One Night in... Rio: The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child / Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child / The Surgeon's Runaway Bride. Anne Mather
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he said, indicating the chair beside him. ‘Keeping your distance from me is not going to change the situation.’
Isobel blew out a frustrated breath, but she felt compelled to do as he said. Besides, she told herself, she wasn’t afraid of him—only that her unwilling attraction to him might make her vulnerable.
‘All right,’ she said, trying to sound confident. ‘Why did you say you had proof that Emma is your daughter?’
Alejandro regarded her narrowly. ‘Because I do.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘No? Believe it or not, I had gathered that,’ said Alejandro drily. Shifting in his seat, he pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and flicked it open. And as he did so, a small photograph dropped onto the seat of the lounger beside him.
The photograph fell face-up and Isobel’s eyes were drawn to it at once. Dear God, she thought, he had a picture of Emma. Had he been following her? How else could he have got something like this?
Snatching up the picture with trembling fingers, she thrust it towards him, her eyes riveted on his dark face. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you know it’s an offence to stalk people, particularly children? How have you got a picture of my daughter?’
Alejandro regarded her with faint amusement. ‘It is not a picture of your daughter,’ he said mildly. ‘What you are holding is a picture of my niece, Caterina.’
‘What?’
Isobel pulled her hand down again and stared at the picture with disbelieving eyes.
The smiling face that looked back at her was amazingly like Emma’s: dancing eyes, baby-soft cheeks, dimples, and a generous mouth. But, although the child’s hair was the same colour as Emma’s, it was much longer, glossy ringlets framing the small face.
Isobel caught her breath.
He was right. It wasn’t Emma. If she’d paid more attention to the picture before jumping in with both feet, she’d have noticed this. And the fact that Emma didn’t have the kind of dress Caterina was wearing.
Indeed, Emma was a tomboy. She could usually be found in dungarees and a tee-shirt, small boots on her feet as she helped Aunt Olivia clean out the horses’ stalls.
Of course, she wore a dress sometimes. But nothing as elaborate as this. If Isobel wasn’t mistaken, Caterina’s dress was silk. Not the kind of thing she would dress her daughter in at all.
She looked up and found Alejandro was still watching her. With burning cheeks, she said, ‘All right. It’s not a picture of Emma. I was mistaken.’ She paused. ‘But don’t pretend you didn’t do that on purpose.’
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