by Anne Mather
When he looked down at her, Isobel felt as if she couldn’t breathe suddenly. What now? But then he said, ‘Voce primeiro,’ the words sounding absurdly sensual. ‘After you, cara,’ he added, and she realised she was letting her imagination run away with her good sense.
Somehow she managed to close the door and lead the way into the living room. But now the state of the apartment was the least of her worries. She was intensely aware of him watching her, and she wished she was wearing something a little more feminine than a cropped black tee-shirt and jeans.
And how pathetic was that?
‘So,’ she said when he halted in the doorway, looking about him with obvious interest. ‘As you can see, I haven’t had time to repair the damage yet.’
Alejandro shrugged. This afternoon he was wearing black jeans and a dark-green hooded fleece with the logo of some sporting club sprawled elegantly across the front. ‘I did not come to check on the apartment,’ he said, his golden eyes resting almost tangibly on her mouth. His brows drew together. ‘You look tired, pequena. Did you not get any sleep?’
Isobel let out a breath. ‘Gee, thanks,’ she said, finding relief in sarcasm. ‘That’s so good for my ego.’
Alejandro’s mouth compressed. ‘It was not a criticism, cara,’ he said, stepping towards her, and before she could restore the space between them he’d put out his hand and smoothed his thumb over the circles beneath her eyes. She blinked rapidly, her stomach plunging at the disturbing intimacy of his touch, and his lips curved in satisfaction. ‘Relax, little one. Is it my fault that even your neighbour—Mrs Smith?—’
‘Lytton-Smythe,’ Isobel corrected him breathlessly, and his lips tilted.
‘Sim; the good Mrs Smith,’ he went on, ignoring her intervention. ‘She complained that no one had had—what was it she said?—I wink of sleep, nao?’
Isobel couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips at his deliberate corruption of the old lady’s name. ‘How do you know my neighbour’s name?’ she asked, backing out of harm’s way. ‘Did she speak to you just now?’
‘This morning,’ Alejandro amended, and to her relief he transferred his gaze to his surroundings again. ‘This is a beautiful room.’ He paused and once again his eyes drifted back to rest on her nervous face. ‘Your husband—ex-husband, nao?—must have regretted having to leave.’
‘He never lived here,’ said Isobel swiftly. ‘We lived, well, somewhere else.’
‘But you do not wish me to know where?’ suggested Alejandro shrewdly, and Isobel sighed. ‘I think the memory is still painful, nao?’
‘Not any more.’ Isobel could be very definite about that. Sometimes she thought it had just been her pride that had been hurt rather than her emotions.
‘There was another woman?’
He was persistent, and Isobel’s lips flattened at the memories his words evoked. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘Look, can we leave it? It all happened a very long time ago.’
Alejandro stepped towards her and now, when she backed away, she felt the unyielding coolness of the wall behind her. ‘So,’ he said a little roughly, ‘are you still seeing this man?’
‘What man?’ Isobel gazed up at him blankly.
‘If there was no woman, there must have been another man,’ he explained harshly, raising one hand to rest it against the wall beside her head. ‘I want to know if you are still—what is it you say in this country?—with him, nao?’
‘No.’ Isobel lifted a hand, as if she intended to ward him off. ‘That is—all right, yes. There was another man. Now, can we please talk about something else?’
‘You did not answer my question,’ he said, his curious cat’s-eyes searching her face with grim intensity. ‘Where is this man who persuaded you to break your marriage vows?’
‘Who persuaded me—?’ She couldn’t allow him to think that she’d caused the break-up. ‘I wasn’t involved with another man. David—my husband—was. But it all happened a long time ago. Really, I wish you would forget about it. I have.’
Alejandro’s nostrils flared. His reaction to the news that some other man had hurt her in this way was unbelievable. He wanted to find this man and give him the beating he so richly deserved.
Yet her relationship with her ex-husband should have meant nothing to him, he reminded himself. They were barely acquaintances. He had no right to care, one way or the other.
But he did.
Looking down into her slightly flushed face, he badly wanted to kiss her. Only the memory of the sensual heat her mouth had generated the night before, and the lack of control he’d experienced, held him back.
Even so, he couldn’t prevent his need to touch her, and, lifting his free hand, he allowed one finger to trace a line from the curve of her cheek to her jaw. Nerves tensed beneath his touch. He could feel them, and there was an erratic pulse beating below her ear. He’d like to feel the source of that palpitation, to slip his hand beneath the tempting hem of her tee-shirt and stroke her breasts.
‘Please…’ It was as if she sensed his distraction and wanted to divert it. ‘I don’t know why you’ve come here, Mr Cabral, but I really think you should go.’
‘You do not mean that.’ Despite the obvious get-out, he didn’t take it. His eyes dropped to her mouth. ‘We are just getting to know 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.
Of course, it hadn’t happened. Instead, two years after their glossy wedding, she’d found herself lost and alone. Belatedly, she’d got a job as a journalist. But not in the way she’d ever imagined.
Now, though, her aunt sounded impatient. ‘Then I shall tell Sam to stop sending you on all these assignments,’ Olivia said firmly. ‘It’s time you found a decent man to look after you and settled down.’
‘Been there, done that and no thanks!’ Isobel exclaimed at once.
Even if it was six years since the divorce, she had no desire to get sexually involved again. She liked her life; she liked her independence. And just because she’d succumbed to a moment’s madness the afternoon before…
‘You’re sure you’ve not met anybody?’ Olivia persisted, and Isobel sighed. Her aunt could be far too perceptive at times. The last thing she wanted was to start a discussion about the opposite sex, particularly when her thoughts were so chaotic.
‘No,’ she said now, sinking down onto the arm of the sofa, hoping she didn’t sound too adamant. ‘So—how are things with you? Did Villette have her foal?’
‘You know, I suspect you’re trying to change the subject, Belle, but I forgive you.’ Olivia’s tone was dry. ‘Anyway, moving on, why don’t you come down this weekend? The Aitkens are hosting a dinner party to celebrate Lucinda’s twenty-first birthday, and I know they’d love for you to join us.’
Isobel bit her lip. Apart from the fact that she and Lucinda Aitken had nothing in common, Lucinda’s brother Tony would be there, and she knew her aunt and uncle had long nurtured hopes for her in that direction.
‘Um—can I get back to you on that, Aunt Olivia?’ she asked now, trying not to let her reluctance show. She hesitated. ‘Maybe I could come down on Sunday, hmm? Just for the day.’
Olivia sighed disappointedly. ‘I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,’ she said a little plaintively. ‘Why don’t you think about it, darling? Give me a ring tomorrow, yes? It’s only Thursday. You may find you can come after all.’
Isobel felt mean, but she couldn’t face Tony this weekend; she really couldn’t.
But, ‘Okay,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Good.’ Olivia sounded infinitely more optimistic. ‘I know you’ll do your best, Belle. Oh, and for your information, Villette had the most gorgeous black colt. We’ve provisionally called him Rio, but you can choose his name when you see him.’
Rio!
Was there to be no escape from things Brazilian?
Isobel felt a reluctant smile touch her lips. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing him,’ she said, and knew it was an unspoken admission as soon as she’d put down the phone.
Alejandro scowled when he found it was raining when he left the meeting. And, because it was the rush hour, there were no cabs to be had.
Sucking in a breath of cool, moist air, he turned up the collar of his mohair jacket and headed for the nearest tube station. He could have arranged for a company car to meet him, but he hadn’t known exactly how long the meeting would last, and he’d thought a walk back to his hotel might be rather pleasant.
But not in the pouring rain.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t used to so much inactivity. At home in Brazil, he walked, swam and sailed on a regular basis. And, when he wanted to get away from the city, he headed for the estancia his family owned in the beautiful country north of Rio.
Indeed, he sometimes thought he’d prefer to spend his days at the ranch rather than locked up in some stuffy boardroom. But, as the eldest son, he’d been expected to take control of Cabral Leisure when his father had retired. Roberto Cabral had been forced into early retirement after developing heart trouble, and he relied on both his sons to continue the development of the company.
His scowl deepened. He wasn’t in the best of moods. Hadn’t been in the best of moods, if he was honest, since he’d walked out of Isobel’s apartment for the second time in two days in a state of raw frustration.
He could have gone back that evening, he supposed, but his pride hadn’t let him. He’d consoled himself with the thought that the women he was used to associating with would never have invited a man into their apartment in the first place, not when they were alone. Particularly after the way he’d behaved at their first meeting. But she had, and he’d accepted, and now he was paying the price.
He shook his head, impatient with himself, impatient with the weather. Running down the steps into the tube station, he straightened his collar and ran a careless hand over his damp hair. The sooner he got back to Rio, the better he’d like it.
Got back to Miranda, he thought drily, although that wasn’t a prospect he was looking forward to. He liked her; of course he did. They’d practically grown up together, damn it, but the crowd she ran with now was not his choice. Nevertheless, her mother and his father were making far too much of what was, in essence, a friendship. They expected an announcement, but they were going to be disappointed.