Under the Brazilian Sun. CATHERINE GEORGE
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Roberto de Sousa sat opposite, smouldering in silence again across the table.
‘The value is unimportant. The painting is not for resale. My interest is the identity of the artist.’ He was silent again, as though turning something over in his mind. ‘If you would consent to stay to examine it,’ he said at last, ‘I would be most grateful—Doctor.’
Her first instinct was a flat refusal. But, conscious that she represented the Massey Gallery, and also deeply curious about the painting and its owner, Katherine changed her mind about a quick getaway. For pride’s sake she paused, as though considering her answer, and finally nodded graciously. ‘Since you’ve paid so generously for my time, I have no choice.’
‘Obrigado, Dr Lister. You shall see the painting in the morning.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But now you must be tired after your journey. Please rest before joining me for dinner.’
So she was to have the honour of dining at his table. ‘Thank you, Mr de Sousa.’
‘De nada.’
He escorted her across the hall. ‘Ate logo—until later, Doctor.’
About the Author
CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading which eventually fuelled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the UK. And, instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, and browse in antiques shops.
Under the
Brazilian Sun
Catherine George
CHAPTER ONE
THE Oporto concourse was crowded, but as Katherine made her way through it with her luggage trolley she finally spotted a man holding up a sign with her name on it.
She smiled politely as she approached him. ‘I’m Dr Lister of the Massey Gallery in England.’
The man stared for a moment in blank surprise, then hurriedly took charge of her trolley. ‘Bem-vindo, Doutora. Senhor Sousa sent me to welcome you. My name is Jorge Machado. Please to follow me to the car.’
Katherine was only too pleased to let the man take over. Installed in a sleek limousine she relaxed against the butter-soft leather upholstery as they left the airport to head north into the heart of the Minho, an area of Portugal she’d learned was still deep-rooted in tradition. Once they left the motorway for a slower winding route along the River Lima they passed a cart drawn by plodding oxen oblivious of passing traffic, with two black-clad women pacing alongside, and Katherine smiled in delight. Real Portugal!
Originally, Katherine had intended hiring a car to sandwich in a brief holiday somewhere in the region once her mission was completed, but in the end she had taken her employer’s advice and accepted the transport provided. She would simply take a taxi to Viana do Castelo afterwards, and find a hotel for whatever time was left over from her mission. But for now it was good just to sit back and watch this picturesque part of the world go by as she speculated about what waited for her at journey’s end.
Some work was necessary, for a start. The unknown Mr de Sousa required an art expert to authenticate a recently acquired painting, and had paid all expenses and fees necessary to fly her boss to Portugal. James Massey was renowned and highly respected in the art world for searching out unrecognised works by major artists, and Katherine considered herself fortunate not only to work at his gallery, but for the benefit of his invaluable experience as he’d taught her how to differentiate between the genuine article and the fake. But James, to his chagrin, had gone down with influenza shortly before he was due to leave for Portugal and had asked Katherine to take his place. Elated that he trusted her to deputise for him, she’d dropped everything to make the flight.
The new man in her life had objected strongly when she put their embryo relationship on hold to take off for Portugal, not least because she turned down his offer to go with her. Katherine had been immovable. A client paying so generously for her services deserved her total concentration. The painting would probably need some cleaning before she could even begin to venture any kind of opinion and, dependent on its age and condition, this might take time. Andrew Hastings had taken the rejection so badly Katherine had been surprised to receive his text at the airport demanding she contact him as soon as she arrived. She shrugged, preferring to think about Mr de Sousa instead. James Massey knew surprisingly little about the client, other than his possession of a painting he believed to be of some importance, and his willingness to pay generously to find out if he was right. She fervently hoped that he was right. If the client’s find was a dud or, worse, a fake, she didn’t fancy breaking the bad news. That was a side of the business normally dealt with by James Massey.
‘We have arrived, Doutora,’ said her chauffeur, and Katherine sat to attention at the sight of high walls with a gated archway surmounted by a stone cross. He aimed a remote control at the wrought iron gates, which swung open to reveal a landscape so beautiful she asked him to drive slowly through acres of rolling verdant gardens ringed with mountain views. When the house itself finally came into view it outdid its surroundings. White-walled and red-roofed, two wings fanned out from a central stone tower wreathed in greenery. Before the car came to a halt in the circular courtyard the massive door in the tower swung open and a plump little woman came hurrying out, her surprise obvious as she set eyes on the visitor.
‘Here is Doutora Lister, Lídia,’ said Jorge Machado with emphasis on the title as he helped Katherine from the car.
‘Bem-vindo—welcome to Quinta das Montanhas, Doutora,’ the woman said, recovering quickly.
Delighted to hear more English, no matter how heavily accented, Katherine smiled warmly. ‘How do you do? What a glorious house.’
The woman smiled, pleased. ‘Senhor Roberto regret he is not here to greet you but arrives very soon. I take you to your room, Doutora.’
Jorge followed behind with the luggage as the friendly, bustling Lidia led Katherine through a vast cool hall with a high vaulted ceiling, and on up a curving stone staircase with a balustrade of wrought iron as delicate as black lace. The smiling woman showed Katherine into a big high-ceilinged room with louvred blinds at tall windows, and an armoire and massive white-covered bed in dark carved wood. And, best sight of all to Katherine at the moment, a tray with an ice bucket and mineral water on a table between the windows.
Jorge followed them to wheel Katherine’s luggage to the chest at the foot of the bed, then turned to leave. ‘When you are ready, Doutora, please to come down to the varanda.’
Lidia showed Katherine a door which opened into a bathroom. ‘You need, yes?’
‘I do indeed. Obrigada,’ said Katherine in relief, her thanks so fervent the woman smiled in sympathy.
‘I bring food now?’ she offered, but Katherine shook her head.
‘No, thank you; I’m too hot right now. I just need some water.’
Lidia promptly filled a glass for her. ‘I come back soon.’
Not sure what “soon” might mean, Katherine downed the water and made do with a wash rather than the shower she would have preferred. She brushed out her hair and pulled it back into a ruthlessly tight twist, and then exchanged her T-shirt and jeans for tailored black linen trousers and plain white shirt. Then with a wry little smile she added the dark-rimmed spectacles she wore for computer work. The efficient look would hopefully