The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child

by Anne Mather

  Still, Alejandro had changed, she conceded. He looked much older than she remembered, but losing his wife was bound to have had some bearing on that.

  Her stomach clenched, but she ignored it, concentrating instead on his injuries. Something had caused the flecks of grey in his night-dark hair and the deeply carved lines around his eyes and mouth.

  Yet, for all that, he still possessed that soul-destroying magnetism that had first drawn her to him. Even the ugly scar had added strength to a face that had always been wholly sensual, wholly male.

  But it wasn’t just his looks that caused her pulse to race so alarmingly. It was the knowledge that, if she wasn’t careful, that subtle power he possessed might defeat her resistance once again.

  Was he aware of it? Meeting those deep-set eyes, she had no way of knowing. His face was darkly intent, darkly perceptive, but also darkly enigmatic. She couldn’t possibly guess what he was thinking at this moment. But the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth was unnerving. She suspected he was enjoying a joke—but was it at her expense or Anita’s?

  With an effort, she said, ‘How do you do, senhor?’ managing not to flinch when hard, slightly calloused fingers closed about her hand. But she couldn’t prevent an instinctive recoil at the wave of heat that swept up her arm and into her face when his palm pressed briefly, intimately, against hers.

  Oh no, she thought, meeting his gaze again and seeing the contempt that twisted his lips at her reaction. He thought she was repulsed by his appearance. Dear heaven, how wrong could he be?

  And it seemed Anita was not indifferent to the silent battle of wills that was being waged between her son-in-law and her guest. Intervening, she said, ‘Your uncle must have told you that my daughter, Miranda, died a little over a year ago.’ Her eyes moved to her son-in-law, and she slipped an arm through his. ‘Since then, Alex and I have become very close. Is that not so, querido? We survived her loss together.’

  Isobel’s eyes widened. She hadn’t realised it was such a short time since Anita’s daughter had died. But then, events moved fast in this part of the world, she conceded, trying not to feel bitter.

  She wondered how long Miranda and Alejandro had been married, before—what? Had an accident torn them apart? Was it even possible that he’d been married when he was in London?

  ‘E claro. Of course.’ Alejandro was speaking now. If he objected to the older woman’s possessiveness, he didn’t show it. Then, addressing himself to Isobel again, his voice noticeably cooler, he added, ‘I understand you have a daughter also, Ms Jameson. It is a pity you could not have brought her with you.’

  Isobel suddenly felt as if the air-conditioned room had become airless. She couldn’t breathe, and she was sure all the colour had drained out of her face. He knew, she thought unsteadily; he knew about Emma. But what did he know? Did he realise she was his daughter? How had he found out?

  ‘I—I—’

  The words stuck in her throat as she suddenly realised he hadn’t been surprised to see her. She’d been so caught up with her own feelings, she hadn’t identified the most important aspect of this meeting. He’d known she was coming. And for some reason he hadn’t tried to stop her. Why? Why would he want to see her again? Unless Emma was the key.

  Her mouth was dry, and she resorted to a gulp of wine to try and loosen her tongue. But all she succeeded in doing was choking herself, and she had to stand there coughing helplessly while Alejandro came forward and took the glass out of her shaking hand.

  ‘I think our guest is too tired to answer your questions tonight, Alex.’ Anita came to her rescue, and Isobel was grateful—although she couldn’t help the ungracious thought that the woman had resented Alejandro’s attention being focussed on someone else and not her. Turning, she snapped her fingers at the waiter, her instructions sharp and imperative, and he hurried out of the room. Then, with a tight smile at Isobel, she said, ‘I have told Ruis to arrange with Sancha to have your meal served in your room, senhora. I am sure you would prefer it this evening, nao?’

  Isobel’s sigh was heartfelt. ‘Oh yes; thank you, senhora,’ she said, making sure to avoid Alejandro’s eyes. ‘I am rather weary. It’s been a long journey. If you’ll excuse me, I will have an early night.’

  ‘I will escort Ms Jameson back to her suite,’ said Alejandro at once, but to Isobel’s relief Anita objected.

  ‘I think Ms Jameson would prefer one of the servants to assist her,’ she said, patting his sleeve reprovingly. ‘She barely knows you, querido.’ The smile she directed towards him was intimate. ‘You can be a little intimidating at times.’

  Alejandro’s mouth thinned, and he said something to Anita in their own language that wiped the smile from her face. Then, turning to Isobel, he said coldly, ‘I apologise if I have intimidated you, senhora. That was not my intention. We will continue our conversation at another time, nao?’

  Isobel wanted to say that she had nothing to discuss with him, but this was not the time to start an argument, and she managed a polite smile in return.

  ‘I’ll look forward to it, senhor,’ she said, refusing to let him see that he had rattled her. But she was overwhelmingly relieved when the maid who’d escorted her to the terrace appeared to escort her back again.

  The food when it arrived didn’t interest her. Isobel felt sick, disorientated, totally confused as to why she was here. Was she really expected to write an article about Anita? Or was that just a ruse to get her there? But, if that were so, what did Alejandro hope to gain by it? It all came back to Emma and she was scared.

  It was still dark when Alejandro parked his SUV above the dunes that backed onto Anita’s villa. He’d driven home after a rather strained dinner with his mother-in-law, rejecting her offer to stay over. But he hadn’t gone home to bed. He didn’t sleep well these days anyway, and after last night’s little fiasco he hadn’t attempted to undress. He was determined to see Isobel, to talk to her. And if that meant treading on Anita’s toes, then so be it.

  Running a careless hand over the growth of stubble on his jawline, he thrust open his door and got haltingly out of the vehicle. Despite the hour, the air was still warm, though there was a delicious breeze blowing up off the ocean. The scent of salt was stimulating, and he thought that in other circumstances he might have been considering taking his yacht out for a sail today.

  The villa seemed all in darkness. Anita would still be sleeping; she rarely rose before eleven. Sometimes it was midday before she summoned Sancha to deliver the strong black coffee she drank so liberally. That, together with a narrow, black cheroot, was all she had for breakfast.

  Which was why Alejandro occasionally chose this time to walk on the beach. His own property was a dozen miles from here, over a precipitous route that wound up into the hills above the villa. He didn’t visit the villa every time he drove down here, but since he’d known Isobel was coming he’d begun to haunt the place.

  It was hard, incredibly hard, to remain calm when he wanted to howl his outrage at the unfairness of fate. He hadn’t realised it would be so difficult, seeing Isobel again. And, while his situation had changed so dramatically, she seemed infuriatingly the same.

  Except that she had had a baby…

  The shadows lightened, highlighting a piece of driftwood in his path. Kicking it aside, he was grateful to avoid it. It would have been easy to mistake it for a clump of seaweed thrown up by the incoming tide.

  Then, as he straightened, he saw her. It was still barely light, but there was no mistaking the slim figure etched against a sky lemon-tinged by the rising sun. His teeth clenched, and for a moment he wondered if she was just a figment of his imagination. But, no, she was there, her feet ankle-deep in the frothing water.

  She wasn’t aware that she was no longer alone. He’d allowed the SUV to coast the last few yards to where he parked, and the dunes muffled everything but the roar of the ocean. In shorts and a sleeveless vest, she was evidently not expecting to meet anyone. Perfect, he thought firm
ly. He’d wanted to catch her unprepared.

  ‘Hi,’ he said when he was near enough to speak without raising his voice, but she started anyway. ‘Thinking of going for a swim?’

  Isobel’s hands came together at her waist. ‘No,’ she said quickly, glancing back towards the villa. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, ‘Do you live here?’

  Alejandro’s lips twisted. ‘No.’

  ‘So did you stay the night?’

  ‘Oh, please.’ He swept back his hair with a careless hand, regarding her incredulously. ‘Anita is my mother-in-law, not my lover.’

  ‘Are you sure she feels the same way?’

  The words were out before Isobel could prevent them, and she felt a moment’s panic when his hands clenched into fists at his sides. What did she know about this man really? Despite that distant intimacy, he was as much a stranger to her now as Anita.

  And yet…

  ‘Does it matter?’ His words arrested her troubled thoughts. Amber eyes darkened perceptibly. ‘Are you jealous, cara?’ His mouth took on a sensual curve. ‘I must admit, it is an eventuality I had not considered.’

  ‘In your dreams!’

  Isobel’s face flushed with colour and her eyes flashed in indignation. And Alejandro felt a frustrating twinge of guilt for making fun of her that way.

  With the sun clearing the horizon, he thought how absurdly innocent she looked, her face free of any make-up, her lips parted and trembling. She was wearing pink this morning, and the clinging fabric of her vest exposed her nipples in minute detail. He doubted she was wearing a bra. In fact, he was sure she wasn’t. And against his will—much against his will, he told himself grimly—he felt an unfamiliar hardening between his legs.

  She turned now, evidently intent on putting some space between them, but he couldn’t let her go like this. ‘Wait,’ he said, his fingers circling her upper arm as she would have hurried away. ‘We need to talk, Isobella. Or are you going to continue with this pretence that you and I had never met before last evening?’

  ‘I didn’t start the pretence. You did,’ Isobel countered, looking pointedly at his hand gripping her arm, and then up again into his dark face.

  Alejandro frowned. He had to concede that she was right. He had made no attempt to tell Anita about that distant affair, and, although he’d been prepared for their meeting the night before, he hadn’t taken into account how he would really feel when he saw her again.

  ‘Esta bem,’ he said shortly. ‘All right. But would you have rather brought up the subject of our daughter’s paternity with Anita looking on? I think not. I think you were—how do they say?—shocked out of your mind when you saw me. And not just because of my changed appearance.’

  ‘You’re wrong!’

  Isobel could feel the panic rising inside her. And she didn’t honestly know why. Except that Alejandro’s words threatened to expose her weakness. But Emma was her daughter, not his.

  ‘Am I?’ Patently he didn’t believe her, and she hastened on.

  ‘Naturally I was surprised to see you. I had no idea you and Senhora Silveira were related.’

  Alejandro’s mouth compressed. ‘Now, that I can believe.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  Isobel drew an unsteady breath. She wasn’t handling this at all well, and it didn’t help that the disturbing contrast between the dark fingers gripping her arm and her pale flesh was causing goose bumps down her spine.

  If only she wasn’t so aware of him. If only being this near to him didn’t arouse memories she’d fought hard to forget. He hadn’t cared what happened to her three years ago, she reminded herself. He’d left for Rio, and she’d neither seen nor heard from him since.

  Taking another breath, she said stiffly, ‘I came here to do a job, that’s all. My uncle was delighted when Senhora Silveira’s agent contacted him and offered the magazine this interview. He—Apparently he’d interviewed her many years ago, when her first book was published.’

  ‘So why is he not here?’

  ‘Because—’ The dawning explanation stunned her. ‘Because Senhora Silveira has supposedly read some of my work. Oh God!’ Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You arranged this, didn’t you?’

  Alejandro’s mocking gaze neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead, he said, ‘Did it never occur to either of you to question Anita’s decision? She’s a very private person, as your uncle certainly knows. And why, out of all the quality publications in the world, should she choose your uncle’s magazine in which to break her silence?’

  Isobel swallowed, trying to come to terms with what he was saying. ‘Um, Sam thought she must have liked the piece he did about her before,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Que nada!’ Alejandro’s harsh exclamation revealed his contempt. ‘I doubt if Anita even remembers what your uncle wrote about her.’ He shook his head. ‘No man in his position should be that naive!’

  ‘He’s not naive.’ Isobel was indignant. ‘Too honest, perhaps,’ she added. ‘Something I doubt you know anything about.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  Alejandro’s fingers tightened round her arm, and she had to steel herself not to show any reaction. Did he know he was hurting her? Somehow she doubted it.

  ‘You set up a totally bogus assignment and then ask me to explain?’ Isobel chose her words carefully. ‘I don’t know what all this is about, but I shall make arrangements to return to London today.’

  ‘Nao.’

  Alejandro’s response was very definite and her nerves tingled apprehensively. He was such a big man, strong and powerful. And, because of her unwilling awareness of him, he was a danger to her in so many ways.

  Despite his scar, and the injury that caused him to drag his leg at times, he was still an overwhelmingly attractive man. It wasn’t just his looks, though the muscles that swelled beneath his black tee-shirt and the corded length of his legs in black cargo pants were impressive. It was the hard-edged masculinity he exuded as he spoke to her. He knew what he was doing, and he was on his home ground.

  Unknowingly, her eyes had strayed lower than she’d intended, and she unwittingly remembered the tight buttocks she’d once squeezed between her fingers.

  Not that she should be thinking of such things now, she chided herself fiercely, refusing to acknowledge the unmistakeable bulge between his legs. But some things couldn’t be forgotten, not when the reality was in front of her.

  Oh, God!

  He was waiting for her response, and she knew she had to keep her head here. He thought he held all the cards, but she had a few of her own.

  ‘I wonder what your wife—or your fiancée—would have thought if she’d known what you were doing while you were in London,’ she blurted defensively. ‘I doubt if you told her, or your mother-in-law, that you were sleeping with someone else.’

  ‘I did not have to.’ Alejandro’s face darkened. ‘But we are not talking about Miranda, querida. This is all about our daughter. The daughter I did not even know I had.’

  ‘How do you know she is your daughter?’

  The words were out before Isobel could prevent them, and for a moment she saw she’d stunned him too. His fingers relaxed, and, taking advantage of the moment, she tugged away from him. And then, picking up her heels, she ran crazily towards the villa.

  It was only as she was walking breathlessly across the formal gardens, where a lily-strewn reflecting pool lay between sprinkler-fresh lawns, that she glanced apprehensively behind her.

  Her legs were wobbly, not just from the unaccustomed exertion, and she knew that if he’d followed her she wouldn’t have the strength to repeat her escape.

  But to her surprise, and relief, Alejandro was still standing where she’d left him. And she guessed that the reason he hadn’t chased her was because he couldn’t…

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EVEN after taking a shower, Isobel didn’t feel a whole lot better.

  What was she going to do?

  It was ironic, really. She�
��d spent half the night wondering what Alejandro was doing in this part of the country, and now that seemed the least of her worries.

  Yet when she’d known him—if she had ever really known him!—he’d told her he lived in Rio, hadn’t he? Perhaps it had been Julia who’d divulged that particular piece of information, when she’d been warning her that Alejandro had only been slumming at the party.

  She should have listened to her friend, she mused unhappily. Julia had always been more streetwise than she was. Julia would never have let a man make love to her without using any protection. Even if Alejandro had probably assumed that, as she’d been married already, she knew how to take care of herself.

  But that was just making excuses for him, something she’d done a lot of when she’d first discovered she was pregnant. Or had she just been finding reasons why she should have the baby? Even without her aunt and uncle’s offer of support, she’d known she’d find some way to keep her child.

  And now, it seemed, he was living in Porto Verde. Or if not here, exactly, then not too far away. Near enough for him to have contrived their meeting that morning. She should have asked him where his house was, she thought ruefully. But, right then, she’d had too many other things on her mind.

  Not least what she was going to tell her uncle. He was going to be so disappointed when he learned that there was to be no interview after all. She dreaded having to tell him. He’d been so excited at the prospect of a possible scoop.

  Wrapping herself in the pristine-white bathrobe hanging on the bathroom door, she returned to the living room. And found that in her absence someone had delivered a tray of fruit, rolls and coffee. The table had been set with porcelain flatware and silver cutlery, a napkin-wrapped basket keeping the bread warm.

  Despite the appetising aroma of the coffee, Isobel looked about her rather apprehensively. She was sure she’d locked the door before going for her shower. But evidently certain members of Senhora Silveira’s staff had keys. Did Alejandro have a key? She didn’t even want to consider that.