Free The Man Behind the Mask by Maggie Cox Page A

Geoff—her new husband—in California… especially now that Donal was gone. In her last reply, nine months ago, Marianne had told her that she definitely wanted to remain in England, and at the back of her mind she had found herself thinking just in case dad needs me . But she hadn’t seen her father for three years, and had lost all contact.
    It wasn’t easy to keep tabs on where he was when he had effectively become a vagrant, and in the end the constant worry and fruitless searching had all but made her ill. But maybe there was some kind of organisation or agency she could contact to help her locate him? And if not what about the hospitals, just in case he had—?Her mind wouldn’t let her go there. Chewing anxiously down on her thumb, she tasted the bitter tang of beeswax polish and withdrew it almost instantly.
    â€˜Marianne?’
    â€˜Ricardo… Sorry—I didn’t hear you come in.’
    Stepping into the beautiful library, with its polished wooden floor, various exotic rugs and tightly packed dark wood book shelves crammed with a myriad books that he had told Marianne during their tour of the house had been shipped over from Brazil, the young man thoughtfully crossed his arms.
    â€˜Mr De Souza would like some coffee. I could have made it for him, but he told me he would like you to see to it.’
    â€˜Of course.’ Gathering up the soft dust cloth and polish she’d been using, Marianne moved towards the door—but halfway across the room she stopped, frowned, and shrugged her shoulders.
    â€˜I think he’s angry with me, Ricardo.’
    â€˜Why should that be so?’
    â€˜I asked him about his leg…if it was hurt because he was ill or something. He didn’t like it and he got quite cross with me. I’m quite anxious that he doesn’t think I’m some kind of interfering busybody.’
    A little crease appeared in the coffee-coloured skin between Ricardo’s dark brows. ‘You have to understand something about Eduardo De Souza. He is a man who—’ He glanced briefly upwards, as if searching for the right words and how to say them in a language that was not his native one. ‘A man who does not welcomepeople looking into his private life. If he chooses not to explain something…then he has his reasons. I ask that you respect those reasons even if you do not know what they are.’
    â€˜And I do respect them! I see that he doesn’t want his privacy invaded, and God knows I under stand that, but I ask you—what’s wrong with expressing concern if you see that someone is in pain or…or difficulty?’
    â€˜You have a kind heart, and that is certainly not a crime, Marianne. You will just have to take things one day at a time and eventually…gradually…Eduardo will see that you are a genuine person and do not want to make trouble for him.’
    Now Ricardo was smiling, and although Marianne was initially reassured, her stomach still clenched uncomfortably at the thought of facing her employer again and possibly seeing suspicion and mistrust in his eyes.
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    â€˜I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. I’ve brought you some biscuits too.’
    In the sitting room, with the fire cosily crackling, she laid the round patterned tray in front of Eduardo on the coffee table, waiting until he’d folded the broadsheet news pa per he’d been reading and laid it next to him on the sofa. He tunnelled his fingers through his hair, then rubbed a hand round his jaw. It was studded with five o’clock shadow and made him look slightly disreputable, Marianne noticed. The sleeves of his cable-knit sweater were rolled halfway up his muscledforearms, and she saw the fine dark blond hairs that dusted his skin.
    â€˜You haven’t kept me waiting,’ he said gruffly, helping himself to coffee and a digestive biscuit at the same time. ‘How are you getting on?’ he