce looked at her reproachfully.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘I want the truth now. Where have you been all this time?’
Christina thrust her hands awkwardly into her pockets. ‘Oh, Bruce!’ she said helplessly.
‘I