The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child

by Anne Mather

  ‘Senhora Silveira was there,’ protested Isobel, but Alejandro was unconvinced.

  ‘So?’ he mocked. ‘I do not repulse you, querida?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Of course not!’ He mimicked her words, dragging the heel of his hand over the diagonal ridge that scarred his face. ‘You are attracted to a man such as me?’ And, when he saw her shaking her head, he muttered grimly. ‘I thought not.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘I understand only too well,’ he said, crowding her against the vine-covered trellis behind her, and it took every scrap of determination Isobel had to stand her ground.

  ‘Alejandro.’

  But, before she could say any more, she was silenced by the savage pressure of his mouth covering hers.

  There was no tenderness in his kiss. He didn’t hold her with any of the warmth and sensitivity he’d shown the previous day. Indeed, he made no attempt to hold her at all, though the hard strength of his body enveloped her in his heat.

  The kiss was intended to punish her, and when he forced her lips to part she tasted blood on her tongue. He couldn’t fail to taste it too, she thought, and the muffled oath he uttered seemed to confirm this.

  Yet it didn’t halt his fierce assault or the hungry possession of his mouth. With every thrust of his tongue, he was proving that he wanted her, and she was fairly sure that hadn’t been his intention at all.

  ‘Raios o partam!’ he groaned. ‘Damn you!’ He spoke against her lips, and her lungs inhaled his breath, his scent. Then almost angrily he reached for her, gripping her hips and forcing her into even closer contact with his aroused body.

  ‘I want you,’ he said roughly. ‘I want to be inside you.’ He drew back to look down at her, his expression harsh with loathing. ‘And how crazy is that?’

  ‘Alejandro…’

  But someone was coming, with heavier footsteps than the maid who had brought the tray of fruit juice. Alejandro turned to face the newcomer with what he told himself was a feeling of relief.

  ‘Carlos,’ he said tightly as the older man appeared in the doorway. ‘You are just in time. I think our guest is ready for your tour.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘YOU enjoyed your outing to Alex’s estancia?’

  It was the following afternoon. Despite the fact that Isobel had returned to the Villa Mimosa in plenty of time to spend the previous afternoon with Anita, the older woman had not been available.

  According to Ricardo, she’d been suffering another of her migraines. But Isobel couldn’t help wondering if the frequency of these attacks was due more to her presence than to any innate weakness on Anita’s part.

  Now, with Anita watching her with shrewd, assessing eyes, Isobel felt the colour flooding into her throat and rising irresistibly into her face. ‘Um, yes, senhora. Very much,’ she said uneasily, wondering whether Alejandro had spoken to his mother-in-law since her return. Carlos had brought her back to the villa, but Alejandro could have phoned.

  Or visited, come to that. How would she have known?

  ‘You did not think it was a little remote, being so far from the city?’ Anita persisted.

  ‘I—no.’ Isobel didn’t know what Anita was getting at. ‘I just thought it was very beautiful.’

  Anita clicked her tongue impatiently. ‘You use that word a lot, do you not, Ms Jameson? You think my home is—’ she made quotation marks with her fingers ‘—beautiful, or so you said. And now you think Alex’s estancia is—’ once again she snapped her fingers together ‘—beautiful also.’ She snorted. ‘I trust this article you are hoping to write will not be filled with euphemisms too.’

  ‘They’re not euphemisms, senhora.’ Isobel was defensive.

  ‘No?’ Anita was sceptical. ‘Perhaps you say what you think your listener wants to hear?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘How well did you and Alex know one another when he was in London? Tell me, did you only come here to see him?’

  Isobel was shocked at the change of topic. ‘No,’ she said unsteadily. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Perhaps you have changed your mind since you got here?’ Anita suggested coldly. ‘The Alex you knew in London must have been much different from the man you see today.’

  Isobel caught her breath. ‘I had no idea Alejandro was your son-in-law,’ she protested, wondering what he had said to arouse such a response.

  ‘But that does not really answer my question, does it, senhora?’ Anita retorted sharply. ‘Does his appearance offend you? You were evidently unaware he had had an accident or that his injuries were so acute.’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘Really, senhora, I’d prefer it if we concentrated on less personal matters.’

  ‘So why are you trying to insinuate yourself into this family?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘I would have thought that, as a mother yourself, you would have been eager to get back to your little girl.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘How old is your daughter, Ms Jameson? She cannot be much more than a baby. Am I not right?’

  Isobel stiffened. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, without giving herself time to think it through.

  Anita’s lips thinned. ‘Why, because as far as I am aware, you were not married when my son-in-law first knew you, Ms Jameson. Portanto, therefore, that was only—que?—three years ago, nao?’

  Isobel expelled an uneven breath. ‘Emma’s nearly three,’ she said, not altogether truthfully. ‘Now.’ She paused. ‘Do you think we could return to the matter in hand?’

  ‘But this is the matter in hand,’ Anita contradicted her pleasantly. ‘I want to know all about you, Ms Jameson. Before I bare my soul to you, I need to be sure you are—how shall I say?—sympathetic, nao?’

  Isobel straightened her spine. They were sitting in the library today, where Ricardo had told her Anita did most of her work. A large room, with walls lined with leather-bound volumes, it was a little oppressive, like the rest of the house.

  There was a square mahogany desk in the middle of the floor, and Anita was seated in the leather chair behind it. Isobel had been confined to a stiff-backed dining chair, intended to put her in her place, she was sure.

  ‘I’m sure my life hasn’t been half as eventful as yours, senhora,’ she said now, hoping to distract the woman. ‘Can we talk about your first book? I’ve read that you wrote it while you were recovering from the birth of your daughter, Miranda.’

  ‘Actually, the birth you are referring to was of my son, Miguel,’ retorted Anita shortly. ‘He died when he was only a few weeks old. I was recovering from his death, not Miranda’s birth.’

  ‘Oh.’ Isobel hadn’t known that. Indeed, in all the publicity she’d read about Anita, there’d been no mention of a son. But it might explain the tone of the book, which was distinctly sombre. ‘I apologise, senhora. I had no wish to intrude.’

  ‘But is that not what you are doing?’ asked Anita, arching dark brows interrogatively.

  ‘Only as far as your books are concerned,’ Isobel assured her firmly. She was sure Sam was expecting some personal details too, but she had no intention of writing an exposé.

  She bit her lip. ‘Returning to your first book, senhora—is the hero of the story based on anyone in history? It has been suggested that you’ve used Shakespeare’s interpretation of Richard the Third as a source for your character, Alonzo.’

  ‘When did you get married, Ms Jameson?’

  Once again, Isobel was taken aback. But clearly Anita had no intention of continuing with the interview until she was satisfied with Isobel’s answers.

  ‘Um, when I was twenty-one,’ she replied truthfully, and then realised that wasn’t the answer Anita had been looking for.

  ‘Twenty-one?’ she echoed in some surprise. ‘So you were married when you met Alex.’ Her lips pursed consideringly. ‘Does he know this?’

  Isobel sighed. ‘I was divorced two years later,’ she said resignedly. ‘My marriage to David was not a succ
ess. As a matter of fact, he was killed in an earthquake in Indonesia just a year after we separated.’

  ‘But you married again?’ Anita insisted. ‘Emma cannot be your late husband’s child.’

  ‘No.’ Isobel didn’t know where this was leading, but she didn’t like it. ‘I’ve been single for about six years.’

  ‘Ah.’ Anita’s tongue circled her lips as if in satisfaction. ‘So your daughter is illegitimate, is she not?’

  Isobel gasped. She could hardly speak, she was so angry. ‘I think that’s my business, senhora,’ she got out at last. ‘And, if you’re going to waste time discussing my private life, I think we should abandon the interview, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, Ms Jameson!’ Anita’s expression was contrite now. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’ Although Isobel was sure she had. ‘Forgive me, senhora. I am a writer, and naturally I am interested in the lives of everyone I come into contact with.’ Her smile was penitent. ‘Please do not upset yourself. How you choose to live your life is your concern, of course.’

  Yes, it is, thought Isobel furiously.

  She badly wanted to walk out then. Despite Anita’s facile plea for forgiveness, she didn’t trust her an inch. But her uncle was depending on her, and she’d dealt with more awkward interviews. If only she knew what Alejandro’s intentions might be…

  Alejandro turned into the drive of the Villa Mimosa and parked the Lexus some distance from the house. He didn’t want to encounter Anita unless he had to. It was Isobel—and Isobel alone—he’d come to see.

  It was three days since he’d seen her, three days since he’d asked Carlos to drive her back to the villa. Three days, during part of which time he’d immersed himself in savage physical activity; anything to help him come to terms with the fact that his feelings for Isobel were not something he could control.

  It was so frustrating.

  He’d thought about her a lot over the years, though he doubted she would believe that. Particularly when he’d been lying in a hospital bed, having to accept the fact that he was never going to be the man he’d been before the accident.

  By then, his injuries had no longer been life-threatening, but the torn ligaments in his thigh meant that he would never walk normally again. And the plastic surgeons had had to concede that even a series of operations would not save the right side of his face from being permanently scarred.

  He’d been bitter then. He’d felt like a gargoyle, a monster; he’d felt sure no woman would look at him without either loathing or pity—and the idea of returning to London and laying himself open to Isobel’s revulsion had not been on the cards.

  Of course, over time, things had improved. He’d realised, with some amazement, that there were women who actually found his injuries appealing. They regarded him as some latter-day Prometheus, who’d fought off pain and injury and won through. Or perhaps, he’d decided in his more cynical moments, his fabulous wealth could overcome a multitude of sins.

  And, through it all, there’d been Miranda: always there, always remorseful, blaming herself and eager to prove her loyalty in the way their families had always hoped for.

  He scowled now, getting out of the car and closing the door as silently as possible. He winced as his weight bore down on his damaged leg. His efforts to avoid thinking about Isobel by riding out with the vaqueiros and roping steers had proved a more physical punishment than a mental one. She hadn’t been out of his thoughts, not once, and he’d known he’d have to deal with the situation once and for all.

  That was why he’d saved his visit until the evening when he could be sure of darkness to aid his objective. According to the manservant he’d bribed on Isobel’s arrival, her rooms opened onto the veranda at the back of the villa, which was very convenient for his needs. Painful it might be, but he could get round to the back of the house without encountering any of the household staff.

  It was after ten o’clock already, and he hoped Isobel wasn’t in bed. He’d delayed his visit until this time just in case she had had dinner with Anita. Though, knowing his mother-in-law as he did, he doubted she would encourage such familiarity between them.

  Anita hadn’t phoned since the morning after Isobel’s visit to the estancia, when she’d been trying to find out what had happened. He guessed she was still suspicious about their relationship, and he wondered how long it would be before she put two and two together and realised Isobel’s child must be his.

  Perhaps she’d already realised it, he conceded, stifling a groan as a particularly awkward bamboo-shoot dug into his hip as he squeezed past. But what of it? He had nothing to be ashamed of.

  He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the veranda and saw the lights still burning in Isobel’s apartments. Dragging his leg, he made his way towards her door, and then stopped for a moment to regain his composure before raising his hand to knock.

  There was complete silence for what seemed like a very long minute, and he was beginning to wonder if she was there after all when he heard footsteps.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Isobel’s voice sounded strained and anxious, and Alejandro leaned wearily against the wall beside the door.

  ‘Me,’ he said flatly. ‘Alejandro.’ He paused. ‘Open the door.’

  Once again, there was a short silence, and he was speculating on his ability to force the door open without causing too much noise or damage when the handle turned.

  Isobel stood there, clad only in the cream cotton-vest and shorts he suspected she used to sleep in. Her face was flushed and defensive, but her expression changed when the light from inside the room fell on his face.

  ‘My God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you ill?’ She stepped forward without hesitation and took hold of his arm. ‘Here, let me help you.’

  Alejandro tried to throw off her hand. ‘Obrigado—thanks. I can manage,’ he said harshly, but Isobel refused to give up.

  ‘Don’t be such a fool!’ she exclaimed, assisting him over the threshold and into the lamplit room. ‘How on earth did you get here? Did you walk?’

  ‘Well, not from Montevista,’ said Alejandro drily, feeling the sweat breaking out on his face. Gripping the back of a chair, he managed to straddle it, and sank down with some relief. ‘I am okay,’ he added as Isobel still hovered beside him. ‘Close the door, hmm? I would prefer it if we did not have an audience.’

  ‘Oh! Oh, yes.’

  As if just realising the door was still standing wide, Isobel hurried to close it, turning the deadbolt almost automatically. Hopefully Anita was still working, she thought, but as far as the Brazilian woman was concerned she couldn’t be sure of anything.

  Alejandro folded his arms along the back of the chair and rested his chin on his wrists. Then, realising Isobel was still watching him with troubled eyes, he managed a faint smile.

  ‘I will survive,’ he assured her. ‘I twisted my hip, that is all.’ He blew out a breath. ‘It feels better already.’

  Isobel twisted her hands together at her waist. She wasn’t wearing any make-up, and with her hair loose about her shoulders she looked absurdly young, he thought.

  And far too desirable for his peace of mind.

  Then, carefully, she said, ‘How did you damage your leg?’

  ‘I have just explained.’

  ‘No. You know what I mean.’ Isobel sighed. ‘Was—was Miranda injured too?’

  ‘Ah.’ Alejandro lifted his head, relieved to feel the pain subsiding at last. ‘You mean in the car crash. Do you think perhaps that was why she killed herself? Because, unlike me, she could not stand to look in a mirror, nao?’

  ‘No!’

  Isobel shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other. But that thought had entered her head and he knew it.

  ‘For your information, Miranda was in the car when it crashed,’ he told her briefly. ‘But you will be happy to hear she walked away unscathed.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Alejandro regarded her through narrowed lids. ‘Is that all you can say—oh?’ His lips tw
isted. ‘Miranda’s death had nothing to do with the accident.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Is it?’ He sucked in a rueful breath. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. At least no one blamed me.’

  ‘Because you were driving when the accident occurred?’

  Alejandro sighed. ‘Escuta aqui—look, can we talk about something else other than the accident? That is not why I came here. I understand only too well your feelings about my injuries.’

  Isobel gasped. ‘You don’t know anything!’ she exclaimed fiercely. She glanced towards the table where Alejandro now saw she had been working on her computer. There was a pot of coffee standing on a tray beside it, and she gestured towards it, saying, ‘Why don’t you have some coffee? I think it’s still hot.’

  ‘I think not, cara.’ Alejandro’s mouth turned down. ‘And, if this is another attempt to distract me, forget it. You are wasting your time.’

  ‘I’m not trying to distract you,’ protested Isobel indignantly. ‘But, well, in the circumstances it seemed the polite thing to do. I’m afraid I can’t offer you anything stronger.’

  ‘You think?’

  Alejandro’s tone was dry, but already his imagination was working overtime. She was obviously not aware that, without a bra, her tight little nipples were pressing against the thin cotton of her vest. His senses swam at the idea that she was also naked under those skimpy shorts.

  He felt his instant arousal and forced himself to address the reason why he was really here. He knew that if he touched her he would not be able to stop.

  ‘Why do you not sit down?’ he suggested, knowing he’d feel happier if she wasn’t standing over him.

  ‘All right.’ With a little gesture of indifference, Isobel perched on the edge of a squashy brocade-sofa, crossing her legs so that he was treated to a glimpse of her upper thigh. Then, as if it had just occurred to her, ‘Does Senhora Silveira know you’re here?’

  ‘Nao.’ Alejandro spoke abruptly. ‘I did not come here to see Anita.’

  ‘I see.’ Isobel smoothed a moist palm over her bare knee. ‘So…?’