Who Rides the Tiger

by Anne Mather

  'Oh no? What else? What other dastardly deeds have I perpetrated?' He poured himself another drink. 'What a thrilling conversation you have been having! Didn't you attempt any defence on my behalf? Isn't that what a loyal little wife would do?'

  Dominique faltered, 'I - I didn't enter into a conversation. I -1 overheard—'

  'Ah, the eavesdropper who never hears good of herself, or in this case of her husband!' He swallowed his whisky. 'Do go on! You have aroused my curiosity!'

  'Why did you marry me?' Dominique almost whispered the words.

  Vincente sighed. 'Don't you know?' He gave a brief, mirthless laugh. 'I'm sure you do! I married you to take you away from Harding.'

  Dominique pressed a hand to her throat. 'You - you didn't!' she gasped.

  'Didn't I?' Vincente frowned mockingly. 'I thought I did!'

  Dominique turned away, burying her face in her hands. 'Oh, God!' she moaned. 'Oh, God! I wish I was dead!'

  Vincente strode across to her and swung her round to face him. 'That's what you wanted to hear, isn't it? That's what you had already heard from Marion Rawlings, isn't it?'

  'Yes!' Her voice was very faint.

  'I thought as much. How delightful that woman is! I must send her some flowers some time. Black orchids, perhaps!'Dominique looked up at him. 'How can you stand here and talk so - so carelessly about something that affects us both? Why? Why did you do it?'

  Vincente's expression was contemptuous. 'Did not you learn that also? Was not Isabella's name mentioned?'

  'You're deliberately making me defend myself!' she exclaimed tremulously. 'I suppose the best method of defence is attack!'

  'Attack, then,' said Vincente coldly. 'What are your weapons? Do you know how well Harding knew my sister? Do you know why she has entered the convent - locked herself away from the world?'

  'Do you?'

  'Yes, I know.' He turned away. 'But do not imagine that my admittance of that fact is a confession! My reasons for marrying you are my own. Whatever they may be!' His voice was taut.

  Dominique hesitated. 'Are - are you saying I could be wrong? Marion could be wrong?' she whispered incredulously.

  He spun round, staring at her with his tawny eyes, eyes that burned her up with their intensity. 'And if I were?' he muttered.

  'Well then—' her voice was husky with emotion.

  'Well then - nothing!' he snarled. 'Do you imagine you can come here to me - accuse me of deceiving you, not only about my reasons for marrying you but also by not revealing I had had a previous marriage - a marriage I choose to forget-- and then, by denying these accusations, regain your respect, and thus accept your belief in me again? No!' He smote his fist into the palm of his hand. 'The accusations were made - the doubt was there. I would not have believed— He broke off as though angry with himself for beginning the sentence. 'Get out of my sight!' He ground out the words as though he could not bear to look at her.

  Dominique walked shakily to the arched entrance to the hall. Then she looked back. She was shocked and uncertain, despising herself for wanting to believe in him again. His anger was so real, his bitterness so pronounced. She had either misjudged him, or he was a marvellous actor. She supposed the latter could be true. He had had plenty of experience with women, and would know instinctively the best way to deal with her. Even so...

  'Get out!' he said violently, swinging round from the drinks tray and seeing her hovering there.

  'Out?' she faltered. 'Out of Minha Terra?'

  'Oh, no!' A harsh smile lit his cruel features. 'Not out of Minha Terra. You are my wife, Dominique, and my wife you are going to stay, like it or not! Do you imagine I am going to make myself a laughing stock by throwing you out on the strength of a stream of gossip that you have heard from that snake of a woman and which you have brought here and repeated to me? Oh, no, Dominique! If I am the man you think I am you will understand this. I haven't finished with you yet. You have no idea of the degradation I could bring on you if I tried!'

  'Stop it! Stop it!' Dominique put her hands over her ears.

  'Why? Why shouldn't I vent a little of my disappointment on you? You will find I can be completely ruthless when I am thwarted!'

  'Are - are you threatening me?' Her voice trembled.

  'Yes - yes, I suppose I am. At any rate you can go and unpack your things. In our suite!'

  Dominique gnawed at her lower lip. 'You - you don't imagine we can - we can live together - after this?' she exclaimed.

  'You mean sleep together, don't you?' he corrected her savagely. 'Oh, yes, Dominique! As I have said - you are Santos's wife! And what I have, I keep.'

  Dominique shook her head. 'You - you can't force me—' she began.

  'Can't I? We'll see. Now get out!'

  Shivering, she made her way up the stairs. She met Salvador on the landing, but she would not look at him. However, he touched her arm and said:

  'Be careful, senhora. A man can only stand so much!'

  Dominique's brows drew together. 'What do you mean?'

  'Think about it,' replied Salvador quietly. 'And do not judge a man by any criterion but your own experience of him!'

  Then he hastened down the stairs, and she was left staring after him, wishing with all her heart she had not gone down to the Rawlings' house today.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE suitcases stood in the centre of the floor of the beautiful blue and gold bedroom, and Dominique entered the room wearily, and closed the door. So many things had happened since this morning, and it was impossible to try at this time, and in her confused condition, to assimilate them. Just as yesterday had developed into something exciting and satisfying, so today had developed into a positive disaster. Not only had she discovered a lot of incredible things about her husband, but she had also alienated whatever it was that had drawn him to her in the first place. And she did not doubt him when he said he could wreak vengeance. She had always been aware of that sense of primitive savagery about him, and she dared hardly consider what his actions might now be.

  She sat down on the window seat overlooking the sweep of the valley below, and shivered a little, in spite of the heat of the day. What on earth was going to happen to them? How could she go on living with a man who had tricked her and who now seemed to despise her? She sighed. It was incredible that only three weeks ago she had been excitedly planning this trip to South America. Now she was a married woman, married to a Brazilian whom she neither knew nor understood, and who would not think twice before destroying her. And yet she loved him!

  That was the agony of it all! She loved him!

  Even Marion's malicious words could not destroy that, and if she felt a sense of humiliation at his reasons for marrying her, it was because of her own disappointment, and not really to do with John and Isabella at all. Even his previous marriage, if she could get it into perspective, was something she could live with, if she had to.

  Maybe if Vincente had not been here when she returned, if she had had time to sit and really think about what she had learned, she would have been able to act normally, and not treat him like some kind of monster. If she had seriously thought about the whole business, she might have been able to disguise the hurt and bitterness that Marion's revelations had aroused in her. After all, to her her love should be the most important thing, and if half a loaf was all she was to have, then that was better than nothing at all. If he had got some kind of sadistic pleasure in taking her away from John, then maybe he had his reasons, who could tell? As Marion had said, he was much more likely to take John's interest in his sister seriously, knowing how protective Latins could be towards their womenfolk, but at the time she had heard the conversation between Marion and Mary, newly informed of his previous marriage as she had been, it had been impossible to think coherently as she was doing now.

  She got up miserably, and walking across to the table, helped herself to a cigarette, lighting it with fingers that shook. Whatever she thought, whatever excuses she tried to find for his behavi
our, there was no altering the facts, and they were still as unpalatable as ever. He had deliberately deceived her, he had deliberately set out to attract her, right from their first meeting, and although she knew she was attractive, she was no femme fatale to sweep a man of his sophisticated tastes off his feet. No, there had to be a germ of truth in Marion's words, there was no smoke without fire, as they say, she thought gloomily.

  With angry, nervous movements, she flung open her suitcases, and began to take out her clothes. For the present, at least, there was nothing she could do. As Vincente had said, she would stay, and she might as well make the best of it.

  Who knew what might happen in the days to come? One thing was certain, however. Sooner or later she must speak to John, discover for herself what his relationship had been with Isabella Santos, so that she was not in the dark over that affair as she was now.

  Later, when all her clothes had been hung away in the wardrobes, she bathed and changed into a slim-fitting shift of turquoise linen. It was one of her plainest dresses but nonetheless attractive, and after she had combed her hair, she gathered it into a chignon on the nape of her neck as she felt too tired to attempt to put it up. Even with lipstick, her features looked pale and she felt a sense of trepidation at the prospect of the evening ahead.

  When she descended the stairs, however, Vincente was not around, and when Salvador appeared in the lounge to announce that dinner was ready, she said: 'Where - where is my husband, Salvador?'

  Salvador gave his usual polite bow, and said: 'Senhor Santos is dining out this evening, senhora.'

  Dominique couldn't believe her ears. After his anger earlier, combined with the fact of his not coming up to the suite to change, she had assumed he was still downstairs brooding. To find he had gone out was an affront to the trouble she had taken with her appearance.

  'Where - where has he gone?' she asked carefully.

  Salvador shrugged his shoulders. 'That I cannot say, senhora.'

  Dominique felt a pent-up sense of frustration. 'For goodness' sake, Salvador,' she snapped, her voice unsteady, 'couldn't this just be one occasion where you betray a confidence? I'm his wife!'

  Salvador twisted his hands together. 'But it is the truth, senhora. I do not know where Senhor Santos has gone.'

  Dominique went across to the drinks table and poured herself a generous measure of whisky. She felt like drinking and drinking, a thing she had never done in her life before. Anything to provide a temporary sense of oblivion from the pain that was tearing her apart.

  Salvador came over to her. 'I should not drink that, senhora,' he said quietly. 'It is very strong. It will probably make you sick.'

  Dominique looked scornfully at him. 'Don't you think I've ever taken a drink before, Salvador?' she asked harshly. 'I'm not a child, you know.'

  'I know you are not, senhora,' replied Salvador gravely. 'Nevertheless, I would advise—'

  'I don't want your advice,' said Dominique bitterly, and raising the glass to her lips she swallowed half its contents at a gulp.

  Immediately she almost choked, and a spasm of violent coughing racked her body, accompanied by a burning sensation in the back of her throat and the pit of her stomach. Her eyes watered, and she sought about desperately for a handkerchief. Salvador handed her his calmly, and after she had finished coughing took the drink from her unresisting fingers, and replaced it on-the tray. Then he said:

  'Dinner is served in the small dining-room, senhora. Will you come now?'

  Dominique looked at him, almost impatiently, and then with a resigned expression she preceded him out of the room.

  The-meal was a silent one. Dominique ate little, and sipped the wine that Salvador provided with an absent air. Her surroundings, the warmth of the velvety night air, the scents of the stocks and the roses that grew in such profusion, meant little to her. She was absorbed with her thoughts and with the agonizing speculation as to where Vincente might be. She knew there were plenty of women willing to comfort him, to desire him to make love to them, plenty of women always ready to answer his every need. He didn't need her. She had merely been a passing diversion, someone different, an alien face to satisfy his ego.

  Leaving the table, she walked to the narrow wall that circled the patio and sat on its edge, sighing. Last night at this time she had been in his arms, known what it was like to have Vincente for a lover. And tonight she was alone, bereft, and whether it was of her own making or not, it was merely a precipitation of the eventual state of her affairs. Sooner or later he was bound to tire of her, and then...

  She wanted to cry. So badly she wanted to break down and cry, cry for herself and Vincente, but most of all for the dream that had never reached maturity. And here she was, alone and practically friendless in a strange country without the means to escape from the situation in which she now found herself. She was no longer in control of her destiny. She had forfeited that when she agreed to become Vincente Santos's wife.

  It was late when eventually she sought the comfort of bed. When she reached the first-floor landing she saw Salvador emerging from the room she had used that first night at Minha Terra, and she wondered whether the door had a key. It was something she had not noticed before, but now it became of primary importance to her. After the evening she had spent she could not bear the thought of him returning home, possibly from the arms of another woman, to find her waiting patiently in the master bedroom, like some subdued slave, afraid of its master.

  She entered the dressing room which adjoined the master bedroom, wishing Salvador 'good night' as she did so. Then she closed the door and leaning against it, waited until she heard him descending the stairs again. When she heardsounds, she hastened into the big bedroom, collected her nightdress, then hastily crossed the landing and entered the smaller room. The bed had been re-made and she turned back the covers smoothly.

  Then she went into the bathroom to wash and clean her teeth.

  However, she had not been in the bathroom above five minutes when there was a tap at the panels. She almost jumped out of her skin, and grasping a towel about her she went to unlock the door and looked out at Salvador.

  'Yes?' she said, rather sharply.

  'Why are you using this bathroom, senhora?' he asked.

  Dominique straightened her shoulders. 'That isn't the sort of question one expects from a servant,' she said angrily, and instantly regretted the words as she saw Salvador's face grow withdrawn. She sighed. 'I'm sorry, but you haven't been exactly helpful to me this evening, have you, Salvador?'

  Salvador relaxed. 'Senhora, for your own good, sleep in the master bedroom. Do not be deceived into thinking you can defy him.'

  Dominique bit her lip. 'If I sleep in this suite, I shall lock the door,' she said, trying to sound composed and failing miserably.

  'You think perhaps a key would keep my master out?' asked Salvador sadly, shaking his head. 'Oh, no, senhora. Keys are for the weak man. Strategy is for the strong man!'

  'Strategy?' Dominique frowned.

  'Sleep in the master bedroom,' said Salvador again. 'Please.'

  Dominique hesitated. 'Oh, Salvador! I wish I knew what to do.' Her voice broke.

  Salvador shrugged. 'You are Santos's wife now, senhora. There are many things you can do.'

  Dominique shook her head. 'Not the things I want to do, though. I'm not even sure what Vincente intends to do. He's as unpredictable as ever.'

  Salvador gave a slight smile. 'But you, senhora, you will wait and find out, yes? You are not so unpredictable.'

  'Perhaps it would be better if I were,' she sighed.

  'No, that is not so. There is an old Chinese proverb which says: "He who rides the tiger dare not dismount". You are like that man, senhora. You cannot escape from your destiny.'

  Dominique bit her lip. 'Can any of us?'

  'No, I suppose not. But there are some who think they can control it.'

  'And you think - my husband is one of these?'

  'I think the Senhor does not rea
lize what he has in his keeping. He has not yet discovered its value!'

  Dominique managed a wry smile. 'Thank you, Salvador.' She folded the towel closer about her: 'I - I was afraid you'd let me down—'

  'This evening? Had I known where the Senhor was, I would have told you. You are his wife - and as such, you are entitled to know his whereabouts. I am not completely without heart, senhora.'

  Dominique bit her lip. 'I can see you are not. I'm sorry if I was rude before.'

  Salvador shook his head. 'Get some sleep, senhora. Tomorrow is another day.'

  Dominique did not sleep well. The bed seemed wide and empty, and her nerves were stretched to the utmost, conscious of every strange sound, every footfall about the house. But gradually the concentrated effort exhausted her and she fell into an uneasy slumber, only to be awakened harshly some time later by the sound of a powerful engine roaring into the courtyard of the house.

  Immediately she was wide awake, tense and listening, waiting for footsteps on the stairs, outside her door, in the room.

  But the engine was turned off, and a door slammed, and then there was complete silence, a silence almost deafening in its intensity. Dominique clenched her fists. If he was coming to her, why didn't he come? Didn't he know the sense of fatality that was overtaking her? Couldn't he know she was positively terrified, not only of him, but of her own treacherous emotions?

  The silence stretched into infinity. Her stiff body was forced to relax, and she felt slightly sick from the strain. Putting on the bedside lamp, she glanced at the watch on the table. It was a little after two o'clock. She heaved a sigh. What was he doing? Was this some more subtle means of torment? If so, it was succeeding.

  She turned out the light again, but eventually she must have dozed, because although she tossed and turned, and saw the faint pink rays of the sun piercing her balcony windows, morning at last came round, but he had not joined her.

  She rose at seven, showered and dressed in cotton corded pants of a deep shade of purple, and a white sleeveless sweater. Then she combed her hair into a loop, pinned it in place, and descended the stairs.