The Man Behind the Mask Page 2

  When he did not immediately answer the other man, the surgeon shrugged again, the edges of his thin-lipped mouth lifting in a conciliatory smile. ‘Just a suggestion, dear fellow… Now, listen to my advice and take it easy on that leg. I recommend just a twenty-minute walk each day—half an hour if you must, but no more than that. In the meantime, if you want to talk about any aspect of your recuperation, I’ve let my secretary know that I will accept your calls at any time so long as I’m not in the operating theatre. I’ll see you next time. Goodnight.’

  Almost as if intuiting that his employer’s visitor was about to depart, Eduardo’s valet Ricardo appeared in the doorway, the spots of damp across his jacket’s dark shoulders suggesting he’d already been hard at work outside, clearing some of the ice from the long sweeping drive that led away from the house.

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Powell…and thank you once again for coming out on such a night. Please drive safely.’

  In the early hours of that same morning, Eduardo tried his hardest to concentrate on the 1940s black and white comedy playing on the flat state-of-the-art television screen in front of him. But even a scant moment of pleasure or comfort frustratingly eluded him. He had got into the habit of watching movies well into the small hours, simply because he could not settle his mind enough to sleep. Not when it dwelled on one set of terrible events over and over again, like a nightmarish film stuck on rewind. Some nights he couldn’t face even going to his bedroom at all, so he simply pulled a rug over him on one of the comfortable leather sofas in the sitting room and dozed there till morning. Pain… burning and torturous…often shot through his injured leg and hip, adding to his woes.

  Stoically ignoring the all too tempting urge to pour a glass of whisky to drown his sorrows and dull his pain, Eduardo muttered a passionate expletive. Rubbing at his increasingly tense brow as he at tempted to watch the impossibly glamorous characters cavort on the screen before him, he quickly abandoned the whole idea and pressed the ‘off’ button on the remote. Even losing him self in distraction seemed impossible. It was as though he was permanently staring into a black abyss there was no escape from, and all hope of ever seeing daylight or sensing warmth again was lost to him for ever.

  Releasing a bitter sigh, he reflected that even that pretty busker in the street was no doubt far happier with her simple hand-to-mouth existence than he could ever hope to be with his immensely wealthy and privileged one.

  Why did he seem to be fixating on her? he wondered. Impatiently he shook his head. His interest made no sense—especially when she had spoken to him with the offhand brusqueness of in experienced youth, making it more than clear that she obviously disdained his desire to help. But, nonetheless, time and time again in the toolong frosty night at his isolated house, Eduardo found his thoughts returning to the girl, wondering if she really did have a place to stay, if she had made enough money to eat that day, and if she was warm on this bitterest of winter nights?

  By the time a reluctant grey dawn had seeped in between the parted velvet drapes the next morning he had more or less decided that the next time he ventured into town he would not ignore her, as he had previously vowed. No…instead he would talk to her, question her about her cir cum stances, and maybe offer to help better her situation. Was he a complete fool for contemplating such a potentially disastrous course of action? It was quite likely that she would laugh in his face or tell him to go and find some other poor down and out to foist his money on!

  Finally, concluding that his desire to be of assistance was being prompted by the idea of his own child struggling in a similar situation, had he or she lived to be the age of this girl, he swallowed down the lump of anguish in his already tight throat and, making himself as comfortable as he was able on the couch, at last drifted off to sleep…

  CHAPTER TWO

  MARIANNE was between songs, sipping café latte from a local coffee shop to warm her up and hope fully restore some heat into her blood again, on yet another day chilly enough to turn solid stone into a block of ice. All of a sudden a shaft of pure, undiluted sunlight arrowed down onto the pavement a few yards in front of her, trapping in its beam a golden head that riveted her attention. It was him! The expensive-looking guy with the stern mouth and the ivory topped cane. He didn’t seem to be limping as badly today, Marianne reflected, watching him, and her insides executed an unsettling somersault as she saw that he was definitely heading her way.

  Moments later he stood before her, his breath making a little puff of frosted steam as he spoke. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, and there was a barely discernible lift to one corner of that impossibly serious mouth that surprisingly might have been the beginning of a smile.

  ‘Hello,’ she murmured, her gloved hand tightening round her take-away coffee cup.

  ‘You are not singing?’

  ‘No…I’m taking a break. Warming myself up.’

  Finding herself the target of his devastating silent scrutiny, Marianne felt her entire body tense with discomfort. Did he have any idea how intently he stared? His eyes were like twin frosted blue lasers, making an exploratory dive straight down into her soul. Her husband Donal had never regarded her in such an intense way. His gaze had simply been in finitely kind.

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Okay.’ Shrugging, Marianne glanced down at the small collection of coppers and silver change in the hat at her feet. ‘Like I told you before, I don’t sing just for—’

  ‘Money. I remember. You sing because you are compelled to…for the love of it, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now she felt embarrassed, remembering her outburst of the other day. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I offended you in any way by what I said or did, but there are a lot of people far worse off than me you know? In fact I’m not badly off at all. Appearances can be deceiving.’

  His tanned brow creased a little, as if he were silently disputing her assessment of her situation, and his gaze care fully took in her mismatched woollen clothing that today consisted of purple tights, brown boots, a red dress over a cream sweater and Donal’s too-big sheep skin lined leather jacket, with a beige scarf tucked into the neckline to keep out the worst of the cold. The only thing she wasn’t wearing to finish off the eye-catching ensemble was her multi-coloured ski hat. Rushing out of the house this morning, she had accidentally left it behind.

  ‘Well…if it helps you to know, I did in fact donate the money I would have given you to the church’s collection for the homeless, as you suggested. Let me introduce myself. My name is Eduardo De Souza.’ Balancing one hand on his cane, he removed a glove and struck out his now bare hand towards her.

  For what seemed like an interminable second of agonising decision-making Marianne hesitated, before slipping her own gloved hand lightly into his. Even through the thickly knit wool she swore she sensed the heat from his body radiate up her arm, making her tingle. ‘I’m Marianne…Marianne Lockwood. You’re clearly not from around here, are you?’

  ‘I reside in the UK now, but I do not come from here…you are right. I am from Brazil…Rio de Janeiro.’

  ‘The land of samba, sunshine and carnaval? I’m sorry—I expect you hate that cliché.’

  ‘Not at all. I am proud of my country and what it has to offer.’

  ‘And you’d rather be here, turning into a human ice-pole, than at home soaking up the sun?’ She couldn’t suppress the teasing grin that took hold of her lips, but Eduardo de Souza’s grave expression did not lighten for a moment.

  ‘Even sunshine can pall after a time, if you have too much of it. It becomes common place, and one can easily risk losing the pleasure that was once derived from it,’ he commented seriously. ‘Besides…I am half-British, so I am not completely unfamiliar with this climate—and after the winter comes the spring, and that is consoling, yes?’

  ‘I know. I love the spring! So…what are you doing here today? Shopping? Meeting a friend?’

  ‘Neither. I’ve been visiting an exhibition that is on at the town hall. Su
rprisingly, there are quite a few places of interest to visit in this quaint little town.’

  ‘True. It gets quite packed in the summer, believe it or not.’

  ‘I can believe it.’

  Now, to Marianne’s complete surprise, her companion did smile, and his eyes looked bright as stars for a moment. Something inside her reacted disturbingly strongly to the fact and she felt her skin tighten self-consciously.

  ‘Yes there are boat trips you can take on the river, and they’re always very popular with the tourists. Anyway…’

  Coming to the end of her coffee, Marianne stood the empty cup on the pavement behind her, then picked up the guitar that lay in its open black case on the ground beside it. Surprised that such an urbane, clearly wealthy man as Eduardo de Souza would even bother to introduce himself to a girl like her—particularly in such unusual cir cum stances—she couldn’t help but be cautious. But then, as she glanced at that movie-star-handsome face and the commanding physique the cashmere coat he wore hinted at, it seemed unlikely that his intent was anything other than to pass the time of day with her. Anything else would be preposterous. They’d had a bit of an exchange before, and he was merely being polite, she told herself.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to get back to what I’m here for.’ Removing her gloves, Marianne strummed a few chords to tune her guitar. A group of visiting French students passing by just then momentarily peered at her with interest. As for her handsome visitor, he stubbornly remained where he stood, apparently in no hurry to leave.

  ‘Next time…when I am in town…perhaps you would allow me to buy you lunch?’ he suggested.

  Marianne blinked. Even the idea of sitting in some smart little restaurant opposite this man for an hour or more made her go hot and cold. For a start, what would they possibly have in common to talk about? ‘Thank you, but no,’ she answered quickly. ‘I don’t really do lunch when I’m working’

  ‘You mean you do not take a break to eat?’ He sounded amused.

  ‘I do take a break, but only to have coffee and sometimes maybe a croissant or a muffin…I have my main meal in the evening…when I get home.’

  ‘Then how about I buy you coffee and cake instead?’

  No reason to refuse him coming help fully to mind, Marianne nodded un com fort ably. ‘Okay. Now, I really have to get back to this.’

  ‘Then I will say goodbye, Marianne.’ He briefly inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. ‘Until next time.’

  ‘Next time’ turned out to be two days later. Having endured an icy shower of rain and sleet combined for the previous hour, huddled beneath an inadequate umbrella instead of playing her guitar, Marianne had seriously thought about packing up and calling it a day. But then the sun came out, the freezing cold shower subsided, and as if by magic Eduardo De Souza appeared. He was dressed in his stylish cashmere coat, with a matching scarf draped casually round his neck, and his attire seemed much more suitable for the premiere of a theatre production rather than a casual visit to town.

  ‘Hello.’ He smiled, his rich voice sounding a little huskier than she remembered. Realising that for the past two days she had sub consciously been looking out for him, her heart thudding with what felt ridiculously like excited anticipation whenever his image crossed her mind, Marianne struggled to make her response sound natural.

  ‘Hi…’ she mumbled, standing back to shake the drops from her umbrella, fold it, then lean it against the wall. ‘Not exactly the best day for coming into town,’ she quipped.

  ‘Fortunately I missed the downpour. I have spent the past hour under cover at the exhibition.’

  ‘The same exhibition you visited before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It must be quite compelling to make you want to visit it again. What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s a collection by a French photographer I particularly admire…a retrospective of his life in Paris just after the war, when the city was being rebuilt. He died recently, and I saw an article in the local news pa per advertising the exhibition.’

  ‘Oh.’ Collecting her guitar from its case, Marianne gave her visitor an awkward smile. ‘I should probably go and take a look at it myself before it ends. It sounds fascinating.’

  ‘You are interested in the subject?’

  ‘I’m always interested in creativity and art—whatever its form. It intrigues me to learn how other artists see the world…how they interpret what they see. Just goes to show we all see things so differently…not in the same way at all.’

  For a moment the man in front of her fell silent, as though he were seriously considering the opinion Marianne had just expressed, and with no small amount of surprise either.

  Then he glanced down at his watch—expensive-looking, but definitely not ostentatious. ‘How about going for that coffee now?’

  Again finding no immediate reason to decline, and feeling chilled to the bone after that hour of re lent less sleet and rain, Marianne found herself agreeing. ‘Okay. Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.’

  In the familiar café, with its cheerful red and white checked curtains and matching table cloths, the aromatic smell of brewing coffee mingling with the steam arising from the damp coats of customers gratefully seeking warmth, shelter and sustenance after their tussle with the elements, Marianne was mildly surprised to find it as busy as it was. Luckily she found a small table close to the wood stove, and the waitress appeared almost straight away to take their order. She didn’t doubt it was because Eduardo did not look like your average every day customer—his almost regal bearing and sheer physicality alone commanded instant attention.

  Goodness knew what the poor girl made of Marianne as his companion! As it was, she saw her look slightly askance at her guitar in its battered case, as if it was something almost distasteful. Eduardo gave her their order, and Marianne suddenly found herself alone with him. Resting his hands atop the checked table cloth, he studied her without speaking. What was he thinking? Marianne wondered nervously. She cleared her throat and forced a shaky smile, feeling ill at ease and somehow grace less in her jumble of ill-fitting clothing beneath his intense examination.

  ‘This is a nice place. It makes a change from the local coffee chain I usually use. The coffee’s very good, and the pastries aren’t bad either.’

  ‘I am glad you chose a table near the fire…you look half frozen!’

  ‘I’m not any more. I’m quite warm, actually.’ Undoing several buttons on her coat, Marianne flashed him a smile, genuinely touched by the concern in his voice.

  ‘I have to ask you—’ the disturbing glance seemed to intensify ‘—are your parents happy about you singing at the side of the road?’ he questioned, frowning.

  She could tell by his tone that he disapproved.

  ‘They’re not around any more to have an opinion,’ she answered instantly, without thinking, and then a splinter of indignant anger pierced her that he should disapprove of people he didn’t even know. ‘Anyway…I don’t mean to be rude…it’s really none of your business.’

  ‘How old are you? Seventeen…eighteen?’

  Marianne stopped fiddling with the sugar bowl on the table and stared at him with the hardest gaze she could muster. ‘For your information, I’m twenty-four—and quite capable of looking after myself and making my own decisions without the interference or permission of anyone else, including parents if they were around!’

  ‘It is just that you appear much younger…’ Eduardo murmured, his returning gaze completely unapologetic.

  ‘It’s hardly my fault if genetics or fate has made me look younger than I am!’

  ‘I am not criticising the way you look, Marianne.’ His voice softened, and so did his gaze. ‘I am just concerned that you would choose to put yourself in what could potentially be a very vulnerable position. Can you not find some where else…some where safer where you might perform your songs?’

  ‘There’s a folk club I sing at some times…but it’s only open once
every fort night. I’d get very rusty if that was my only outlet. Besides…’ Fearing his judgement and disapproval, Marianne slotted her defences firmly into place. ‘The vendors that work in the market look out for me. Someone immediately comes over if it looks like anyone is bothering me.’

  Eduardo sighed. ‘That at least makes me feel a little easier about the situation.’

  ‘Well, please don’t give it another thought. I’ve been singing outside for over a year now, and nothing dire has happened to me yet!’

  The waitress brought their coffee, along with two generous slices of the fruit cake Eduardo had ordered for them. Marianne added sugar to her drink and stirred it.

  His expression at her words revealed more alarm than reassurance, and her companion reached into his inside coat pocket for his wallet, extracted something, and held it out to her. Initially thinking he was going to offer her money, Marianne was about to give him short shrift when she thank fully saw that he was actually offering her a small business card.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘If you ever need anything…’

  ‘What could I possibly need from a complete stranger?’ For some in explicable reason she found herself precariously close to tears. Some renegade emotion had crept up on her un detected, until it was almost too late to rein it in again. It had been happening a lot lately.

  The Brazilian firmed his mouth. ‘A job, for one thing… And, seeing as we are sitting here together having coffee, I hope I am no longer a stranger. If this weather gets much colder—and the forecast is not good for the rest of January—you might appreciate an alternative way to earn some money. A job that would also provide a roof over your head and good, nourishing food to eat.’

  ‘What kind of job?’ Intrigued now, despite herself, Marianne glanced out of the window at the steel-grey sky and the threat of even more sleet and snow. An involuntary tremor went through her.

  ‘I need a house keeper.’ The broad shoulders beneath the fawn-coloured cashmere lifted, then fell again.