One Night in... Rio: The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child / Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child / The Surgeon's Runaway Bride

Alejandro stifled the retort that sprang to his lips and said levelly, ‘I thought it was your agent who arranged the interview.’

Anita sniffed. ‘Strictly speaking, I suppose it was, yes.’

‘So why blame me?’ Alejandro was dismissive. ‘I thought you said that as well as talking about your writing you’d welcome the chance to lay some of the rumours about Miranda’s, ah, problems to rest.’

‘You say that so callously, Alex.’ Anita clicked her tongue. ‘She was your wife, you know.’

‘Do you think I can forget it?’ Alejandro’s tone was bitter. ‘But you know as well as I do that our marriage was a farce!’

‘Don’t say that!’ Anita caught her breath. ‘Miranda loved you.’

‘Miranda loved herself,’ retorted Alejandro flatly. ‘Come on, Anita. Telling the truth won’t hurt her any more.’

‘Well, I don’t think I want to talk about Miranda,’ said Anita, sniffing again. ‘Let the gossips say what they like. I don’t care.’

She did, but Alejandro wasn’t cruel enough to remind her of it. So far as his late wife was concerned, he’d had to cope with far too many demons of his own.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘why did Anton choose that particular publication?’

Alejandro avoided a direct answer. ‘I believe you said you’d known Sam Armstrong when you first started writing.’

‘I did, of course.’ Anita was momentarily diverted. ‘He was very nice to me.’ But then she remembered her accusation. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the Jameson woman recognised you, Alex. Was it you who advised Anton to contact Lifestyles magazine? You might as well tell me. I’m going to find out anyway.’

‘All right.’ Alejandro blew out a breath. ‘I did know who she was before she got here. We met some years ago, when I was in London. I—liked her. And, according to all reports, she’s very good at her job. Why not have the best?’

Anita was silent for a moment and then she said silkily, ‘And did you sleep with her?’

Alejandro’s laugh was harsh. ‘Goodnight, Anita,’ he said grimly, and, holding the receiver with the tips of his fingers, he dropped it back into its cradle.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISOBEL slept badly again and was up soon after six, gazing out at the shadowy silhouettes of the palms swaying beside the veranda.

She was waiting for the first trace of daylight to appear on the horizon, that tinge of pink that would rapidly turn to lemon-yellow as the sun began its morning ascent.

She wasn’t dressed yet, but she would have loved to put on a vest and shorts, or even her swimsuit, and go down to the ocean. The water was so warm and appealing, and she longed to plunge her sticky body into the waves.

But the fear that she might run into Alejandro again was stronger. For the time being, at least, she would have to be content with taking a shower.

But she was so confused.

She’d spent the whole of the previous day waiting for Senhora Silveira to send for her, but it hadn’t happened. Oh, Ricardo Vincente had taken her on a tour of the villa, as promised, and she’d duly admired the rich, if rather oppressive, opulence of its appointments.

But there’d been no sign of her hostess, or of Alejandro. Either the woman had changed her mind about the interview, or she was allowing her guest a little time to get over her jet lag.

As for Alejandro …

Isobel sighed.

As far as Anita was concerned, she couldn’t quite believe she was that considerate. So what? Had Alejandro told his mother-in-law the truth? And, if so, had she pulled the plug on the interview? So why had Ricardo behaved as if she might be interested in Anita’s background? When was anybody going to tell her what was going on?

The previous day had passed incredibly slowly. Although Isobel had her laptop with her, and she’d been able to edit an earlier article she’d written for the magazine, her heart hadn’t been in it. Several times she’d gone into the bedroom and considered packing her suitcase, but pride wouldn’t let her. She was here to do a job and, if she was permitted, that was what she had to do.

By the time she’d a shower and one of the maids had brought her breakfast, she was feeling a little better. Not optimistic, exactly, but prepared to face whatever was ahead. It was time that she showed some initiative. If Anita didn’t know about Emma, there was no reason why she should change her mind about the interview.

Bearing in mind what Ricardo had said about Anita sleeping late, she delayed leaving her apartment until after eleven o’clock. But then, dressed in black-cropped capris that buttoned at the knee, a cream gauze-smock over a black vest, wedge-heeled sandals, and carrying a bag containing her recording equipment and laptop, she walked along the veranda and entered the hall of the villa.

It was already hot outside. Isobel could feel the beads of perspiration on the back of her neck. But the hall was cool and airy.

Two maids were using a power cleaner, polishing the mosaic-tiled floor. Her heels clattered on the tiles and attracted their attention. Isobel was about to try out her phrasebook Portuguese and ask where Senhora Silveira was, when a man appeared in the arched doorway across the wide expanse of the floor.

Tall and dark, with broad shoulders tapering to lean hips, the man’s face was in shadow. But, even backlit by the sun pouring in through the windows of the room behind him, Isobel had no hesitation in identifying who it was.

Alejandro.

For a moment, her legs almost buckled. She hadn’t forgotten the way they’d parted the previous day. But then, remembering her determination not to be intimidated, Isobel walked stiffly towards him.

‘Senhor,’ she said, using his title for the maids’ benefit. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’

‘Now, that I can believe,’ remarked Alejandro drily, allowing her to make all the running. He leant his shoulder against the marble pillar that supported the lintel. ‘How are you this morning, Ms Jameson?’

Isobel had to clear her throat before replying. ‘I—I’m very well, thank you, senhor,’ she said, halting a few feet from him. ‘Eager to get started on the interview.’ She hesitated and then continued, ‘Do you know if Senhora Silveira is up?’

It was another of those ambiguous questions, and Alejandro’s mouth took on a cynical curve. ‘How would I know that?’ he asked. ‘I am not my mother-in-law’s keeper. But, if you want to know why she did not send for you yesterday, I can tell you she was—what do you say?—indisposed?’

Isobel listened to what he was saying, but it wasn’t easy. His nearness was too acute. Despite the fact that the scar on his cheek that had previously been obscured by shadow was now starkly visible, she was intimately aware of him. The power of his sexuality overwhelmed her, made a mockery of her intention to remain detached.

But, ‘Indisposed?’ she managed after a moment, and Alejandro inclined his head.

‘She had a headache,’ he said flatly. ‘Anita’s headaches are legendary. They appear at the most convenient times.’

Isobel concentrated on the neckline of his shirt, trying not appear interested in his explanation. ‘Don’t you mean inconvenient times?’ she questioned, and his lips curled with momentary amusement.

‘I mean what I said,’ he retorted drily. ‘As you will find out in time, querida.’

Isobel shivered.

He was wearing a black shirt that clung to his torso this morning, smudged with sweat in places as if he’d been exerting himself in the heat outside. Black trousers clung to long, powerful legs, tight and revealing, the cuffs pushed into ankle-high suede boots.

‘And do you think she’ll be well enough to see me this morning?’ she got out eventually, and sensed rather than saw the indifferent shrug that marked his response.

‘She seemed all right yesterday evening,’ Alejandro declared carelessly. ‘But I doubt she will want to see you before noon.’

Isobel chanced a look at him. ‘You were here yesterday evening?’

‘No.’ Alejandro spoke tolerantly. ‘I spoke to her by telefone only.’ There was a moment’s silence, and then he added softly, ‘I have been waiting for you, cara. I knew that sooner or later you would appear.’

Isobel expelled a breath. ‘I thought we said all that needed to be said yesterday morning,’ she declared, shifting her bag from one hand to the other. She glanced about her. ‘Despite the senhora’s absence, perhaps you could tell me where the interview is likely to take place.’