‘Watch it, Dos Santos …’ Andros told him, sensing his prisoner’s rising anger and slamming him up against the wall.
The move was not meant to overpower him, Niklas realised, simply to provoke him, because Dos Santos was an orphan’s name. Niklas went to swear again, in Spanish, but his brain was working quickly, far more quickly than his mouth, and in that second he knew what was happening.
Dos Santos meant something different in Spanish.
And it was a Spanish nun who had named him.
Dos Santos in Spanish meant two saints.
He had a twin.
In that very second it was as if a bomb had exploded in his brain and he worked it all out. He knew instantly how he had got to be here. Knew that his double was out there and had been working with Miguel against him. And with a lurch of fear that was violent to his soul he knew that Meg was in serious danger.
Niklas said nothing when Andros jeered again, just stood silent against the wall as Andros spoke filth about his wife. He stood still and refused to react as another guard came over. A decent guard this time, because there were plenty of them around.
‘Trouble?’ the guard asked.
‘No trouble,’ Niklas said, because he did not want to go to solitary tonight. He really needed to get to his cell.
He stood compliant as his cuffs were removed and went quietly into his cell. There he met the eyes of Fernando, and for the first time since his arrival he spoke with the other man.
‘I need your help,’ Niklas said, for he had worked out what was happening and urgent help was required. ‘I need you to make contact on the outside.’
ANOTHER NIGHT CRYING over Niklas Dos Santos and Meg swore it would be the last.
Part of her could almost convince herself that he was just trying to get her to leave, that that was the reason behind his cruel words, but the more sensible part of Meg soon talked herself round. Her sensible side reminded her that this was a man she knew nothing about—a man who had caused her nothing but heartache and trouble since the day that they had met.
Hawaii sounded pretty good to Meg right now.
A week lying on the beach concentrating on nothing but how best to forget him.
It was well after lunchtime now, and Meg was still waiting for the travel agent to return her call. When she did, Meg would ask to be booked onto the earliest flight that could be arranged, and she packed her suitcase in preparation. Very deliberately she did not turn on the vast television to see how his trial was going, or to catch a glimpse of him on the news, because one glimpse of Niklas and she was lost to him—that much she knew.
She wanted her divorce now, wanted to be the hell away from him, would not waste even one more single minute on him.
But as she packed up her toiletries Meg threw tampons into her make-up bag and suddenly realised that it might be rather more complicated than that.
She looked at the unopened packet, an Australian brand because she hadn’t bought any since she had arrived here, and tried to remember when she’d last had a period.
She tried to remember the days in Australia before her life had been changed so dramatically by the visit from Niklas’s lawyers. No, she hadn’t had her period for a while.
There should be the reassurance that they’d used condoms, but the last one hadn’t held.
Could she be pregnant?
Would she tell him if she was?
Meg looked in the mirror and decided that, no, she could not deny him that. Even if his life was to be spent on the inside, he would have to know the truth, and it wasn’t the kind of news she could reveal in a letter—maybe she would have to visit him again.
Maybe not.
A letter was probably more than he deserved.
But first she had to know for sure.
She was probably overreacting, Meg told herself as she headed out of her hotel room and to the elevators. Worrying too much, she tried to convince herself as she headed onto the street. With all that she’d been through these past weeks it was no wonder that her period was late.
The streets were busy, as always—the cars jammed together, horns blaring, and sirens blazing as police tried to thread their way through the impossible madness that was downtown São Paulo. She found a pharmacia and inside it was the same as the world over, with numerous pregnancy testing kits sitting on the shelves. Meg didn’t need to speak the language to know she was making the right purchase.
What was different from Australia, though, was that instead of being pounced on by an assistant the second she entered the store, here Meg was pretty much ignored. Even when she tried to pay the pharmacist and his checkout assistants were all taking an impromptu break and watching the television, and Meg could feel mounting impatience. She really had to know now if she was pregnant. Had to make the decision of facing Niklas and telling him while she was still here.
Finally someone came over to serve her, still talking to her colleagues, and Meg froze when she heard one of them shout the name Dos Santos. She felt sweat bead on her forehead as she paid, because despite herself—despite all this—she wanted to turn the television on, wanted to know how he was.
She almost ran back to the hotel, terrified of her feelings for him, that even a mention of his name could reduce her to this petrified state.
It was blissfully cool and quiet in her room—such a contrast to the chaos down below. She fought not to turn on the television, picked up the remote and hurled it, tried not to look where it landed. The light on the phone said she had a new message. She hoped it was the travel agent and played it back, but heard her mum’s voice instead. Meg honestly didn’t know how she could ever begin tell her parents all that had happened. She had always hoped she would never have to, but if this test proved positive …
She could feel the tears starting again but refused to give in to them—just bit them back and headed to the bathroom, put her purchase in its bag on the bench, ready to find out. Then there was a knock on the door and Meg assumed it was the cleaner. She didn’t want her coming in now. She wanted privacy for this at least.
So she went to tell them. She didn’t even look through the peephole, just opened the door, and what was left of the sensible part of her mind struggled to remain calm because standing at her door was Niklas. She froze for a moment, unable to respond to seeing him in such an ordinary setting. She wanted to sob at him, to rage at him, to ask him how on earth he was here—except she just stood there.
‘It’s okay …’ He stepped in. ‘I know it must be a shock to see me here.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘The judge understood,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you see it all on the news?’
‘I haven’t been watching it.’
‘That is good.’ He gave her a smile. ‘I get to tell you the good news myself.’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’ She was so very angry with him, and now finally she could tell him. ‘I haven’t been watching it because I’m sick of this, Niklas. I’m sick of how you make me feel at times. I can’t do this any more.’
‘You’re upset.’
‘Do you blame me?’ She looked at him. She could smell his cologne—the same cologne he had worn the day they had met. He was dressed in a stunning suit now, just as beautiful as the day they had met, just as cruel as the day he had ended things between them, but she wanted to know. ‘You’ve been let off?’
‘I’ve