One Night in... Rio: The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child / Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child / The Surgeon's Runaway Bride. Anne MatherЧитать онлайн книгу.
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,