But she would; Alejandro knew it. Knew he’d be a fool to trust any woman. Hadn’t she and Miranda proved that? But, with her bare breasts invading that part of his shirt that she’d managed to unfasten, rubbing sensually against the hair on his chest, he found himself stifling his protest, telling himself it was too late to resist her now.
Bearing her back against the cushions of the sofa, he silenced the voices in his head that warned him he was going to regret this. With the hungry pressure of his mouth against hers, he gave himself up to his body’s demands.
His shirt came free of his trousers and he felt her pushing it off his shoulders. If she winced at the sight of the scars that were like spiderwebs across his shoulder, he didn’t hear her, and when her fingers returned to the buckle of his belt he didn’t stop her.
He let her pull the belt free, let her unfasten the button at his waist, her fingers unbearably sensual against his taut flesh. Then his zip slid down and she pushed both his jeans and his silk underwear away and allowed his bulging erection to spill, unfettered, into her hands.
And—Deus!—it was good, so good, to feel her holding him. She caressed him, causing him to suck in a breath of protest as she bent and took him into her mouth.
Cristo, he could hardly breathe; hardly dared to breathe, he acknowledged helplessly, aware that he was in danger of totally losing himself.
The driving need he’d been fighting ever since he’d come here was burning like liquid fire in his veins and he knew it. There was no way he either could or would back off now. The feeling of her body next to his, the erotic slide of her tongue, were like exotic signposts to his own personal nirvana. He wanted her; that was a given. And, whatever happened afterwards, he had to have her.
Sliding his fingers into her hair, he forced her head up, feeling the coolness of the air where moments earlier her tongue had been hot against his shaft. He knew he wanted to be inside her, where her heat and her fire would carry all his resistance away.
‘Alejandro,’ she breathed huskily, arching back on one elbow so that he was given an uninterrupted view of her slender body. Her breasts were rosy-tipped and swollen where he had been sucking them, and the honey-blonde curls between her legs were already moist from the invasion of his tongue.
Without giving another thought to the torn ligaments that disfigured his leg, or the care with which he usually removed his clothes, he thrust his jeans down to his ankles. He shoved off his boots as he did so, allowing him to kick his legs free.
He saw Isobel looking at him, but there was no point in trying to hide his scars. Still, he managed not to grit his teeth too obviously when a pain shot hotly up his thigh.
Besides, Isobel’s attention was riveted on his rampant shaft, that rose thick and powerfully male from its nest of dark hair. And he didn’t have to be ashamed of that.
‘Say it,’ he said, capturing her hands in his when she would have touched him again. ‘Say you want me. Tell me, Isobella. I want you to have no doubts this time.’
Isobel gazed up into his dark, tormented face, her eyes wide and unknowingly provocative. ‘I had no doubts last time,’ she murmured, barely audibly, and guessed he didn’t hear her. Which was probably just as well. ‘I do want you, Alejandro,’ she assured him huskily. ‘Is that what you needed to hear?’
‘Yes,’ he said roughly, lowering his head to the cluster of curls between her legs and parting her folds with his tongue again. ‘It is what I needed to hear,’ he agreed, the faint stubble on his jawline absurdly sensual against her sensitive flesh. ‘Ah, cara, you are so ready for me.’ He glanced up at her, a trace of humour curling his mouth. ‘I wonder—shall I make you wait?’
Isobel’s breathing felt as if it was suspended, but she managed to say softly, ‘Can you?’ and he rose over her before covering her mouth with his.
As he did so, the throbbing head of his erection probed her moist core. Isobel spread her legs encouragingly. It was a provocative invitation, and Alejandro was not immune to her appeal. ‘You know I cannot,’ he said unsteadily. ‘Help me, cara.’ He caught his breath. ‘Deus; that feels so good.’
With her soft hands guiding him, he pressed into her. She was tight, so tight, but her muscles expanded around him, making it seem as if she had been made for just this purpose.
When he had achieved total penetration, he remained still for a moment, enjoying the sensation of her heat surrounding him. He remembered that other occasion when he’d made love to her, and acknowledged with a pang that no matter how many women he’d known, either before or since, he’d never experienced the same satisfaction with anyone else.
‘Alejandro,’ she whispered now, winding her arms about his neck and pulling his face down to hers. ‘Love me, Alejandro.’
He watched her then, watched as he withdrew almost to the point of separation, before thrusting into her again. She moaned in enjoyment, winding one leg around his hip and allowing the sole of her foot to slide sensuously against his calf.
It was an erotic caress, and Alejandro found himself unable to control his movements. Almost without his volition, his body quickened its pace, stroking in and out with an urgency that only enhanced his pleasure as well as her own.
When he felt the first faint stirrings of her orgasm rippling around him, he groaned his approval. Her body spasmed, tightened, dragging him to the brink. Then, with the liquid heat of her essence spilling around him, he could hold back no longer.
With one final thrust, and a sense of fulfilment that was more than mere pleasure, he reached his climax. Drained, satiated, totally content for the first time in a little over three years…
Awareness of his surroundings came slowly.
He didn’t usually sleep with lamps still burning, he acknowledged, yet the light in the room wasn’t daylight, and his aching body told him that he had had no rest.
Yet, for all that, some of the frustration he often felt upon waking had been eased. And the ache in his thighs wasn’t from riding a horse, but a whole different exhaustion entirely.
Isobel. Isobella.
He shifted awkwardly, rolling onto his side and gazing somewhat confusedly around the room. Where was she? And how had she got out from under him without waking him? He normally slept so fitfully. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t known that she’d gone.
But, of course, he hadn’t. Wincing slightly, he swung his legs over the side of the sofa and ran frustrated hands through his hair.
Then, looking down at his naked body, he thought he knew why she hadn’t waited to share those post-intimacy moments. Deus, dismissing his appearance in the heat of the moment was one thing—coping with his scars in cold blood was something else.
Dragging his hands down his face, he got heavily to his feet. Then, rescuing his jeans from the floor, he hauled them on without ceremony. He was desperate to conceal his injuries before he saw Isobel again, and he stuffed his silk boxers into his back pocket, unwilling to risk being caught without his trousers.
His shirt came next, and he was buttoning it up when he heard a sound behind him. Isobel was standing in the bedroom doorway, a towelling bathrobe bulking around her.
He was relieved to see that the blinds at the windows were drawn. At least he didn’t have to worry about having an audience, though he had to admit that until now he hadn’t even thought of it.
‘Hi,’ she said, her voice a little shaky. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Why would I not be?'Alejandro countered, his frustration colouring his tone. His lips twisted. ‘What does one say in situations like this—I seem to have overstayed my welcome?’
Isobel’s pale face lost all colour. ‘You were asleep,’ she said defensively. ‘I didn’t like to disturb you.’
‘Nao?’ Alejandro was sardonic. He glanced blindly at his watch. ‘Did I sleep long?’
Isobel’s tongue circled her upper lip. ‘A little while,’ she replied offhandedly, and Alejandro sucked in a breath.
His eyes sought his watch again, and this t
ime he focussed on the dial. It was after two o’clock. He must have slept for a good two hours.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, aghast. He had obviously been dead to the world. He glanced impatiently about him. ‘I must go.’
Isobel didn’t say anything. She just stood there, looking at him, and he felt the unwilling pull of her attraction all over again.
However this time he had more sense than to act on it. What they’d shared had been amazing, incredible—but, like that interlude in London, it had been an experience out of time, unlikely to be repeated.
And yet…
He walked haltingly towards the door, steeling himself against the urge to drag his aching leg. He was intensely conscious of her eyes upon him, and he had some pride left.
Then, before opening the door, he turned and said a little stiffly, ‘I should have asked you: how is the interview going?’
Isobel’s eyes went wide. She couldn’t believe he would ask her such a thing, not now, not at this moment. Was he completely insensitive? Well, she thought, she had the answer to that.
Biting back the bitter retort that sprang to her lips, she said tightly, ‘Well. It’s going well.’
Alejandro’s eyes were suddenly intent on hers. ‘And when do you expect to leave?’ he asked, aware that he was gripping the handle of the door so hard it was digging into his palm.
‘Oh.’ Isobel swallowed. ‘I—I don’t know.’
‘But not yet,’ he persisted, and she wondered why it mattered to him.
Then she thought of Emma, and once again she was sure she understood.
Understood, too, that for the past few hours she had barely thought of her daughter. And that was unforgiveable.
‘Perhaps you ought to ask Senhora Silveira,’ she responded, holding the lapels of her robe close about her throat.
Then, because she didn’t see why he should have it all his own way, ‘Are you going?’
‘Oh. Que? E claro. What? Of course.’ He was startled into speech, automatically using his own language as he struggled to face the fact that she was as eager to end this awkward exchange as he was. ‘We will speak again tomorrow, sim?’
Isobel held up her head. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is what I want,’ he said heavily, and this time he did open the door. ‘Boa noite, Isobella.’ He paused. ‘Try not to hate me too much, hmm?’
Isobel gasped. ‘I don’t hate you,’ she protested, wondering where that had come from. But Alejandro merely gave her a rather cynical smile before closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT WAS another two days before Alejandro was able to return to the Villa Mimosa.
The day following his visit to see Isobel, he’d had to fly down to Rio to attend a shareholders’ meeting, and then in the evening he’d been roped into a family dinner. In consequence, it was the afternoon of the following day before he was able to fly back to Montevista.
He’d considered driving down to Porto Verde that evening. But, remembering the awkwardness of his departure, he’d decided it would be easier if, when he and Isobel met again, it was daylight.
While the attractions of visiting her rooms again were undeniable, it would probably be wiser and less painful if he maintained a certain detachment until he could gauge how she really felt about him.
He’d thought about her constantly—his attention at the shareholders’ meeting had been sadly lacking because of it—and on reflection he was inclined to wonder if he had been too hasty in his assessment of the situation. His gut tightened at the thought. Was it possible that she didn’t hate him after all?
Whatever, they could still be civil with one another, he argued—for their daughter’s sake, if nothing else. Because, although he was reluctant to introduce himself to the child until she was older and could understand, he did want to keep in touch with her.
Thank heavens for the Internet, he thought fervently as he drove through the gates of the Villa Mimosa. Without it, he doubted he’d ever have seen Isobel again, or learned that she had had a baby which might conceivably be his child.
He didn’t know what he’d expected that boring afternoon in his office at the Cabral building in Rio, when, in an impulsive moment, he’d Googled her name. Certainly not the almost immediate connection to a certain Isobel Jameson who worked for Lifestyles magazine.
Even then, he’d hardly been able to believe his luck. But the website for the magazine had published a series of passport-sized photographs of its contributors, and Isobel’s face had been instantly recognisable.
Additionally, they’d provided a potted biography. And Alejandro had read incredulously that she had a little girl, named Emma, who he’d subsequently discovered had been born exactly nine months after their brief but oh-so-memorable affair.
At first, he’d been bitterly angry, willing to blame Isobel for the fact that he’d as yet played no part in his daughter’s life. The pictures his investigator had emailed him had proved without a doubt that Emma was his child, and he’d badly wanted to confront Isobel and demand his rights.
Time, of course, had made him more prudent. He’d realised the dangers of precipitating their meeting, and that was when the idea of persuading Anita that she should consider giving another interview had been born. However disloyal his intentions had been, he’d consoled himself with the thought that the end justified the means.
Perhaps he should have confided in Anita, he reflected now as the rooftops of Porto Verde appeared below him. But, since Miranda’s death, she’d begun to depend on him more and more, and he knew she’d never condone what he planned to do.
Anita had conveniently forgotten so much about her daughter. And her daughter’s marriage, brief though it had been, had assumed a tender poignancy in Anita’s mind. Which was ridiculous, considering Miranda had never shaken her drug habit and she had only married Alejandro because she’d been consumed with guilt.
Why had he married Miranda, then? Alejandro scowled. If his father hadn’t been ill, would he have resisted her pleas? Or had pity—both for her and for himself—played its part? If he had seen himself as some kind of saviour, in the end he’d had to concede defeat.
But that was all in the past, Alejandro reminded himself. He didn’t blame Miranda for what had happened: he blamed himself. He should have forced her to get out of the car.
Of course, his own family hadn’t seen it that way. Roberto Cabral had never forgiven himself for encouraging his son to get involved with Miranda in the first place. And, though he hadn’t actually opposed the marriage, he’d been horrified when afterwards Alejandro had had to tell him that it was unlikely he would ever father a child.
The gates of the Villa Mimosa loomed ahead of him and Alejandro swung into the drive, lifting a hand in acknowledgement to one of the gardeners working in the grounds. Anita didn’t allow anyone to shirk their duties, he thought drily, wondering if she and Isobel were managing to control their mutual antipathy to one another.
He would soon find out. Anita was not the kind of person to hide her feelings…
‘So what are you going to do?’
Isobel’s aunt regarded her expectantly from across the tack room at Villiers, the estate that Isobel had always regarded as her home. Olivia and Emma were supposed to be oiling the saddles, but the little girl was getting as much oil on her hands as she was on anything else.
Isobel bent to wipe her daughter’s fingers and then looked up at the other woman with a rueful sigh. ‘I don’t know, do I? That’s why I’m asking you. Do you think I should try and get in touch with him again?’
Olivia shook her head. ‘What do you want to do? Do you want to see him again?’
‘Of course I do.’ Isobel was impatient. ‘But, well, it’s complicated.’
Olivia shrugged. ‘Did you sleep with him?’ ‘Aunt Olivia!’
‘Well, bite me, but that’s the only complication I can think of.’
‘Well, it’s not.’ But Isobel’s cheeks had
deepened with colour. ‘I just think he only engineered the interview because of Emma.’
‘The interview you allowed the Silveira woman to walk away from,’ remarked Olivia drily. ‘You were a fool, Isobel. You should have insisted on seeing Alejandro before you left.’
‘And how was I supposed to do that?’ Isobel was indignant. ‘I had no way of getting to Montevista, and I didn’t know his phone number. Besides, Anita wanted me to leave immediately.’
‘I bet she did!’
‘And I could hardly stay at the airport until Alejandro chose to appear. If he did appear at all.’
Olivia shrugged, rescuing the bottle of oil from Emma’s grimy fingers and taking the little girl’s hand in hers. ‘Come on,’ she said, speaking to the child. ‘Let’s get those hands clean. And then we’ll go and see about some lunch.’
‘Aunt Olivia…’
‘Mummy wash Emma’s hands,’ protested the little girl, squirming away from the older woman. Clutching her mother’s coat, she added, ‘You do it, Mummy. Not ‘Livia.’
Isobel grimaced at the dirty marks now decorating her midi-length duster-coat. It was her own fault for wearing such a light colour to visit the stables. ‘Okay, Tuppence,’ she said, grasping her daughter’s fingers before they did any more damage. ‘Let’s all go back to the house.’
The three of them trudged back to the house through the remains of the snow that had fallen the previous evening. Although it was already the middle of February, there was no sign of winter relaxing its grip. Only the daffodils flowering in the borders promised a taste of springtime, white-headed snowdrops pushing through the snow.
Isobel wrapped the folds of her coat about her. Since returning from Brazil, she’d felt the cold more severely, and was only just recovering from a nasty cough. In her all-in-one woolly jumpsuit, Emma was snug and cosy, while Olivia was wearing her usual jeans with a sweater and a warm Barbour jacket.
It wasn’t until they rounded the potting shed and entered the shrubbery that Isobel saw the black Audi parked on the drive. A huge four-by-four, it dominated her small Mazda, which she’d used to drive down from London the previous day.
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