The Man Behind The Mask (From Rags To Riches) Page 13

  His wife’s tragic death might have forced him to flee his own country, leaving her haunting memory behind to heal his wounds far from the sunshine he was used to deep in the midst of a bleak British winter, but did that mean he could never contemplate another long-term relationship again, or even want to try?

  ‘Hey,’ he teased, his hands tightening a little on her waist. ‘What are you thinking about in that mysterious mind of yours? I confess I am quite jealous that your thoughts seem to be else where when I want them to be here, with me!’

  ‘They are with you, Eduardo.’ Reaching up on tiptoe, Marianne placed a small tender kiss at the side of his cheek. ‘I was just wondering how you were feeling about being home again. This is such a lovely place I wonder how you could bear to leave it.’

  ‘Sorrow and pain can visit paradise too, my angel.’

  ‘Did you—did you and your wife stay here very often?’

  As he considered the question, Eduardo’s expression remained steady and tender—for once no visible shadow clouding the brilliant pale blue irises at the mention of his past. It lit a little flame of hope inside Marianne, and she breathed more easily.

  ‘We tended to visit here separately…with friends or on our own,’ he answered thoughtfully. ‘In truth, we did not spend a lot of time together in the latter stages of our relationship, before she died.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I can see that you are curious about that—but right now, before I try and satisfy any more questions, why don’t you go upstairs to the bathroom and take a shower? I’m sure you would like to wash off the dust of our travels before I show you the beach and then drive to a nice bar that I know for a cocktail?’

  ‘That sounds divine!’

  ‘The shower?’ Eduardo teased. ‘Or the beach and the cocktail?’

  ‘Both. But don’t you want to take a shower too?

  As he trailed his hand down her throat onto the pale smooth skin above her breasts, Marianne saw a tiny muscle flicker in the side of his cheek,

  ‘Are you saying you want me to join you?’ he asked, his voice lowering.

  Recognising the hot flicker of desire that stole instantly into his eyes, Marianne felt her limbs turn deliciously weak and her head swam hotly—an occurrence that was becoming a habit whenever he gazed at her like that. No wonder the poets likened being in love to being afflicted by some kind of malady or fever!

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Shyly dipping her head, she fiddled with her hair. ‘But I’m—I’m not averse to the idea either.’

  ‘That is what I love most about you, namorada,’ Eduardo grinned. ‘Your candour. You do not play games, like some women do. And now you have in advertently put the idea into my head I find I cannot eject it—so come…we will go and shower together.’

  As he led her to the foot of a modern spiral stair case that ascended to the upper floors through an opened door to her side Marianne glimpsed what she assumed must be the living room. A tasteful gallery of large framed photographic prints caught her attention. Even from a distance they looked sensational.

  Following her riveted gaze, Eduardo stilled beside her.

  ‘Can I look?’ she asked, her mouth drying nervously in case he refused.

  ‘Be my guest.’ The broad shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug.

  There were various stunning portraits of extraordinarily beautiful women—young and old—scenes that captured the colour and excitement of the country’s famed carnaval, and nature photographs that suggested they might possibly have been taken deep inside the Amazon jungle. But, whatever the subject, each was executed in a way that made the viewer stare in wonder at its extraordinary beauty and the con sum mate skill and genius of the photographer.

  ‘These are simply stunning, Eduardo.’ As the words left Marianne’s lips she recalled that day in the snowy English town when she had spied a look on his face that had definitely reacted to her comment about music being her passion. It had always made her wonder. Then she remembered the look of excited recognition from the young man arranging the car hire at the airport, and mused if there was a connection.

  ‘You took these?’

  ‘Yes…I took them,’ he said, sighing softly. Eduardo’s smile was not quite even. ‘This is—was my passion’

  ‘Was?’ Her heart thudding—because she suddenly knew that the accident had cost him much more than she’d first believed—Marianne looked at him straight. ‘If it’s your passion, then how can you even think of giving it up?’

  Jamming his hands into the back pockets of his jeans, Eduardo moved his head slowly from side to side. ‘I was not in my right mind when I made that decision. I was hurting and angry and I did not feel that I deserved to do the thing I loved.’

  ‘Because your wife died and you lived?’

  He scraped his hand through his hair, and his expression was momentarily anguished. ‘I should have been driving that night…not her. I was the better driver…the one who knew most about handling such a powerful car!’

  ‘And how long are you going to go on blaming yourself for the accident, Eduardo—for the rest of your life? Did you spill oil on the road? These terrible things happen from time to time, and because we have no control over events we feel helpless and afraid, and we start believing we are the cause of them. We stop thinking clearly and drive our selves crazy with “what-ifs”. Well, in my opinion you’ve suffered enough. You’ve endured count less operations to mend your leg, and tortured yourself with guilt night after night since the accident happened. Now you’ve got to try and put the past behind you…make your life over again.’

  ‘Like you have?’

  ‘Like I’m trying to.’ Suddenly self-conscious, Marianne knew her smile was a little awkward. ‘We’re all a work in progress.’

  ‘You are right, as always, Marianne. Seeing this gallery again, I realise I cannot and do not want to give it up at all. This is what I came here to do…what makes me happy.’

  ‘And it is your gift to the world, Eduardo. That’s why you must never, ever think of giving it up again!’

  Daring to take the initiative, Marianne moved closer to wrap her arms round his waist. The sensation was so heavenly that for a moment or two she laid her head against his chest, breathing in his warm, musky cologne and happily listening to the strong steady beat of his heart. It was on her lips to say I love you… But at the last minute the words stayed inside her throat unsaid, that old fear of being left or rejected keeping them prisoner.

  ‘You know what I want to do now, don’t you?’ Kissing the top of her head, Eduardo folded his arms tightly around her, urging her closer.

  Feeling his hardness strain against his jeans and press into her belly, Marianne curved her lips into a knowing little smile against the cool linen of his shirt. ‘Take me to bed?’

  ‘My favourite words.’

  Eduardo’s lips found hers and hungrily claimed them…

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THEY were sitting outside on the terrace of a fashionable bar in one of the chic neighborhoods backing onto the beach. Some of the wealthier locals frequented it. On the small stage inside was a sultry female singer, backed by a colourful and enthusiastic samba band. Eduardo had told Marianne before they went in that the bar had been a regular haunt of his—a place where he would more than likely en counter friends and neighbours he’d known for years—and had asked if she minded that people might stop to say hello?

  Seeing the mixture of concern and doubt in his eyes, Marianne had hastened to reassure him, sliding her hand into his and drawing nearer. Intimacy and love had made her bolder. Inside, a strong desire was growing to let Eduardo see that she would be a support to him for as long as he needed her. She hoped that that might just be for ever, but just knowing that he was at last open to being with people again—would not be shutting himself away through guilt and pain as he had done in England—filled her heart with hope and gratitude for the change.

  And, indeed, a steady stream of well-dressed peop
le did stop by their table as they sat companionably listening to the music and sipping their cock tails. Each and every one of them greeted Eduardo as if he had returned from the dead—such was their pleasure and joy at seeing him. They were also extremely respectful towards Marianne—not one of them remotely regarding her as though she were a usurper.

  When they finally had a moment to them selves, Marianne leaned across the octagonal wooden table, the gentle sound of samba music still playing in the back ground, and commented, ‘All your friends are so glamorous! I feel like I’ve wandered onto the set of High Society—distinctly under dressed in comparison!’ Glancing uncertainly down at the pale lime linen trousers she’d donned, along with a plain white gypsy-style blouse, she knew that although they were clean and freshly ironed they had definitely seen better days.

  ‘Brazilians love to dress well—they believe you are what you appear to be, and that the world treats you better if you take pride in yourself.’ Her handsome companion cupped her face, casting his tender gaze over every feature, not hiding his admiration. ‘You have nothing to worry about, my angel… You are easily the most beautiful woman in the room…with or without clothes!’

  ‘Eduardo…please!’ She blushed hard, in case anyone had over heard, and didn’t see the tall, statuesque blonde wearing a figure-hugging black skirt and blue satin lownecked blouse heading towards their table until she stood right in front of them.

  ‘Com licença…Senhor De Souza…you probably don’t remember me, but I’m a journalist working for a Rio news pa per on the arts page and I was a friend of your wife’s. My name is Melissa Jordan…originally from New York. We met once at a party in Copacabana.’

  Eduardo politely rose to his feet to shake her hand. For an instant Marianne thought she saw a flash of hot colour sweep his jaw—as though he were embarrassed. Whether because he had no memory of the woman or because she’d been a friend of his wife’s she had no clue.

  In the next second, Miss Jordan herself cleared up the confusion.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  Her tone was shrilly accusing, even unbalanced as she studied Eduardo.

  Marianne felt a small shiver of distinct unease roll down her spine.

  ‘Why should you?’ the woman continued, swaying a little where she stood.

  Had she had too much to drink? Worriedly, Marianne realised that she had. ‘We hardly move in the same élite circles, do we? Thank God your wife wasn’t a snob, like you! No wonder she’d had enough of being married to you… I heard she was pretty sick of your philandering too! Who’s this?’ The brittle ice-blue gaze of the blonde swung down to Marianne, who was still seated. ‘Your latest little bedmate? How fortunate for you that your wife died when she did…it saved you having to pay a ton of alimony to keep her quiet about your antics, didn’t it? We wouldn’t want the newspapers printing a story about their best-loved photographer having a less than perfect marriage, now, would we?’

  ‘I think you have said quite enough for one day, Miss Jordan, and now you had better leave. All you are doing is causing embarrassment to yourself, as well as spoiling other people’s enjoyment of their evening.’ Speaking quietly but firmly, Eduardo put his hand beneath the woman’s elbow, as if to steer her in another direction, but she instantly shook it off and scowled at him.

  ‘Leave me alone! I know your type…spoilt rich play boy who thinks he can treat women however the hell he likes! I can find my own way out, thank you very much!’

  The blonde swayed and stumbled, and would have gone crashing to the ground if Eduardo hadn’t steadied her just in time. By now some of the patrons at the other tables on the glamorous terrace, with the awesome sight of Sugar Loaf Mountain looming in the distance, had turned to see what all the commotion was about. Meantime, Marianne’s body had gone from burning hot to icy cold at the vitriolic content of Melissa Jordan’s horrible little speech.

  Catching the barely discernible nod of Eduardo’s head as he turned his gaze towards the part of the restaurant that was under cover, she wasn’t surprised to see the smartly suited manager appear. With a murmured apology to Eduardo and Marianne he escorted the intoxicated journalist from the building.

  As he returned to his seat, Marianne saw that the incident had definitely disturbed Eduardo, but he hid his discomfort well. It was only because she was coming to know his every little frown, nuance and guarded look so well that she knew he was shaken at all.

  Leaning back in his chair, he took a moment to straighten the cuffs on his jacket and run his fingers round the rim of his shirt collar. His smile at her was brief as well as con trolled, she saw.

  ‘I truly regret that happened just then,’ he remarked, his voice deliberately lowered. ‘I hope it won’t spoil our own evening.’

  ‘Did you know her?’ Marianne asked, secretly appalled at the doubt she heard in her own voice. But how could she help having doubts when the things the woman had said had struck right at the heart of her deepest insecurities, causing all kinds of havoc inside her?

  ‘At first I thought not.’ Sighing, Eduardo leant his arms on the table, casually linking his hands. ‘But when she mentioned the party in Copacabana I realised that I had met her before, and on that occasion too she made a complete nuisance of herself.’

  ‘So she was a friend of your wife’s?’

  ‘An acquaintance, that is all. Eliana did not particularly like her, as I recall. But occasionally at those parties and fundraising events we attended there were people on the periphery who saw them as an opportunity to somehow advance them selves. People like Melissa Jordan. She asked me to help her get a promotion by putting in a good word about her to the editor of the paper on which she worked—a man who is a personal friend of mine. I will help anyone who is genuinely in need, but her request was so blatant…demanding, even…that I am afraid I had to put her in her place and decline. She clearly still bears a grudge against me for that.’

  ‘And the things she said alluding to—to you seeing other women when you were married?’

  Marianne was suddenly feeling so distressed that her throat was threatening to close. Eduardo’s calmly voiced explanation sounded both plausible and rational, but how did she know for sure he was telling her the truth? She loved him to distraction, but she wasn’t naïve enough to believe that love couldn’t make you blind to a lover’s faults.

  ‘You seriously think I would behave in such an abominable way?’

  ‘I—I don’t know…I mean, I…’ Miserably Marianne hung her head, her heart pounding so hard that her chest hurt.

  ‘Come!’ Pushing to his feet Eduardo glared at her, then beckoned a nearby waiter, at the same time throwing some notes onto the table to cover their bill. ‘We will go home. The evening has been ruined after all, and I really have no desire to stay here any longer.’

  Standing on the balcony, listening to the Atlantic waves surge onto the distant shore line then away again, Eduardo left the drink in his glass un touched as he stared out at the horizon. The sun had long gone down, and over and over again as he stood there in the moon light he re counted that distasteful scene in the bar. Had Eliana really confided in the pushy journalist that night at the party, telling her that her marriage was in trouble? All it would have taken was an off-the-cuff un guarded comment and someone like Melissa Jordan, with her eye on the main chance and a talent for utilising her spite and making mischief, could have easily assumed that ‘in trouble’ meant Eduardo was seeing other women.

  But even during their most trying times together he never would have cheated on his wife. Not even when Eliana had turned on him, threatening to have an affair because he had grown so cold towards her. Eduardo hadn’t meant to be cold. He had just realised that his feelings were not the same any more…that they wanted different things, were pulling in different directions. How could they reconcile that? No, he concluded, Melissa Jordan had probably just made up that sordid little story about him ‘philandering’ because she was miffed at him for not
succumbing to her pressure to help with promotion at work.

  Bringing his mind firmly back to the present—far more crucial right then than what had happened in the past—Eduardo knew he was anxious to heal the disturbing rift that had so suddenly and shockingly opened between him and Marianne. He should have healed it straight away, on their return from the restaurant, but he had been so disappointed and angry that she would believe for even a moment that he was any of those des pi cable things the journalist had suggested he was that he hadn’t trusted himself to be rational. So when she had declared she was tired and was going to bed he hadn’t stopped her—even when he had seen by her pale, sorrowful face that she was distraught.

  He swore…calling himself a not very complimentary name. Surveying his drink, he raised the glass to his lips, tipped back his head, and winced as the aged malt whisky hit the back of his throat and then swirled hotly into his stomach. She was too good for him, he thought miserably, resting the empty glass on the wrought-iron table behind him. He could not exactly blame her for believing the worst about him when from the start he had put up almost in surmountable barriers. It would serve him right if she walked out and never came back.

  A spasm of profound anguish criss-crossed his chest and another violent expletive left his lips.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful night.’

  Glancing up in shock, he saw Marianne standing in the patio doorway. She was wearing a knee-length white broderie-anglaise nightdress with delicate puffed sleeves. Her lovely hair was loose down her back and her feet were bare. Everything inside Eduardo tightened with almost unbearable longing at the sight of her.