The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ the idea of seeing Isobel again intrigued him. As his temper cooled, he remembered her sweetness before Julia had interrupted them—the softness of her skin, the unexpected provocation of her mouth.

      Isobel, he mused. Isobella. She’d certainly been different from the other girls at the party. Her almost shy manner reminded him of the girls back home, though he guessed Isobel had never had a chaperon breathing down her neck.

      Except Julia…

      His lips twisted. When she’d invited him to the party, he’d intended to decline. Although he’d been working with the agency, he wasn’t in the habit of mixing business with pleasure. But she’d been so insistent, he’d eventually given in. After all, despite the wishes of his parents, he had no serious commitments elsewhere.

      He scowled. He didn’t want to think about Miranda at this moment. Not when thoughts of Isobel were foremost in his mind. She’d felt so good in his arms, warm, soft and sexy. He wondered how old she was. His own age, he guessed, but she looked younger. It was unbelievable that she’d been married and divorced. She seemed so innocent somehow. He knew he wanted to see her again. But would she want to see him?

      Disappointingly, she wasn’t at home when he called at her apartment the next morning. Instead, a garrulous old woman came out of the adjoining apartment and accosted him.

      ‘Are you looking for Mrs Jameson?’ she demanded, and Alejandro, who wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner, felt his hackles rising. ‘Anyway, she’s not here,’ the woman went on fussily, apparently unaware of giving any offence. ‘She went out first thing this morning, though how she expects to do a day’s work when none of us got a wink of sleep last night is beyond me.’

      ‘Ah.’ Alejandro was beginning to understand her reaction.

      ‘Were you at the party?’ she asked. Then, answering her own question, ‘No, I don’t suppose you were, or you’d not have expected her to be up yet.’

      Alejandro didn’t bother to correct her. ‘You said Mrs Jameson, senhora. I understood the lady was divorced, nao?’

      The woman’s eyes widened suspiciously, as if she’d just realised he wasn’t English, but she answered him anyway. ‘She is,’ she confirmed. ‘Or that’s what she told the landlord when she moved into the apartment.’

      ‘I see.’ Alejandro didn’t allow his relief to show. ‘Muito bem; I will have to return later, perhaps, when Mrs Jameson is at home.’

      The woman frowned at him through her thick-framed lenses. ‘Are you a friend of hers?’ she queried, and once again Alejandro had to tamp down his impatience. She pursed her lips. ‘Who shall I say has called?’

      Alejandro was fairly sure the question was purely curiosity now, and he was tempted not to reply. But the last thing he wanted was for Isobel to think he’d been snooping around. ‘My name is Cabral,’ he said shortly. Then, with a slight bow of his head, ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs—Mrs—?’

      ‘Lytton-Smythe,’ she said at once. She paused for a moment and then ventured casually, ‘Do you work for her uncle too?’

      Alejandro hesitated. ‘Her uncle?’ he echoed, unable to prevent himself, and the woman nodded.

      ‘Samuel Armstrong,’ she said. ‘He publishes magazines or something. Mrs Jameson is always on the go, interviewing famous people and writing articles about them for him.’

      ‘Is she?’ Alejandro was impressed.

      ‘Yes.’ There was reluctance in the woman’s tone now, as if she regretted being so frank. ‘I suppose she must be quite clever, really, even if it is only her uncle she works for.’

      Damned with faint praise, thought Alejandro drily, but he was grateful for the information nonetheless. If only so he knew there was an alternative source to contact to get his jacket back, he assured himself. But that didn’t alter the fact that he still wanted to see Isobel again.

      Isobel was exhausted when she got back to her apartment. She’d managed to finish the piece on the celebrity make-up artist after the party was over, but it had been a good two hours after Alejandro Cabral had departed that she’d ushered the last of Julia’s guests out of the door. Julia, herself, had left at least half an hour earlier, giggling with her bearded escort, fluttering fingers at Isobel and showing no remorse at leaving her friend to clear the place up.

      In consequence, when Isobel did get home that afternoon, she still had to face the debris of the previous night’s festivities. She had dumped the remains of the cold buffet into the sink-disposal before she’d gone to bed, but she’d been too tired then to start picking up the rest of the mess.

      The first thing she did now was open all the windows. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer was disgusting, and she leaned on the sill for a moment, taking in deep breaths of cool air.

      There were scuff marks on the floor, she noticed, and cigarette burns on the arm of one of the chairs. But no irretrievable damage had been done. It could have been much worse, she assured herself.

      Nevertheless, it took her a good half-hour to collect all the empty cans and bottles and drop them in refuse sacks for collection. Then, feeling she deserved it, she made herself a fresh pot of coffee.

      Carrying her cup into the living room, she looked critically about her. The floor needed waxing and the rugs needed vacuuming, but the worst was over. For now, she was grateful just to sit down on the sofa and close her eyes. She grimaced. The truth was, she wasn’t used to such late nights.

      When the doorbell rang, she was tempted to ignore it. She suspected it might be Mrs Lytton-Smythe, come to complain again about the disturbance she’d suffered the night before. Isobel had already had to apologise to the two doctors downstairs, whom she’d met on her way to the office. Thankfully, they’d been understanding, but her next-door neighbour was another matter.

      Putting her coffee cup down on the low table beside the sofa, she got wearily to her feet. She’d kicked off her shoes when she came in, and she couldn’t be bothered to look for them right now. Instead, she trod barefoot to the door.

      It wasn’t Mrs Lytton-Smythe.

      But she had no difficulty at all in identifying the man whose shoulder was propped so casually against the wall outside. He was still as tall, dark and disturbingly good-looking as she remembered, even with a night’s growth of beard. And a tremor of awareness feathered her spine.

      ‘Oh,’ she said, momentarily unnerved by his appearance. Her stomach hollowed and she pressed a hand to her midriff, trying to ground her scattered emotions. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Ola,’ he greeted her softly, his voice as dark and sensual as molasses, with that distinctive accent that made everything he said sound like a caress. He straightened, dark brows lifting as he noticed her confusion. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

      Only totally, thought Isobel, swallowing to ease the dryness in her throat. ‘Um—no. I just got in, actually.’ She glanced behind her at the untidy living room. She couldn’t invite him in. She just couldn’t. ‘Would you like to come in?’

      Alejandro doubted she would appreciate his reaction at the moment. Going into her apartment had definite attractions—but taking her by the shoulders, crushing that tempting mouth beneath his СКАЧАТЬ