One Night in... Rio: The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child / Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child / The Surgeon's Runaway Bride

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.

When a knock came at her door, she started nervously. Now what? she wondered. Was this Anita’s housekeeper, telling her she wasn’t needed any more? But the fear that whoever it was might also have a key forced her to answer it. Putting down her coffee, she walked unwillingly to the door.

To her surprise, a young man was standing outside. Of medium height and build with handsome Latin features, he seemed very sure of himself. And, unlike the other servants, he was wearing a well-tailored grey suit, shirt and a matching tie.

‘Ms Jameson?’ he said expectantly, and Isobel wondered who else he thought she could be. But it did remind her that she was still wearing the bathrobe, and faint colour entered her cheeks at his frank appraisal. ‘I am Ricardo Vincente, senhora—Senhora Silveira’s personal assistant.’

‘Oh.’ Isobel was a little taken aback when he offered her his hand in greeting. ‘Um, how do you do?’ She hesitated, taking a surreptitious glance at the watch on his wrist. It was still barely eight o’clock. ‘What do you—I mean, what can I do for you?’

She’d been about to say ‘what do you want?’, but she managed to bite the words back. However, after her encounter with Alejandro, she wasn’t under any illusions as to why she was here.

‘Ah. I am to escort you on a tour of the villa, senhora,’ he said, his smile just the tiniest bit condescending. ‘The public areas, e claro. Senhora Silveira’s apartments are private, naturelmente.’

Naturally.

Isobel moistened her lips. ‘And Senhora Silveira?’ she ventured, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain the question.

She didn’t.

‘Senhora Silveira does not allow visitors before midday,’ Ricardo told her dismissively. Then, his eyes assessing her appearance. ‘You would like me to come back, sim?’

What else? thought Isobel, a little irritably. As there was probably going to be no interview anyway, did it matter either way? Of course, Ricardo might not know what had happened. Had Alejandro explained the situation to his mother-in-law after Isobel had gone to bed? Or was that something else she had to look forward to—being humiliated in front of a woman who clearly had no liking for her.

But, ‘Yes,’ she said now, deciding that, short of making a run for it, she was obliged to meet her hostess again. ‘If you could give me half an hour. It is rather early.’

Ricardo arched dark brows. ‘Mas, the best time of day, senhora,’ he assured her. ‘Before it gets too hot.’ Now he looked at his watch. ‘I will come back in thirty minutes. Ate entao, adeus.’

‘Adeus,’ said Isobel, feeling a little foolish.

She was incredibly relieved when he turned away and she could close the door. She wondered when Alejandro was going to make his next move as the coffee she’d just consumed roiled unpleasantly in her stomach. If only she’d considered her aunt and uncle’s reservations and let some other features writer take this assignment.

Yet, she suspected, that wouldn’t have happened. If Alejandro had planned her involvement, he’d have found some other ploy to gain his own ends. She doubted Anita had been aware of the situation. Not before she got here, at least. Which might give Isobel a little leverage. Would Alejandro want to expose his duplicity to the mother of the woman he’d loved?

Who knew?

Alejandro was an enigma. She had no idea what he thinking, what he might do next. He’d changed. He wasn’t the man she remembered. Was it something to do with the accident? Had he been responsible for Miranda’s death?

She thought about ringing her uncle and telling him what had happened. She knew he’d be sympathetic. Once her aunt found out what was going on, she’d expect her to come home. But perhaps she should wait a little longer and see what happened. If Alejandro had his way, she suspected she wouldn’t have a choice.

Alejandro flew back from Rio in the late afternoon.

There’d been a message waiting for him when he’d got back from the beach to the effect that his father had called a board meeting that afternoon.

These days, Alejandro virtually ran Cabral Leisure himself. His father had had a stroke about eight months ago and he’d been ordered to take things easy from now on.

Not that Roberto Cabral had obeyed his physician. Despite Alejandro’s success in creating new outlets for the company, Roberto insisted on attending all board meetings, making his opinion felt when he didn’t agree with his elder son’s ideas.

Just today, the extraordinary board meeting he’d called had been to question Alejandro’s decision to install health spas in all their Latin American hotels. The hotels in the United States and Europe already had these facilities, and it was Alejandro’s intention to give all their guests the chance to enjoy a healthier lifestyle.

Needless to say, his father’s motion hadn’t been carried. Even Alejandro’s brother Jose, who didn’t always see eye to eye with his older brother, had agreed that it was a necessary expense in these days of diet-conscious patrons. But it had taken Alejandro away from Porto Verde at a time when he’d had other problems on his mind.

Now, as his private jet began its descent towards the airstrip adjoining his ranch at Montevista, Alejandro acknowledged that, subconsciously, he’d spent the last eight hours fretting about what Isobel might do in his absence.

After that scene on the beach that morning, he’d been left with no illusions that dealing with her was going to be easy. But then, he hadn’t expected to find her so attractive.

Despite his memories of his time in London, over the years he’d managed to convince himself that his attraction to the English girl had been as fleeting as their relationship. And, after his return to Rio and subsequent events, he’d never expected to see her again.

Had the accident never happened, would he have pursued the connection? There was no doubt in his mind that when he’d left London he’d intended to return within the next couple of months.

But, two months later, he’d been fighting for his life in the intensive-care unit of a private hospital in Rio. With a lacerated face, broken ribs, a punctured lung and the possibility that he might have to have one of his legs amputated, he’d been in no state to pursue any kind of relationship.

And by the time he’d got out of hospital and seen his injuries for himself …

The runway was partially illuminated by the lights from an off-road vehicle. Carlos Ferreira, his friend and stable-manager, was waiting for him when he stepped down from the plane. Between them they owned and bred polo ponies, thoroughbred animals that were sought after by many of the most famous riders in the sport today.

Alejandro’s great-grandfather had built the ranch—or estancia—many years ago, and after the accident Alejandro had spent many weeks recuperating in the cooler mountain air. These days, it provided a welcome retreat from the demands of his work in the city. Since virtually inheriting the company he’d spent far too much time in Rio, in his opinion. And, as he’d always enjoyed riding, he found it was one sport he’d not had to give up.

Of course, since he and Carlos had started the breeding programme, the ranch had become very successful in its own right. Friends since university days, the two men trusted one another completely, and Alejandro was glad to leave all business decisions concerning the stud in Carlos’s capable hands.

It was a relief to climb into the comfortable Lexus that Carlos had brought to meet him—although his friend’s news that one of their prize mares had aborted her twin foals was a blow. Alejandro knew that only about twenty percent of conceived twins made it to full term, but in this case they’d had high hopes of pulling it off.

‘And Senhora Silveira has called at least half a dozen times,’ Carlos continued, turning onto the rough track that skirted a stream. In the headlights of the car, Alejandro could see a handful of long-horned cattle wading in the reeds that grew in the marshes beside the water. ‘I don’t think she believed me when I told her you were in Rio. She wants you to join her for dinner this evening. She says she isn’t happy about the interview.’

Alejandro swore, and Carlos offered him a rueful grin. ‘The lady is persistent,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe this young woman you were telling me about isn’t willing to put up with Anita’s dramatics.’ He chuckled. ‘I told her you might not be back until tomorrow. Cheer up, my friend. Maria has made enchiladas for supper and you’re invited.’

Alejandro scowled. ‘Thanks.’ He gritted his teeth. And then, almost to himself, ‘I guess it is too late to drive down there tonight.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Carlos staunchly.

The road from Montevista to Porto Verde could be hazardous at times, especially after dark. A series of hairpin bends, the descent from the plateau where the ranch was situated was dangerous. And when it rained parts of the track had been known to wash away completely.

‘In any case, it won’t hurt her to wait until tomorrow,’ asserted Carlos as a white-painted fence appeared ahead of them.

A gate in the fence guarded the lush paddocks where the horses grazed from the agricultural land outside. As well as horses, the ranch reared a herd of pedigree cattle, a few of whom they’d seen wading among the reeds earlier.

‘I suppose not,’ Alejandro agreed now, staying Carlos when he would have jumped out of the vehicle to open the gate. ‘I can do it,’ he added. ‘I need the exercise.’

All the same, his leg twinged as he swung down from the Lexus. It brought another scowl to his face as he threw the gate wide so that Carlos could drive through.

Still, he thought after closing the gate and climbing back into his seat, if Anita was complaining it surely meant that Isobel was still there. He had been concerned that she might use his absence to leave the villa. Though, unless Anita had told her, she could have no real knowledge of where he might be.

He blew out a breath. He knew the child was his. He just knew it. It wasn’t wishful thinking. Apart from anything else, the dates fitted, and there was no doubt in his mind now that Isobel’s body had been nurturing his seed when he’d left England.

If only she’d told him. If only, as soon as she’d realised what had happened, she’d tried to get in touch with him. She could have reached him via the company’s website. He was sure her friend—was her name Julia?—could have told her how to do that.

All right, perhaps he hadn’t behaved very responsibly at the time. He wasn’t particularly proud of his actions. And his father’s phone call had created a difficult situation. After that, she hadn’t listened to a thing he’d said.

They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and he’d left her apartment feeling gutted. All through the long flight back to Rio, he’d fretted over what he could have done differently. But he’d assured himself things would be different when he saw her again. He would make her listen to him. But a savage fate had intervened.

He still believed she should have attempted to contact him. He’d had a right to know, whether she’d wanted him to be involved or not. The baby was his child as much as it was hers—the only child he was likely to have, if the doctors who’d eventually discharged him from the hospital were to be believed.

A long drive edged by massive acacia trees led up to the main house. Two-storeyed, with white stucco walls and a railed balcony running across the front portico, even in the lights of the car it looked elegant and impressive. In all, the living area covered over half an acre, a wraparound veranda smothered with flowering vines giving the place a lived-in appearance.

Carlos brought the car to a halt on the block-paved forecourt, but Alejandro hesitated a moment before attempting to get out.

‘Tell Maria thank you, but I’ll take a rain check on the enchiladas,’ he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘But don’t worry—I have no intention of driving down to Porto Verde tonight.’

Carlos regarded him doubtfully. ‘You mean that?’

‘Would I lie to you, old friend?’ Alejandro countered, which wasn’t quite an answer. He thrust open his door. ‘Tell your beautiful wife I’ll join you another evening if I may?’

Carlos gave a resigned grimace of acceptance, and with a farewell lift of his hand he set the car in motion again. Turning, he drove back to a fork in the drive and followed the gravelled track that led to his own house some half a mile further on.

Alejandro decided to take a shower before ringing Anita. It was a deliberate decision, a concerted attempt to prove to himself that he was still in control of the situation.

All the same, he didn’t stop to dress before crossing the vast expanse of his bedroom to where the phone extension was situated. His mobile phone was useless at the estancia. There was no signal, and they had to rely on the sometimes unpredictable land line to keep in touch with the coast.

Clad only in the towel he’d wrapped carelessly about his hips, he dialled the number, and to his surprise Anita answered the phone herself.

‘Alex, darling!’ she exclaimed, not without some annoyance. ‘Where have you been all day? Carlos said you’d gone to Rio, but I couldn’t believe it. You’d said nothing to me about going to the city when you were here last evening.’

Alejandro bit his tongue on a scathing retort and said instead, ‘It was an emergency.’ Then, disguising the irritation in his voice, ‘Is something wrong?’

Anita chose not to answer his question, but said annoyingly, ‘What kind of an emergency? Is your father ill again? Oh, I must speak to Elena. When I am away from the city myself, I am afraid I neglect—’

‘My father isn’t ill,’ Alejandro broke in flatly, the chilled air from the cooling system bringing goose bumps out all over his skin. Or was that a sign of his apprehension? For God’s sake, why didn’t the woman get to the point? What was this all about?

‘Then what—?’

‘It was an emergency board meeting, right?’ Alejandro knew he had to put a stop to her prevarication. ‘Why have you been ringing me? I would have thought—um—Ms Jameson would have kept you busy.’

‘Oh her.’ Anita made a sound of irritation. ‘I haven’t seen Ms Jameson all day.’

‘Why not?’

Alejandro only just managed not to bark the words, but he guessed Anita had caught the impatience in his voice.

‘Well …’ He could imagine she was pouting now. ‘If it’s of any interest to you, I’ve had a migraine. But, after the way you left here last night, I doubt it matters.’

‘Anita!’

‘What?’ she asked sulkily. ‘When I couldn’t reach you today, I was sure you were avoiding me. I know what Carlos said, but he’s never liked me, and you know it.’

Alejandro sighed. ‘Anita,’ he said again, ‘why would I want to avoid you?’

‘Why indeed?’

Alejandro’s free hand balled into a fist on his thigh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh, please!’ Anita snorted. ‘I’m not a fool, Alex. I saw the way Ms Jameson reacted when she saw you. You were the last person she expected to meet. But you weren’t surprised, were you, Alex? You knew she was coming.’ She uttered an angry oath. ‘I suppose that was why you persuaded me to give the interview?’

Alejandro stifled the retort that sprang to his lips and said levelly, ‘I thought it was your agent who arranged the interview.’

Anita sniffed. ‘Strictly speaking, I suppose it was, yes.’

‘So why blame me?’ Alejandro was dismissive. ‘I thought you said that as well as talking about your writing you’d welcome the chance to lay some of the rumours about Miranda’s, ah, problems to rest.’

‘You say that so callously, Alex.’ Anita clicked her tongue. ‘She was your wife, you know.’

‘Do you think I can forget it?’ Alejandro’s tone was bitter. ‘But you know as well as I do that our marriage was a farce!’

‘Don’t say that!’ Anita caught her breath. ‘Miranda loved you.’

‘Miranda loved herself,’ retorted Alejandro flatly. ‘Come on, Anita. Telling the truth won’t hurt her any more.’

‘Well, I don’t think I want to talk about Miranda,’ said Anita, sniffing again. ‘Let the gossips say what they like. I don’t care.’

She did, but Alejandro wasn’t cruel enough to remind her of it. So far as his late wife was concerned, he’d had to cope with far too many demons of his own.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘why did Anton choose that particular publication?’

Alejandro avoided a direct answer. ‘I believe you said you’d known Sam Armstrong when you first started writing.’

‘I did, of course.’ Anita was momentarily diverted. ‘He was very nice to me.’ But then she remembered her accusation. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the Jameson woman recognised you, Alex. Was it you who advised Anton to contact Lifestyles magazine? You might as well tell me. I’m going to find out anyway.’

‘All right.’ Alejandro blew out a breath. ‘I did know who she was before she got here. We met some years ago, when I was in London. I—liked her. And, according to all reports, she’s very good at her job. Why not have the best?’

Anita was silent for a moment and then she said silkily, ‘And did you sleep with her?’

Alejandro’s laugh was harsh. ‘Goodnight, Anita,’ he said grimly, and, holding the receiver with the tips of his fingers, he dropped it back into its cradle.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISOBEL slept badly again and was up soon after six, gazing out at the shadowy silhouettes of the palms swaying beside the veranda.

She was waiting for the first trace of daylight to appear on the horizon, that tinge of pink that would rapidly turn to lemon-yellow as the sun began its morning ascent.

She wasn’t dressed yet, but she would have loved to put on a vest and shorts, or even her swimsuit, and go down to the ocean. The water was so warm and appealing, and she longed to plunge her sticky body into the waves.

But the fear that she might run into Alejandro again was stronger. For the time being, at least, she would have to be content with taking a shower.