The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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      ‘Right.’ Araminta pretended to concentrate on the contents of the documents, but found it hard to do so when he got up and came over to the couch, then sat casually on the arm and peered over her shoulder as though he’d known her a while. Araminta caught a whiff of musky male cologne. ‘Here, Mr Santander,’ she said, shifting hastily to the next cushion. ‘Take a look at them. Perhaps we should phone the company?’

      ‘Why don’t you leave these with me?’ he said, taking the documents from her and glancing over them briefly. ‘I’ll deal with this matter. And, by the way, since we’re neighbours and not in our dotage, perhaps we could call each other by our Christian names?’ He raised a thick, dark autocratic brow.

      ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she replied nonchalantly, trying hard to look as if meetings of this nature happened to her every day. Then quickly she got up. ‘I think I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee, and for being so understanding about the accident.’

      ‘De nada,’ he answered, rising. ‘Allow me to help you with your jacket.’

      Another unprecedented shudder caught her unawares as his hands grazed her shoulders when he slipped the jacket over them.

      ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Araminta.’ He bowed, and to her utter surprise raised her hand to his lips. ‘I shall phone you once I know more regarding the insurance.’

      ‘Yes, please do.’ She smiled nervously and began moving towards the door. The sooner she escaped the better.

      Victor followed her into the hall, then after a brief goodbye Araminta hurried down the front steps, a sigh of relief escaping her as she finally slipped onto the worn seat of the Land Rover and set off down the drive.

      What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered. And what was it about this man that had left her feeling so bothered, yet so unequivocally attracted?

      Which was ridiculous, she chided herself. She wasn’t interested in men any more, knew perfectly well that she would never meet another man like Peter as long as she lived. Dear, gentle Peter, with his floppy blond hair, his gentle eyes and charming English manners. Even her mother had liked Peter, which was saying a lot.

      Of course he hadn’t been terribly capable, or prudent with their money, and had made some rather unwise investments in companies that his friends had convinced him were a really good idea and that had turned out to be quite the opposite. But that didn’t matter any more—after all, it was only money.

      The fact that because of his carelessness she was now obliged to live with her mother at Taverstock Hall she chose to ignore. Death had a funny way of expunging the errors and accentuating the broader emotional elements of the past.

      Victor Santander walked back into the drawing room of Chippenham Manor and stared at the place on the couch where Araminta had sat. She had come as a complete surprise. An agreeable one, he had to admit. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d taken any pleasure in talking to a woman he barely knew.

      Oh, there were the occasional dinners in Rio, Paris and New York, that ended in the suite of his hotel, with high-flyers who knew the name of the game. But ever since Isabella had taken him for the ride of his life he’d lost all trust in the opposite sex. So why, he wondered, when he, a cynic, knew perfectly well that all women were wily, unscrupulous creatures, only out for what they could get, had he found Araminta’s company strangely refreshing? He’d even taken her insurance papers as an excuse to get in touch with her again. And she’d seemed oddly reticent—something else he was unused to—as though she wasn’t comfortable being close to a man.

      The whole thing was intriguing. Not that he was here to be intrigued, or to waste his time flirting with rural neighbours. He’d come to the English countryside to seek peace of mind, make sure his horses were properly trained and take the necessary time to study his latest business ventures without interruption.

      Still, Araminta, with her deep blue eyes, her silky blonde hair and—despite the shapeless sweater—he’d be willing to swear her very attractive figure, had brightened his day.

      With a sigh and a shake of the head Victor returned to the study, and, banishing Araminta from his mind, concentrated on matters at hand.

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘TWO hundred thousand copies!’ Araminta exclaimed, disbelieving. ‘Surely that can’t be right? You mean they like my new book that much?’

      ‘Yes,’ her agent, Pearce Huntingdon, replied excitedly down the line. ‘They’re talking about television interviews and the works. It’s going to be a raving success. Get ready for the big time!’

      ‘But I don’t know that I want the big time. I mean, of course I do want my books to be a success, for children to enjoy them and all that, and perhaps make some money too. But not all the hype the—’

      ‘Rubbish. You’ll love it.’

      ‘No, I won’t,’ she replied firmly. ‘And I don’t want you making any publicity arrangements on my behalf without consulting me first, Pearce. I’m just not up to that sort of thing yet.’

      There was a short silence. ‘Araminta, when are you going to let go the past and face the fact that you have a brilliant future ahead of you? I know you started writing as a hobby, as something to get your mind off all that had happened. But it’s time you took yourself and your career seriously. Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise is a wonderful, captivating book that every child in this country is going to adore if it’s marketed right. For goodness’ sake, woman, wake up and smell the coffee.’

      The reference to coffee caused Araminta to remember Victor Santander’s flashing black eyes, and then to glance over at the gold and black packet of freshly ground coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d had it delivered later in the day.

      ‘Look, let’s talk about this once we know it’s real,’ she countered, not wanting to argue with Pearce, who could be terribly persuasive when he wanted. ‘I’ll think about it and be in touch.’

      ‘All right, but don’t think too long. I’m not letting you miss the chance of a lifetime because you’re determined to wallow in the past.’

      ‘Pearce, that’s a cruel thing to say,’ Araminta exclaimed crossly.

      ‘No, it’s not. It’s the truth. And the sooner you face it the better.’

      ‘Oh, shut up,’ she muttered, smiling, knowing he meant well.

      But as she hung up the kitchen phone Araminta noted that for the first time in months she felt extraordinarily exhilarated. Her book looked as if it might take off, and, despite her desire to banish him from her brain, she could not help but recall her new neighbour’s captivating smile, and the musky scent of his aftershave as he’d leaned over her shoulder to look at her car insurance papers.

      How absurd. She was reacting like a teenager to a handsome face. She must stop, she admonished herself, glancing at her watch and realising it was nearly time for tea. There was no room in her life for anything except her writing and getting out from under her mother’s roof. The rest—a social life, friends, a man and all that—would just have to wait for a time in some remote future that she tried not to think too much about.

      ‘Was he perfectly dreadful?’ Lady Drusilla enquired СКАЧАТЬ