by Anne Mather
‘Hi,’ she said, her voice a little shaky. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Why would I not be?’ Alejandro countered, his frustration colouring his tone. His lips twisted. ‘What does one say in situations like this—I seem to have overstayed my welcome?’
Isobel’s pale face lost all colour. ‘You were asleep,’ she said defensively. ‘I didn’t like to disturb you.’
‘Nao?’ Alejandro was sardonic. He glanced blindly at his watch. ‘Did I sleep long?’
Isobel’s tongue circled her upper lip. ‘A little while,’ she replied offhandedly, and Alejandro sucked in a breath.
His eyes sought his watch again, and this time he focussed on the dial. It was after two o’clock. He must have slept for a good two hours.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, aghast. He had obviously been dead to the world. He glanced impatiently about him. ‘I must go.’
Isobel didn’t say anything. She just stood there, looking at him, and he felt the unwilling pull of her attraction all over again.
However this time he had more sense than to act on it. What they’d shared had been amazing, incredible—but, like that interlude in London, it had been an experience out of time, unlikely to be repeated.
And yet…
He walked haltingly towards the door, steeling himself against the urge to drag his aching leg. He was intensely conscious of her eyes upon him, and he had some pride left.
Then, before opening the door, he turned and said a little stiffly, ‘I should have asked you: how is the interview going?’
Isobel’s eyes went wide. She couldn’t believe he would ask her such a thing, not now, not at this moment. Was he completely insensitive? Well, she thought, she had the answer to that.
Biting back the bitter retort that sprang to her lips, she said tightly, ‘Well. It’s going well.’
Alejandro’s eyes were suddenly intent on hers. ‘And when do you expect to leave?’ he asked, aware that he was gripping the handle of the door so hard it was digging into his palm.
‘Oh.’ Isobel swallowed. ‘I—I don’t know.’
‘But not yet,’ he persisted, and she wondered why it mattered to him.
Then she thought of Emma, and once again she was sure she understood.
Understood, too, that for the past few hours she had barely thought of her daughter. And that was unforgiveable.
‘Perhaps you ought to ask Senhora Silveira,’ she responded, holding the lapels of her robe close about her throat.
Then, because she didn’t see why he should have it all his own way, ‘Are you going?’
‘Oh. Que? E claro. What? Of course.’ He was startled into speech, automatically using his own language as he struggled to face the fact that she was as eager to end this awkward exchange as he was. ‘We will speak again tomorrow, sim?’
Isobel held up her head. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is what I want,’ he said heavily, and this time he did open the door. ‘Boa noite, Isobella.’ He paused. ‘Try not to hate me too much, hmm?’
Isobel gasped. ‘I don’t hate you,’ she protested, wondering where that had come from. But Alejandro merely gave her a rather cynical smile before closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT WAS another two days before Alejandro was able to return to the Villa Mimosa.
The day following his visit to see Isobel, he’d had to fly down to Rio to attend a shareholders’ meeting, and then in the evening he’d been roped into a family dinner. In consequence, it was the afternoon of the following day before he was able to fly back to Montevista.
He’d considered driving down to Porto Verde that evening. But, remembering the awkwardness of his departure, he’d decided it would be easier if, when he and Isobel met again, it was daylight.
While the attractions of visiting her rooms again were undeniable, it would probably be wiser and less painful if he maintained a certain detachment until he could gauge how she really felt about him.
He’d thought about her constantly—his attention at the shareholders’ meeting had been sadly lacking because of it—and on reflection he was inclined to wonder if he had been too hasty in his assessment of the situation. His gut tightened at the thought. Was it possible that she didn’t hate him after all?
Whatever, they could still be civil with one another, he argued—for their daughter’s sake, if nothing else. Because, although he was reluctant to introduce himself to the child until she was older and could understand, he did want to keep in touch with her.
Thank heavens for the Internet, he thought fervently as he drove through the gates of the Villa Mimosa. Without it, he doubted he’d ever have seen Isobel again, or learned that she had had a baby which might conceivably be his child.
He didn’t know what he’d expected that boring afternoon in his office at the Cabral building in Rio, when, in an impulsive moment, he’d Googled her name. Certainly not the almost immediate connection to a certain Isobel Jameson who worked for Lifestyles magazine.
Even then, he’d hardly been able to believe his luck. But the website for the magazine had published a series of passport-sized photographs of its contributors, and Isobel’s face had been instantly recognisable.
Additionally, they’d provided a potted biography. And Alejandro had read incredulously that she had a little girl, named Emma, who he’d subsequently discovered had been born exactly nine months after their brief but oh-so-memorable affair.
At first, he’d been bitterly angry, willing to blame Isobel for the fact that he’d as yet played no part in his daughter’s life. The pictures his investigator had emailed him had proved without a doubt that Emma was his child, and he’d badly wanted to confront Isobel and demand his rights.
Time, of course, had made him more prudent. He’d realised the dangers of precipitating their meeting, and that was when the idea of persuading Anita that she should consider giving another interview had been born. However disloyal his intentions had been, he’d consoled himself with the thought that the end justified the means.
Perhaps he should have confided in Anita, he reflected now as the rooftops of Porto Verde appeared below him. But, since Miranda’s death, she’d begun to depend on him more and more, and he knew she’d never condone what he planned to do.
Anita had conveniently forgotten so much about her daughter. And her daughter’s marriage, brief though it had been, had assumed a tender poignancy in Anita’s mind. Which was ridiculous, considering Miranda had never shaken her drug habit and she had only married Alejandro because she’d been consumed with guilt.
Why had he married Miranda, then? Alejandro scowled. If his father hadn’t been ill, would he have resisted her pleas? Or had pity—both for her and for himself—played its part? If he had seen himself as some kind of saviour, in the end he’d had to concede defeat.
But that was all in the past, Alejandro reminded himself. He didn’t blame Miranda for what had happened: he blamed himself. He should have forced her to get out of the car.
Of course, his own family hadn’t seen it that way. Roberto Cabral had never forgiven himself for encouraging his son to get involved with Miranda in the first place. And, though he hadn’t actually opposed the marriage, he’d been horrified when afterwards Alejandro had had to tell him that it was unlikely he would ever father a child.
The gates of the Villa Mimosa loomed ahead of him and Alejandro swung into the drive, lifting a hand in acknowledgement to one of the gardeners working in the grounds. Anita didn’t allow anyone to shirk their duties, he thought drily, wondering if she and Isobel were managing to control their mutual antipathy to one another.
He would soon find out. Anita was not the kind of person to hide her feelings…
‘So what are you going to do?’
Isobel’s aunt regarded her expectantly from across the tack room at Villiers, the estate that Isobel had always regarded as her home. Olivia and Emma were supposed to be oiling the saddles, but the little girl was g
etting as much oil on her hands as she was on anything else.
Isobel bent to wipe her daughter’s fingers and then looked up at the other woman with a rueful sigh. ‘I don’t know, do I? That’s why I’m asking you. Do you think I should try and get in touch with him again?’
Olivia shook her head. ‘What do you want to do? Do you want to see him again?’
‘Of course I do.’ Isobel was impatient. ‘But, well, it’s complicated.’
Olivia shrugged. ‘Did you sleep with him?’
‘Aunt Olivia!’
‘Well, bite me, but that’s the only complication I can think of.’
‘Well, it’s not.’ But Isobel’s cheeks had deepened with colour. ‘I just think he only engineered the interview because of Emma.’
‘The interview you allowed the Silveira woman to walk away from,’ remarked Olivia drily. ‘You were a fool, Isobel. You should have insisted on seeing Alejandro before you left.’
‘And how was I supposed to do that?’ Isobel was indignant. ‘I had no way of getting to Montevista, and I didn’t know his phone number. Besides, Anita wanted me to leave immediately.’
‘I bet she did!’
‘And I could hardly stay at the airport until Alejandro chose to appear. If he did appear at all.’
Olivia shrugged, rescuing the bottle of oil from Emma’s grimy fingers and taking the little girl’s hand in hers. ‘Come on,’ she said, speaking to the child. ‘Let’s get those hands clean. And then we’ll go and see about some lunch.’
‘Aunt Olivia…’
‘Mummy wash Emma’s hands,’ protested the little girl, squirming away from the older woman. Clutching her mother’s coat, she added, ‘You do it, Mummy. Not ’Livia.’
Isobel grimaced at the dirty marks now decorating her midi-length duster-coat. It was her own fault for wearing such a light colour to visit the stables. ‘Okay, Tuppence,’ she said, grasping her daughter’s fingers before they did any more damage. ‘Let’s all go back to the house.’
The three of them trudged back to the house through the remains of the snow that had fallen the previous evening. Although it was already the middle of February, there was no sign of winter relaxing its grip. Only the daffodils flowering in the borders promised a taste of springtime, white-headed snowdrops pushing through the snow.
Isobel wrapped the folds of her coat about her. Since returning from Brazil, she’d felt the cold more severely, and was only just recovering from a nasty cough. In her all-in-one woolly jumpsuit, Emma was snug and cosy, while Olivia was wearing her usual jeans with a sweater and a warm Barbour jacket.
It wasn’t until they rounded the potting shed and entered the shrubbery that Isobel saw the black Audi parked on the drive. A huge four-by-four, it dominated her small Mazda, which she’d used to drive down from London the previous day.
‘Now, who can that be?’ her aunt asked half-impatiently. ‘If Sam was expecting guests for lunch, he should have told me. As it is, I doubt I’ve got anything suitable to offer them.’
‘You’ve always got something suitable,’ retorted Isobel wryly. ‘Mrs Collins always says you buy too much food.’
‘Mrs Collins is a daily woman, not a housekeeper,’ replied Olivia, unzipping her jacket as they entered the bootroom that adjoined the kitchen. Generally, she prepared all the family’s meals herself. Then she clicked her tongue, ‘Oh, I know who it will be—Tony Aitken. I’d heard he was back from his skiing trip, and I told Nora you’d be pleased to see him.’
‘You’re not serious!’ Isobel groaned as she helped Emma off with her jumpsuit. ‘Heavens, Aunt Olivia, why would you say a thing like that?’
‘Because since you got back from Brazil you’ve done nothing but mope around the house,’ declared Olivia briskly, and Isobel gave her an indignant look.
‘I’ve not been well since I got home!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve had a cold and a cough; you know that.’
‘Since when has a cold and a cough laid you low?’ demanded her aunt blandly. ‘I don’t know what happened, Isobel. You seem very loath to discuss it. But it seems to me that if you and Alejandro are not going to see one another again—’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘As good as,’ continued her aunt, undeterred. ‘Anyway, I think it would do you good to spend time with another man. One whose life isn’t complicated, as you put it.’
Isobel sighed. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘So you did sleep with him.’ Olivia made a smug face. Then she frowned suspiciously. ‘I hope you took precautions this time.’
Fortunately, Emma chose that moment to trip over her boots and sprawl on the floor of the bootroom. She burst into tears, of course, and Isobel was able to hide her flushed face against the little girl’s hair.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, cuddling her close, loving the distinctive smell of prolonged babyhood. ‘Come on. Let’s go and see if Mrs Collins has a chocolate in her drawer.’
Whatever else Olivia might have said was happily aborted. Picking Emma up, Isobel opened the kitchen door and stepped into the warmth of the room. An Aga heated the large cooking-area, and concealed lights below the wall-cupboards gave the room a snug and cosy appearance.
Mrs Collins turned from where she’d obviously been making a pot of coffee. ‘Mr Armstrong has a guest,’ she said in explanation. ‘I asked him if he’d like me to make some coffee, and he said yes.’
‘Oh, thank you, Hilda.’ Olivia came to look enquiringly over her shoulder. ‘Mmm; that smells good. Would you like me to take it in?’
‘If you would, Mrs Armstrong.’ Mrs Collins stepped back from the tray she’d been preparing with some relief. ‘My arthritis has been playing up and I wouldn’t like to trust my shoulder. Are you sure you can manage? Perhaps Isobel can give you a hand.’
‘After we’ve got these little paws clean,’ said Isobel, displaying Emma’s fingers for the woman to see. Anything to delay joining Tony and her uncle. Could she possibly invent a headache and leave them to it?
‘Give her here!’ exclaimed Mrs Collins, holding out her arms invitingly. ‘I’ve got some special soap we can use, Emma, and then maybe there’ll be a chocolate for a good girl. What do you say?’
Emma nodded, wriggling out of her mother’s arms and allowing Mrs Collins to carry her into the cloakroom next door. ‘Bye, Mummy,’ she called, her tears forgotten, and Isobel had no choice but to accompany her aunt out into the hall.
‘Cheer up,’ said Olivia, noticing Isobel’s tight expression. ‘For heaven’s sake, you can be polite, can’t you? I’m not asking you to marry him!’
‘Just as well,’ muttered Isobel, barely audibly, as her aunt opened the door into the sitting room. She needed time to think over what she was going to do about Alejandro, not waste time making small talk with Tony Aitken.
The two men were seated at either side of the hearth, where a log fire burned brightly. Although the house was centrally heated, both her aunt and uncle liked an open fire, and Isobel moved towards it automatically, paying little attention to the occupants of the two armchairs.
Olivia carried in the tray and set it down on the low table between them. Both men rose to their feet as she did so and then, almost subconsciously, Isobel heard her aunt suck in her breath.
‘Oh my goodness,’ she said with evident embarrassment. ‘You startled me.’
Isobel was already turning when she heard his response.
‘Regrettably, I do that to people,’ he said apologetically, but already her aunt was making amends.
‘No, I mean—you’re so big!’ she exclaimed with a girlish little giggle that Isobel had never heard before. ‘I was expecting to see Tony—Tony Aitken. A friend of Isobel’s. And he certainly isn’t as tall as you.’
Alejandro’s lips tightened at the mention of the other man’s name, but he managed to stretch them into a smile. ‘You must be Isobella’s Aunt Olivia,’ he said after a beat. ‘How do you do, senhora? It is a pleasure to meet you.’
&
nbsp; ‘And to meet you—um, Alejandro, isn’t it?’ Olivia was enthusiastic, and Isobel stood there feeling as if all her bones had suddenly turned to water. Olivia’s smile was warm. ‘I don’t think anyone else calls my niece Isobella.’
Alejandro pulled a wry face. ‘It is a—what do you say?—a weakness of mine, senhora. My grandmother’s name was Isobella also.’
‘Really?’
Isobel could see that her aunt was totally fascinated by him. Far from flinching at the sight of his scar, she was positively blossoming under his undivided attention.
For her part, Isobel was staring at him as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. In black jeans and dark-grey cashmere jacket, over a black silk shirt that was open at the neck, he was so heartachingly familiar. Oh, why had he come here? Not just to see his daughter, she prayed.
It was only when her uncle spoke that she dragged her gaze away to survey her own less-than-polished appearance. She was still wearing the coat with Emma’s finger-marks all over the skirt. And, although the coat was open, her green-and-blue-striped tee-shirt and shabby denim mini were hardly high fashion.
Her eyes darted to Alejandro again, as her uncle was bidding their guest to resume his seat. And this time he caught her gaze, his amber eyes narrowed and intent. Her breathing stilled, her throat drying as he continued to look at her. What was he thinking? she wondered. What had he been saying to her uncle before she and Olivia had interrupted them?
And then the door crashed open again and a small girl erupted into the room. In a woolly sweater and cotton dungarees, she was absolutely adorable. Alejandro, whose gaze had been distracted from Isobel at her entrance, now stared at the child in helpless fascination.
Emma, he thought. His daughter. Their daughter—his and Isobel’s. Meu Deus, but she is beautiful. As dark-haired as he was, but with Isobel’s peachy-soft complexion.
Not that Isobel had any colour in her face at this moment. He’d heard her catch her breath at the child’s entrance and understood her concern. In all honesty, it wasn’t the way he would have chosen to meet his daughter. But it was too late now to be having second thoughts.