Leonie (68 page)

“I should think so, too,” grumbled Senhora Delfina. “I hate to think what its claws might have done to that veil.”

The flufly jaguar cub sprawled in the shade, her back legs stretched out flat and her head resting on big front paws. The rails of the veranda striped her creamy coat with shadow, hinting of the beautiful tawny amber it would become when she reached maturity, and she gazed up at Amélie with the doleful eyes of a banished kitten.

“You’re sulking, Onça,” called Amélie, “and I don’t blame you … you only wanted to see what was going on, didn’t you?”

The cat pricked up her ears, a look of hope returning to her eyes. “Come on then, my darling,” Amélie murmured, lifting her in her arms and kissing the soft place just above her glossy nose. Onça’s clumsy paw came up playfully, but Amélie caught it before it reached her face. “No. No, Onça. Not until you’ve learned that your claws can hurt me.”

The cat lay, belly up in her arms, as relaxed as a baby, while she murmured to her, tickling her chin and stroking her fluffy fur.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” marveled Xara. “The creature is devoted to you. I don’t know what will happen when she grows too big and you have to get rid of her.”

“Get rid of Onça! Oh, Xara, I’d never do that.”

Xara looked at the cat doubtfully, she hadn’t been happy when Edouard had given her to Amélie as a pre-wedding gift. She knew how Amélie felt about all cats and this little jaguar was adorable. But she would grow into a powerful animal.

“I’m training her,” said Amélie proudly. “Look, she already walks at heel.” The cat followed her feet obediently, stopping
when she stopped. “She hasn’t learned to sit yet, but she will. You mustn’t worry, Xara, lots of people keep jaguars as pets, they’re truly faithful to their masters.”

Onça rolled over on her back, waving a paw at the ribbon Amélie dangled over her.

“Onça,” she said lovingly, “you are the nicest wedding present of all.”

Roberto wended his way through the market, busy even at this early hour with traders and porters and customers like himself, buying for their shops, restaurants, and hotels. It was five o’clock in the morning and he was there, as he had been every morning for the past two months, to learn how to buy produce for the Hotel d’Aureville and the Pavillon. It was just one of the aspects of “learning his trade” as Edouard had called it. He pushed his hands in his pockets, watching as the assistant chef from the Pavillon picked over the heaps of shrimp and tested eggplants for ripeness. Roberto had already discussed the quantities with him, learning that waste or overbuying could spell rapid financial ruin for a restaurant. Nothing was ever wasted at the Pavillon and yet everything was superlatively fresh.

“I’ll get back to the kitchen now, Senhor Roberto,” called the young chef. “They’ll be waiting for these.”

Roberto stretched wearily. Getting up at four-thirty every day was not easy. Still, it was worth it, he thought, pushing his way back through the throng into the street. You had to know every part of a hotel in order to manage it, from buying the vegetables to supervising the restaurant, from the proper procedure for greeting guests to balancing the books. And since he’d started working at the Hotel d’Aureville, he’d discovered that he was interested in every aspect of it. It would take him two years, he considered, making his way along Rua Ouvidor, and then he’d be able to call himself a hotel manager. He could work anywhere in the world then—France, Switzerland, maybe even England. He remembered with a pang the missed years at Oxford. That had been Diego’s fault; no, that wasn’t true, it had been his own weaknesses that had caused him to miss the crucial exams. But he had paid for it, working on the
fazenda
all those months.

He glanced at his watch as he pushed open the door of the Café Miltinho. There was just time for a quick cup of coffee before he went back.

The café was surprisingly busy, a mixture of market people breakfasting after their hard day’s work, which had begun for some of them at midnight, and the other night people, those for whom the day was not beginning, the night was ending. Glancing at their faces he remembered himself after such nights, the bitter loathing, the regrets. Well, thank God that was all in the past. Amélie was his life now, his lovely simple innocent life.

“Well, hello.” The familiar voice was edged with a smile and Roberto knew without looking who it was. “How does it feel being engaged? A bit like being fattened for the kill?”

Roberto swallowed the scalding black coffee in a gulp and crashed the cup into its saucer.

Diego put a hand on his arm. “Mind if I sit down? After all, we are old friends, aren’t we?”

He pulled his chair closer to Roberto’s. “I’ve been meaning to come to see you, ever since I saw the announcement, but I’ve been out of town a lot—Recife, Bahia … here and there—you know.”

“You’re invited to the wedding,” said Roberto stiffly, “with your parents. My mother sent the invitation.”

Diego’s eyes under their thick dark brows were gleaming with amusement. “I know. So how are you going to manage it, Roberto? Marriage, I mean—every night the same woman?”

Roberto’s clear blue eyes met Diego’s dark gaze and a thousand memories passed through their glance.

“I think you should know,” said Roberto hoarsely, “that I’m marrying Amélie because I love her.” He averted his eyes, picking up the empty cup and draining it again. Anything to avoid looking at Diego.

“Love!” Diego’s voice was contemptuous. “What does love count for someone like you? You know you’re different, Roberto, we both are. Get married, but you’ll regret it.” He leaned closer and Roberto could smell the stale Cachaça on his breath. He knew what his night must have been like; he could almost taste the caresses that must have been lavished on Diego’s flesh.

Roberto stood up suddenly, knocking over his chair in his hurry, and people turned to stare as he pushed past them on his way to the door.

Diego followed him. “I’ll come to your wedding and I’ll behave. I promise. But I’ve got trouble on the
fazenda
and I need your help.”

Roberto kept on walking. Diego hurried by his side, talking as they went.

“It’s about my father,” he said. “You know how hard it’s been for him over the years. God knows why he didn’t sell the
fazenda
when he could, but he clung on against all odds and mortgaged it to the hilt—every single hectare. And the house as well. Now he can’t pay and the collectors are threatening to come and take over the place.”

Roberto stopped. Teo Benavente was his father’s oldest friend. Why hadn’t he known he was in such trouble? “But that’s terrible, we must ask my father to help. You know he’d lend him the money to pay off the mortgage.”

Diego stared back at him. “Yes, he would. In fact, Roberto, he already did. It just seems to have … well … ‘gotten lost’ en route.”

“What do you mean? Where is the money?”

“Your father gave the check to me as my father’s agent in Rio.” He shrugged, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth. “I have his power of attorney. It was easy to have the money paid to me instead. There were a few investments—I thought I would make my fortune—however, it seems I misjudged them … and you know how quickly money disappears—a little here, a little there.”

“That couldn’t have been just ‘a
little’
money! Jesus, Diego, how could you do that! You’ve ruined your father!”

Diego smiled, his thin attractive face bland and unblemished by his night’s carousing, or any pangs of conscience. “You know me, Roberto, you always said I was no good. But now there’s the problem of the mortgage collector. He’ll be going out to the
fazenda
in the next few days to take it over. I thought if I could head him off before he got to my father, I could talk to him … maybe give him a little money now and promise him more later just to stall things for a while. I need your help, Roberto.”

Roberto turned away, “No,” he said firmly, “I’m not going to help you.”

Diego walked beside him. “Yes, you are. After all, you do want to marry Amélie, don’t you?”

Roberto’s footsteps slackened. “What do you mean?”

They faced each other, unheeding of the pedestrians pushing past them in the now busy street. “I don’t want to have to tell her the truth about you, Roberto. I mean, I really want you two to be
happy.” Diego’s smile was as innocent as a child’s as he waited, hands in pockets, for Roberto’s response.

How could he be that relaxed? wondered Roberto. He’s blackmailing me! What am I going to do? What
can
I do?

“It’s not for me.” Diego changed his tactics. “It’s for my father. I know I’ve been wrong—very wrong. But I’ve got to help him now. And I need you to help me.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Roberto stiffly.

“I need some money. You’ll have to get hold of as much as you can.” Diego thought of the safe in the hotel, Roberto had access to that now. “A
substantial
amount, Roberto.” He wouldn’t put any limit on the figure, he’d let Roberto do that. He waited for Roberto’s reaction but there was none. “And I want you to come with me to the
fazenda,
” he added. “I shall need help with this collector, he might not take my word for it. You can tell him you’re your father’s estate manager and he is acting as guarantor. He’ll believe you.”

Roberto’s mouth tensed. “No! I’ll get you the money, but I won’t go with you.”

“Of course you will.” Diego’s smile was triumphant; he knew he’d won. “It’ll be like old times, Roberto—just the two of us together.” And, he thought to himself, you’ll never return to Amélie by the time I’m through with you. I’ve got you, Roberto do Santos.

Diego was charming. He was gentle and soft-spoken; there was none of the old swaggering, confident manipulator about him on the journey down to the
fazenda
. “This has changed me,” he told Roberto. “I know I was wrong and I have to make amends to my father. I’ll never do anything like this again. I promise you.”

His smile was winning, and his eyes gleamed with sincerity, so that Roberto began to wonder if it were true.

“Thank you for coming with me.” Diego put his hand on Roberto’s arm, touching him lightly, and the shock of the contact ran through Roberto’s whole body. He would never lose those memories, no matter how he buried them in the recesses of his mind. “Let’s be friends again,” pleaded Diego. “We’ve known each other all our lives, let’s forget the past, Roberto, come on.” His hand closed more firmly on Roberto’s. “Shake hands with me.”

The train dropped them at the nearest small town and they
hired horses for the last part of their journey so they could ride across country and avoid the long route by road, which Diego knew the collector must have taken. The going was easy, but it was hot and Roberto was thankful when they finally came to the lane that ran along the edge of the Benavente plantation. They were still some fifteen miles from the house but for the first time Diego looked worried. Could they have missed the collector? He kicked his horse into a canter and the dry dust flew from beneath its hooves. It was by the stretch of woods that bordered the
fazenda
that they caught up with the man, just a few miles from the big house. Night was falling and he was obviously preparing to make camp. He had tethered his horse and was collecting wood to feed the small fire he had started. He waved an arm in greeting as they approached.

Diego surveyed him coldly from his horse. “You realize, I suppose, that you are trespassing?”

“I’m on my way to the
fazenda
, senhor, but I didn’t want to arrive there late at night. The
patrão
is an old man, I’ve no wish to disturb him. I’ll go in the morning.”

Diego struck out savagely with his whip and the collector reeled as the sudden blow caught him on the side of his head. “You’ll go nowhere,” said Diego contemptuously.

“Jesus, Diego!” Roberto leapt from his horse. “What are you doing?”

“Get away, Roberto, let me deal with this my way.” Diego dismounted and approached the man, who cowered behind Roberto.

“I just want to talk to you—about my father,” said Diego in a more reasonable tone.

Roberto watched him apprehensively. He seemed cool and rational, as though he’d overcome the initial outburst of rage.

“Your father?” The collector’s voice was hoarse with fear.

“The
patrão
, the one you are going to see in the morning.” He pulled the wad of money from his pocket—Roberto’s money. “I have a plan to pay you what we owe; after all, you only want the money, don’t you?”

“That’s true, senhor, a
fazenda
isn’t much good to anyone these days. If you have the money, we would prefer payment.”

Roberto stared at the money in Diego’s hand. It was all he’d had in the bank and its total represented a lifetime of family events, birthday gifts, small legacies from deceased aunts, the settlement
his grandfather had made on him when he was born. At least, he thought tiredly, it would be put to good use if it helped to save Teo Benavente’s
fazenda
.

“Come,” Diego was saying reasonably, “let’s sit by the fire and talk. I have a flask here, we could all use a drink.” He passed the flask to the collector, who drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, coughing as the whiskey burned its way down.

Diego offered it to Roberto, who refused, and then Diego took a large swig himself. “Let’s have a look at the documents, senhor,” he demanded.

They waited uneasily in the flaring light of the fire while Diego examined the deeds. It was very dark and the humidity pressed heavily on them, forcing small wisps of mist from the cooling earth. The undergrowth rustled with nocturnal activity and in the far distance a dog barked.

Diego took another swig from the flask. “Well, my man,” he said, fumbling at his belt, “I have your money for you right here.” All at once his arm gripped the man’s neck, forcing his head back. A thin knife gleamed at the man’s throat.

“I’ll have your signature on this, senhor,” said Diego holding the paper in front of the man’s eyes.