The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

Araminta, unused to being talked to in such a direct manner, felt suddenly uncomfortable. His gaze seemed to penetrate her being, divesting her of the shroud of self-protection that she’d erected after Peter’s death. It seemed suddenly to have disappeared, leaving her open and vulnerable to this man’s predatory gaze.

‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ she said quickly. ‘I live at the Hall and I write children’s books.’

‘You’re a writer? How fascinating.’

‘Not at all,’ she responded coolly. ‘It’s a job, that’s all, and I enjoy it. Now, I really feel, Mr Santander, that we should get on with the car insurance. I need to get to the village; I have a lot to do this morning,’ she insisted, glancing at her watch, feeling it was high time to put a stop to this strange, disconcerting conversation.

He looked at her intensely for a moment, then he relaxed, smiled, and shrugged. ‘Very well. I shall ask Manuel to bring your jacket.’

‘Uh, yes—thanks. It was silly of me to leave the papers in the pocket.’

‘Not at all,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You are a writer. Creative people are naturally distracted because they live a large part of their existence in their stories.’

Araminta looked up, surprised at his perception, and smiled despite herself. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I know because I have a lot to do with artists.’ He waved towards the walls. ‘Most of these paintings are painted by artists who are my friends. I am a lover of the arts, and therefore have a lot to do with such people. They are brilliant, but none of them can be expected ever to know where their keys are to be found. I am never surprised when I arrive at one of their homes and the electricity has been cut off because someone forgot to pay the bill!’

He laughed, a rich, deep laugh that left her swallowing. And to her embarrassment, when their eyes met once more Araminta felt a jolt at the implicit understanding she read there.

Unable to contain the growing bubble inside her—a mixture of amusement at his perception and embarrassed complicity—she broke into a peal of tinkling laughter. And as she did so she realised, shocked, that she hadn’t laughed like this for several years. Not since the last time she and Peter—

She must stop thinking like that—not associate everything in her life with her marriage.

‘You obviously have a clear vision of what artists are like,’ she responded, smiling at Manuel as he handed her the jacket.

She removed the papers from her capacious pocket, careful not to spill her worldly belongings: keys, wallet, dog leash, a carrot for Rania, her mare, and a couple of sugar lumps. She caught him eyeing the wilting insurance documents and blushed. ‘I’m afraid they’re a bit crushed, I’ve had them in my pocket a while.’

‘As long as they’re valid, it’s of no importance.’

‘Right.’ Araminta pretended to concentrate on the contents of the documents, but found it hard to do so when he got up and came over to the couch, then sat casually on the arm and peered over her shoulder as though he’d known her a while. Araminta caught a whiff of musky male cologne. ‘Here, Mr Santander,’ she said, shifting hastily to the next cushion. ‘Take a look at them. Perhaps we should phone the company?’

‘Why don’t you leave these with me?’ he said, taking the documents from her and glancing over them briefly. ‘I’ll deal with this matter. And, by the way, since we’re neighbours and not in our dotage, perhaps we could call each other by our Christian names?’ He raised a thick, dark autocratic brow.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she replied nonchalantly, trying hard to look as if meetings of this nature happened to her every day. Then quickly she got up. ‘I think I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee, and for being so understanding about the accident.’

‘De nada,’ he answered, rising. ‘Allow me to help you with your jacket.’

Another unprecedented shudder caught her unawares as his hands grazed her shoulders when he slipped the jacket over them.

‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Araminta.’ He bowed, and to her utter surprise raised her hand to his lips. ‘I shall phone you once I know more regarding the insurance.’

‘Yes, please do.’ She smiled nervously and began moving towards the door. The sooner she escaped the better.

Victor followed her into the hall, then after a brief goodbye Araminta hurried down the front steps, a sigh of relief escaping her as she finally slipped onto the worn seat of the Land Rover and set off down the drive.

What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered. And what was it about this man that had left her feeling so bothered, yet so unequivocally attracted?

Which was ridiculous, she chided herself. She wasn’t interested in men any more, knew perfectly well that she would never meet another man like Peter as long as she lived. Dear, gentle Peter, with his floppy blond hair, his gentle eyes and charming English manners. Even her mother had liked Peter, which was saying a lot.

Of course he hadn’t been terribly capable, or prudent with their money, and had made some rather unwise investments in companies that his friends had convinced him were a really good idea and that had turned out to be quite the opposite. But that didn’t matter any more—after all, it was only money.

The fact that because of his carelessness she was now obliged to live with her mother at Taverstock Hall she chose to ignore. Death had a funny way of expunging the errors and accentuating the broader emotional elements of the past.

Victor Santander walked back into the drawing room of Chippenham Manor and stared at the place on the couch where Araminta had sat. She had come as a complete surprise. An agreeable one, he had to admit. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d taken any pleasure in talking to a woman he barely knew.

Oh, there were the occasional dinners in Rio, Paris and New York, that ended in the suite of his hotel, with high-flyers who knew the name of the game. But ever since Isabella had taken him for the ride of his life he’d lost all trust in the opposite sex. So why, he wondered, when he, a cynic, knew perfectly well that all women were wily, unscrupulous creatures, only out for what they could get, had he found Araminta’s company strangely refreshing? He’d even taken her insurance papers as an excuse to get in touch with her again. And she’d seemed oddly reticent—something else he was unused to—as though she wasn’t comfortable being close to a man.

The whole thing was intriguing. Not that he was here to be intrigued, or to waste his time flirting with rural neighbours. He’d come to the English countryside to seek peace of mind, make sure his horses were properly trained and take the necessary time to study his latest business ventures without interruption.

Still, Araminta, with her deep blue eyes, her silky blonde hair and—despite the shapeless sweater—he’d be willing to swear her very attractive figure, had brightened his day.

With a sigh and a shake of the head Victor returned to the study, and, banishing Araminta from his mind, concentrated on matters at hand.

CHAPTER THREE

‘TWO hundred thousand copies!’ Araminta exclaimed, disbelieving. ‘Surely that can’t be right? You mean they like my new book that much?’

‘Yes,’ her agent, Pearce Huntingdon, replied excitedly down the line. ‘They’re talking about television interviews and the works. It’s going to be a raving success. Get ready for the big time!’

‘But I don’t know that I want the big time. I mean, of course I do want my books to be a success, for children to enjoy them and all that, and perhaps make some money too. But not all the hype the—’

‘Rubbish. You’ll love it.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she replied firmly. ‘And I don’t want you making any publicity arrangements on my behalf without consulting me first, Pearce. I’m just not up to that sort of thing yet.’

There was a short silence. ‘Araminta, when are you going to let go the past and face the fact that you have a brilliant future ahead of you? I know you started writing as a hobby, as something to get your mind off all that had happened. But it’s time you took yourself and your career seriously. Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise is a wonderful, captivating book that every child in this country is going to adore if it’s marketed right. For goodness’ sake, woman, wake up and smell the coffee.’

The reference to coffee caused Araminta to remember Victor Santander’s flashing black eyes, and then to glance over at the gold and black packet of freshly ground coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d had it delivered later in the day.

‘Look, let’s talk about this once we know it’s real,’ she countered, not wanting to argue with Pearce, who could be terribly persuasive when he wanted. ‘I’ll think about it and be in touch.’

‘All right, but don’t think too long. I’m not letting you miss the chance of a lifetime because you’re determined to wallow in the past.’

‘Pearce, that’s a cruel thing to say,’ Araminta exclaimed crossly.

‘No, it’s not. It’s the truth. And the sooner you face it the better.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she muttered, smiling, knowing he meant well.

But as she hung up the kitchen phone Araminta noted that for the first time in months she felt extraordinarily exhilarated. Her book looked as if it might take off, and, despite her desire to banish him from her brain, she could not help but recall her new neighbour’s captivating smile, and the musky scent of his aftershave as he’d leaned over her shoulder to look at her car insurance papers.

How absurd. She was reacting like a teenager to a handsome face. She must stop, she admonished herself, glancing at her watch and realising it was nearly time for tea. There was no room in her life for anything except her writing and getting out from under her mother’s roof. The rest—a social life, friends, a man and all that—would just have to wait for a time in some remote future that she tried not to think too much about.

‘Was he perfectly dreadful?’ Lady Drusilla enquired as soon as Araminta brought in the tea tray.

‘Who? The new neighbour?’

‘Well, of course the new neighbour. I would hardly want to know about the new milkman,’ Lady Drusilla muttered disparagingly. ‘I wish you would be less dreadfully vague, Araminta, it’s a most annoying trait. I would have thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’

Counting to twenty, Araminta placed the tray down on the ottoman and reminded herself that if all went well, if the book really did take off, she might not have to stand her mother’s jibes for too much longer.

‘Well?’ Lady Drusilla prodded. ‘What was he like?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Araminta replied evasively.

‘What do you mean, all right? Is he young? Old? Handsome? Rich? Or just dreadfully common? One of these nouveau yuppie types?’

‘Frankly, Mother, he was very nice. He was most gracious about the fact that I mucked up his car and that it’ll have to go into the repair shop, and, no, he was not common in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. I thought he was very much the gentleman. He gave me a packet of his coffee.’

‘Coffee?’ Lady Drusilla raised an astonished brow. ‘You mean he’s a food merchant?’

‘Not at all. He is—among, I would imagine, a number of other things—the owner of a coffee plantation in Brazil.’

‘Oh, well, that’s rather different, of course.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Araminta answered crossly. ‘Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn what the man does. The main thing is he seems to be quite pleasant and will hopefully be a good neighbour. He’s Brazilian, by the way.’

‘Well! I never thought to see a Brazilian coffee-planter at the Hall. Poor Sir Edward must be turning in his grave. Why that dreadful cousin of his didn’t keep the place, I can’t imagine.’

‘Thank goodness he didn’t. One look at him was enough to let me know he would be the kind of neighbour we could do without.’

‘Mmm. You’re right, I suppose. He wasn’t very prepossessing, was he?’

‘No, Mother, he wasn’t. And I can assure you that Victor Santander is far removed from Henry Bathwaite. Plus he speaks perfect English. I should think he was probably brought up here.’

‘Perhaps he had an English mother—or maybe a nanny,’ Lady Drusilla mused. ‘Do be careful pouring, Araminta, I’ve told you a hundred times to use the strainer properly.’ Lady Drusilla let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘You are aware that I have to chair the committee for the Hunt Ball this evening, and that I shall require your help, aren’t you?’

‘Mother, I’m sorry, but I simply don’t have the time. I have to finish the proofs of my book.’

Lady Drusilla pursed her lips. ‘I find it quite incredible that you should abandon your true responsibilities because of some ridiculous children’s story. I thought I’d brought you up better than that.’

Araminta was about to tell her mother about the two hundred thousand copies her publisher was putting on the market, and the launch party being planned, but thought better of it. The less her mother knew about her burgeoning career the better. At least she wouldn’t be able to put a spoke in the wheel. So she contained herself with difficulty and remained silent. Perhaps it would even be worth doing some of the public appearances, however hateful, if it meant she could buy her freedom and finally be her own person.

Three days later, Lady Drusilla had just picked up her basket to go and collect some vegetables from the garden when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’ she said, glancing out of the window, annoyed at being interrupted when she was sure it was about to rain.

‘Good morning. Could I speak to Miss Dampierre, please?’

‘Mrs Dampierre. I’m afraid she’s out. Who would like to speak to her?’

‘This is Victor Santander.’

‘Ah. The new neighbour. I am Lady Drusilla Taverstock, Araminta’s mother.’

‘How do you do, Lady Drusilla? I haven’t yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance, but I’m hoping that may be remedied in the very near future.’

Lady Drusilla unbent. At least the man had good manners. ‘How do you do? Perhaps you’d better come over to dinner some time?’

‘That would be very kind.’

Lady Drusilla thought quickly. She simply must get him over here before Marion Nethersmith caught him first. Then she could tell the others all about him. ‘What about tomorrow night?’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘Good. I’ll expect you at seven-thirty for drinks.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps you could tell your daughter that I shall bring her car insurance papers back to her then?’

‘Certainly.’

‘I look forward to tomorrow.’

Well, Lady Drusilla, thought as she picked up the basket once more and headed for the backstairs and the kitchen, where she removed her secateurs from the top drawer, at least she’d steal a march on the other neighbours. Marion would be writhing with curiosity and envy.

The thought brought her a considerable measure of satisfaction.

‘You did what?’ Araminta exclaimed, horrified, hands on the hips of her other pair of worn jeans.

‘I invited him over to dinner. Araminta, are you becoming hard of hearing?’

‘But, Mother, how could you? We don’t even know the man properly. It’s embarrassing—’ She threw her hands up in despair.

‘I really can’t see why you’re making such a dreadful fuss. I merely invited our new neighbour—whom you say is perfectly respectable—to dinner. It’s the courteous thing to do.’

‘I can’t believe it. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted—’ Eyes flashing, Araminta flopped into the nearest armchair, trying to understand why the thought of Victor Santander coming to dinner should be so absolutely disturbing.

After being told by Araminta that Victor Santander had uniformed servants at the Manor, Lady Drusilla decided to call in the local caterer, Jane Cavendish, and have dinner properly prepared, rather than count on Olive’s rather dull repertoire of dishes. That would do for old Colonel and Mrs Rathbone, but would certainly not impress someone grand enough to hire a professional cook.

By seven-fifteen the following evening Araminta’s bed was piled with discarded clothing as she wavered between a black Armani sheath that she’d bought shortly before Peter died and had never worn, or grey silk trousers and a top.

Perhaps the sheath was too dressy for a simple dinner.

Perhaps the grey silk was too dull.

After changing for the third time, she finally settled on the silk trousers and top, and after a last glance in the mirror—she’d actually gone to the trouble of putting on some make-up tonight, for some unfathomable reason—she walked down the wide staircase, feeling more confident than she had in months.

Perhaps it was time to bother more about her appearance, she decided, reaching the bottom step, particularly if she was going to have to promote herself. The thought made her shudder as she made her way to the drawing room, where her mother was giving last-minute instructions to the hired help. With a sigh, she went to join her.

Even in the dark, and illuminated only by the car lamps and outdoor lights, Taverstock Hall was an imposing old pile, Victor reflected as the Bentley purred to a halt. He alighted thoughtfully, straightened the jacket of his double-breasted dark grey suit, and walked smartly up the front steps and rang the bell. It was opened by a cheery-looking woman in what could be taken for a uniform, and he was ushered through the high-ceilinged hall and on towards the drawing room, from which voices and the clink of crystal drifted.

On the threshold he stopped a moment and took in the scene. Then he saw Araminta. For thirty seconds he enjoyed the view. His intuition had been right, and her figure was as sensational as he’d imagined it. She was stunning—and deliciously sexy, he realised, watching her as she stood sideways, talking to an old gentleman near the open fireplace. Long and lithe, the curve of her breast subtly etched under the sleeveless silk top— His thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

‘Ah, Mr Santander, I believe?’ A very distinguished, rake-thin woman in her mid-sixties, dressed in a smart black cocktail dress with a large diamond leaf pinned on her left breast, moved towards him. He raised her hand to his lips.

‘Good evening, Lady Drusilla, it is most good of you to have me.’

‘Not at all. Thank you so much for the lovely flowers. Quite unnecessary, I assure you,’ she murmured, taking in every detail of his person. ‘Now, do come in and meet the others. You’ve met Araminta, of course, and this is Colonel Rathbone and Mrs Rathbone—they live not far down the road, at the old vicarage—and this is Miss Blackworth.’ He shook hands politely with an elderly lady in a nondescript purple dress and a three-tier string of pearls before turning to meet what must be the vicar. ‘Vicar, may I introduce Mr Santander? Our new neighbour at the Manor.’

Her tone of satisfaction was not lost on Victor and he glanced at her, amused. So Lady Drusilla was enjoying introducing him into local society, was she? At that moment he raised his eyes and met Araminta’s. They held a moment, and he read amusement laced with discomfort and a touch of embarrassment. After exchanging a few words with the balding vicar, he edged his way towards her.

‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening,’ she replied, smiling politely, disguising her racing pulse, the slight film of perspiration that had formed on her brow the minute she’d sensed he’d entered the room. ‘I hope you won’t be too bored. The country doesn’t provide much in the line of entertainment, I’m afraid.’

‘I did not come to the country to seek entertainment,’ he replied, his presence and the scent of that same cologne leaving Araminta deliciously dizzy. ‘In fact, I came here specifically to find peace and quiet. I did not expect to be invited out so soon,’ he added. ‘Still, it is, of course, a great pleasure to meet one’s neighbours. Particularly when they are so…agreeable.’ He gave her an appraising look that left her feeling strangely feminine and desirable, something she hadn’t felt in ages.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ she said quickly.

‘A Scotch and water, please.’

Glad for the excuse to conceal her perturbed feelings, Araminta busied herself with the drink. What on earth was wrong with her? He wasn’t anything special. Just a neighbour.

Victor watched as she fixed his drink. A beautiful woman with tons of sex appeal. She probably had a husband. He wondered where that husband was. Odd that she seemed so shy for a married woman. Or maybe she was recently divorced. That might explain the reticence.

The thought was strangely appealing. Then with an inner shrug he accepted the drink and prepared to amuse himself for an evening.

From the opposite end of the table Araminta watched her mother grilling Victor Santander and admired his polite, concise answers that gave little away. But, oh, what she would have given for this evening not to have taken place! By the time coffee had been drunk, after-dinner drinks consumed and the better part of the guests had taken their leave, she was only too ready to usher him out through the door and send him off to his car.

‘This has been a most pleasant evening,’ he remarked, eyeing her again in that same assessing manner that left her slightly breathless. ‘Could I persuade you to join me for dinner tomorrow at the Manor? After all, we haven’t had a moment to go over the insurance papers.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ Araminta admitted, fumbling for words. It was very unlike her to be so—so what? Aware of herself? Of him, standing so close that it left her feeling tingly all over? What on earth was wrong with her?

‘Well? Would you like that? Or would you prefer to dine at the Bells in Sheringdon? I hear they serve a very decent meal.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ she said hurriedly, seeing her mother hovering in the hall. ‘Why don’t we speak tomorrow and set up a convenient time to do the papers?’

‘As you wish.’ He pressed his lips to her hand. Then, to her amazement, he brushed his lips on the inside of her wrist.

Araminta withheld a gasp as a shaft of molten heat coursed from her head to her abdomen. With a gulp she snatched her hand away, caught the devilish gleam in his eyes and the amused smile hovering at his lips, and seethed inwardly at her silly reaction. Then he moved, lean and predatory, towards the car.

Heart thudding, Araminta watched the Bentley purr smoothly off down the drive, then turned with a sigh of relief and stepped inside. This was ridiculous. How could she be put in a state because a man touched her hand? Thank God she’d refused Victor Santander’s offer of dinner if this was the way he affected her.

She never felt stirrings for any of the men she knew, yet for some inexplicable reason this Brazilian—who was almost a stranger—had touched something deep within her that she’d believed gone for ever. It both frightened and excited her. Her instinct warned her that the less she saw of the man the better. She knew very little of him, but sensed there was something sophisticated and dangerous about him. He was, she told herself firmly, the last person she would want to get involved with. That was if she was thinking of getting involved with anyone—which, of course, she wasn’t.

‘Araminta?’

‘Yes, Mother, I’m coming.’ Araminta closed the large front door, then made her way back through the hall to the drawing room, where her mother was seated complacently by the fire, twiddling a final glass of champagne.

‘Well, I must say that I was most favourably surprised by our new neighbour. Did you know that he went to Eton?’

‘No, I didn’t. Mother, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go up to bed,’ she said, passing a hand over her brow. ‘I’ve a bit of a headache.’

Lady Drusilla, dying to assess the evening further, pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘Oh, very well,’ she muttered.

And Araminta made good her escape.

CHAPTER FOUR