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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one another, nao?’
‘So why don’t you go and sit down?’ said Isobel a little wildly. She had to get him away from her. ‘Perhaps you’d like coffee, or a cold drink?’
‘I do not want anything to drink,’ said Alejandro a shade impatiently, resisting the urge to show her what he did want with an effort. His hand moved to her shoulder, his thumb invading the neckline of her tee-shirt and smoothing the fine bones he found beneath the cloth. ‘You are such a contradicao—a contradiction—querida. You say you have been married and divorced, nao? You admit your husband cheated on you, yet you seem—untouched.’ His lips twisted. ‘What kind of a woman are you?’
At this moment a desperate one, thought Isobel, her chest heaving. He thought she seemed untouched. She swallowed. Well, in a manner of speaking, she supposed she was. On the very rare occasions when David had had sex with her, she’d had to hide the fact that she’d felt nothing. Certainly nothing like the way she was feeling now. Was that why she’d never suspected that David had had another lover? Why it wasn’t until the divorce that she’d learned the truth?
But Alejandro was waiting for an answer and she managed to say, ‘A very confused one, I’m afraid.’ She bit her lip. ‘I’m sure you’re far more experienced than me, Mr Cabral. Is that what you’re trying to prove?’
‘Nao!’ Alejandro was annoyed, his eyes darkening with impatience. ‘I wanted to see you again, Isobella. Is that so hard to believe?’
‘Well, yes, it is, actually,’ said Isobel, eager to keep him talking. ‘I’m not the kind of woman you usually spend time with, I’m sure.’
Alejandro’s jaw tightened. She was right, of course, though he was loath to admit it. Nevertheless, she did intrigue him, and that was a novelty for him.
His eyes dropped to the hectic rise and fall of her chest, and his jeans tightened instinctively. She had full breasts, high and rounded, and they were fairly erupting against the fabric of her shirt. Was she aroused, or was she apprehensive? Was that why she was pushing him away?
‘Do I frighten you?’ he asked abruptly, not sure where that had come from, and her eyes widened at the suggestion.
‘No,’ she denied hotly. ‘But I’d still like to know why you’ve come here. I told you last night that I wasn’t interested in—in—’
‘Casual sex,’ he interposed softly, bending his head to blow gently into her ear. ‘Did I say that was what I wanted?’ His mouth tilted at the corners. ‘Oh, Mrs Jameson, I fear you have a one-track mind.’
Isobel decided she’d had enough. He might be right that she was a contradiction, but he couldn’t know how inexperienced she was when it came to sex.
Raising both hands, she pushed hard against his chest, unbalancing him. Then, she jackknifed away behind the sofa.
But not quickly enough.
His hand caught her wrist, catapulting her back against him. The involuntary recoil brought her up against his chest, her breasts crushed almost painfully between them.
And not just her breasts, she realised, feeling the sudden pressure of his pelvis against her. A pressure reinforced by the swollen thrust of his erection, its heat throbbing hotly against her stomach.
But all this happened almost subliminally. Consciously she was drowning in the unexpected fire in his eyes. A fire that spread throughout her body, creating havoc in its wake. She felt as if she was being consumed, body and soul.
‘Querida …’ The word slipped helplessly from Alejandro’s lips, his hand finding the nape of her neck and turning her face up to his. ‘Do not—do not tell me you do not want me to kiss you. I think you want this just as much as I do.’
And then his mouth was fastened to hers, sucking all the breath from her body. Her lips parted beneath his, his fingers plunging into her hair. Desire, hot and electrifying, assaulted her senses. It was like a flame, licking along her veins, his tongue forcing its way between her teeth to possess the moist cavern of her mouth.
Alejandro’s senses swam. This was not meant to happen, he told himself, yet the smell, the feel and the taste of her caused him to gather her even closer into his arms.
One hand traced the contours of her spine, cupping her bottom and lifting her against him. She couldn’t fail to recognise what was happening. Almost without his own volition, he had surrendered to a need greater than his will.
And then the doorbell rang …
‘Cristo!’Alejandro swore angrily, burying his face in the moist hollow of her throat, his overnight stubble abrading her skin. ‘Do not move,’ he groaned, uncaring of the reprieve this was offering him. ‘Por favor, Isobella, do not answer the door.’
‘I must.’
Isobel had already slid away from him, tugging down the hem of her tee-shirt, lifting a trembling hand to push back the tumbled mass of her hair. Her voice was shaky, but it was determined. Like it or not, she was going to open the door.
CHAPTER THREE
‘SO, HOW did the party go?’
It was the following morning when the phone rang. Isobel had half-expected it to be Alejandro. Had half-hoped, if she was honest, even though he didn’t have her number. But she’d found his leather jacket after he’d left the day before, and, although she suspected that was the real reason he’d come here, she desperately wanted to speak to him again.
But it was her Aunt Olivia.
Isobel’s aunt and uncle had become her guardians when her mother and father had been killed in a skiing accident in Austria when she’d been only five, and she loved them as much as any parents.
‘Um, it was okay,’ she said lightly, but Olivia had detected the lack of enthusiasm in her voice.
‘I did warn you, Belle,’ she said ruefully. ‘That crowd Julia runs with these days are not like you. What happened? Were there drugs?’
‘No!’ At least she hoped not, Isobel amended to herself. ‘No, it just went on too long, that’s all.’
‘Hmm.’ Her aunt didn’t sound convinced. ‘Oh, well, it’s done with now. And I gather from what you say that there was no permanent damage?’
‘No. No permanent damage,’ Isobel agreed, wondering what her aunt would say if she told her what had so nearly happened the previous afternoon. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Lytton-Smythe …
‘So, when are we going to see you?’ Olivia was speaking again and Isobel dragged her thoughts back to what her aunt was saying. ‘You haven’t spent a weekend at Villiers in ages.’
Her aunt and uncle owned a small estate in Wiltshire. Her uncle, who owned a string of magazines, commuted to London a couple of times a week to keep an eye on his editors, while her aunt bred horses and golden retrievers. Villiers was where Isobel had lived until she’d gone to university in Warwick and had met David Taylor, the man she’d married as soon as she’d got her degree.
‘That’s because Uncle Sam keeps me busy,’ she said now, happier talking about her work. She enjoyed interviewing the various people who made the news and were interesting subjects. It might not have been her original career choice, but she appreciated the confidence her uncle had shown in her.
When she’d first gone to university, she’d intended to get a degree in journalism and then try to get a job with one of the national daily-newspapers. She’d had visions of becoming a war correspondent, sending back copy from embattled positions all over the world.
But meeting David, who’d been one of her tutors, had changed all that. Instead, she’d settled down with him in Leamington Spa, telling herself she was happy to work as a research assistant until they had a family of their own.
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