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

‘Is that a threat, senhor?’

Isobel tried to sound defiant, but she could hear the tremor in her voice.

‘It is my advice, cara. Eight o’clock, sim?’

‘And if I refuse?’ Isobel forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘Will you force me, senhor?’

Alejandro’s pale eyes hardened. ‘I suggest you grow up, Isobella,’ he said, his voice harsh with feeling. ‘I realise my appearance is a deterrent, but you will get used to it. I can promise you that.’

‘You really don’t understand.’ Isobel stared at him helplessly. ‘Your appearance has nothing to do with it.’ Then, because she was sure he didn’t believe her, ‘And pretending you can prove that Emma is your daughter—’

‘I can.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘What is going on here?’

The imperious voice was both a relief and a frustration. Isobel sighed and turned to find Anita Silveira crossing the hall towards them. She was trailing the ties of a chiffon wrap that was open over a matching negligee, and Isobel had to acknowledge that only a woman of her arrogance and stature could manage to look elegant in such an unsuitable outfit.

‘Alex!’ she exclaimed, her eyes flickering over Isobel and then returning to him. ‘Why are you here? I did not know you were coming. Come, we can have brunch together.’

‘I am not hungry, Anita,’ said Alejandro coolly, apparently not at all perturbed by his mother-in-law’s appearance. ‘As a matter of fact, I was just leaving.’

Anita’s brows drew together. ‘But you have been talking to Ms Jameson!’ she protested.

‘In your absence, that is all, querida,’ Alejandro lied without apparent conscience. ‘I was merely telling her about the estancia, nao?’ He turned back to Isobel. ‘Adeus, Ms Jameson. It has been a pleasure. Adeus, Anita. We will talk tomorrow, talvez?’

‘Wait!’ Anita turned irritably to Isobel herself. ‘You may go, Ms Jameson. I will send for you when I am ready.’

‘But—’

Isobel started to speak, but one look at Alejandro’s dark face and she thought better of it.

‘Very well,’ she said tightly, wishing she didn’t feel so helpless. She would ring Uncle Sam, she decided firmly. No interview was worth what she being forced to endure.

CHAPTER NINE

ISOBEL spent the next half hour pacing about her sitting room, undecided as to what she ought to do.

Although the idea of ringing Sam had seemed fairly reasonable in the heat of the moment, now she wasn’t so sure. Besides, she couldn’t deny she was apprehensive about Alejandro’s part in all of this. The last thing she needed was her uncle wading in in her defence and making things even worse.

If only she could be sure Alejandro had been lying when he’d said he could prove Emma was his daughter. And what if he hadn’t? What then?

She had no idea how he’d found out about Emma in the first place. But instead of arguing with him—and the rest, she shivered—she should have behaved like the professional journalist she’d always believed herself to be and asked him.

He might not have answered her, of course. But at least she would have had the satisfaction of knowing she’d tried. The whole situation had changed so much since that first night when she’d arrived at the villa, when all she’d had to worry about was seeing Alejandro again. Now she had so much more to lose.

Someone knocked at her door and she stiffened. But it wouldn’t be Alejandro, she assured herself, impatient at the anxiety that just the thought of him could summon at will.

Still, she was relieved when she opened the door to Ricardo Vincente. Did this mean she was still employed? Or had Anita seen something in the hall that had made her change her mind?

‘You will come with me, senhora,’ Ricardo said with his usual air of officiousness. ‘Senhora Silveira is ready for you.’

Isobel swallowed. ‘Are you sure?’ she ventured, ignoring the fact that she had gone in search of her hostess earlier.

‘The senhora wishes to begin the interview immediately,’ declared Ricardo a little impatiently. ‘Come. I will show you to her apartments.’

As she crossed the hall again, Isobel saw that the maids had resumed their polishing. How discreet, she thought, not without a trace of bitterness. Did everybody dance to Alejandro’s tune?

They took the stairs this time, ascending to a galleried landing that overlooked the hall below. Here, angled windows cast light on heavily patterned carpets, bronze urns and marbled statuary giving the corridor that led away from the landing an imposing ostentation.

At the end of the corridor, double doors signalled their destination. Ricardo tapped once, and after evidently hearing some response he flung the doors wide in a dramatic gesture.

‘Ms Jameson, senhora,’ he said, almost as if Anita was royalty. He gestured Isobel forward. ‘Va em frente. Go ahead.’

Isobel entered slowly, her eyes registering that this was not the office she’d expected. Slatted blinds at the windows revealed a spacious sitting-room, overstuffed sofas and chairs forming various seating arrangements about the floor.

A large square-patterned rug covered most of the area. An ornate stone-fireplace occupied a prominent position, faced by a tapestry screen. There were austere portraits on the antique-finished walls, and more of the self-conscious bric-a-brac decorating every available surface.

Anita was seated on a chaise longue in the window embrasure. And, just like her son-in-law downstairs, she’d positioned herself so her face was obscured by the brightness behind her. But as Isobel came in she rose to greet her, and the younger woman realised Anita was still wearing the filmy garments she’d been wearing earlier.

‘Ms Jameson,’ she said, her expression enigmatic. ‘Do sit down, will you not? Ricardo, ask Sancha to arrange for some coffee.’

‘Sim, senhora.’

Ricardo bowed and withdrew, and Isobel glanced a little nervously about her. ‘Where would you like me to sit, senhora?’ she asked, aware that her palms were sweating. And, because she was half-afraid she might drop her briefcase, she gathered it rather protectively against her chest.

Anita regarded her for a long, disturbing moment, and then she indicated the chair set at right angles to the chaise. ‘Here, I think,’ she said with a thin-lipped smile. Then, nodding towards the bag Isobel was clutching so protectively, ‘You will not need that today, senhora. I hope you agree we need to get to know one another first, nao e?’

Isobel hesitated. ‘Oh, but—’

‘You have some objection, senhora?’

Anita arched imperious brows and Isobel realised she didn’t have any choice if she wanted to do what she’d actually come here for. ‘No. No,’ she said putting down her briefcase and subsiding onto the chair Anita had suggested. ‘But I’m not very interesting, Senhora Silveira. I’d really rather talk about you.’

Anita seated herself on the chaise again, stretching out her legs and spreading the folds of chiffon about her. Then, regarding her guest with an intensity Isobel found unnerving, she said, ‘My son-in-law tells me you met in London some years ago.’

It was a daunting opening, and Isobel was taken aback. What, exactly, had Alejandro said? But, ‘Yes,’ she murmured, concentrating on a huge bee that was buzzing against the window. Then, ‘You have a wonderful view, senhora. I imagine you find staying here much different from your home in Rio.’

‘Why did you not mention it when I introduced you?’ Anita was not to be diverted.

‘Oh. Well, it was difficult,’ said Isobel at last. Then, finding inspiration, ‘I didn’t want you to think I’d only come here because I knew Senhor Cabral.’

‘And you had not?’ Anita’s brows arched again.

‘Heavens, no.’ At least on that score Isobel could be totally honest. ‘He—’ She cleared her throat. ‘He was the last person I expected to see.’