The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

Araminta stepped back onto the pavement, brown paper bag held under her arm, thinking how quaint it was that the villagers still called her ‘miss’, even though she was twenty-eight and had been married and widowed.

She made her way back to the car, deposited her bag of shopping on the passenger seat, and wondered what to do, since there was still no sign of the driver of the Range Rover. For all she knew, she or he might not appear for ages. She could hardly stand around waiting all afternoon.

With a reluctant sigh Araminta took out a pad and pen from her well-worn Hermès bag and scribbled what she hoped was a legible note, which she slipped behind the windscreen wiper of the Range Rover. There was little else she could do. The driver could get in touch with her and they could exchange information about their respective insurance companies over the phone.

‘I’m back!’ Araminta called round the drawing room door of Taverstock Hall to where her mother sat reading by the fire.

‘Ah. Good. I’ve just told Olive to bring in tea.’

‘Okay, I’ll be down in a minute. Just popping the groceries into the pantry. Mr Thompson sends his best, by the way.’

‘Ah. Thank you.’ Lady Drusilla inclined her head graciously. ‘I really must do something about the Christmas bazaar. Perhaps you could help, Araminta? Instead of scribbling away at those wretched children’s books of yours. It’s time you pulled yourself together and did something useful. After all, when your father died I didn’t spend my time drifting. I took charge.’

‘Mother, please don’t let’s get into this again.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Lady Drusilla cast her eyes heavenwards and Araminta made good her escape.

She really must set about finding a place of her own again, she reflected as she descended the back stairs and popped the bag on the pantry table. It was her own fault that she was subjecting herself to her mother’s endless comments. But she just hadn’t been able to face—or afford—staying in the house she’d lived in with Peter. It had taken all her will-power to get the strength together to clear it up and put it on the market, and be able to unload the mortgage. Still, it was time, she knew, to move on.

The first thing Victor Santander saw as he walked towards his new Range Rover was the gaping dent in the right bumper. With a muffled exclamation he moved forward and inspected it closely. Some idiot had backed into him and hadn’t had the courtesy to wait and own up. He crouched, studied the dent, and realised that the whole bumper would need replacing.

He rose with an annoyed sigh, and then noticed the note flapping behind the windscreen wiper. At least the perpetrator had had the decency to leave a phone number, he noted, slightly mollified by the apology. It was signed ‘A. Dampierre’. No Mr or Miss or Mrs. Just the initial.

Oh, well, he supposed he’d better give A. Dampierre a call once he got home to Chippenham Manor, which he’d moved into the day before. An accident on his first day in this quaint English village didn’t bode too well for the future.

Usually when he drove down the country lane Victor enjoyed the sight of the rolling hills, the trimmed hedges and the horses grazing in the fields. But not after the car incident. And the weather was foul. Yet it suited his mood, he reflected sombrely. So much better than the blaring sun of his homeland, which, for now, he could do without.

At least here he could lick his wounds in peace and quiet, without having to undergo the social scandal that would inevitably be his lot in Rio de Janeiro once Isabella’s latest affair became known. At least here he would be left alone.

Back at the Manor he entered the hall and was greeted by loud barks. He smiled as Lolo, his golden retriever, came frolicking across the oriental carpet, thrilled at her master’s return.

‘Calma, linda,’ he said stroking the dog’s head and heading towards the study. ‘You’ll get used to living in a large English country house. Surely you’ll like it better than the penthouse in Rio?’ he murmured, suddenly remembering his vast, white-marbled modern apartment in Ipanema, glad he was far away from it and all the horror of his soon-to-be ex-wife’s unwelcome surprises. This was about as far removed as he could get from Isabella, both physically and mentally, he reflected, entering the study.

In fact, nowhere could be far enough, he added to himself, pulling out the crumpled note from his pocket and glancing briefly at it. He realised he’d better give A. Dampierre a call right away and sort the mess out.

Stifling his irritation, he sat down at the large partner’s desk, covered with files and photographs of racehorses, and dialled the number, noting that A. Dampierre must be a local, since he had the same area code. Probably some careless local farmer.

The number rang several times.

‘Hello, Taverstock Hall,’ an aristocratic female voice answered.

‘Good afternoon. Could I speak to…’ He hesitated. ‘A. Dampierre?’

‘A Dampierre?’ the haughty female voice replied.

‘Yes, I was referring to the initial A,’ he replied, in arctic tones.

‘The initial— Oh, I suppose you must be referring to—Hold on a moment, would you?’ He heard a muffled sound in the distance.

‘Hello?’ Another, much softer female voice came on the line, and for some reason he could not define Victor was surprised to find that ‘A’ was a woman. He really had imagined a burly red-faced farmer. This voice certainly did not match that image! But neither did it diminish his annoyance.

‘Excuse me, madam, I had a note left on my windscreen by A. Dampierre. Is that you?’

‘Oh, yes. The bumper. Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I backed into your car by mistake, you see.’

‘In no uncertain terms,’ he muttered dryly.

‘I wasn’t paying proper attention, I’m afraid,’ the female voice murmured apologetically.

‘That,’ he remarked wryly, ‘has become abundantly clear.’

‘Well, I’m sure my insurance company will deal with it,’ replied the woman’s voice, now slightly less apologetic.

‘Of course,’ he said dismissively.

‘I’m sorry to have put you to all this inconvenience,’ she continued, her tone definitely chillier. ‘If there is anything I can do to be of assistance…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I don’t think there is.’

‘Perhaps I could give my insurance company a call immediately and explain?’

Victor’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated a moment. Then curiosity got the better of him and his lips curved. ‘Perhaps it would be preferable if we met, and then I could give you my insurance information.’

A hesitation followed. ‘All right. When would suit you?’

Victor thought. He really had nothing to do now that he’d moved in and his horses were safely ensconced at the training farm a few miles down the road. And for some inexplicable reason this voice intrigued him.

‘How about tomorrow morning?’

‘Fine. Would ten o’clock do?’

‘Okay. But not in front of the grocer’s, if you don’t mind,’ he added with a touch of humour.

A delicious tinkling laugh echoed down the line. ‘No, I think better not. Where are you exactly?’

‘I’m at Chippenham Manor.’

‘At Chip— Oh! I see. So in fact you’re our new neighbour.’

‘Neighbour?’

‘Yes. I live at Taverstock Hall. Our property shares a boundary with yours.’

‘Ah. I see. Then it is high time we introduced ourselves,’ Victor said, wondering if someone with such a charming voice might turn out to be sixty-five, fat and have a double chin. Serve him right if she did. ‘Victor Santander, at your service.’

‘Uh, Araminta Dampierre.’

‘A pleasure. Shall I come over to the Hall at ten o’clock, then?’