The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

There was a short silence. ‘Araminta, when are you going to let go the past and face the fact that you have a brilliant future ahead of you? I know you started writing as a hobby, as something to get your mind off all that had happened. But it’s time you took yourself and your career seriously. Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise is a wonderful, captivating book that every child in this country is going to adore if it’s marketed right. For goodness’ sake, woman, wake up and smell the coffee.’

The reference to coffee caused Araminta to remember Victor Santander’s flashing black eyes, and then to glance over at the gold and black packet of freshly ground coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d had it delivered later in the day.

‘Look, let’s talk about this once we know it’s real,’ she countered, not wanting to argue with Pearce, who could be terribly persuasive when he wanted. ‘I’ll think about it and be in touch.’

‘All right, but don’t think too long. I’m not letting you miss the chance of a lifetime because you’re determined to wallow in the past.’

‘Pearce, that’s a cruel thing to say,’ Araminta exclaimed crossly.

‘No, it’s not. It’s the truth. And the sooner you face it the better.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she muttered, smiling, knowing he meant well.

But as she hung up the kitchen phone Araminta noted that for the first time in months she felt extraordinarily exhilarated. Her book looked as if it might take off, and, despite her desire to banish him from her brain, she could not help but recall her new neighbour’s captivating smile, and the musky scent of his aftershave as he’d leaned over her shoulder to look at her car insurance papers.

How absurd. She was reacting like a teenager to a handsome face. She must stop, she admonished herself, glancing at her watch and realising it was nearly time for tea. There was no room in her life for anything except her writing and getting out from under her mother’s roof. The rest—a social life, friends, a man and all that—would just have to wait for a time in some remote future that she tried not to think too much about.

‘Was he perfectly dreadful?’ Lady Drusilla enquired as soon as Araminta brought in the tea tray.

‘Who? The new neighbour?’

‘Well, of course the new neighbour. I would hardly want to know about the new milkman,’ Lady Drusilla muttered disparagingly. ‘I wish you would be less dreadfully vague, Araminta, it’s a most annoying trait. I would have thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’

Counting to twenty, Araminta placed the tray down on the ottoman and reminded herself that if all went well, if the book really did take off, she might not have to stand her mother’s jibes for too much longer.

‘Well?’ Lady Drusilla prodded. ‘What was he like?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Araminta replied evasively.

‘What do you mean, all right? Is he young? Old? Handsome? Rich? Or just dreadfully common? One of these nouveau yuppie types?’

‘Frankly, Mother, he was very nice. He was most gracious about the fact that I mucked up his car and that it’ll have to go into the repair shop, and, no, he was not common in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. I thought he was very much the gentleman. He gave me a packet of his coffee.’

‘Coffee?’ Lady Drusilla raised an astonished brow. ‘You mean he’s a food merchant?’

‘Not at all. He is—among, I would imagine, a number of other things—the owner of a coffee plantation in Brazil.’

‘Oh, well, that’s rather different, of course.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Araminta answered crossly. ‘Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn what the man does. The main thing is he seems to be quite pleasant and will hopefully be a good neighbour. He’s Brazilian, by the way.’

‘Well! I never thought to see a Brazilian coffee-planter at the Hall. Poor Sir Edward must be turning in his grave. Why that dreadful cousin of his didn’t keep the place, I can’t imagine.’

‘Thank goodness he didn’t. One look at him was enough to let me know he would be the kind of neighbour we could do without.’

‘Mmm. You’re right, I suppose. He wasn’t very prepossessing, was he?’

‘No, Mother, he wasn’t. And I can assure you that Victor Santander is far removed from Henry Bathwaite. Plus he speaks perfect English. I should think he was probably brought up here.’

‘Perhaps he had an English mother—or maybe a nanny,’ Lady Drusilla mused. ‘Do be careful pouring, Araminta, I’ve told you a hundred times to use the strainer properly.’ Lady Drusilla let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘You are aware that I have to chair the committee for the Hunt Ball this evening, and that I shall require your help, aren’t you?’

‘Mother, I’m sorry, but I simply don’t have the time. I have to finish the proofs of my book.’

Lady Drusilla pursed her lips. ‘I find it quite incredible that you should abandon your true responsibilities because of some ridiculous children’s story. I thought I’d brought you up better than that.’

Araminta was about to tell her mother about the two hundred thousand copies her publisher was putting on the market, and the launch party being planned, but thought better of it. The less her mother knew about her burgeoning career the better. At least she wouldn’t be able to put a spoke in the wheel. So she contained herself with difficulty and remained silent. Perhaps it would even be worth doing some of the public appearances, however hateful, if it meant she could buy her freedom and finally be her own person.

Three days later, Lady Drusilla had just picked up her basket to go and collect some vegetables from the garden when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’ she said, glancing out of the window, annoyed at being interrupted when she was sure it was about to rain.

‘Good morning. Could I speak to Miss Dampierre, please?’

‘Mrs Dampierre. I’m afraid she’s out. Who would like to speak to her?’

‘This is Victor Santander.’

‘Ah. The new neighbour. I am Lady Drusilla Taverstock, Araminta’s mother.’

‘How do you do, Lady Drusilla? I haven’t yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance, but I’m hoping that may be remedied in the very near future.’

Lady Drusilla unbent. At least the man had good manners. ‘How do you do? Perhaps you’d better come over to dinner some time?’

‘That would be very kind.’

Lady Drusilla thought quickly. She simply must get him over here before Marion Nethersmith caught him first. Then she could tell the others all about him. ‘What about tomorrow night?’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘Good. I’ll expect you at seven-thirty for drinks.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps you could tell your daughter that I shall bring her car insurance papers back to her then?’

‘Certainly.’

‘I look forward to tomorrow.’

Well, Lady Drusilla, thought as she picked up the basket once more and headed for the backstairs and the kitchen, where she removed her secateurs from the top drawer, at least she’d steal a march on the other neighbours. Marion would be writhing with curiosity and envy.

The thought brought her a considerable measure of satisfaction.

‘You did what?’ Araminta exclaimed, horrified, hands on the hips of her other pair of worn jeans.

‘I invited him over to dinner. Araminta, are you becoming hard of hearing?’

‘But, Mother, how could you? We don’t even know the man properly. It’s embarrassing—’ She threw her hands up in despair.

‘I really can’t see why you’re making such a dreadful fuss. I merely invited our new neighbour—whom you say is perfectly respectable—to dinner. It’s the courteous thing to do.’