The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child (5 page)

Instead of which she marched stiffly to the door, refusing to look at him as he picked up both his jackets and followed her.

‘Querida,’
he said in an agonised tone, but she merely shook her head.

‘Have a good journey,’ she managed tightly, waiting for him to go past her. Then she closed the door and locked it again before allowing the hot tears to stream unchecked down her face.

Three years later

F
ROM
the air, the city of Rio de Janeiro was impressive: Sugar Loaf Mountain, the iconic statue of Christ on another mountain called Corcovado, and the glorious beaches surrounding Guanabara Bay.

Isobel had read that the earlier settlers had believed the bay was the mouth of a river. ‘Rio’ meant river, and, along with the month in which the country had been discovered, had given the city its name.

She’d read a lot on the journey, wanting to know as much about the country and its people as she could cram into the eleven-hour flight. She’d decided there’d be time enough to learn about her subject when she met her. She already knew Anita Silveira was a very successful writer. Having read many of her books, she felt she had learned a little of the woman’s character already.

The irony of accepting the Brazilian assignment wasn’t lost on her. Aunt Olivia hadn’t wanted her to go, and even her uncle had had his reservations. But apparently Senhora Silveira had read some of Isobel’s work and had asked that she conduct the interview. And, because it was such an im
portant coup for
Lifestyles
magazine, Sam Armstrong had reluctantly agreed to let her go.

It wasn’t as if she was likely to meet Alejandro Cabral, Isobel had protested when her aunt had brought the subject up. Rio was a huge city, with a population of well over six million. What were the chances of her meeting her daughter’s father again? The odds were definitely stacked against it.

All the same, Isobel couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to seeing the place where Alejandro had been born and where he’d been living when she’d known him. Their acquaintance had been so brief to have such long-lasting consequences, she thought a little bitterly. Yet she wouldn’t be without Emma; her daughter had given real meaning to her life.

But now Rio was far behind her. When she’d arrived in the city two days before, Ben Goodman—a friend of her uncle, with whom he’d arranged for her to stay—had informed her that Senhora Silveira had retired to her coastal villa north of Rio. She apparently preferred the cooler ocean breezes of Porto Verde to the summer heat of the city.

Isobel didn’t blame her. Having left London in the depths of a cold and wet January, she hadn’t been prepared for the heat and humidity that had assaulted her as soon as she’d stepped out of the airport. In no time at all her cotton shirt had been clinging to her, and it had been such a relief to reach the Goodmans’ house in the leafy suburb of Santa Teresa and discover it had air-conditioning.

Nevertheless, the beauty of the city hadn’t totally escaped her. Despite the poverty of the
favellas
, there was so much she would have liked to explore: to ride the trolley cars and visit the many museums and art galleries, to walk along the beach at Ipanema and taste the vibrant nightlife for which the city was famous.

Still, she wasn’t here as a tourist, she reminded herself
as the connecting flight from Rio to Porto Verde swept low over a high plateau, before descending with unnerving speed towards the coast. The small airstrip bordered the ocean; golden sand-dunes rippled beneath waving palms. In the distance, purple-fringed mountains looked remote and mysterious; nearer at hand the cliffs of the plateau gleamed white in the sinking rays of the sun.

Although Ben Goodman had never visited the Silveira villa, he’d told Isobel it was said to be very beautiful. She was a wealthy woman, he’d added without envy. A little arrogant perhaps, according to reports he’d heard, but also deserving of a little pity due to the fact that her only child, a daughter, had died when she’d been only twenty-two.

Not that her uncle expected Isobel to enquire into the woman’s personal life. Anita Silveira seldom gave interviews at all, and she had only agreed this time because Sam Armstrong had been kind to her when her first book had been published many years ago. She didn’t court publicity these days. She was a very private person. Isobel had been left in no doubt that she was extremely privileged to be given this opportunity.

The flight attendant passed along the aisle, informing passengers that they’d be landing shortly, and a few minutes later the small plane bumped down onto the runway. They taxied to where a cluster of iron-roofed buildings marked the terminal, the sea stretching away beside them, and no obvious security in sight.

There were only about a dozen passengers on the flight. This area of the country was popular with tourists, and judging by the shorts and backpacks, and the cameras slung about their necks, her fellow travellers were looking forward to their holiday. According to her guide book, the area offered trekking and climbing opportunities, while the huge Sao Francisco Lakes offered all kinds of water sports as well.

Once again, the heat struck her as she descended the steps from the aircraft. There was no jetway here, just a short walk from the plane to the reception hall. Then a rather longer wait for her luggage, and finally she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and emerged into the sunlight again.

There were taxis, and she had Anita Silveira’s address, but this evening she was going to check in at a hotel and relax after her journey. She would make arrangements to see her subject tomorrow, after she’d had a decent night’s sleep.

However, before she could approach one of the taxis, an elderly man dressed in a white shirt, a black waistcoat and baggy trousers came ambling towards her.

‘Senhora Jameson?’ he asked, showing a row of uneven teeth liberally stained with tobacco.

‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘I’m Ms Jameson.’

‘Muito prezer, senhora.’
Which must mean, ‘pleased to meet you’, Isobel thought as the old man commandeered her suitcase. He led the way to where an old-fashioned limousine was waiting.
‘Entrar, por favor.’
‘Please get in’.

Isobel hesitated. Although she knew a few words of Portuguese, there was no way she could converse with him in his own language. And, although he knew her name, no one had warned her to expect an escort to her hotel.

‘Um, who are you?’ she asked politely, hoping he could understand her, and the tobacco-stained teeth appeared again.

‘Manos,
senhora
,’ he said at once, pointing a gnarled finger at his chest. ‘I work for the
senhora
,
nao
? Senhora Silveira?’

‘Ah.’ Isobel was slightly relieved. ‘And will you take me to the hotel?’

‘Hotel?’ Manos gave the word a Portuguese inflection. ‘No hotel,
senhora
. You stay with Senhora Silveira,
sim
?’

Isobel’s lips parted. ‘But I thought…’

She frowned. What had she thought? Her uncle had said Senhora Silveira would arrange accommodation for her, and she’d naturally assumed she’d be staying in the small town. She bit her lip. Did she want to stay with a perfect stranger, however generous her offer might be? She always preferred to maintain her independence on these occasions. She found it made it easier all round.

But if there was no hotel…

‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured half to herself, but evidently Manos heard and understood her.

‘Por favor.’
He gestured towards the car again, and this time he opened the boot and stowed her suitcase inside. ‘Is not far,
senhora
. I drive ver’ good.’

Isobel shook her head. She could hardly explain that it wasn’t his driving that bothered her, not without getting embroiled in a conversation that probably neither of them would understand.

So, with a gesture of acceptance, she did as he’d asked and got into the limousine, wincing as her short skirt exposed her thighs to the hot leather of the seat.

Beyond the airport, the road wound along the coastline. The ponderous vehicle was surprisingly comfortable, which was just as well, because in places the surface of the road was rough and uneven. It was late afternoon, but the heat was still oppressive, and the old car had no modern amenities to counter the humidity.

‘How far is it?’ she asked at last as they drove through a small village, where colour-washed cottages with tiled roofs clustered round a small square. Barefoot children and lean dogs broke off what they were doing to watch the limousine’s stately progress, and Isobel wondered if Anita Silveira enjoyed the superiority the big car gave her.

‘Nao e muito longe,’
Manos replied, his dark eyes
meeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not far,
senhora
. You relax,
sim
?’

Isobel didn’t feel very relaxed. She was still recovering from the long flight, and even Uncle Sam had been surprised when she’d phoned the night before to tell him she had to go to Porto Verde. Now the prospect of spending several days in the house of a perfect stranger was not appealing, and she half-wished she hadn’t accepted the assignment and was safely at home with her little daughter.

She saw there was obvious development taking place along the coastline. She guessed that if she’d put off her visit for a few months there might have been a hotel where she could stay. Still, she was a stranger to Senhora Silveira too, and she’d been kind enough to offer her her hospitality. She should stop feeling sorry for herself and look forward to meeting the woman.

And then a wall of flowering trees on one side of the road gave way to an iron gateway. A small cupola topped the entry, and beyond a crushed-shell drive curved steeply out of sight. Manos swept the car between the gates with more enthusiasm than he’d shown thus far and accelerated up the driveway.

Isobel saw manicured lawns to left and right, before a screen of flame-trees exposed a pillared colonnade that evidently encircled the house. Arched windows on the upper floor gave the building a graceful appearance. Bushes heavy with blossom surrounded the forecourt, where a stone fountain spilled water into an orchid-filled basin.

The colonnade was shaded; it would be an ideal place to walk in the late-afternoon heat. Shallow steps led down to the forecourt where Manos first braked and then stopped the car.

Two men came down the steps on their arrival, dressed similarly to Manos, but much younger. One of them swung open the door for Isobel to alight, while the other went to rescue her suitcase from the boot.

Isobel was totally unused to this kind of treatment, but evidently Anita Silveira lived in some style, even at her seaside villa. Stepping out, she acknowledged the sense of tiredness that gripped her, half-wishing she was staying at a hotel and therefore was not obliged to greet her hostess tonight.

Then a woman appeared in the arched entrance to the villa, a tall woman of Junoesque proportions whose long, dark hair fell straight about her shoulders. She watched as Manos supervised the unloading of Isobel’s luggage, but she made no move towards them, and Isobel wondered idly who she was.

Manos was at her side again and he gestured for her to go forward. ‘
O senhora
is waiting,’ he said urgently, and Isobel realised this must be her hostess. With no choice but to climb the steps, Isobel was obliged to go forward. And as she drew nearer she recognised that the woman was quite beautiful: flaring cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a mouth that was both full and passionate.

There was a moment when Isobel thought she wasn’t going to acknowledge her, that she intended to turn back into the villa and leave Isobel to fend for herself. But then, as if the moment had never been, she came to meet her, holding out her hand with all the regal assurance of a queen.

‘Ms Jameson?’ she enquired, as if there could be any doubt about Isobel’s identity. ‘Welcome to the Villa Mimosa, Ms Jameson. I am Anita Silveira,
e claro
. Come inside, please. You must be tired after your long journey.’

Isobel breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been half-afraid
that Anita might expect her to understand Portuguese. ‘I am, rather,’ she admitted, following the woman across the colonnade and into a square reception-hall. ‘Thank you for allowing me to stay with you.’

Anita gave a careless gesture, clearly not considering that worthy of a response, and Isobel looked about her with interest: Dark-panelled walls, a tessellated floor, and sombre furnishings lit by a central chandelier. What natural light still remained was filtered through windows set high in the walls, illuminating sculpted alcoves and marble statuary.

The effect was rather daunting, but a bowl of white orchids occupying a leather-bound chest at the foot of the curving staircase provided a splash of colour. Arching doorways into adjoining apartments displayed rooms filled with heavy oak and mahogany furniture. There was a certain baroque quality about it all, totally different from Ben Goodman’s home in Rio.

An elderly woman appeared from the back of the hall, clad all in black, her silvery hair confined in a severe knot. The housekeeper, Isobel guessed, noticing her snow-white apron. Another of the
senhora
’s servants. Isobel wondered how many there were.

After a low-voiced conversation with the old woman, Anita turned again to Isobel. ‘This is Sancha.’ She introduced them casually. ‘Sancha looks after me and my home, wherever I am staying.’ A smile touched her full lips. ‘She is the
dona de casa
. If you have any questions while you are staying here, please address them to her.’

Isobel half-expected Sancha to shake hands too, but the old woman kept her eyes downcast. ‘Sancha will show you to your apartment,’ Anita added after another exchange with the housekeeper. ‘She will also arrange for some refreshments,
nao
? The men will follow on with your luggage.’

‘Thank you.’

Isobel was grateful for the respite. It would give her time to assimilate her surroundings and herself.

‘Dinner is at nine o’clock,’ Anita added, just in case Isobel thought she was free for the evening. ‘Just ring for one of the servants when you are ready. They will show you to the terrace.’

‘Thank you,’ Isobel said again, and the other woman raised a hand in acknowledgement before disappearing through the archway to their right. The wooden heels of her sandals clattered across the block floor, before the sound of a door closing cut off any further sound.