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

Even if it was six years since the divorce, she had no desire to get sexually involved again. She liked her life; she liked her independence. And just because she’d succumbed to a moment’s madness the afternoon before …

‘You’re sure you’ve not met anybody?’ Olivia persisted, and Isobel sighed. Her aunt could be far too perceptive at times. The last thing she wanted was to start a discussion about the opposite sex, particularly when her thoughts were so chaotic.

‘No,’ she said now, sinking down onto the arm of the sofa, hoping she didn’t sound too adamant. ‘So—how are things with you? Did Villette have her foal?’

‘You know, I suspect you’re trying to change the subject, Belle, but I forgive you.’ Olivia’s tone was dry. ‘Anyway, moving on, why don’t you come down this weekend? The Aitkens are hosting a dinner party to celebrate Lucinda’s twenty-first birthday, and I know they’d love for you to join us.’

Isobel bit her lip. Apart from the fact that she and Lucinda Aitken had nothing in common, Lucinda’s brother Tony would be there, and she knew her aunt and uncle had long nurtured hopes for her in that direction.

‘Um—can I get back to you on that, Aunt Olivia?’ she asked now, trying not to let her reluctance show. She hesitated. ‘Maybe I could come down on Sunday, hmm? Just for the day.’

Olivia sighed disappointedly. ‘I suppose beggars can’t be choosers,’ she said a little plaintively. ‘Why don’t you think about it, darling? Give me a ring tomorrow, yes? It’s only Thursday. You may find you can come after all.’

Isobel felt mean, but she couldn’t face Tony this weekend; she really couldn’t.

But, ‘Okay,’ she said at last. ‘I’ll do that.’

‘Good.’ Olivia sounded infinitely more optimistic. ‘I know you’ll do your best, Belle. Oh, and for your information, Villette had the most gorgeous black colt. We’ve provisionally called him Rio, but you can choose his name when you see him.’

Rio!

Was there to be no escape from things Brazilian?

Isobel felt a reluctant smile touch her lips. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing him,’ she said, and knew it was an unspoken admission as soon as she’d put down the phone.

Alejandro scowled when he found it was raining when he left the meeting. And, because it was the rush hour, there were no cabs to be had.

Sucking in a breath of cool, moist air, he turned up the collar of his mohair jacket and headed for the nearest tube station. He could have arranged for a company car to meet him, but he hadn’t known exactly how long the meeting would last, and he’d thought a walk back to his hotel might be rather pleasant.

But not in the pouring rain.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t used to so much inactivity. At home in Brazil, he walked, swam and sailed on a regular basis. And, when he wanted to get away from the city, he headed for the estancia his family owned in the beautiful country north of Rio.

Indeed, he sometimes thought he’d prefer to spend his days at the ranch rather than locked up in some stuffy boardroom. But, as the eldest son, he’d been expected to take control of Cabral Leisure when his father had retired. Roberto Cabral had been forced into early retirement after developing heart trouble, and he relied on both his sons to continue the development of the company.

His scowl deepened. He wasn’t in the best of moods. Hadn’t been in the best of moods, if he was honest, since he’d walked out of Isobel’s apartment for the second time in two days in a state of raw frustration.

He could have gone back that evening, he supposed, but his pride hadn’t let him. He’d consoled himself with the thought that the women he was used to associating with would never have invited a man into their apartment in the first place, not when they were alone. Particularly after the way he’d behaved at their first meeting. But she had, and he’d accepted, and now he was paying the price.

He shook his head, impatient with himself, impatient with the weather. Running down the steps into the tube station, he straightened his collar and ran a careless hand over his damp hair. The sooner he got back to Rio, the better he’d like it.

Got back to Miranda, he thought drily, although that wasn’t a prospect he was looking forward to. He liked her; of course he did. They’d practically grown up together, damn it, but the crowd she ran with now was not his choice. Nevertheless, her mother and his father were making far too much of what was, in essence, a friendship. They expected an announcement, but they were going to be disappointed.

He forced himself to concentrate on the column of stations listed on the notice board. Yes, there was Green Park, on the Piccadilly Line, the nearest station to his hotel. But if he took the Central Line he was only a couple of stations from Isobel’s apartment.

He blew out a breath. Okay, he told himself, why not take this opportunity to call for his jacket? He was leaving for home in a few days’ time. This might be his last chance to collect it.

Yeah, right.

Did he really believe that was his only motive for going there? She’d shown him the way she felt on a couple of occasions already, hadn’t she? Was he ready for another put-down?

In the event, he bought two tickets, deciding that whichever train arrived first would be the one he’d take.

Which meant that half an hour later he was climbing the stairs to Isobel’s apartment, his jacket soaked and his expensive loafers oozing water.

She’d better be at home, he thought grimly, raising his hand to press the bell. It was a quarter to six. The working day was over. He could only hope she hadn’t arranged to meet someone for a drink, or even dinner.

It seemed to take forever for Isobel to answer the door. A bit different from when Mrs Lytton-Smythe had called, he brooded irritably. But eventually he heard the bolt being drawn and the key turning in the lock, and presently he was given a glimpse of a bathrobe-clad figure sheltering behind the panels.

So she had an excuse for her tardiness, he thought, guessing she had just come out of the shower. Her face was flushed and her wet hair was in tangles about her shoulders.

Well, what he could see of it anyway. She wasn’t opening the door an inch further.

For a moment, Isobel just stared at him, too shocked by his appearance to think of anything to say. All she was conscious of was the fact that she was naked under the bathrobe, and tiny drips of water from her wet hair were finding their way inside her collar and down her neck.

‘I was in the shower,’ she managed at last, and Alejandro nodded.

‘I can see that,’ he said, those curious amber eyes intent upon her. ‘Have I come at a bad time?’

You think?

Isobel’s tongue sought her upper lip and she moved her shoulders uncertainly. Was this why she hadn’t made any attempt to return his jacket? Had she suspected—no, hoped—that he might decide to come back?

‘I suppose you’ve come for your jacket,’ she said, deciding there was no point in pretending he might have another motive, and Alejandro arched his brows in a way that might have meant anything. He was more formally dressed this afternoon, in an elegant mohair-suit the jacket of which had been sadly impaired by the weather. His hair was almost as wet as hers, a thick, dark mass clinging closely to his scalp.

‘You found it?’ he queried softly, and Isobel’s spine quivered at the dark tenor of his voice.

‘Why wouldn’t I?’ she rushed on breathlessly. ‘It wasn’t hard to find.’

Alejandro inclined his head. ‘E claro.’ Of course. He paused. ‘So—you are well, sim?’

‘A little cold is all,’ admitted Isobel ruefully. And then, realising she couldn’t go and get his jacket and leave him standing on the doorstep, particularly as he was obviously soaked to the skin, she murmured, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’

‘If you are sure?’

Alejandro wasn’t at all sure he knew what he was doing, but he’d virtually accepted her invitation now.

‘Why not?’ Isobel asked, a little offhandedly. And, unlike that other occasion when she’d stepped aside to let him in, she left the door to hurry into the living room. ‘Close the door, will you?’ she called, heading for her bedroom. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

Alejandro closed the door by leaning back against it. Then, turning, he flicked the key in the lock. For security, he told himself, refusing to admit he had any other reason. Then, as before, he walked into the living room.

The dark day meant there were lamps burning in three places around the room, two rather attractive table-lamps and a pewter standard-lamp with a huge, fringed shade. She had good taste, he conceded, noticing that the floor had been waxed and that the sofa and chairs had been thoroughly cleaned. Even the cushions bore no imprint of a human body, and the rug that occupied the centre of the floor looked like new.

A door was open across the room, and curiosity compelled him to find out where it led. But his jacket was wet and, slipping it off, he dropped it onto the floor. Then after a moment’s hesitation he crossed the room and stepped into the short corridor beyond.

Evidently, the hall gave access to her bedroom and bathroom. There were two doors and, although he knew he was being unforgiveably inquisitive, he went forward towards the first door.

It was open, and was obviously her bedroom. He saw a rose-patterned bedspread and clothes laid out upon it. Was she preparing to go out? he wondered, unconsciously unfastening his collar as an unfamiliar twinge of something gripped his insides. He couldn’t be jealous, he told himself, pulling his tie halfway down his shirt. It wasn’t as if there was any way he could become involved with an English woman.