by Anne Mather
He forced himself to concentrate on the column of stations listed on the notice board. Yes, there was Green Park, on the Piccadilly Line, the nearest station to his hotel. But if he took the Central Line he was only a couple of stations from Isobel’s apartment.
He blew out a breath. Okay, he told himself, why not take this opportunity to call for his jacket? He was leaving for home in a few days’ time. This might be his last chance to collect it.
Yeah, right.
Did he really believe that was his only motive for going there? She’d shown him the way she felt on a couple of occasions already, hadn’t she? Was he ready for another put-down?
In the event, he bought two tickets, deciding that whichever train arrived first would be the one he’d take.
Which meant that half an hour later he was climbing the stairs to Isobel’s apartment, his jacket soaked and his expensive loafers oozing water.
She’d better be at home, he thought grimly, raising his hand to press the bell. It was a quarter to six. The working day was over. He could only hope she hadn’t arranged to meet someone for a drink, or even dinner.
It seemed to take forever for Isobel to answer the door. A bit different from when Mrs Lytton-Smythe had called, he brooded irritably. But eventually he heard the bolt being drawn and the key turning in the lock, and presently he was given a glimpse of a bathrobe-clad figure sheltering behind the panels.
So she had an excuse for her tardiness, he thought, guessing she had just come out of the shower. Her face was flushed and her wet hair was in tangles about her shoulders. Well, what he could see of it anyway. She wasn’t opening the door an inch further.
For a moment, Isobel just stared at him, too shocked by his appearance to think of anything to say. All she was conscious of was the fact that she was naked under the bathrobe, and tiny drips of water from her wet hair were finding their way inside her collar and down her neck.
‘I was in the shower,’ she managed at last, and Alejandro nodded.
‘I can see that,’ he said, those curious amber eyes intent upon her. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’
You think?
Isobel’s tongue sought her upper lip and she moved her shoulders uncertainly. Was this why she hadn’t made any attempt to return his jacket? Had she suspected—no, hoped—that he might decide to come back?
‘I suppose you’ve come for your jacket,’ she said, deciding there was no point in pretending he might have another motive, and Alejandro arched his brows in a way that might have meant anything. He was more formally dressed this afternoon, in an elegant mohair-suit the jacket of which had been sadly impaired by the weather. His hair was almost as wet as hers, a thick, dark mass clinging closely to his scalp.
‘You found it?’ he queried softly, and Isobel’s spine quivered at the dark tenor of his voice.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she rushed on breathlessly. ‘It wasn’t hard to find.’
Alejandro inclined his head. ‘E claro.’ Of course. He paused. ‘So—you are well, sim?’
‘A little cold is all,’ admitted Isobel ruefully. And then, realising she couldn’t go and get his jacket and leave him standing on the doorstep, particularly as he was obviously soaked to the skin, she murmured, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
‘If you are sure?’
Alejandro wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was doing, but he’d virtually accepted her invitation now.
‘Why not?’ Isobel asked, a little offhandedly. And, unlike that other occasion when she’d stepped aside to let him in, she left the door to hurry into the living room. ‘Close the door, will you?’ she called, heading for her bedroom. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
Alejandro closed the door by leaning back against it. Then, turning, he flicked the key in the lock. For security, he told himself, refusing to admit he had any other reason. Then, as before, he walked into the living room.
The dark day meant there were lamps burning in three places around the room, two rather attractive table-lamps and a pewter standard-lamp with a huge, fringed shade. She had good taste, he conceded, noticing that the floor had been waxed and that the sofa and chairs had been thoroughly cleaned. Even the cushions bore no imprint of a human body, and the rug that occupied the centre of the floor looked like new.
A door was open across the room, and curiosity compelled him to find out where it led. But his jacket was wet and, slipping it off, he dropped it onto the floor. Then after a moment’s hesitation he crossed the room and stepped into the short corridor beyond.
Evidently, the hall gave access to her bedroom and bathroom. There were two doors and, although he knew he was being unforgiveably inquisitive, he went forward towards the first door.
It was open, and was obviously her bedroom. He saw a rose-patterned bedspread and clothes laid out upon it. Was she preparing to go out? he wondered, unconsciously unfastening his collar as an unfamiliar twinge of something gripped his insides. He couldn’t be jealous, he told himself, pulling his tie halfway down his shirt. It wasn’t as if there was any way he could become involved with an English woman.
Yet…
Another door opened across the room and Isobel appeared, clad only in a skimpy half-bra and lacy briefs. She’d made an effort to dry her hair with the towel, but it was still curling wildly about her shoulders. She looked distracted, but amazingly sexy, and Alejandro felt his body respond.
She hadn’t noticed him yet. She was too intent on picking up the filmy stockings from the bed and sitting down to roll them up her slender legs. But something, a sudden intake of breath on his part perhaps, caused her to glance in his direction.
With one leg raised so that he could plainly see the honey-gold curls escaping from the crotch of her panties, she was irresistibly appealing and, despite her gasp of outrage, Alejandro moved slowly into the room.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Isobel could barely get the words past her lips, and, tugging off her stockings, she rolled them into a ball and flung them angrily in his direction. ‘Get out of here!’ she exclaimed, her voice rising half in panic, half in indignation. ‘I—I asked you to wait in the other room.’
‘As I recall, you did not make any—como se diz?—any stipulation, nao, as to where you wanted me to stay,’ Alejandro contradicted her, huskily catching the ball of black silk in one hand and raising it to his face. ‘Mmm, they smell of you,’ he went on as she rose from the bed to face him. ‘Do not be angry, cara. You are a beautiful woman. Do not be ashamed of your body.’
‘I’m not ashamed!’ Isobel caught her breath. ‘But, if that’s supposed to be some sort of apology, I don’t accept it. You have no right to come here, uninvited, and behave as if I should be flattered.’
‘It was not an apology,’ inserted Alejandro mildly, dropping the stockings onto the floor and looking down at her with light, disturbing eyes. ‘I was merely speaking the truth, querida. Do not blame me for that.’
‘Oh, right.’ Isobel glanced about her wildly, looking for something—her dressing gown, perhaps—to cover her semi-nakedness. But she’d taken her robe into the bathroom, and the trousers and sleeveless wrap-tank she’d been planning to wear offered little in the way of protection. ‘And I suppose if I were a Brazilian girl you’d behave in exactly the same way?’
Alejandro’s lips thinned. Despite recent events, he couldn’t deny that there was no way Miranda’s mother would have allowed him to enter her daughter’s bedroom, even if he’d wanted to. Despite the new freedoms the twenty-first century had brought, women of good family clung to the old ways. Oh, that wasn’t to say that young people didn’t rebel. He was sure Miranda had done things her mother knew nothing about. But on the surface anyway the old customs applied, and he was honest enough to admit he’d want it no other way.
The silence between them stretched, and when he didn’t answer her her lips twisted in contempt. ‘I didn’t think so,’ she said, turning her back on him. ‘Now, will you please get out of here?’
&n
bsp; Alejandro’s hands balled into fists, the urge to grip her shoulders and pull her back against him almost overwhelming. From this angle, he was offered only a glimpse of her breasts, but the narrow curve of her waist and the delectable swell of her hips were irresistible. And the rounded cheeks of her bottom protruding from the black lace of her panties sent a hot rush of blood into his groin.
He wanted her, he acknowledged grimly. Wanted to bury his burning sex inside her and expunge all the stress and frustration he’d felt since he first kissed her in the welcoming heat of her body.
But he couldn’t do it.
He mustn’t do it.
For God’s sake, he wasn’t an animal. And she wasn’t some cheap whore he could seduce and leave without a backward glance. He respected her too much for that. And, for that reason, he had to get himself out of here before his own needs and the indisputable temptation she represented overcame his good sense
And then, as he was backing towards the door, she turned her head and looked at him. Blue eyes, as clear and lucid as a summer sky, met his tormented gaze. Eyes that softened and gentled as he looked at her, lips parting to allow the provocative tip of her tongue to appear between her teeth.
She held his gaze for long, disturbing moments, and then she said a little breathlessly, ‘Your—your jacket’s hanging on the stand in the hall. You—you might have seen it when you came in.’
In actual fact, Alejandro had been aware of nothing but Isobel when he’d entered the apartment, but he acknowledged now that there probably had been some coats hanging in the hall.
‘Certo,’ he said, a faintly mocking expression marring his dark features. Right. But what had he expected? he asked himself bitterly. That she might change her mind and beg him to stay? ‘Obrigado.’ Thanks.
Isobel managed a slight smile over her shoulder, but her teeth came together and trapped her tongue before she could say anything else. He’d already shown her what he really thought about her. His silent admission that he wouldn’t treat a Brazilian girl with the same lack of respect that he’d shown her proved it. Just because she was tempted to throw caution to the winds and let him make love to her—something she suspected they both wanted—she had to remember that was not a sensible option.
Alejandro had reached the bedroom door now, and before he stepped out of her sight he gave a slight bow of his head. ‘It has been a pleasure knowing you, Isobella,’ he remarked, not without some irony. ‘Adeus, cara. I hope you have a good life.’
As Isobel digested the finality of his words, he disappeared into the living room, and she waited breathlessly for the outer door to open and close. He was going, she thought, aware of her own mixed feelings about it. He had to go. But she didn’t really want him to.
The silence was deafening, and her mood swung from ambivalence about his departure to an anxious curiosity as to why he hadn’t left. She would have heard the door, she assured herself. Which meant he was still in the apartment. But why? What was he doing?
She had to find out and, snatching up the shirt she’d discarded when she’d gone for her shower, she pulled it on and wrapped the folds around her. It only skimmed her thighs, but at least it was a little less revealing than her underwear.
Alejandro was in the living room. Because her apartment was on the sixth floor, she hadn’t drawn the curtains, and he was standing at the window staring out at the lights of the city.
He’d put on the jacket he’d been wearing when he’d arrived at the apartment, and she could see how wet and creased it was. Even so, that didn’t explain why he was still here, and with a tentative clearing of her throat she said, ‘Is something wrong?’
Alejandro swung round, his hands at his throat, and she realised he’d been fastening his collar and tie. She’d been too premature, she realised. She should have given him more time. As it was, she felt a fool for intruding.
‘You have an interesting view,’ he said, his hands dropping to his sides. ‘My apologies. I realise I am overstaying my welcome.’
Isobel’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. ‘Your—your coat’s soaking,’ she said at last, unable to think of anything else, and Alejandro’s lips twisted.
‘Esta chovendo,’ he said, and then, collecting himself, ‘It is raining, cara.’ He spread his arms. ‘When it rains, I get wet.’
Isobel pressed her lips together. ‘You could—you could wear your other jacket,’ she pointed out, and Alejandro’s lips tilted.
‘So I could,’ he agreed ruefully, slipping the mohair jacket off his shoulders again. ‘As always, you are—como se diz?—the soul of practicality, nao?’
Isobel didn’t feel very practical, particularly when she was halfway across the living room before she remembered her state of undress. But by then it was too late to indulge in any false modesty, and, stepping into the hall, she lifted down the leather jacket she’d hung there and brought it back to him.
‘Many thanks,’ he said, coming to take the jacket from her, and as he did so she was made intensely aware of the damp, masculine scent of his skin.
‘I—no problem,’ she murmured. And then, before she could prevent the words, ‘Your shirt’s wet too.’
Alejandro lifted a hand and smoothed it down over his chest. The silk clung to his skin, and he made a slight gesture of acknowledgement. ‘So it is,’ he conceded with a rueful smile. ‘Unfortunately, I do not have another shirt to wear.’
‘I—I could dry it,’ offered Isobel recklessly, and he gave her a conservative look.
‘I think not, cara.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know the answer to that as well as I do,’ murmured Alejandro, his voice thickening as his eyes lowered to the sensual beauty of her mouth. ‘Or are you so immune to this attraction I feel between us that you do not care what I do?’
That was so patently untrue that Isobel could only stare at him in mute appeal. She’d never been more aware of any man, of his heat and his magnetism, and the indefinable aura of masculinity and strength that emanated from him.
‘I—I care,’ she got out at last, and she wasn’t sure what she was admitting to when he cast his jacket aside and trailed an unsteady finger down her cheek.
‘Merda,’ he muttered, a low groan vibrating in his chest. Then his hand curled about her neck, and he was pulling her forward so that he could cover her mouth with his.
CHAPTER FOUR
ISOBEL gave an involuntary little gasp as he kissed her. The initially gentle pressure of his lips was so inviting, so insistent, and she couldn’t help her hands from spreading weakly against his shirt.
Wet silk dampened her fingers as the satin-smooth heat of his tongue slid between her teeth and into the moist cavern of her mouth. The matching heat of his skin rose hotly through the fine fabric of his shirt, and her hands closed convulsively against the muscled pressure of his midriff.
He deepened his kiss, his hand sliding from her nape and into the tangled glory of her hair. His thumb explored her ear, finding the erratic pulse that beat so wildly beneath his touch, and he tilted back her head so that his mouth could seek the quivering column of her throat.
‘I—We—we shouldn’t,’ she managed to stammer when she felt her shirt sliding off her shoulders, felt his fingers peeling down the straps of her bra.
‘Porque nao? Why not?’ he asked, using the words she’d used earlier. ‘Do you not want me to show you what you do to me?’
‘I just—’ The erotic brush of his fingers across her breast caused her breath to hitch, and it was a struggle to remember what she had been going to say. ‘Alejandro…’
‘Do not tell me you do not want this just as much as I do,’ he insisted, his accent more pronounced now, soft and sensual, soothing her shattered nerves with the downy brush of velvet. ‘You do, do you not?’ he persisted, circling her breast with his tongue, and she felt as if her whole body was on fire.
She moaned as his teeth took the place of his tongue and he took one swollen nipple into his mou
th. Any lingering resistance was being eroded by his mouth and the intimate touch of his hands, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t responded to it.
Yet still she struggled to remember the reasons why she shouldn’t let him do this. But, when his hand cupped the rounded swell of her buttocks and brought her close against him, the unmistakeable pressure of his arousal pulsing against her stomach caused her legs to turn to jelly.
‘Nao?’ he murmured. It was as much a question as a denial and Isobel felt her senses swimming.
‘I—’
It was impossible to say the words she knew she ought to say, and, with a groan of triumph, Alejandro swung her up into his arms.
‘Quero—I want you,’ he said, burying his face in the hollow of her shoulder. ‘Let me prove it, nao?’
His mouth found hers again as he carried her across the hall and into her bedroom. Her shirt and bra had disappeared and, apart from the scrap of black lace, she was naked in his arms.
Alejandro laid her on the bed, tearing off his own shirt as he came down beside her. He kissed her again as she fumbled with the buckle of his belt, and she turned towards him and cupped his face with her hot little hands.
The delicious provocation of her breasts against his chest was almost his undoing. The urge to spread her legs and push his aching shaft inside her was almost irresistible, but he was determined she should enjoy this just as much as he intended to.
In Isobel’s case, some coherent corner of her mind was still insisting that this couldn’t be happening. She’d never been the kind of woman to sleep around and, apart from David, she was totally innocent of the ways of men.
Yet feeling him loosening his belt, unzipping his trousers, she couldn’t resist trying to confirm what her subconscious mind was telling her could not be true. But the throbbing heat that thrust against her palms was all too real, all too powerful. He’d pushed his trousers down his legs, and his male strength was hard and unmistakeably aroused.
As she touched him Alejandro caught his breath, sucking air into lungs that suddenly seemed deprived of oxygen. ‘Cara,’ he protested thickly. ‘Cuidado! Have a care! I have only so much control.’