The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child (10 page)

She was so busy taking it all in that she almost missed the stone gateposts with their arching logo of rearing stallions. The track narrowed between white-railed fences, steadily rising towards a sprawling mass of buildings about half a mile away.

There were more cattle here, and Isobel looked at Alejandro enquiringly. ‘I thought this was a horse farm,’ she said, gesturing towards the animals. ‘Do you breed cattle too?’

‘We try to be—what would you say?—sufficient,
nao
?’ His smile was faintly mocking. ‘Carlos, my manager, would consider any waste of
precioso
—um, valuable grazing land—a crime.’

They were approaching what appeared to be a small settlement now, and Isobel waited in unwilling anticipation for her first sight of Alejandro’s house.

And, despite the number of outbuildings, the homestead itself was unmistakeable. The two-storeyed building had a wraparound veranda and dark-green shutters folded back from all the windows. Its walls were liberally covered with passion-flower vine, and there were numerous tubs of blossoms spilling their beauty in the shade of the first-floor balcony.

Isobel let out a breath she’d hardly known she was holding, and Alejandro cast a glance her way. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ Isobel shook her head. ‘No. It’s—it’s lovely. I don’t know; I thought it would be a little less—less—’

‘Civilised?’ suggested Alejandro drily, bringing the car to a halt on the gravelled forecourt, and she bit her lip.

‘Sophisticated,’ she amended, pushing open her door without thinking what she was doing, only to gasp for air as the unexpected altitude took her breath.

‘Be careful,’ said Alejandro, pushing open his own door and getting out rather less enthusiastically. ‘We are several-hundred feet above sea level, but it is still very hot.’

‘Tell me about it,’ murmured Isobel, pushing out her lips and blowing air up over her hot face. She licked her dry lips. Then, pushing back the damp tendrils of hair that were clinging to her forehead, ‘Do you ever get used to the heat?’

‘In time,’ said Alejandro, seemingly unmoved by the temperature, which even here had to be in the high eighties. ‘Come. We will get some refreshment inside.’

Despite her reluctance to be alone with him, Isobel rounded the car to join him just as another man, a little older than Alejandro, appeared from the back of the house.

‘Ah,’ he said, coming to greet Alejandro with a smile on his face.
‘O que voce esta fazendo?’
His eyes turned to Isobel.
‘Quem isto e?’

‘
Ingles, por favor
, Carlos,’ said Alejandro wryly. ‘This is Ms Jameson. The young woman I was telling you about.’

‘Ah, Mees Jameson.’

Carlos’s accent was more pronounced than Alejandro’s, but his smile was infinitely more friendly. He held out his hand towards her. ‘Carlos Ferreira,
senhorita
. I am happy to meet you.’

‘Isobel,’ said Isobel at once, shaking his hand a little too enthusiastically. But it was a relief to know they weren’t alone after all. ‘I understand you do all the work around here.’

Carlos laughed then, white teeth showing below the rim of his dark moustache. ‘I cannot believe this man said that,’ he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘But if you would like a—how do you say?—a tour of the stables,
nao
? I am your man.’

Isobel glanced at Alejandro, but his expression was unreadable. With a little shrug, she said, ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘But not now,
sim
?’ suggested Alejandro, his quiet voice as commanding as an order. He smiled at Carlos as if to soften his words. ‘Ms—
Isobella
—is hot and thirsty. I will ask Consuela if she has something cold and sweet.’

Isobel started to protest, but, after exchanging a few brief words with Alejandro in their own language, Carlos turned way.

‘Until later, Isobella,’ he called, raising his hand in
farewell, and Isobel had no choice but to accompany Alejandro across the veranda and through the open doors into the house.

B
EYOND
the entry, the wood-blocked floor of a reception hall echoed with the sound of their feet. Shafts of sunlight fell through a series of narrow windows, and the air was sweet with the scent of verbena.

It was very different from the gloomy magnificence of Anita’s villa. Here, colour-washed walls and a beamed ceiling gave the place a much more lived-in appearance. There were paintings on the walls, and a huge central table fairly spilling with vibrant colour. An enormous bowl of tropical flowers formed a brilliant centrepiece, while exotic stems of orchids grew from various pots and planters about the room.

A woman came to meet them as they crossed the hall, a small, dark-skinned woman, dressed all in black, but with pleasant, friendly features. Much different from Sancha, thought Isobel with relief, remembering Anita’s housekeeper’s unsmiling demeanour.

‘This is Elena,’ said Alejandro at once, smiling at the woman. ‘Elena, this is Ms Jameson. A—friend of mine.’

Isobel was fairly sure his hesitation had been deliberate, but Elena didn’t seem to notice.
‘Bemvindo da quinta,
senhora,’
she said, bobbing her head politely. Then, turning back to Alejandro,
‘Voce gostaria um cafe, senhor?’

Isobel’s simple grasp of Portuguese was enough to know that the woman had welcomed her to the
estancia
. And she wasn’t absolutely sure, but she thought she’d also asked if they’d like coffee.

‘Fruit juice, I think, Elena,’ responded Alejandro, proving she’d been right. He glanced at Isobel. ‘And some iced tea also,
sim
? We will be in the
conservatorio
.’

‘Sim, senhor.’

With another bob of her head, Elena departed and Alejandro turned once more to his guest. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I will show you a little of my house.’

Isobel shrugged, aware that she didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, but she was curious nonetheless. This place was so different from the Villa Mimosa. And not just its appearance. The atmosphere was different too.

An open-plan living space led from the hall into a spacious salon with an Italian-tiled floor. The coffered ceiling was supported by veined marble pillars, dividing the room into elegant seating areas with the huge stone-faced hearth as a backdrop.

Isobel couldn’t help moving forward to where long windows overlooked an outdoor patio. Wickerwork chairs were grouped around a glass-topped table, shaded again by the balcony above. And, beyond the patio, a pool sparkled invitingly in the sunlight, with woven, wooden
cabanas
where Alejandro’s guests could change their clothes.

Isobel’s tongue sought her upper lip. She’d never imagined anything like this. Villiers, her aunt and uncle’s home, was beautiful, but she knew already it didn’t compare with Montevista.

She couldn’t prevent a sudden intake of breath, and at once Alejandro came to join her. He walked a little stiffly,
but it didn’t appear to impede his progress this morning, his tawny eyes assessing her with wary intent.

‘You do not like this place?’

Isobel gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘How could I not?’ she asked drily. ‘It’s very beautiful, and I’m sure you know it.’ She paused. ‘Did you buy it when you were married to Miranda?’

Alejandro’s lips compressed. ‘And why would you think that?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Isobel shrugged, very conscious of him standing close beside her. ‘I just thought Senhora Silveira might have told you about it. After all, it’s in the same general area.’

Alejandro expelled a breath. ‘Montevista has been in my family for generations,’ he told her at last. ‘My great-grandfather built it so that my great-grandmother could use it as an escape from the city. There was no air-conditioning in those days and, although it does not seem so at this moment, the mountain air is fresher. It can be cold, too, believe it or not. We have to light the fire from time to time.’

Isobel absorbed this. ‘So you don’t actually own it?’

‘No.’ Alejandro spoke tolerantly, rubbing an impatient hand over his aching thigh. ‘It just so happens that, well, let us say it is a good place to—recuperate,
nao
? And I have always loved horses. I sometimes think I would rather be a
cavaleiro
—a horseman—than spend my days in an office.’

Isobel glanced at him then, noticing that he was favouring his injured leg. ‘You had to recuperate,’ she said slowly, aware of a certain sympathy. ‘After the accident. Is that right?’

Alejandro’s lips twisted. ‘As you say.’ He turned then, gesturing that she should precede him through an archway
into an adjoining salon, where a formal polished table and a dozen upholstered chairs occupied a central position. ‘The conservatory,’ he added unnecessarily, indicating a huge glass-walled extension beyond sliding-glass doors.

Despite its many windows, the conservatory was kept to an even temperature by air-conditioning and the use of half-drawn blinds. Tubs containing shrubs and climbing plants added their own particular fragrance to the air, and comfortable chairs and cushioned loungers provided plenty of seating space.

‘If you don’t mind…’

Without waiting for her permission, Alejandro lowered himself onto one of the loungers, stretching out his aching leg with real relief. He was overdoing things, he knew, but it still annoyed him to show her any weakness. Her opinion of him mattered, however ridiculous that might be.

‘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.’

‘Do what on purpose?’

He was all innocence, and Isobel was infuriated.

‘Drop the picture so I would see it,’ she retorted, thrusting it onto the arm of his chair. ‘You’re not a clumsy man, Alejandro. You wanted me to see it. You wanted me to jump to the obvious conclusion.’

‘Was it obvious?’ Alejandro regarded her for another long, disturbing moment. Then he picked up the small photograph and slotted it back into his wallet.
‘Contudo,’
he added. ‘Nevertheless, I think it proves my point, do you not think so?’

Isobel blew out a weary breath. ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, deciding there was nothing to be gained from arguing with him. ‘You are Emma’s father.’ Her nails dug into her palms. ‘Does it matter?’

‘You ask me that?’ Alejandro’s voice was harsh with anger now. ‘
Meu Deus
, Isobel, did you not think I had a right to know?’

‘To know what?’ Isobel was trembling, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘That you’d accidently impregnated a woman you had sex with while you were in London?’

Alejandro swore now. ‘It was not like that and you know it.’

‘What was it like, then? You tell me.’ Isobel was on a roll now and she wasn’t ready to back down. ‘You seduced me, Alejandro. Oh, I admit, I didn’t put up much opposition. I was reckless, I know that. But don’t pretend it was some lasting affair and you were the innocent party.’

Alejandro scowled. ‘You do not know what you are talking about.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Isobel got to her feet again, gazing down at him with accusing eyes. ‘Don’t you remember what you said, Alejandro? You promised you’d come back to England. You insisted it wasn’t just a one-night stand. But—hello—it’s been over three years, and until you brought me here I hadn’t heard a word from you.’

‘I can explain.’

‘Can you?’ Isobel didn’t want to hear his excuses, didn’t want to hear anything that might make her regret her outburst. ‘I actually believed you, Alejandro. I did think I’d see you again. But now I find that you got married as soon as you got back to Brazil.’

‘Not as soon as I got back to Brazil,’ Alejandro contradicted her harshly, pushing himself to his feet now so that he had the height advantage, not her. ‘When I said you did not know what you were talking about, I meant the accident. While you were hating my guts, no doubt, I was in the hospital in Rio, in no fit state to contact you or anyone else.’

Isobel took a deep breath. So, she thought, he had an excuse after all. There was nothing she could say now that could counter that.

Still, she consoled herself defensively, it wasn’t her fault he’d had an accident. And he’d had plenty of time since then to get in touch with her. Just because he’d suddenly—what? Remembered her? Got a conscience? Why had he sought her out after all this time?