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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unmistakeable look of contempt on his face. Her face flamed instinctively, at the thought of her own stupidity, if nothing else.
She could console herself with the thought that the confusion he’d created in her mind over Emma had clouded her reason. But for a moment, while he’d been kissing her, she’d had to admit all her inhibitions about him and his intentions had scattered to the winds.
‘Are you all right?’
The coldness of his voice was an added push towards sobriety and Isobel took a steadying breath. Then, bending to rescue the case containing her laptop, she said tersely, ‘I will be. When I get out of here.’ And, because it was the uppermost thought in her mind, she added, ‘And please don’t think I believe your lies. Or that by throwing your wealth in my face I’ll be so overwhelmed with admiration that I’ll submit to any suggestion you make.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Alejandro, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘We will go to Montevista tomorrow. I will pick you up at eight o’clock.’
Isobel blinked. ‘Montevista?’ she said, realising she was back to repeating everything he said. ‘What the hell is—?’ She broke off, annoyed that she had shown any interest. ‘Well, whatever it is, or wherever it is, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Montevista is my estancia,’ said Alejandro with infuriating calmness. ‘As I said earlier, before you fell so conveniently into my arms …’
‘I didn’t fall into your arms.’
‘You will like it. It is very beautiful. Very remote.’ He paused. ‘Please do not let me down, Isobella. I am not a wise man to cross.’
‘Is that a threat, senhor?’
Isobel tried to sound defiant, but she could hear the tremor in her voice.
‘It is my advice, cara. Eight o’clock, sim?’
‘And if I refuse?’ Isobel forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Will you force me, senhor?’
Alejandro’s pale eyes hardened. ‘I suggest you grow up, Isobella,’ he said, his voice harsh with feeling. ‘I realise my appearance is a deterrent, but you will get used to it. I can promise you that.’
‘You really don’t understand.’ Isobel stared at him helplessly. ‘Your appearance has nothing to do with it.’ Then, because she was sure he didn’t believe her, ‘And pretending you can prove that Emma is your daughter—’
‘I can.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘What is going on here?’
The imperious voice was both a relief and a frustration. Isobel sighed and turned to find Anita Silveira crossing the hall towards them. She was trailing the ties of a chiffon wrap that was open over a matching negligee, and Isobel had to acknowledge that only a woman of her arrogance and stature could manage to look elegant in such an unsuitable outfit.
‘Alex!’ she exclaimed, her eyes flickering over Isobel and then returning to him. ‘Why are you here? I did not know you were coming. Come, we can have brunch together.’
‘I am not hungry, Anita,’ said Alejandro coolly, apparently not at all perturbed by his mother-in-law’s appearance. ‘As a matter of fact, I was just leaving.’
Anita’s brows drew together. ‘But you have been talking to Ms Jameson!’ she protested.
‘In your absence, that is all, querida,’ Alejandro lied without apparent conscience. ‘I was merely telling her about the estancia, nao?’ He turned back to Isobel. ‘Adeus, Ms Jameson. It has been a pleasure. Adeus, Anita. We will talk tomorrow, talvez?’
‘Wait!’ Anita turned irritably to Isobel herself. ‘You may go, Ms Jameson. I will send for you when I am ready.’
‘But—’
Isobel started to speak, but one look at Alejandro’s dark face and she thought better of it.
‘Very well,’ she said tightly, wishing she didn’t feel so helpless. She would ring Uncle Sam, she decided firmly. No interview was worth what she being forced to endure.
CHAPTER NINE
ISOBEL spent the next half hour pacing about her sitting room, undecided as to what she ought to do.
Although the idea of ringing Sam had seemed fairly reasonable in the heat of the moment, now she wasn’t so sure. Besides, she couldn’t deny she was apprehensive about Alejandro’s part in all of this. The last thing she needed was her uncle wading in in her defence and making things even worse.
If only she could be sure Alejandro had been lying when he’d said he could prove Emma was his daughter. And what if he hadn’t? What then?
She had no idea how he’d found out about Emma in the first place. But instead of arguing with him—and the rest, she shivered—she should have behaved like the professional journalist she’d always believed herself to be and asked him.
He might not have answered her, of course. But at least she would have had the satisfaction of knowing she’d tried. The whole situation had changed so much since that first night when she’d arrived at the villa, when all she’d had to worry about was seeing Alejandro again. Now she had so much more to lose.
Someone knocked at her door and she stiffened. But it wouldn’t be Alejandro, she assured herself, impatient at the anxiety that just the thought of him could summon at will.
Still, she was relieved when she opened the door to Ricardo Vincente. Did this mean she was still employed? Or had Anita seen something in the hall that had made her change her mind?
‘You will come with me, senhora,’ Ricardo said with his usual air of officiousness. ‘Senhora Silveira is ready for you.’
Isobel swallowed. ‘Are you sure?’ she ventured, ignoring the fact that she had gone in search of her hostess earlier.
‘The senhora wishes to begin the interview immediately,’ declared Ricardo a little impatiently. ‘Come. I will show you to her apartments.’
As she crossed the hall again, Isobel saw that the maids had resumed their polishing. How discreet, she thought, not without a trace of bitterness. Did everybody dance to Alejandro’s tune?
They took the stairs this time, ascending to a galleried landing that overlooked the hall below. Here, angled windows cast light on heavily patterned carpets, bronze urns and marbled statuary giving the corridor that led away from the landing an imposing ostentation.
At the end of the corridor, double doors signalled their destination. Ricardo tapped once, and after evidently hearing some response he flung the doors wide in a dramatic gesture.
‘Ms Jameson, senhora,’ he said, almost as if Anita was royalty. He gestured Isobel forward. ‘Va em frente. Go ahead.’
Isobel entered slowly, her eyes registering that this was not the office she’d expected. Slatted blinds at the windows revealed a spacious sitting-room, overstuffed sofas and chairs forming various seating arrangements about the floor.
A large square-patterned rug covered most of the area. An ornate stone-fireplace occupied a prominent position, faced by a tapestry screen. There were austere portraits on the antique-finished walls, and more of the self-conscious bric-a-brac decorating every available surface.
Anita was seated on a chaise longue in the window embrasure. And, just like her son-in-law downstairs, she’d positioned herself so her face was obscured by the brightness behind her. But as Isobel came in she rose to greet her, and the younger woman realised Anita was still wearing the filmy garments she’d been wearing earlier.
‘Ms Jameson,’ she said, her