The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

‘Look, I don’t know what to say.’ She bit her lip and reined in the horse. ‘I really am sorry. I get a bit carried away when I’m working.’

‘Hmm.’ He eyed her carefully, wondering if she was ready. Like the mare she was restraining, she would need careful handling, this one, he reflected, taking her measure. It surprised him, but she obviously had little experience of handling men. Or being handled.

‘Is there anything I can do to make up for having put you to all this trouble?’ she asked doubtfully.

‘Actually, there is,’ he said, a smile hovering now he knew he’d got her where he wanted.

‘Tell me—what?’

‘Have dinner with me tonight.’

‘Oh, I don’t think—’

‘You said you wanted to make up for having put me to so much trouble,’ he reasoned, a sardonic gleam in his flashing golden-flecked dark eyes.

‘Yes, but—’

‘But?’ He raised a quizzical brow. ‘Is having dinner with me such a penance?’

‘Of course not. All right,’ she conceded, smiling and giving in. ‘What time?’

‘Eight o’clock at the Manor. Though I can pick you up, if you’d prefer?’

‘Oh, no. I can pop over.’

‘Then, à toute à l’heure,’ he said in French before glancing at the sky. ‘You’d better get home before it pours. I’ll race you to the road.’ He turned his horse and set off across the Downs.

Never able to refuse a challenge, Araminta raced after him. Soon they were riding neck and neck in an exhilarating dash across the Sussex countryside and arrived simultaneously at the roadside.

‘We seem to be pretty well matched,’ he said, eyeing her admiringly as they pulled up at the crossroads.

‘That was fun!’ Araminta exclaimed, laughing engagingly.

‘We must make sure we repeat the exercise,’ he agreed, leaning over and taking her gloved hand in his, seeking her eyes. ‘I shall await you at eight.’

Then he wheeled the horse around and cantered off in the direction of the Manor, leaving Araminta wondering why on earth she had accepted what she knew to be a dangerous invitation that must surely spell trouble. She would do well to keep their conversation on neutral ground, she realised, grimacing as the first drops of rain fell. This man was by far too smooth, too knowing, and the increasing attraction she was experiencing was ridiculous, to put it mildly. Instinctively she sensed that she was out of her league. But surely she could control this silly attraction? Surely that couldn’t be too hard?

Turning her horse, she headed for home, telling herself that all it took was self-discipline. Nothing more.

He was standing far too close for comfort, and his whole being was far too overpowering, Araminta realised as she listened to his knowledgeable analysis of several paintings gracing the drawing room walls. Araminta showed suitable interest, wondering all the while how it was possible that a man she barely knew could have such a powerful effect on her.

It was as if she’d changed, as if something within her yearned for him in a visceral, primitive way that was not only unladylike, but which she’d also always despised in other women. The truth was she’d never experienced such longing first-hand. In fact, now that she thought about it, she’d rarely been just physically attracted to anyone. Even when she’d met Peter it had taken quite a while before she’d realised she was fond of him. And that had been because of his character, his charm, his fun, not because he oozed charisma and sex appeal.

But this man was different. Even as they chatted he exuded a tense, dangerous quality that should repel but that instead acted upon her like a magnet.

Dinner was delicious—lobster bisque followed by roast pheasant. Victor had gone to great trouble to make her feel at ease. To her astonishment Araminta confided in him, told him about her next book, and some of her future hopes and fears in that domain. And he listened, obviously interested and admiring.

She sighed now, feeling warm and at ease. Perhaps it was a combination of the pleasant conversation, the softly candlelit room, the wine and the after-dinner drink that she held loosely in her left hand that were responsible for her being so aware of him. She smiled when he looked down at her, those dark eyes flecked with gold so penetrating that she wondered suddenly if he could read her soul. She shivered and hoped he hadn’t a clue what was on her mind. Wished she didn’t know herself.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked, slipping a firm arm around her shoulder and turning her slowly towards him.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she murmured, aware that her pulse was beating wildly, willing herself to move away from him. But her body didn’t follow her head.

‘Let me take your glass.’ Victor laid it down on the small table next to him, his eyes mesmerising hers. Jazz played softly in the background, and for a moment Araminta wondered if this was real or merely a dream from which she would suddenly wake.

Then Victor took a step closer, and she could feel the warmth of his body, breathe the scent of his aftershave. For a moment a flash of logic penetrated the delicious haze surrounding her, telling her this was asking for trouble. But his hypnotic gaze was upon her, she could feel his body heat, could not resist the draw as his arms slipped possessively around her. And all at once Araminta knew that, defying all reason, she wanted his kiss more than anything.

And it came. Surprisingly soft at first, then harder, his tongue exploring her mouth in a manner so new and so unknown, so different from anything she’d experienced with Peter that she almost drew back. For this was no quick, purposeful kiss designed to prepare the way for what was to follow, but rather a slow, lazy, languorous, delicious, yet taunting discovery.

Even as the kiss deepened, Araminta knew that she had never experienced anything similar before, and slowly she gave way to the myriad of sensations coursing through her being, felt her body yield, soft and melting in his arms, felt his hardness against her and knew that she had never desired a man as she desired Victor Santander.

His hands were wandering now, travelling up and down her spine, along her ribcage, cupping her bottom, bringing her even closer, caressing, pressing her to him, until, oblivious to reality, she let out a sigh of utter longing.

The next thing she knew they were lying on one of the wide couches and Victor was deftly unbuttoning her silk blouse. Even as her brain told her she should put a stop to this immediately, her body craved his touch and she could do nothing to halt the onslaught. When his thumb grazed her nipple through the thin texture of her bra she gasped, and a shaft of heat, a white hot arrow like none she’d ever known, left her arching, yearning for the touch of his fingers, travelling south, deftly removing all barriers, seeking until he encountered the soft mound of throbbing desire between her thighs. When he cupped her she let out a moan of delight and threw her head back, unable to do more than succumb to the delicious torture, give way to the turmoil of sensation that exploded in a pent-up rush when his fingers finally reached her core.

‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘gorgeous, and I want you.’

As Araminta lay in his arms, recovering from the most unexpected, mind-shattering orgasm of her life, a tiny voice spoke in the back of her mind. This couldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening. Was she really lying wantonly with Victor Santander—a man she barely knew—allowing him to touch her intimately? What must he think of her?

In fact, at that very instant he was determinedly trying to strip her of the rest of her garments.

With a jerk Araminta pulled herself up and out of his arms.

Victor fell back and looked at her, brows creased. ‘Is something the matter, querida?’ he asked, dragging his fingers through his thick black hair, eyes bright with undisguised desire.

‘No—yes—look, I don’t know what happened just now,’ she mumbled hoarsely, aware of her mussed hair as she fumbled around for her bra and shirt. ‘I—I know this will sound absurd, but I honestly don’t know how it happened.’

She began fiddling with the hook of her bra, then the buttons of her blouse, wishing she were a thousand miles away, feeling her cheeks burning as all at once she realised just how far this whole episode had gone. And so quickly. It was unthinkable, shaming, even ludicrous that she could have behaved in such a manner with a total stranger.

Victor rose from the couch and, picking up his brandy snifter, stood a few feet away, watching her thoughtfully. He made no attempt to hold her back, merely contemplated her feeble attempts to tidy herself as though he were a spectator at a show. What had happened to make her react thus? he wondered. For, despite his initial spark of anger at her sudden rejection, his interest was piqued.

He considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and her sudden willingness to succumb to his caresses had surprised him. Now, as he stood there in the aftermath of their tryst, he reflected that his first opinion of her—that she was relatively inexperienced and unaware of just how attractive and sexy she was—was probably the correct one. Well, then, perhaps it was better that things hadn’t gone any further.

He walked to the window, letting himself cool down while Araminta sorted herself out. Better, he repeated silently. Still, he could not pretend that what had just happened between them hadn’t been incredibly seductive and to his utter surprise, incredibly unique. Okay, it was just a kiss and a few caresses but— Victor cut off the thoughts that followed and turned.

‘Why don’t you stay the night?’ he asked, suddenly but smoothly, unwilling to let her go.

‘I—look, this never should have happened—never has happened before. I don’t know how it did,’ Araminta mumbled, embarrassed.

‘It happened because we both wanted it to happen,’ he said harshly, viewing her through narrowed eyes. ‘Because we are two consenting adults who feel desire for one another.’

‘Perhaps,’ she conceded grudgingly, retrieving her shoe from beneath a cushion. ‘But that isn’t a reason to—well, to—’ She threw up her hands.

‘To go to bed together?’ he finished. ‘Why on earth not? I can’t think of any better reason.’

‘Can’t you?’ she exclaimed, suddenly cross. ‘Well, I can. Tons of them.’

‘It took you rather a long time to remember them, querida,’ he murmured dryly.