The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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СКАЧАТЬ I think it brightens the old place up. I hope I haven’t gone overboard with the Latin American art, though,’ he said, tilting his head and studying her.

      ‘Oh, no,’ she reassured him, eyeing the amazing pictures once more. ‘That’s what makes it utterly unique.’

      Then, remembering why she was here, she drew herself up, wishing now that she’d worn something more flattering than her old jeans and sweater. Not that it mattered a damn, of course. But seeing him standing there looking so sure of himself, so irritatingly cool and suave in perfectly cut beige corduroy trousers, his shirt and cravat topped by a pale yellow cashmere jersey, did leave her wishing she had been more selective.

      ‘I must apologise again for my careless behaviour yesterday. I’m really very sorry to have caused your car damage.’

      ‘It is not important.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Please, won’t you take off your jacket and sit down? Manuel will bring us coffee.’ He turned to the manservant hovering in the doorway and murmured something in a language she didn’t understand. The man responded by stepping forward and taking her jacket, before disappearing once more.

      ‘Please. Sit down.’ He indicated one of the large couches. ‘You say that we are neighbours? I remember seeing a reference on the land map to Taverstock Hall. Does it belong to you and your husband?’ Victor asked, taking in the gracefully tall woman standing before him, with her huge blue eyes, perfect complexion and long blonde hair cascading over the shoulders of an oversized sweater that did not allow for much appreciation of her figure. Quite a beauty, his new neighbour, even if she was careless.

      ‘Uh, no. It belongs to my mother.’ He watched her sink among the cushions, elegant despite the casualness of her attire, and sat opposite. ‘As I said, I feel dreadful about yesterday. Still, I brought my insurance papers so that we can get it cleared up as soon as possible. Oh!’ she exclaimed, her expression suddenly stricken. ‘I put them in the pocket of my jacket.’

      ‘Manuel will bring them. Never mind the papers,’ he dismissed.

      ‘Thank you.’

      He eyed her up and down speculatively, and drawled, ‘Frankly, I’m rather glad you banged into my bumper. I might otherwise never have had the opportunity of meeting my neighbour.’

      He smiled at her, an amused, lazy smile, and again Araminta felt taken aback at how impressively good-looking he was. She also got the impression that she was being slowly and carefully undressed.

      ‘Well, that’s very gracious of you,’ she countered, sitting up straighter and shifting her gaze as Manuel reappeared, with a large tray holding a steaming glass and silver coffee pot, cups, and a dish with tiny biscuits.

      ‘Ah, here comes Manuel with the cafèzinho.’ He smiled again, showing a row of perfect white teeth. ‘In my country we drink this all day.’

      ‘Your country?’ She had detected a slight accent but couldn’t identify it.

      ‘I’m Brazilian. In Brazil we drink tiny cups of extremely strong coffee all day. This coffee you are about to drink was brought from my own plantation,’ he added with a touch of pride. ‘If you like it I shall give you some to take home with you.’

      ‘That’s very kind,’ Araminta murmured, slightly overwhelmed by her handsome host’s authoritative manner.

      She watched as he poured the thick black coffee into two cups before handing her one. Then, as she reached for the saucer, their fingers touched again, and that same tingling sensation—something akin to an electrical charge—coursed through her. Araminta drew quickly back, almost spilling the coffee.

      ‘I hope you are not a decaf drinker,’ he said, his voice smooth but his eyes letting her know he was aware of what she’d just experienced.

      ‘Oh, no. I love coffee. It’s delicious,’ she assured him, taking a sip of the strong brew, its rich scent filling her nostrils.

      ‘Good. Then Manuel will send you home with a packet of Santander coffee.’

      ‘That’s most generous. Now, about the insurance,’ she said, laying her cup carefully in the saucer, determined to keep on track and not be distracted by this man’s powerful aura. ‘Perhaps we should go ahead and—’

      ‘I don’t mean to be impolite,’ he replied, looking at her, his expression amused, ‘but do we have to keep talking about a dented bumper? It is, after all, a matter of little importance in the bigger scheme of things. Tell me rather about yourself—who you are and what you do.’

      Araminta, unused to being talked to in such a direct manner, felt suddenly uncomfortable. His gaze seemed to penetrate her being, divesting her of the shroud of self-protection that she’d erected after Peter’s death. It seemed suddenly to have disappeared, leaving her open and vulnerable to this man’s predatory gaze.

      ‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ she said quickly. ‘I live at the Hall and I write children’s books.’

      ‘You’re a writer? How fascinating.’

      ‘Not at all,’ she responded coolly. ‘It’s a job, that’s all, and I enjoy it. Now, I really feel, Mr Santander, that we should get on with the car insurance. I need to get to the village; I have a lot to do this morning,’ she insisted, glancing at her watch, feeling it was high time to put a stop to this strange, disconcerting conversation.

      He looked at her intensely for a moment, then he relaxed, smiled, and shrugged. ‘Very well. I shall ask Manuel to bring your jacket.’

      ‘Uh, yes—thanks. It was silly of me to leave the papers in the pocket.’

      ‘Not at all,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You are a writer. Creative people are naturally distracted because they live a large part of their existence in their stories.’

      Araminta looked up, surprised at his perception, and smiled despite herself. ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘I know because I have a lot to do with artists.’ He waved towards the walls. ‘Most of these paintings are painted by artists who are my friends. I am a lover of the arts, and therefore have a lot to do with such people. They are brilliant, but none of them can be expected ever to know where their keys are to be found. I am never surprised when I arrive at one of their homes and the electricity has been cut off because someone forgot to pay the bill!’

      He laughed, a rich, deep laugh that left her swallowing. And to her embarrassment, when their eyes met once more Araminta felt a jolt at the implicit understanding she read there.

      Unable to contain the growing bubble inside her—a mixture of amusement at his perception and embarrassed complicity—she broke into a peal of tinkling laughter. And as she did so she realised, shocked, that she hadn’t laughed like this for several years. Not since the last time she and Peter—

      She must stop thinking like that—not associate everything in her life with her marriage.

      ‘You obviously have a clear vision of what artists are like,’ she responded, smiling at Manuel as he handed her the jacket.

      She removed the papers from her capacious pocket, careful not to spill her worldly belongings: keys, wallet, dog leash, a carrot for Rania, her mare, and a couple of sugar lumps. She caught him eyeing the wilting insurance documents СКАЧАТЬ