by Anne Mather
Isobel’s tongue circled her lips. ‘But you like me to touch you?’ she questioned, and he gave a strangled laugh.
‘Sim, I like you to touch me,’ he admitted huskily. But he captured both her hands in one of his and imprisoned them above her head even so. Then, his eyes darkening possessively, ‘But I want to touch you too. Everywhere.’
Isobel trembled. Her whole body felt as if it was on fire with excitement and anticipation, and when he skimmed her lacy briefs down her legs she felt no sense of shame.
For the first time in her life she was glorying in her nakedness and Alejandro’s reaction to it. With David, she had never felt like this, and it was only now that she really understood why.
Alejandro bent his head and buried his face in the soft curls of her mound, probing fingers seeking and parting the damp folds between her legs. She was wet, so wet and ready for him, he discovered half-guiltily. Why did he feel as if he was seducing an innocent? Why did he find that innocence so impossible to resist?
Isobel parted her legs almost involuntarily. The sensations Alejandro was arousing made her weak and eager for more. Even the scratch of his stubble against her bare thighs was unbearably stimulating to someone so inexperienced in the ways of sex.
It was difficult to breathe. The atmosphere in the room was hot and sultry. Just like Alejandro’s love-making, the musky scent of his body was more erotic than she had ever dreamed. And when his tongue took the place of his fingers, penetrating those satin folds, she couldn’t prevent the hoarse cry that issued from her lips.
She was on the brink of incoherence, mindless with need, aching to assuage the unfamiliar feelings inside her, when he lifted his head and covered her mouth with his. Then, straddling her thighs, he allowed the blunt head of his erection to nudge her tingling core.
‘Tu queria,’ he said thickly. ‘I must have you, cara.’ Then, with an ease she could only envy, he parted her legs and buried his throbbing shaft in her slick sheath.
He heard her catch her breath when his powerful thrust encountered tight muscles. Deus, he thought incredulously; it was almost like making love to a virgin. His contempt for her ex-husband was complete.
But when those same muscles expanded and then tightened around him his own urgent desire made any kind of intelligent thought impossible. Slipping his hands beneath her bottom, he lifted her so that he could encase himself completely. And, amazingly, she accepted him, her slim legs curving sensually about his hips.
When he started to withdraw almost to the point of separation she moved with him, and he heard her fractured breathing with a delight he’d never experienced before. She was the most responsive woman he’d ever made love with, and he wanted to prolong their shared quest for fulfilment as long as he possibly could.
But before long Isobel’s eager response drove him to quicken the pace of his strokes. Her breasts were taut against his sweating body; even the little cries she was making were totally seductive.
He tried to hold onto his control, but he was fighting a losing battle. When the ripples of her climax caused her muscles to convulse around him and he was drenched with her essence, he had to pray she knew what she was doing. He couldn’t hold out any longer, and with a final groan he surrendered to the blissful gush of his own release.
Alejandro’s body had at last stopped shuddering and he rolled to one side so that Isobel could breathe more easily. Then a shrill sound assaulted his ears.
He heard the sound without association. Or maybe he just didn’t want to recognise it, he realised. But as it continued he was forced to identify it as his mobile phone.
His face was buried in the pillows beside Isobel’s head, and he wished with an urgency that bordered on paranoia that someone would just turn the damn thing off. But then he remembered that the phone was still secure in its own little pocket in his suit jacket. The jacket that was lying on the floor in the other room.
Stifling an oath, Alejandro pushed himself up onto his elbows and then jackknifed onto his knees.
Isobel stirred, casting languid eyes in his direction. ‘What is that noise?’ she asked, one hand reaching for his arm. ‘What are you doing? I don’t want you to go.’
‘And believe me, querida, I do not want to go either,’ he assured her huskily, capturing her hand and raising her palm to his mouth. His tongue briefly touched the soft skin, and then he added ruefully, ‘My—how do you say?—my cellular telephone is ringing, nao?’
Isobel frowned. ‘Your mobile?’
‘Sim, my mobile,’ he agreed, reaching for his suit trousers as he scrambled off the bed. Hopping on one foot, he managed to get his leg into one of the openings. ‘You will excuse me, querida? It is no doubt my father, and when he calls and I do not answer he tells my mother and she worries, nao?’ He raised apologetic brows. ‘They both worry. They think London is a dangerous place.’
Isobel’s lips pursed. ‘Not that dangerous,’ she protested, and Alejandro lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation.
‘As you say,’ he agreed drily, but, hauling up his trousers, he gave her a smile before striding out of the bedroom.
It was his father, as Alejandro had suspected it might be, but not calling to reassure either himself or Alejandro’s mother that all was well with their son. He rarely rang, and only if the matter was urgent. This time the news he had to deliver caused Alejandro to close his eyes in frustration. It was a week since his father had made his first call on this subject. Now, although he had hoped to bring his son better news, it seemed the situation had got progressively worse.
‘But can’t Anita handle it?’ Alejandro exhorted impatiently. ‘For God’s sake, Miranda is only nineteen!’
‘Anita says she is at her wit’s end. Your going away at this time has only exacerbated the problem. Miranda will not listen to either Anita or her counsellor.’ His father paused. ‘As I understand it, your final meeting was today, yes? I know you had planned to continue on to Paris, but I really think you should come home, Alejandro. If you care about the girl at all, you owe it to her to try and make her see reason.’
‘I am not a professional, Papa.’ Alejandro pushed agitated fingers through his hair.
‘But you do seem to be the only person Miranda will listen to,’ declared Roberto Cabral heavily. ‘Please, Alejandro. Do not make me have to beg.’
Alejandro was closing the phone when he became aware of Isobel standing in the doorway. She had pulled on her shirt again, but it barely reached her thighs, and her feet were bare.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her eyes puzzled, and he wished he had the right to tell her.
‘It was my father,’ he said, slipping the phone into the pocket of his trousers. He pulled a face. ‘Regrettably, I have to return to Rio as soon as I can get a flight.’
Isobel’s stomach hollowed. ‘To Rio?’ she said, feeling an awful sense of abandonment.
‘I am afraid so.’ Alejandro sounded as if he meant it, but what did she know?
‘Is something wrong?’ she ventured cautiously. ‘Is your mother ill?’ She couldn’t think of anything else that might warrant such urgency.
‘Nao.’ Alejandro forced himself to brush past her without taking her in his arms again as he badly wanted to. ‘It is a business matter,’ he lied, going into the bedroom and rescuing the rest of his clothes. And, when she followed him to stand watching his hasty dressing, he added, ‘Although my father retired some time ago, he still takes an active interest in the company’s affairs.’
Isobel bit her lip. ‘I see.’
Alejandro was sure she didn’t see, but there was no way without betraying a confidence that he could reassure her. Instead, he said, ‘Do not look like that, querida. I want to see you again. It is just—’
‘Business,’ Isobel inserted flatly. ‘I know.’ Her lips twisted. ‘You’d better hurry. I wouldn’t want you to miss your plane.’
Alejandro finished buttoning his shirt and regarded her wearily. ‘Do not speak so bitterl
y, Isobella. If there was any way I could get out of this commitment I would.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Patently she didn’t believe him, and Alejandro desperately didn’t want it to end this way.
‘Cara,’ he said persuasively, ‘I will come back. To London, I mean. This is not the end for us, I promise.’
Isobel pressed her lips together and shook her head. She wanted to believe him. She really did. But for him to say he was leaving the country just as they’d become intimate seemed fated somehow.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, but Alejandro couldn’t leave it like that.
‘It does matter,’ he said, pushing his feet into his shoes. ‘I would not want you to think I do not care about you.’
‘And do you?’ asked Isobel between clenched teeth, knowing in her heart of hearts that he could say anything right now to appease her.
‘Of course I do.’ He regarded her intently for a few heated moments, because he knew if he touched her again he wouldn’t be able to let her go. He added, ‘Do not imagine I am unaware of my—responsibilities, cara.’ A faint colour invaded his cheeks. ‘You are right to doubt me. I have been—how do you say?—reckless, nao? I should have taken precautions, but—’
Isobel’s cry of anguish arrested his words. ‘Don’t,’ she commanded unsteadily. ‘Don’t say anything more. My God!’ She gave a harsh gulp. ‘I wondered where all this was leading. You nearly had me fooled, do you know that? Well, stuff your concern, senhor.’ She used the title contemptuously. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. I can look after myself.’
‘Isobella—’
‘And don’t call me that. My name is Isobel.’ She gathered the folds of the shirt almost defensively about her. ‘Just go, right? Before either of us says something we’ll regret.’
‘Isobel, por favor.’
‘No.’
There was a break in her voice and she prayed he couldn’t hear it. She would not break down in front of him, she told herself. She wouldn’t! But she wanted to; she wanted to shout and scream and yell her feelings of betrayal to the skies.
Instead of which she marched stiffly to the door, refusing to look at him as he picked up both his jackets and followed her.
‘Querida,’ he said in an agonised tone, but she merely shook her head.
‘Have a good journey,’ she managed tightly, waiting for him to go past her. Then she closed the door and locked it again before allowing the hot tears to stream unchecked down her face.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three years later
FROM the air, the city of Rio de Janeiro was impressive: Sugar Loaf Mountain, the iconic statue of Christ on another mountain called Corcovado, and the glorious beaches surrounding Guanabara Bay.
Isobel had read that the earlier settlers had believed the bay was the mouth of a river. ‘Rio’ meant river, and, along with the month in which the country had been discovered, had given the city its name.
She’d read a lot on the journey, wanting to know as much about the country and its people as she could cram into the eleven-hour flight. She’d decided there’d be time enough to learn about her subject when she met her. She already knew Anita Silveira was a very successful writer. Having read many of her books, she felt she had learned a little of the woman’s character already.
The irony of accepting the Brazilian assignment wasn’t lost on her. Aunt Olivia hadn’t wanted her to go, and even her uncle had had his reservations. But apparently Senhora Silveira had read some of Isobel’s work and had asked that she conduct the interview. And, because it was such an important coup for Lifestyles magazine, Sam Armstrong had reluctantly agreed to let her go.
It wasn’t as if she was likely to meet Alejandro Cabral, Isobel had protested when her aunt had brought the subject up. Rio was a huge city, with a population of well over six million. What were the chances of her meeting her daughter’s father again? The odds were definitely stacked against it.
All the same, Isobel couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to seeing the place where Alejandro had been born and where he’d been living when she’d known him. Their acquaintance had been so brief to have such long-lasting consequences, she thought a little bitterly. Yet she wouldn’t be without Emma; her daughter had given real meaning to her life.
But now Rio was far behind her. When she’d arrived in the city two days before, Ben Goodman—a friend of her uncle, with whom he’d arranged for her to stay—had informed her that Senhora Silveira had retired to her coastal villa north of Rio. She apparently preferred the cooler ocean breezes of Porto Verde to the summer heat of the city.
Isobel didn’t blame her. Having left London in the depths of a cold and wet January, she hadn’t been prepared for the heat and humidity that had assaulted her as soon as she’d stepped out of the airport. In no time at all her cotton shirt had been clinging to her, and it had been such a relief to reach the Goodmans’ house in the leafy suburb of Santa Teresa and discover it had air-conditioning.
Nevertheless, the beauty of the city hadn’t totally escaped her. Despite the poverty of the favellas, there was so much she would have liked to explore: to ride the trolley cars and visit the many museums and art galleries, to walk along the beach at Ipanema and taste the vibrant nightlife for which the city was famous.
Still, she wasn’t here as a tourist, she reminded herself as the connecting flight from Rio to Porto Verde swept low over a high plateau, before descending with unnerving speed towards the coast. The small airstrip bordered the ocean; golden sand-dunes rippled beneath waving palms. In the distance, purple-fringed mountains looked remote and mysterious; nearer at hand the cliffs of the plateau gleamed white in the sinking rays of the sun.
Although Ben Goodman had never visited the Silveira villa, he’d told Isobel it was said to be very beautiful. She was a wealthy woman, he’d added without envy. A little arrogant perhaps, according to reports he’d heard, but also deserving of a little pity due to the fact that her only child, a daughter, had died when she’d been only twenty-two.
Not that her uncle expected Isobel to enquire into the woman’s personal life. Anita Silveira seldom gave interviews at all, and she had only agreed this time because Sam Armstrong had been kind to her when her first book had been published many years ago. She didn’t court publicity these days. She was a very private person. Isobel had been left in no doubt that she was extremely privileged to be given this opportunity.
The flight attendant passed along the aisle, informing passengers that they’d be landing shortly, and a few minutes later the small plane bumped down onto the runway. They taxied to where a cluster of iron-roofed buildings marked the terminal, the sea stretching away beside them, and no obvious security in sight.
There were only about a dozen passengers on the flight. This area of the country was popular with tourists, and judging by the shorts and backpacks, and the cameras slung about their necks, her fellow travellers were looking forward to their holiday. According to her guide book, the area offered trekking and climbing opportunities, while the huge Sao Francisco Lakes offered all kinds of water sports as well.
Once again, the heat struck her as she descended the steps from the aircraft. There was no jetway here, just a short walk from the plane to the reception hall. Then a rather longer wait for her luggage, and finally she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and emerged into the sunlight again.
There were taxis, and she had Anita Silveira’s address, but this evening she was going to check in at a hotel and relax after her journey. She would make arrangements to see her subject tomorrow, after she’d had a decent night’s sleep.
However, before she could approach one of the taxis, an elderly man dressed in a white shirt, a black waistcoat and baggy trousers came ambling towards her.
‘Senhora Jameson?’ he asked, showing a row of uneven teeth liberally stained with tobacco.
‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘I’m Ms Jameson.’
‘Muito prezer, senhora.’ Which must mean, �
��pleased to meet you’, Isobel thought as the old man commandeered her suitcase. He led the way to where an old-fashioned limousine was waiting. ‘Entrar, por favor.’ ‘Please get in’.
Isobel hesitated. Although she knew a few words of Portuguese, there was no way she could converse with him in his own language. And, although he knew her name, no one had warned her to expect an escort to her hotel.
‘Um, who are you?’ she asked politely, hoping he could understand her, and the tobacco-stained teeth appeared again.
‘Manos, senhora,’ he said at once, pointing a gnarled finger at his chest. ‘I work for the senhora, nao? Senhora Silveira?’
‘Ah.’ Isobel was slightly relieved. ‘And will you take me to the hotel?’
‘Hotel?’ Manos gave the word a Portuguese inflection. ‘No hotel, senhora. You stay with Senhora Silveira, sim?’
Isobel’s lips parted. ‘But I thought…’
She frowned. What had she thought? Her uncle had said Senhora Silveira would arrange accommodation for her, and she’d naturally assumed she’d be staying in the small town. She bit her lip. Did she want to stay with a perfect stranger, however generous her offer might be? She always preferred to maintain her independence on these occasions. She found it made it easier all round.
But if there was no hotel…
‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured half to herself, but evidently Manos heard and understood her.
‘Por favor.’ He gestured towards the car again, and this time he opened the boot and stowed her suitcase inside. ‘Is not far, senhora. I drive ver’ good.’
Isobel shook her head. She could hardly explain that it wasn’t his driving that bothered her, not without getting embroiled in a conversation that probably neither of them would understand.
So, with a gesture of acceptance, she did as he’d asked and got into the limousine, wincing as her short skirt exposed her thighs to the hot leather of the seat.