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