Reaching the top of the staircase, she froze, her heart smashing against her ribs. Angelo was there, standing below in the hallway, just as she had first seen him. Just as she had remembered him a million times since, just as she had imagined him a thousand times before, as a little girl in her homemade wedding dress.
He looked up at her, his eyes blazing.
‘Anna!’
‘I know,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be here. I’m going.’
‘No!’ he roared, racing up the stairs towards her. She shrank back, trembling violently, and, seeing her horrified reaction, he stopped abruptly.
‘Please, Angelo—don’t say anything. I’m getting myself together. The last month has been … good. Anything you say will only make it worse again. Please.’
She was pleading with him. Standing close, he could see the dark shadows of anguish beneath her beautiful dark eyes and it took all his self-restraint not to grab her and kiss them away. Instead he shoved his hands into his pockets.
‘We have to talk, Anna. There’s so much you don’t know about.’
‘No!’ She almost shouted the word and her voice echoed around the walls and into the high dome above them, reproaching him with the hollow sound of her despair. ‘Angelo—I’ve seen the wedding dress! I don’t need to hear anything more!’
He gave a groan and raised his hands to his head. ‘You saw it. I’m sorry—I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘There’s no need.’ With a terrible gasping sob, she pushed past him and clattered down the stairs. ‘You told me in London you were getting married, remember? It’s not like I haven’t had time to get used to the idea, but—’ She stopped, grabbing hold of the banister for support and turning slowly back to look up at him. Her face was wet with tears. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ve got over it.’
Dizzying hope crashed through him. In his desperation to get things straight between them he’d forgotten he’d made up the line about getting married. She’d seen the dress and assumed it was for someone else … Oh, Dio …
‘No,’ he moaned. ‘Oh, Anna, nos The dress … Did you not look at it properly?’
She let out a high, slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Why? So I would be able to picture properly just how very beautiful your bride will be on your wedding day, Angelo? I think not. I think I’d prefer blissful ignorance and a bottle of vodka, if you don’t mind.’
‘Anna, come here.’ His voice was heartbreakingly gentle.
‘I can’t.’ Her mouth was quivering.
He sighed. ‘OK, I’ll come down to you.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Don’t, Angelo. Don’t make it worse.’
She was like a frightened animal, he thought. One false move on his part and she would disappear into the undergrowth and he would have lost her for ever. Tension knotted in his chest, making it difficult to breathe properly. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was best that he said what he had to say now, while he wasn’t distracted by her closeness. He had no idea how she would take it. When she found out he was Lisette’s son she might never want to see him again.
‘There’s something I have to tell you, Anna. It might not be easy for you to hear.’
Oh, God, he’s going to say she’s pregnant! Anna’s hands went to her ears. ‘Angelo, please! I don’t need to hear any more!’
His self-control snapped. ‘Yes! Yes, you do! Just bloody listen to me, Anna!’
‘Why? You’ve destroyed me already! Isn’t that enough?’
He sat down heavily on to the stairs, dropping his head into his hands. ‘Look, Anna, I left you at Ifford that day, not because of anything you did or said, but because of this.’ He took a small, square box from his pocket and held it out to her. She closed her eyes.
‘You were going to ask whoever she is to marry you,’ she whispered brokenly.
‘No!’ He ground the word out through clenched teeth. ‘Here.’ He tossed the box down to her. ‘Look at it.’
Warily she snapped it open and looked up at him uncomprehendingly. ‘My pendant. I don’t understand …’
‘Not your pendant. The missing earring. Lisette’s missing earring. I was left at a convent when I was a few hours old, wrapped in a cashmere shawl with that tucked into it.’
Her eyes were very wide, filled with alarm. ‘My mother…?’
‘Was my mother,’ he said tonelessly. ‘Apparently she had a brief relationship with someone else the summer she got engaged to your father and it seems I was the unwelcome result. I thought you were my sister. I couldn’t believe what I’d done to you, and I just had to get away before I dragged you down into hell with me.
Silence settled in the majestic hallway as Anna looked down at the small arrangement of rubies and diamonds against the dark velvet. Disjointed thoughts swirled around her head as fragments of the last harrowing months came back to her, fitting together to give a picture of Angelo’s suffering.
‘That was why you wanted to know if I was pregnant,’ she whispered.
‘Yes.’
She caught the break in his voice. And looked up at him.
He wore the same expression of fierce determination she’d seen on his face that day at the station, only this time, as she gazed at him, she caught the minute tremble of his beautiful mouth and understood its meaning. Her heart turned over.
‘Oh, Angelo,’ she breathed. ‘I’m sorry …’
He stood up quickly and turned away from her, walking up the stairs out of view. Anna shut the box and slowly climbed the stairs after him, her mind dazed with a million thoughts and questions, all of which came back to one thought, one question.
She found him in her grandmother’s room, standing at the window as he had on the day she had first met him. Outside, the winter’s day was grey and misty and against it his blond head was like burnished gold. Hesitantly she walked towards him, still holding the flowers limply in one hand.
‘Angelo? Why didn’t you tell me?’
He didn’t turn his head, but shook it slowly, hopelessly. ‘And see you look at me with disgust? How could I?’ In the darkness of the window-pane, she thought she saw the glimmer of tears on his face and she wanted so much to slide her arms around his waist and press her face against his back and hold him tightly.
But, of course, she couldn’t. He wasn’t hers to hold.
‘It was my fault,’ she said with a moan of anguish. ‘If only I’d been more honest about myself instead of trying to hide who I was—that I was … adopted … none of this would ever have happened. It seems so stupid, but my parents had hidden it from me for so many years and it was as if it was something to be ashamed of. My father … it was so difficult for him, so humiliating, with the weight of all that family responsibility, to find he couldn’t have children, and I guess I just took on his shame. I felt ashamed too, that I was the one who had broken that Delafield bloodline that stretched all the way back to the Norman sodding Conquest. I felt like an impostor, a fake. And then, that day at the station, I realised none of that matters. I am lucky … But—’ Sobs choked her and for a moment she couldn’t continue. Swallowing, taking deep gulps of air, she controlled herself enough to smile painfully through the tears and say, ‘Typical me, I guess. I realized too late.’
Slowly he turned to face her. His face was brutally blank.
‘Why?’ he asked in a voice like gravel. ‘Why too late?’
‘The dress,’ she said hopelessly, gesturing to where it hung on the wardrobe, swathed in protective layers. ‘The wedding dress.’
‘Look at it.’
Haltingly, hesitantly, she crossed the room. Placing the flowers carefully on the silk counterpane, she stood in front of the dress and, with shaking hands, she lifted the polythene, folding it back over the hanger. And then she stepped back.
Her hands flew to her mouth as more tears slid down her cheeks, unchecked. There, in exquisite thick ivory satin was a perfect recreation of the small ragged dress her mother had made for her. The details were all
there—from the tight fitted bodice with the grosgrain ribbon across the bust, to the flared ballerina-length skirt with its delicious layers of net beneath, all expertly made in the most sumptuous fabric.
She couldn’t speak.
In the mirrored door of the wardrobe she saw him watching her and the expression of tortured love on his face stole her breath and stopped her heart. The next moment he was standing in front of her, gently peeling her fingers from across her mouth and brushing her quivering lips with his thumbs as he cupped her face in his hands.
‘It’s yours. Everything’s yours. The château, the furniture, the dress, everything.’
‘You?’
‘Oh, Anna …’ he moaned softly. ‘It goes without saying but, just to avoid any more confusion, I’m going to say it anyway. I’m yours. Everything I have is yours. I love you. And maybe you’re too free-spirited to do anything as conventional and boring as getting married, and if you don’t want to it won’t matter, because I’ll go on loving you whatever, and you can wear that dress with your bare feet and dance on the beach in it for all I care …’ He kissed her mouth, very intently. ‘Just as long as I can be there. Always.’
‘And what if I want to get married?’
‘Then, please, marry me.’ He smiled wearily. ‘Marry me as soon as possible and put your poor friend Felicity out of her misery. She’s been looking at bridesmaids’ dresses ever since you went away and she’s desperate to know what colour you’ll let her have.’
And then she was laughing and crying and then his lips caught hers again and she was oblivious to everything else. It was a few moments before either of them realized that his mobile was ringing, and a few more before he tore his mouth from hers and answered it.
‘Fliss. Yes, I’m with her now …’ Smiling, his eyes flickered to Anna’s, the clear blue smoky with love. ‘Yes, I have asked her, actually,’ he said dryly, and then frowned. ‘Do you know, I don’t think she’s actually given me an answer yet …’
‘Yes,’ Anna whispered, looking into his eyes. Then she tipped back her head and yelled, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’
Angelo raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you get that? She said yes …’
Exotic, dark and sensual
—irresistible, unforgettable!
One night in
RIO
Three compelling, passionate and exciting novels by three fabulous writers
The Brazilian Millionaire’s Love-Child
ANNE MATHER
About the Author
ANNE MATHER says: “I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I wrote only for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested that I ought to send one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, more than a hundred and fifty books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what happened.
“I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens. The trouble was, I never used to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published book, was the first book I’d actually completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby. It was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can see, but that’s the way it was.
“I now have two grown-up children, a son and daughter, and two adorable grandchildren, Abigail and Ben. My e-mail address is: mystic-am@msn. com, and I’d be happy to hear from any of my readers.”
CHAPTER ONE
‘WHO is that guy?’
Sonia Leyton came to where Isobel was trying to stop one of the drunker guests from pouring another bottle of vodka into the punch and nudged her arm.
‘Who is he?’ she persisted, when Isobel seemed to be ignoring her. ‘Come on, sweetie. You must know. You invited him.’
‘Correction—Julia invited him,’ said Isobel shortly, succeeding in blocking Lance Bliss from turning an already potent mix into pure dynamite.
‘You’re no fun,’ he muttered, raising the open bottle to his lips and taking a generous slug. ‘Lighten up, can’t you? This is supposed to be a party.’
‘But not a wake,’ retorted Isobel, guessing what that amount of undiluted alcohol could do. ‘Honestly, if I’d known.’
‘You still haven’t told me who that guy is,’ protested Sonia, her mind fixed on a single track. ‘You might not have invited him yourself, but it’s your apartment. You must know who Julia asked to come.’
Isobel expelled a weary breath and glanced in the direction Sonia was indicating—though it wasn’t entirely necessary. She’d noticed the man as soon as Julia had let him in. Their eyes had met very briefly, and she’d told herself the reaction she’d had was because he didn’t look English. But the real truth was he was the most disturbingly attractive man she’d ever seen.
Tall and dark—younger than Julia, she suspected—with thick, straight hair that overlapped his collar and fell in a deep swathe across his forehead. She didn’t know what colour his eyes were, but she was fairly sure they’d be dark too, complementing rather harsh features that were essentially masculine.
Right now, he was slouched on the window sill across the room, one lean, brown hand resting on his thigh, the other holding an open bottle of beer. But he didn’t seem interested in the beer or the party, or in the woman whose arm was draped rather possessively over his shoulder.
‘I don’t know his name,’ said Isobel now, wondering why Sonia didn’t just go and ask Julia who he was. Though the answer to that was fairly obvious: Julia wouldn’t like Sonia wading in on her territory.
‘Damn!’ Sonia looked disappointed now. ‘I’m fairly sure I’ve seen him before.’ She tucked her elbow into her palm and tapped her lips with a scarlet-tipped finger. ‘Was it at the Hampdens’ last week? Oh, but you wouldn’t know,’ she added, giving Isobel a rather scornful once-over. ‘You don’t like parties, do you?’
‘Not parties like this,’ agreed Isobel rather drily, half wishing she’d never agreed to Julia’s request. But her apartment was so much bigger than Julia’s flat, and it would have been churlish to turn her friend away.
‘Oh, well, I’ll have to go and find out for myself,’ remarked Sonia, grabbing a glass and helping herself to a generous measure of the punch. ‘Mmm; is there any alcohol in this stuff? It doesn’t have much of a kick.’
Isobel shook her head, not bothering to answer. If Sonia thought the punch was weak, she was obviously used to drinking a far stronger brew. Isobel knew for a fact that Julia had added a full bottle of rum to the mixture of wine and fruit juice she’d prepared. And that was only what she knew about. She wouldn’t have put it past her friend to spike the punch with some other spirit.
Now, looking round the room, she could see quite a few of the guests were looking the worse for wear. She’d warned her friend that there were to be no drugs, but she had to wonder if some of the unsteady legs and glassy eyes might be due to more than just a surfeit of spirits.
The music, too, was definitely louder. Someone had substituted hard rap for the rock ‘n’ roll that Julia had chosen earlier. Watching the guests gyrating about the wooden floor, Isobel felt decidedly old, though she couldn’t remember ever behaving so promiscuously, even when she’d been a teenager. And how sad was that?
Nevertheless, she had to live here long after the party was over, and she was well aware that her neighbours in this block of apartments in Mortimer Court wouldn’t stand for it if the party turned into a rave. Her immediate neighbour, Mrs Lytton-Smythe, had already protested about the amount of cars blocking entry to the underground garage, and the two doctors who occupied the apartment below Isobel’s had patients to attend to in the morning.
Julia had suggested Isobel invite all her neighbours to the party in an effort to defuse any objections, but that really wasn’t a goer. None of Isobel’s neighbours would ha
ve wanted to attend the noisy binge this was turning out to be.
Sighing, Isobel left the large room that served as both living and dining rooms in normal circumstances and headed into the small kitchen next door. The sound of music was less intrusive here, and she gazed at the debris of empty cans, wine bottles and the remains of the bought-in buffet Julia’s guests had only picked at earlier. A glance at her watch told her it was already after midnight, and she wondered how long her friend expected the party to last.
Isobel was tired. She’d been up since half-past six that morning, trying to finish the piece about a well-known make-up artist that she’d promised her editor would be on her desk the next morning. Or rather this morning, she amended, wondering if she ought to have asked Julia to postpone her party until the end of the week. But today—or rather yesterday—had been Julia’s thirtieth birthday and it would have been mean to deny her having it on the day.
Isobel sighed again as she turned, and then sucked in a startled breath at the sight of a man standing in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the jamb; it was the man Sonia had been asking about. He was lean and unquestionably sexy, in tight-fitting jeans and a black silk shirt, the sleeves rolled back over forearms liberally spread with fine, dark hair.
‘Oh,’ she said a little jerkily, unable to use his name because she didn’t know it. ‘Hi.’ She paused. ‘Do you need something?’
‘Nao quero nada, obrigado,’ he said, his voice low and disturbingly sensual. ‘I want nothing,’ he added, his accent spiking her nerves. ‘I was looking for you.’
‘Me!’ Isobel couldn’t have been more surprised. In the normal way, she had little in common with Julia’s friends. She and Julia had attended university together, but for more than five years they’d seen little of one another, and it was only since Isobel had moved back to London that they’d renewed their friendship.
‘Sim—you,’ he agreed, with a smile that gave his words a disarming intimacy. ‘I think, like me, you are—como se diz?—bored with these people, nao?’
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