Brazillian Affiar Part 2

Behind her she heard the click of his bedroom door. Only then did she go to her own room, surprised to find her legs shaking.

She sat on the bed, feeling self-pity override her earlier excitement. In an effort to overcome it she tried to a.n.a.lyse it away. Was it because she was faced with an evening alone? Yet many times she had refused invitations to go out because she had felt the need to be by herself.

Tonight was different, of course, for she was in a foreign country, among strangers.

"I'm getting maudlin," she said aloud. After all, Lucas Paget was no stranger. She had worked closely with him for six months. Yet she knew she was not being truthful with herself. Her employer was more of a stranger now than he had ever been. The few intimate moments between them today had only heightened the difference between them; made her aware of the gulf between efficient secretary and high-powered tyc.o.o.n.

Angry at where her thoughts were leading her, and afraid that if she followed them she would be unable to withdraw, she slipped off her dress and lay on the bed to rest.

An hour later, her body wrapped in an apricot silk dressing-gown - a present from Mrs. Marsh - that clung to every line of her figure, she opened her windows and stepped on to the balcony. It was still extremely warm, though a faint breeze lifted the hair from the nape of her neck. Usually she pinned it back from her face but it now fell thick and straight to her shoulders. Below her somebody whistled and, aware she was silhouetted against the light from her room, she hastily went inside.

The evening stretched ahead of her, with dinner only taking up a small part of it. She had nothing to read and she thought wistfully of the books she had meant to bring with her but had forgotten in the rush of getting ready. Were there any books in the living-room? she wondered, and tried to remember if she had seen any, then moved across to the door and listened. There was no sound on the other side and she turned the handle and stepped quickly in.

The door to Lucas's bedroom was shut and she tiptoed across to the bookcase. Everything was in Portuguese and despondently she swung round, stopping with a gasp as she saw Lucas Paget directly behind her. His face was flushed from sleep and a navy silk dressing-gown was tied loosely at his waist.

For a moment he looked at her, and conscious that she was wearing nothing beneath her dressing- gown, she clasped it closely, Only as she did so and glimpsed her reflection in the gla.s.s door of the bookcase, did she realise that by drawing the silk tighter she was revealing more. With burning cheeks she hurried across to her room.

"I didn't realise you were in here," he said behind her.

"I was looking for something to read." Half hidden by her door, she felt it safe to turn.

"I'm afraid I can't help you. I don't read fiction."

"You read the Business Journal!"

His eyes gleamed. "I never realised what a sharp tongue you have. If you're not too tired I'll take you out to dinner and give it something to chew on!"

"That's very kind of you, but -"

"I'm not taking pity on you. I'm at a loose end and bored. I'm also too tired to work any more. Be ready in half an hour."

"In half an hour," she repeated, and closed her door. .

Had any woman received such a surly invitation to dinner? she pondered as she applied her make-up and combed her hair back into its usual style. Somehow she could not imagine him proffering such an invitation to Blanche Green.

"But I'm not a musical star," she told herself firmly. "I'm his super-efficient secretary and nothing more."

But it was difficult to remember this when she sat across the table from him in a small but elegant restaurant whose windows overlooked a beach blanched white by the moonlight.

Once again Lucas Paget had ordered the meal for her: pancakes filled with lobster and smothered in sour cream, and a spicy dish of green peppers and beef, washed down with Burgundy.

"No more wine for me," she said as a waiter went to fill her gla.s.s for the third time. "One more sip and I'll be under the table!"

"I'm glad you know when to stop," he said incisively. "I dislike drunken men, but I dislike drunken women even more."

"Do you object to women smoking?" she asked blandly.

"Of course I don't object to women smoking. Why should I?"

"Only that I think you like women kept in their place."

"The home and kitchen, you mean?'

"Yes."

He chuckled. "I do - so long as it's not my home!"

Once again she had unwittingly brought the subject on to a personal level, and she changed it quickly. "Have you been to this restaurant before?"

"Yes. They usually have fado singing here - that's Portuguese folk-songs - but the waiter told me their singer's ill tonight, so we'll have to come here again."

"Fados are always sad, aren't they?"

He nodded. "They're about lovers who were killed in battle or lost at sea."

Philippa felt as though Roland were near her, Yet the Roland she had loved had never existed outside her imagination. She was not aware she had sighed until Lucas Paget pushed back his chair and stood up.

"When a woman sighs in my company, I can tell I'm boring her!"

"That's not true." She stopped, realising he was teasing her. "Not bored. Just realising what a long way I am from home."

"I never expected the super-efficient Miss Smith to be homesick."

"You don't know me very well."

He took her coat, which the waiter was holding out, and dropped it round her shoulders. It was the second time today that she had felt the touch of his fingers and she trembled, aware of his closeness and the warmth that emanated from him.

Even sitting next to him in the car she was even more aware of his nearness, and knew a pang of excitement as, instead of heading towards the hotel, he made for the road that led up into the hills.

"I thought we'd take a drive before going back to the hotel," he explained. "Driving at night always relaxes me. That's why I sent the chauffeur home."

Again his words reminded her of Roland, for he had also found it relaxing to drive. "Someone I once knew said driving always gave him a sense of power."

"He must have been very young."

"What do you mean?"

"Only young men - or weak ones - need that sort of illusion to give them strength."

"He was weak," she admitted, "but he was always kind to me and never arrogant."

"Do I detect a note of criticism in that remark?"

She stared at her hands, nonplussed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Paget, I'd never dream of criticising you."

He concentrated on the road in front of him and she inched closer to the window and half turned. In the light from the dashboard the contours of his face seemed harsh and fieshless. "Like a death's head," she thought, and s.h.i.+vered, suddenly seeing him as a stranger; a man whose whole way of life and thinking was alien to hers. What did he know of love or the loss of it, when all he cared for was another contract, another increase in turnover? To love a man like him would lead to heartbreak unless one were prepared to take a secondary role in his life and to accept that business came first.

"Did you know this man well?" His question was unexpected and she answered without evasion.

"I was going to marry him."

"You were sensible to break it off."

"I didn't. He died."

The car slowed down and stopped on a rough verge. Behind them black hills towered towards the skyline, while below lay the exquisite curve of the bay.

"I'm sorry." His voice was low, with a note of sympathy. "Would you care to tell me about it or does it still hurt?"

"Not any more. It was three years ago. Not long in time, yet it seems a lifetime away. We grew up together," she went on, "and I loved him for as long as I can remember."

"Do you still?"

She hesitated, not sure what he would say if she told him the true story of Roland. Although Lucas Paget was a man who believed in fighting for what he wanted, he had never done anything dishonest.

"He's dead," she said harshly. "I'd rather not discuss it." Resolutely she stared through the side window. She heard the click of a cigarette case and sensed rather than saw the flame of a lighter.

"I'll have to go and inspect the site of the new dam," her employer said conversationally. "I'll take you with me, if you like."

"That would be marvellous."

"It'll be even more marvellous if I can get the contract. The company that builds this dam will be in line for at least half a dozen more projects. The Government has to improve the living standard, and you can only do that by full employment."

"Progress for Brazil with profit for yourself," she commented.

"Is profit a dirty word to you ?"

She was glad the darkness hid her scarlet cheeks. "I didn't mean that. I spoke without thinking."

"That's when one often hears the truth." His voice was hard. "I'm not one of your woolly-minded idealists, I'm too practical. That's why you disapprove of me."

"You don't know what I approve or disapprove," she retorted.

"You'd be surprised! I know a great deal about your thoughts, Miss Smith!"

Unexpectedly he leaned over her, so close that even in the dimness she could see the texture of his Skin. She longed to touch her fingers to his cheek, and the knowledge filled her with fear. She must be crazy to think like this. Either that, or else the magic of this city was affecting her logic.

"It's late," she said, surprised her voice sounded so normal. "We must get back."

He straightened and switched on the ignition. "You're right. I don't want a sleepy secretary in the morning."

His words shattered her romantic illusions, bringing her rudely back to the reality of their position: secretary and boss.

During the journey back he did not speak, and it was only when they entered the lobby that she herself uttered the first words. "It's been a wonderful evening, Mr. Paget. Thank you very much." She did not know whether to hold out her hand, but he was already moving away from her.

"I'll take a final stroll," he said. "Good night, Miss Smith."

And so his duty ends, she thought bitterly as she went up to her room; though why she should feel bitter was something she refused to a.n.a.lyse.

CHAPTER TWO.

Despite her intention to regard Lucas Paget only as her employer, she nevertheless took special pains over her dress and make-up next morning, But when she entered the living-room it was empty, and she was already at her typewriter before the door of his bedroom opened. He was wearing dark slacks and a white silk s.h.i.+rt, and behind him she saw the unmade bed strewn with papers and glimpsed the top half of cream silk pyjamas.

"Find out what time the next plane leaves for Brasilia," he said peremptorily. "I want to be on it." He went back in his room and when he came out again she had typed out the information for him.

"Takes off in one hour. A ticket will be waiting for you at the airport," she said. "I've already ordered your car." She watched him fasten his cuff-links and slip on a dark jacket, turning himself once more into the efficient managing director. "It's unexpected - your having to go to Brasilia?"

"I heard through Emba.s.sy sources that Rodriguez's been recalled to the capital. He usually goes on the mid-morning plane and I thought it would be an opportunity for me to chat to him."

"Is that the only reason you're taking the flight?"

"Only reason?" His tone was dry. "My dear Miss Smith, if you can't see that it's an exceptionally good reason, you'll never make a business woman." He pointed to the dictaphone on his desk. "You'll find another tape on my bedside table. You'll have enough there to keep you busy."

"You must have been working all night."

His smile was brief as he headed for the door, and she knew that already his thoughts were miles away from her and this room. But in this she had misjudged him, for as he reached the threshold he looked back at her.

"I might not be back tonight. It depends. When you finish typing back the tape I suggest you do some sight-seeing."

The door shut and Philippa remained standing by the desk. Without Lucas Paget the room seemed twice as large and twice as empty, and with a sigh she went into his bedroom and picked up the tape. The remains of his breakfast were on a tray and she touched the crumpled napkin and then withdrew her hand hastily.

It took her the entire day to type back everything Lucas Paget had dictated. Re-reading it she decided his sleepless night had been well spent, for he had worked out a completely new way of building the dam which, she was sure, would cut the costs considerably. But would it cut them enough to make them lower than Callisto's? Carefully she rechecked the figures, delighted when she found an error that enabled her, by reworking through all the data, to cut the costs by a further quarter per cent. This was certainly a case where every little counted!

That night Philippa had dinner in her room. She had gone down to the bar for a drink, more out of a desire to see different faces than for any other reason, but admiring stares from bold black eyes had finally forced her to withdraw. Better the loneliness of her room than having to thwart the attentions of over- zealous Latin-Americans.

After she had eaten she went into Lucas's room again and looked at the books she had noticed on his dressing-table - economics, politics, commerce. Reluctantly she picked up a book dealing with economy in Great Britain. Hard reading, no doubt, but preferable to twiddling her thumbs. In her room again she undressed, opened the windows wide and then climbed into bed. Beyond the balcony she heard the roar of the sea. It was odd, but when one thought of the tropics one always envisaged calm seas and gently lapping waves, and it was strange to find that reality was so different.

The monotonous beat of the water and the dullness of the book acted like a soporific, and it was barely ten o'clock when she turned off the light and closed her eyes. I must write to Mrs. Marsh, she thought sleepily. And I must buy her a present before I return.

The glaring white sun awaked her early next morning and she decided to do as Lucas Paget had suggested and spend the day sightseeing.

"Mr. Paget arranged for his car and chauffeur to be at your disposal," the clerk at the desk told her when she inquired the best way of viewing the city.

Although surprised that he had had time to remember such a thing, Philippa decided against using the car and eventually took the bus that plied between the beach and the town centre. It set her down in the Avenido Rio Branco which, according to the brochure she had found in her room, had shops that equalled the elegant ones in Paris's Faubourg St. Honore. But looking at the dowdy lingerie and uninteresting vista of dresses she decided the author of the brochure preferred fiction to fact.

It was only when she left the wide boulevards for the narrow lanes that ran behind them that she found herself in a more interesting world of colonial-style houses and exquisite but crumbling churches that recalled the days of the first Portuguese settlers. For hour after hour, unconscious of time, she wandered the city until hunger and a blistered heel forced her to take a taxi and return to the hotel.

By the time she had finished lunch it was mid- afternoon, and putting on a bathing costume and wrap she decided to take a swim in the hotel pool. With disappointment she saw that the pool and the gaily coloured chairs were already in the shade, the sun masked by the block of the hotel itself. Irritated at the stupid way the hotel had been built, she made for the public beach instead. It was crowded with swarthy-skinned youths playing football. The sea was too rough for bathing and all she dared do was stand on the edge and let herself be showered by the salt spray. Even so, it was refres.h.i.+ng, though the sun was so intense that the coolness did not last long.

Above her in the sky there was a sudden gleam of silver, and she watched as it grew larger and became the wing of a plane. It brought Lucas Paget to mind and, wondering if there had been any word from him, she hastily collected her things and returned to the hotel.