Leonie (74 page)

Amélie was disappointed. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating or something?” she asked, putting her arms around his neck. He smelled unfamiliarly of the whiskey. “I love you, Senhor do Santos, assistant manager of the fabulous Palaçio d’Aureville.”

Roberto smiled. “And I love you, Senhora do Santos, but I’m far too busy to celebrate—maybe tomorrow night.”

“Promise?” Amélie kissed him lingeringly on the lips.

“I promise.” Roberto’s voice was abstracted as he picked up his jacket and made for the stairs.

Amélie watched him with a pleased smile; he was so attractive, she thought, the way his body tapered into narrow hips and the way his blue shirt looked with his blond hair—neatly trimmed now, but still quite long.

“Come on, Onça,” she said, slipping a chain through the animal’s collar. “Let’s go see Grandmère.”

There was a sound from downstairs and Roberto glanced at his watch. Could Amélie be back already? No, it was too early, it was probably just Ofelia tidying up. He went back to his figures.

The d’Aureville villa on Copacabana was just the same, thought Diego, helping himself to whiskey from the decanter on the sideboard. He took a gulp, savoring the thin aromatic spirit. He preferred Cachaça, nothing could top a good
batida
, and he’d already had several of those. He took a seat on the white couch, propping his feet on the low marble table in front of him, sipping the whiskey. He’d always liked this house, it had a modernistic, elegantly casual style that suited him perfectly—far more than the
fazenda
. He recalled the enormous chests and cupboards in dark woods, the studded leather chairs and ponderous heavy-legged tables. No, he felt much more at home here, the d’Aurevilles certainly had a knack for combining the old and the new. He walked to the sideboard and poured himself a second drink, returning to the couch, carrying the decanter with him, letting it slide through his suddenly uncertain hands onto the marble table. The decanter split cleanly into two pieces and the smell of whiskey mingled with the scent of flowers. “Pity,” murmured Diego, lounging back against the cushions, “pity about all that whiskey.”

Roberto was at the doorway and Diego turned his mocking
green-eyed smile on him. “Well, hello, old friend. Here I am again.”

“I warned you to stay away.” Roberto’s tone was icy.

“Come on in, Roberto, make yourself at home.
Come on!
” Diego’s voice grew impatient. “I need to talk to you.”

Roberto hesitated by the door. “There’s nothing to say.”

“
Oh, yes, there bloody well is
—and you know it, Roberto!” Diego’s face was ugly in its anger. “Now get over here, there’s too much gone down between you and me for you to be so cockily casual about it now.
Get over here, Roberto!
”

Roberto walked slowly across the room and took a seat opposite Diego. His eyes took in the broken decanter and the whiskey spilled over the creamy marble table.

“Very well,” he said distantly, “say what you have to say.”

Diego smiled again, that was better—things were more his style now. “I need money,” he said abruptly. “
A lot of money
—and
right now!
I want you to give it to me, Roberto, and when you do I shall go away and leave you in peace. I’ll go back to Paris again, I liked it there. I found it a very … interesting city. Expensive, of course, for a man of my tastes.”

Roberto was silent. It was blackmail again. What could he do? he wondered helplessly. Even if he got hold of some money and gave it to Diego, he would come back again—and again. He wouldn’t do it, he decided suddenly, he couldn’t; he would just have to face up to the consequences. A vision of Amélie’s happy trusting face came into his mind, and her newly rounded body, filling with their unborn child.

“Of course, the bordellos in Paris aren’t as good as some of the ones we know, Roberto,” continued Diego smoothly, “not quite the same techniques, the same finesse.…” He swung his feet from the table and sauntered back to the sideboard in search of more drink. There was a bottle of brandy—that would do. He placed the bottle carefully on the marble table. “You see,” he said blandly, “I’m being careful—that was just an accident, Roberto, a simple accident, it slipped out of my hand!”

Diego’s laughter filled the room and Amélie stiffened in surprise as she closed the front door behind her. Onça pricked up her ears, growling softly, and she put a hand on her head to silence her, listening.

“Come on, Roberto, relax … have a drink. For old times’
sake?” Diego slopped brandy into a glass and pushed it toward him.

Amélie’s eyes widened. It couldn’t be Diego? A frown creased her brow. It had been years. Roberto had told her that Diego had run away from home because he was in trouble with the police, that he’d gone abroad and would never come back, that his bad ways had finally caught up with him.

Tightening her grip on Onça’s chain, she walked into the salon.

“Well, well, it’s Amélie. The mistress of the house—and future mother, I see.” Diego’s eyes flickered familiarly across her body and Amélie felt the blush rise in her cheeks.

“Diego! What are you doing here?”

“I just dropped by to see old friends. What, no friendly hello kiss, Amélie?” His laughter was mocking.

“I’ve never kissed you, Diego Benavente, and I never will.” Amélie went to stand by Roberto, taking in the broken decanter. Onça backed away from the table, avoiding the strong whiskey fumes.

Diego grinned. With Amélie here, the situation was perfect. Roberto wouldn’t dare refuse him now. He strolled across to the grand piano, settling himself on the stool. His glass formed a sticky ring on the glossy ebony wood of the piano as he ran his hands across the keys. “I thought I might entertain you”—he smiled—“with a song or two from Paris—maybe one that your mother used to sing, Amélie.”

Her face was blank with astonishment and Diego laughed, this was going to be easy.

Roberto took Amélie’s arm and escorted her to the door. Onça walked beside them, glancing back nervously, feeling the atmosphere charged with tension. “Go on upstairs, Amélie,” said Roberto quietly. “Let me deal with this.”

Her eyes met his. “What is it, Roberto, what’s happening?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said firmly. “Go on upstairs, Amélie, please.”

Holding Onça’s chain tightly, she walked slowly up the stairs, hearing the door click as Roberto closed it behind her.

Their bedroom was peaceful, its windows open to the warm night air, and she sat uneasily on the bed, stroking Onça’s smooth head, straining her ears for any sound from downstairs. She could hear nothing and with a sigh she lay back against the pillows, wondering what was going on.

The sound of raised voices erupted into the quiet night and the sudden splintering crash of broken glass—and then silence. Amélie jolted upright. The sudden silence was unnerving. She grabbed Onça’s chain and hurried down the stairs.

The two men sat opposite each other. Diego was drinking from the bottle of brandy and Roberto held his hand to his head where blood trickled from a cut. Broken glass littered the floor. Their eyes turned toward her as she strode into the room, Onça by her side.

“I think you had better go, Diego,” she said quietly. “You have done enough damage for one night.”

“I haven’t finished.” Diego’s smile was innocent. “I still haven’t talked to you, Amélie—and I think we have a lot of things to discuss.”

Amélie’s voice sounded a pitch higher than normal and Onça lifted her head inquiringly. “There is nothing I want to discuss with you—and nothing I ever want to hear from you.”

“Then perhaps I should talk
about
you. There are one or two things Roberto might care to hear about his lovely aristocratic wife.”

Amélie stared at him, puzzled. What could he mean?

“And there again,” continued Diego, “there are one or two things Amélie might like to hear about you, eh Roberto?” Placing the bottle on the table with exaggerated care, Diego began to pace the room. Putting his hands in his pockets, he turned to his prey, sensing his power.

Onça sat quietly beside Amélie, observing every move.

“Don’t you want to know about your lovely husband, then, Amélie? Might such raw details be too upsetting for a woman of such refined background as yourself? Well, I’ll tell you now, Amélie d’Aureville: Roberto belongs to me, we’re bound together by ties stronger than any you understand, ties of blood, Amélie—and flesh.”

Roberto leapt toward him, a heavy alabaster ashtray clutched in his hand. “I’ll kill you, Diego, if you say one more word, I’ll kill you.’

Diego threw back his head and laughed. “Kill me? You’ll not kill me, Roberto, you can’t live without me. You know what we’re like together. Come on, Roberto, it’s Amélie you should get rid of.”

“Enough,” shouted Roberto, “that’s enough.” He raised the
ashtray threateningly and Onça’s low growl rumbled through the room.

“Do you know who she is?” Diego said with a laugh. “She’s the daughter of a whore—a cabaret girl picked by a rich man to be his mistress. She’s no d’Aureville. Léonie was never married to Charles, her father is
‘Monsieur.’ 
” He turned to Amélie. “You’ve been living a lie, my dear,” he said smoothly, “a lifetime of a lie … you are no more a d’Aureville than I am.”

Amélie’s hand trembled and Onça tugged at her chain, straining forward nervously. Tears pricked Amélie’s eyes. What did he mean, she wasn’t a d’Aureville? She could hear Roberto shouting threateningly and Diego’s mocking laughter; it all seemed to come from such a distance, it was so far away—happening somewhere else, not there, not to her. Violence crackled in the air as Roberto rushed toward Diego. She could sense his anger. He was going to kill Diego for her; she couldn’t let him do that. Onça was on her feet, claws scrabbling on the polished boards as she lunged forward, snarling. “Onça,” Amélie whispered as the animal lunged again. The muscles of her shoulder flashed with pain, and automatically her hand relaxed. The chain slid through her open fingers as the big cat launched herself through the air and at Diego’s throat. In the split-second before she was on him, a knife flicked into his hand and as he fell to the ground beneath the force of her body, her powerful fangs already at his neck, he thrust the knife upward into her belly.

The man and the animal lay motionless on the floor. The beautiful salon, littered with broken glass and stained with whiskey—and blood—was silent.

Amélie knew they were dead even before Roberto knelt over them. A man lay dead because of her and she felt nothing. Why was that? she wondered distantly. She had let go of Onça’s chain and now Onça was dead, too. Roberto’s face was ashen and his voice shook. He put a protective arm around her. “Amélie, let me take you upstairs.”

“What will happen to me, Roberto?” She walked by his side obediently. “Will the police take me away?”

Roberto stared at her, horrified. “It was an accident, Amélie. Onça killed him. There was nothing you could do about it.”

Amélie could hear the tremor in Roberto’s voice, he was staying calm for her sake, she knew it. He was so good to her, so sweet. But it hadn’t been an accident, had it?

Roberto lay her down on the bed. “I’m going to call the doctor,” he said, “and Grandmère. And then I must call the police. Everything will be all right, Amélie, I promise you.”

“Roberto,” she said urgently, “what did he mean, Roberto, that I wasn’t a d’Aureville?”

“It was nonsense, Amélie, all nonsense, he just wanted to cause trouble,” said Roberto wearily. “Forget it now, my darling, just forget it. I’ll take care of everything.”

Roberto walked back down the stairs. Violence still trembled in the silent night air and he stood at the door of the salon staring at the bodies. Diego’s hand still clutched the knife that was in Onça’s belly and his green sightless eyes gazed at the ceiling. Blood from his ripped throat had washed over his white shirt and mingled with that of the animal on the rug.

Roberto’s face contorted with pain and tears flowed down his cheeks. Oh, God, he thought, I loved him. Despite it all, I loved him.

The police had been anxious not to upset poor Senhora do Santos any more than necessary. “Such a terrible thing to happen to the senhora,” the captain had said soothingly. “It’s not the first time, though. These big cats can turn nasty without any warning.”

The police had removed the bodies quickly and the salon had been sponged clean of their blood.

“What have they done with Diego?” she asked Roberto, staring at the spot on the floor where he had lain.

“They took him to the hospital.” He added after a pause, “He’ll be buried tomorrow.”

“And will you go to the funeral?”

“Amélie,” said Roberto simply, “I must.”

Tears began to roll down her face. “Don’t cry, Amélie, it wasn’t your fault, truly it wasn’t.”

“I’m not crying for Diego,” she sobbed. “I’m crying for you and me. Don’t you see, Roberto, things will never be the same again?”

“Yes, yes, they will,” he soothed her. “You’ll see, Amélie, everything will be just like it was. Come and lie down again, you mustn’t excite yourself like this—think of the baby.”

The baby! She’d forgotten about the baby! Amélie shuddered. Thank God her child would know nothing of this, he would never know his mother had killed!

“Dr. Valdez will give you something to make you sleep,” said Roberto, stroking her hair back from her hot forehead. “You’ll feel better in the morning. And remember, Amélie, we’ll be leaving for Florida in a few weeks, we have our new life ahead of us.”

She lay in the darkened room with her eyes closed, thinking. Yes, thank God there was a new life ahead of them—a life without Diego, and without Onça, her beautiful, beloved Onça. Tears seeped from beneath her closed eyelids onto the pillow as she cried for Onça, and for her own lost innocence.

–
• 66 •

Léonie lit the candles and stepped back to admire the table. The robin’s egg blue country plates sprinkled with tiny deeper blue and yellow blossoms waited at five places, flanked by graceful long-stemmed crystal goblets. The tablecloth was the very palest shade of blue, and butter yellow napkins were set by each plate. Two squat silver candle-holders, complete with pointed snuffers, that had once lighted Georgian maidens to bed, held fat honey-colored candles, and freshly picked marigolds and cornflowers brimmed from the round crackle-glazed yellow bowl.