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

‘Oh, of course.’ Isobel swung round from her examination of an orange tree, the small, immature fruits so amazing in their natural habitat. ‘Um …’ She chose a chair some distance away from him and massaged its arms with nervous fingers. ‘Is your leg painful? I saw you rubbing it before.’

‘It has been better,’ said Alejandro tightly, not wanting to get into a discussion about his shortcomings. ‘Ah, at last. Here is Elena. If you would put the tray beside Ms Jameson, Elena, por favor.’

Elena evidently understood a little English, because she did as Alejandro had asked, and then straightened with an enquiring smile.

‘O almoco, senhor?’ she said. And then, as if interpreting the look he gave her, she amended it to, ‘Lunch, senhor? You like for two?’

‘Receio que nao, Elena. I am afraid not,’ Alejandro answered her politely. ‘Ms Jameson has to return to Porto Verde.’ He paused, his eyes flickering over Isobel’s flushed face. ‘Another day, perhaps.’

‘Sim, senhor.’

Elena bowed again and left them, her rubber-soled shoes making little sound on the tiled floor. Isobel turned her attention to the tray the woman had placed on the low table beside her.

Chilled fruit juice stood in a frosted jug, iced tea clinking in a tall container. There were chilled glasses too, misting in the warmer air of the conservatory, and a bowl of ice melting in the heat.

‘Um, what would you like?’ she asked, guessing Alejandro had had the tray placed near her deliberately, but he shook his head.

‘Nothing for me,’ he said. ‘But help yourself to whatever you prefer.’

Isobel picked up the jug of fruit juice, managing to half-fill a glass without her shaking hand depositing most of it on the tray. She added a handful of ice cubes and then raised the glass to her lips, trying not to feel self-conscious, because his hooded eyes never left her face.

It was delicious, a mixture of pear, pomegranate and passion fruit, she thought. Whatever, it was just what she needed to give some moisture to her dry throat, and not even Alejandro’s scrutiny could totally spoil her enjoyment.

‘So,’ he said, when it was obvious she wasn’t about to say anything. ‘Is it good?’

‘Very good,’ said Isobel hurriedly, wiping a dribble of juice from her chin. ‘Thank you. It’s delicious.’

‘Good.’ Alejandro adjusted the back of his seat so he could relax more comfortably and then said, ‘Why are you afraid of me?’

‘I’m not afraid.’ Isobel put down her glass rather abruptly. ‘Apprehensive, perhaps,’ she added. ‘I’d like to know what all this is about.’

‘All what?’ enquired Alejandro carelessly. ‘Coming here? Enjoying a glass of fruit juice? What?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Isobel tersely, unable to sit still under his mocking interrogation. She paced rapidly about the conservatory, pushing aside trailing ferns that caught her hair as she passed. ‘Why you’ve brought me here. What you intend to do about Emma. I don’t understand why you want to disrupt my life. I’ve done nothing to hurt you.’

‘You think?’ Alejandro’s mouth compressed now, and despite her agitation Isobel was struck by the savage beauty his face possessed. It had been ravaged by his scar, but that wasn’t important. It had lost little of its masculine appeal.

Alejandro sat up then and leant towards her. ‘Why do you not come and sit?’ he suggested mildly. ‘You are making yourself hot and uncomfortable pacing about the floor.’ But when she reluctantly turned back towards her chair, he gestured impatiently. ‘Not there,’ he said, indicating the chair beside him. ‘Keeping your distance from me is not going to change the situation.’

Isobel blew out a frustrated breath, but she felt compelled to do as he said. Besides, she told herself, she wasn’t afraid of him—only that her unwilling attraction to him might make her vulnerable.

‘All right,’ she said, trying to sound confident. ‘Why did you say you had proof that Emma is your daughter?’

Alejandro regarded her narrowly. ‘Because I do.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘No? Believe it or not, I had gathered that,’ said Alejandro drily. Shifting in his seat, he pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and flicked it open. And as he did so, a small photograph dropped onto the seat of the lounger beside him.

The photograph fell face-up and Isobel’s eyes were drawn to it at once. Dear God, she thought, he had a picture of Emma. Had he been following her? How else could he have got something like this?

Snatching up the picture with trembling fingers, she thrust it towards him, her eyes riveted on his dark face. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you know it’s an offence to stalk people, particularly children? How have you got a picture of my daughter?’

Alejandro regarded her with faint amusement. ‘It is not a picture of your daughter,’ he said mildly. ‘What you are holding is a picture of my niece, Caterina.’

‘What?’

Isobel pulled her hand down again and stared at the picture with disbelieving eyes.

The smiling face that looked back at her was amazingly like Emma’s: dancing eyes, baby-soft cheeks, dimples, and a generous mouth. But, although the child’s hair was the same colour as Emma’s, it was much longer, glossy ringlets framing the small face.

Isobel caught her breath.

He was right. It wasn’t Emma. If she’d paid more attention to the picture before jumping in with both feet, she’d have noticed this. And the fact that Emma didn’t have the kind of dress Caterina was wearing.

Indeed, Emma was a tomboy. She could usually be found in dungarees and a tee-shirt, small boots on her feet as she helped Aunt Olivia clean out the horses’ stalls.

Of course, she wore a dress sometimes. But nothing as elaborate as this. If Isobel wasn’t mistaken, Caterina’s dress was silk. Not the kind of thing she would dress her daughter in at all.

She looked up and found Alejandro was still watching her. With burning cheeks, she said, ‘All right. It’s not a picture of Emma. I was mistaken.’ She paused. ‘But don’t pretend you didn’t do that on purpose.’