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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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,