“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—”

“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. Lots of them.”

“It took you rather a long time to remember them, querida.”

VIVA LA VIDA DE AMOR!

They speak the language of passion.

In Harlequin Presents®, you’ll find a special kind of lover—full of Latin charm. Whether he’s relaxing in denims, or dressed for dinner, giving you diamonds, or simply sweet dreams, he’s got spirit, style and sex appeal!

Latin Lovers is the new miniseries from Harlequin Presents® for anyone who enjoys hot romance!

Watch for more Latin Lovers—you can never have enough spice in your life!

The Brazilian Tycoon’s Mistress
Fiona Hood-Stewart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a grey Tuesday afternoon in October when Araminta Dampierre, abstractedly parking her old Land Rover in front of the village shop, felt a jolt and heard a thud. With a sinking heart she twisted her head. Close behind her stood a four-wheel drive that she’d just hit.

With a sigh Araminta climbed out of her vehicle and took stock of the gleaming silver Range Rover’s squished bumper. Her own Land Rover was not in a great state anyway, but this Range Rover had been in pristine condition—obviously the latest model, and brand-new. Wishing she’d paid more attention to her surroundings, Araminta looked up and down the empty village street, searching for a possible owner. But there was no one to be seen.

Taking a last reluctant look at the damage she’d done, Araminta decided to proceed with her shopping and wait and see if the owner of the Range Rover appeared. Maybe the proprietor of the glistening vehicle that she was fast beginning to loathe would have returned by then, no doubt filled with much righteous indignation.

As she turned to head towards the grocer’s she visualised a dreadfully chic corporate wife—with whom Sussex seemed to be teeming lately—complaining furiously about her careless behaviour.

At the grocer’s Araminta handed her shopping list to dear old Mr Thompson and waited patiently while he shuffled about the shelves in search of several items.

‘And how is Her Ladyship?’ the white-haired bespectacled grocer asked solicitously.

‘My mother is fine, thank you,’ Araminta responded, smiling. ‘She’s recovered after that bout of bronchitis.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that. A bad spell it was. My wife had it too.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Araminta murmured, glancing out of the window back towards the cars, hoping she wouldn’t have to hear all the details of Mrs Thompson’s illness.

‘Will that be all?’ Mr Thompson smiled benignly from across the counter at Araminta, whom he had known since she was a small child, when she’d come in after going to the Pony Club to buy sweets.

‘Thanks, I think that’s everything. Just pop it onto the account as usual, will you? And do send my best to Mrs Thompson. I hope she makes a quick recovery.’

‘Thank you, miss, I will.’

Araminta stepped back onto the pavement, brown paper bag held under her arm, thinking how quaint it was that the villagers still called her ‘miss’, even though she was twenty-eight and had been married and widowed.

She made her way back to the car, deposited her bag of shopping on the passenger seat, and wondered what to do, since there was still no sign of the driver of the Range Rover. For all she knew, she or he might not appear for ages. She could hardly stand around waiting all afternoon.

With a reluctant sigh Araminta took out a pad and pen from her well-worn Hermès bag and scribbled what she hoped was a legible note, which she slipped behind the windscreen wiper of the Range Rover. There was little else she could do. The driver could get in touch with her and they could exchange information about their respective insurance companies over the phone.

‘I’m back!’ Araminta called round the drawing room door of Taverstock Hall to where her mother sat reading by the fire.

‘Ah. Good. I’ve just told Olive to bring in tea.’

‘Okay, I’ll be down in a minute. Just popping the groceries into the pantry. Mr Thompson sends his best, by the way.’

‘Ah. Thank you.’ Lady Drusilla inclined her head graciously. ‘I really must do something about the Christmas bazaar. Perhaps you could help, Araminta? Instead of scribbling away at those wretched children’s books of yours. It’s time you pulled yourself together and did something useful. After all, when your father died I didn’t spend my time drifting. I took charge.’

‘Mother, please don’t let’s get into this again.’

‘Oh, very well.’ Lady Drusilla cast her eyes heavenwards and Araminta made good her escape.

She really must set about finding a place of her own again, she reflected as she descended the back stairs and popped the bag on the pantry table. It was her own fault that she was subjecting herself to her mother’s endless comments. But she just hadn’t been able to face—or afford—staying in the house she’d lived in with Peter. It had taken all her will-power to get the strength together to clear it up and put it on the market, and be able to unload the mortgage. Still, it was time, she knew, to move on.

The first thing Victor Santander saw as he walked towards his new Range Rover was the gaping dent in the right bumper. With a muffled exclamation he moved forward and inspected it closely. Some idiot had backed into him and hadn’t had the courtesy to wait and own up. He crouched, studied the dent, and realised that the whole bumper would need replacing.

He rose with an annoyed sigh, and then noticed the note flapping behind the windscreen wiper. At least the perpetrator had had the decency to leave a phone number, he noted, slightly mollified by the apology. It was signed ‘A. Dampierre’. No Mr or Miss or Mrs. Just the initial.

Oh, well, he supposed he’d better give A. Dampierre a call once he got home to Chippenham Manor, which he’d moved into the day before. An accident on his first day in this quaint English village didn’t bode too well for the future.

Usually when he drove down the country lane Victor enjoyed the sight of the rolling hills, the trimmed hedges and the horses grazing in the fields. But not after the car incident. And the weather was foul. Yet it suited his mood, he reflected sombrely. So much better than the blaring sun of his homeland, which, for now, he could do without.

At least here he could lick his wounds in peace and quiet, without having to undergo the social scandal that would inevitably be his lot in Rio de Janeiro once Isabella’s latest affair became known. At least here he would be left alone.

Back at the Manor he entered the hall and was greeted by loud barks. He smiled as Lolo, his golden retriever, came frolicking across the oriental carpet, thrilled at her master’s return.

‘Calma, linda,’ he said stroking the dog’s head and heading towards the study. ‘You’ll get used to living in a large English country house. Surely you’ll like it better than the penthouse in Rio?’ he murmured, suddenly remembering his vast, white-marbled modern apartment in Ipanema, glad he was far away from it and all the horror of his soon-to-be ex-wife’s unwelcome surprises. This was about as far removed as he could get from Isabella, both physically and mentally, he reflected, entering the study.

In fact, nowhere could be far enough, he added to himself, pulling out the crumpled note from his pocket and glancing briefly at it. He realised he’d better give A. Dampierre a call right away and sort the mess out.

Stifling his irritation, he sat down at the large partner’s desk, covered with files and photographs of racehorses, and dialled the number, noting that A. Dampierre must be a local, since he had the same area code. Probably some careless local farmer.

The number rang several times.

‘Hello, Taverstock Hall,’ an aristocratic female voice answered.

‘Good afternoon. Could I speak to…’ He hesitated. ‘A. Dampierre?’

‘A Dampierre?’ the haughty female voice replied.

‘Yes, I was referring to the initial A,’ he replied, in arctic tones.

‘The initial— Oh, I suppose you must be referring to—Hold on a moment, would you?’ He heard a muffled sound in the distance.

‘Hello?’ Another, much softer female voice came on the line, and for some reason he could not define Victor was surprised to find that ‘A’ was a woman. He really had imagined a burly red-faced farmer. This voice certainly did not match that image! But neither did it diminish his annoyance.

‘Excuse me, madam, I had a note left on my windscreen by A. Dampierre. Is that you?’

‘Oh, yes. The bumper. Look, I’m really sorry about what happened. I backed into your car by mistake, you see.’

‘In no uncertain terms,’ he muttered dryly.

‘I wasn’t paying proper attention, I’m afraid,’ the female voice murmured apologetically.

‘That,’ he remarked wryly, ‘has become abundantly clear.’

‘Well, I’m sure my insurance company will deal with it,’ replied the woman’s voice, now slightly less apologetic.

‘Of course,’ he said dismissively.

‘I’m sorry to have put you to all this inconvenience,’ she continued, her tone definitely chillier. ‘If there is anything I can do to be of assistance…’ Her voice trailed off.

‘I don’t think there is.’

‘Perhaps I could give my insurance company a call immediately and explain?’

Victor’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated a moment. Then curiosity got the better of him and his lips curved. ‘Perhaps it would be preferable if we met, and then I could give you my insurance information.’

A hesitation followed. ‘All right. When would suit you?’

Victor thought. He really had nothing to do now that he’d moved in and his horses were safely ensconced at the training farm a few miles down the road. And for some inexplicable reason this voice intrigued him.

‘How about tomorrow morning?’

‘Fine. Would ten o’clock do?’

‘Okay. But not in front of the grocer’s, if you don’t mind,’ he added with a touch of humour.

A delicious tinkling laugh echoed down the line. ‘No, I think better not. Where are you exactly?’

‘I’m at Chippenham Manor.’

‘At Chip— Oh! I see. So in fact you’re our new neighbour.’

‘Neighbour?’

‘Yes. I live at Taverstock Hall. Our property shares a boundary with yours.’

‘Ah. I see. Then it is high time we introduced ourselves,’ Victor said, wondering if someone with such a charming voice might turn out to be sixty-five, fat and have a double chin. Serve him right if she did. ‘Victor Santander, at your service.’

‘Uh, Araminta Dampierre.’

‘A pleasure. Shall I come over to the Hall at ten o’clock, then?’

‘Um…if you don’t mind I’ll pop over to the Manor. I have to go out around that time anyway,’ she said hurriedly.

‘As you wish. I shall expect you at ten.’

‘And again, I’m very sorry about your bumper.’

‘Don’t be. The damage is done, so there is little use in being sorry. Until tomorrow.’

He hung up and glanced at the picture of Copacabana Baby, his favourite filly, wondering why the woman had so definitely not wanted him to go over to Taverstock Hall. Maybe she had a difficult husband who would give her hell because she’d had an accident.

Then he let out a sigh and got up to pour himself a whisky before settling down to study the future of two of his horses which he kept at his stud near Deauville.

‘Who on earth was that odd-sounding man on the phone?’ Lady Drusilla demanded, gazing in a speculative manner at the platter of fresh scones baked earlier in the day by Olive.

‘Oh, he’s our new neighbour at the Manor. He sounds rather autocratic.’

‘Hmm. Very odd indeed. Foreign, if you ask me. A. Dampierre, indeed. What a strange way to ask for you.’

‘It wasn’t his fault. I left a note for him on his windscreen and I must have signed it A. Dampierre.’

‘A note on a strange man’s windscreen?’ Lady Drusilla raised horrified brows. ‘Really, Araminta, whatever were you thinking of?’

‘I bumped into his car by mistake,’ Araminta explained patiently, sweeping her long ash-blonde mane off her shoulders and leaning over to pour the tea.

‘How extremely careless of you.’

‘I’m very well aware of that,’ she said tightly. ‘Actually, he was very nice about it.’

‘So he should be. It’s not every day he’ll have the privilege of being bumped into by a Taverstock, as it were.’

‘Mother, why must you be so pompous?’ Araminta exclaimed, her dark blue eyes flashing at her mother’s ridiculous statement.

‘I shall have to find out from Marion Nethersmith who he is, exactly, and what is going on at the Manor,’ Lady Drusilla continued as though her daughter hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s been quite a mystery. Nobody knew who was moving in. I think it’s too bad that one doesn’t know anything about one’s neighbours any more. They might be anybody.’

‘Well, I’ll know soon enough,’ Araminta said shortly. ‘I’m due over there with my car insurance information to settle this matter tomorrow at ten.’

‘Really, Araminta, I find it hard to believe that you, a married woman—a widow, rather—who should know better, are belittling yourself in this manner. Why didn’t you tell him to come here?’

‘Because—’ Araminta had been about to say, I wouldn’t subject anyone, let alone a stranger, to your intolerable manners. But instead she shut up and shrugged. ‘I have to go into the village anyway.

‘Oh, very well. Pass me a scone, would you, dear? I know I shouldn’t, but I don’t suppose one can do much harm.’

CHAPTER TWO

AT TEN o’clock precisely, Araminta, clad in a pair of worn jeans, an Arran sweater, a Barbour rain jacket and Wellington boots, pulled up on the gravel in front of Chippenham Manor, noting that the gardens which for ages had run wild were carefully weeded, the hedges neatly trimmed and the gravel raked. Whoever Mr Santander was, he obviously liked things in good order.

For some reason this left her feeling less daunted. It was reassuring to see the Manor—abandoned and forlorn for so long after Sir Edward’s death, ignored by the distant cousin who’d inherited and whose only interest in the property had been to sell it—being properly looked after by the new owner.

Jumping out of the old Land Rover, Araminta winced at the sight of the crushed bumper on the smart new Range Rover parked next to a shining Bentley. With a sigh she walked up the steps and rang the bell. It was answered several moments later by a tanned man in uniform.

‘Mr Santander is expecting me,’ she said, surprised at the man’s elegance. Chippenham Manor was a large, comfortable English home, but one didn’t quite expect uniformed staff answering the door.

‘Mrs Dampierre?’ the man asked respectfully.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Please follow me.’ The manservant stood back, holding the door wide, and bowed her in.

Araminta stood and stared for a full minute, barely recognizing her surroundings. The hall had been completely redecorated. She’d heard there was work going on at the Manor, but nobody knew much about it as all the firms employed had come from London.

She looked about her, impressed, enchanted by the attractive wall covering, the contemporary sconces, the bright flashes of unusual art. A particularly attractive flower arrangement stood on a drum table in the centre of the dazzling white marble floor which in Sir Edward’s day had looked worn and somewhat grubby, and which his housekeeper had complained bitterly about.

‘This way, madam,’ the servant said, leading her down the passage towards the drawing room.

When she reached the threshold Araminta gasped in sheer amazement. Gone were the drab, musty Adam green brocade wall coverings, the drooping fringed curtains and the gloomy portraits of Sir Edward’s none too prepossessing ancestors. Instead she was greeted by soft eggshell paint, white curtains that broke on the gleaming parquet floor, wide contemporary sofas piled with subtly toned cushions, and the walls—the walls were a positive feast of the most extraordinarily luminous paintings she’d ever set eyes on.

‘You seem surprised at the way this room looks.’

Araminta spun round, nearly tripping on the edge of the Arraiolo rug, then swallowed in amazement as her eyes met a pair of dark, slightly amused ones. The man who had come in through the door that linked the drawing room to the study next door stood six feet tall. His jet-black hair was streaked with grey at the temples, and his features—well, his features were positively patrician.

‘I hope it is admiration and not disgust that has you eyeing this room so critically,’ he said, raising a quizzical brow and giving her the once-over. Then he moved forward and reached out his hand. ‘I am Victor Santander.’

‘Araminta Dampierre,’ she murmured, pulling herself together with a jolt. ‘And, no, I wasn’t being critical at all—simply marvelling that Sir Edward’s dull drawing room could be transformed into something as wonderful as this.’

‘It pleases you?’

His hand held hers a second longer than necessary. Surprised at the tingling sensation coursing up her arm, Araminta withdrew her hand quickly.

‘Yes. It’s—well, it’s so unexpected, and bright, and so—well, so un-English. Yet it doesn’t look out of place,’ she ended lamely, hoping she hadn’t sounded rude. It was bad enough that she’d bashed the man’s car without insulting him as well.

‘Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I think it brightens the old place up. I hope I haven’t gone overboard with the Latin American art, though,’ he said, tilting his head and studying her.

‘Oh, no,’ she reassured him, eyeing the amazing pictures once more. ‘That’s what makes it utterly unique.’

Then, remembering why she was here, she drew herself up, wishing now that she’d worn something more flattering than her old jeans and sweater. Not that it mattered a damn, of course. But seeing him standing there looking so sure of himself, so irritatingly cool and suave in perfectly cut beige corduroy trousers, his shirt and cravat topped by a pale yellow cashmere jersey, did leave her wishing she had been more selective.

‘I must apologise again for my careless behaviour yesterday. I’m really very sorry to have caused your car damage.’

‘It is not important.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Please, won’t you take off your jacket and sit down? Manuel will bring us coffee.’ He turned to the manservant hovering in the doorway and murmured something in a language she didn’t understand. The man responded by stepping forward and taking her jacket, before disappearing once more.

‘Please. Sit down.’ He indicated one of the large couches. ‘You say that we are neighbours? I remember seeing a reference on the land map to Taverstock Hall. Does it belong to you and your husband?’ Victor asked, taking in the gracefully tall woman standing before him, with her huge blue eyes, perfect complexion and long blonde hair cascading over the shoulders of an oversized sweater that did not allow for much appreciation of her figure. Quite a beauty, his new neighbour, even if she was careless.

‘Uh, no. It belongs to my mother.’ He watched her sink among the cushions, elegant despite the casualness of her attire, and sat opposite. ‘As I said, I feel dreadful about yesterday. Still, I brought my insurance papers so that we can get it cleared up as soon as possible. Oh!’ she exclaimed, her expression suddenly stricken. ‘I put them in the pocket of my jacket.’

‘Manuel will bring them. Never mind the papers,’ he dismissed.

‘Thank you.’

He eyed her up and down speculatively, and drawled, ‘Frankly, I’m rather glad you banged into my bumper. I might otherwise never have had the opportunity of meeting my neighbour.’

He smiled at her, an amused, lazy smile, and again Araminta felt taken aback at how impressively good-looking he was. She also got the impression that she was being slowly and carefully undressed.

‘Well, that’s very gracious of you,’ she countered, sitting up straighter and shifting her gaze as Manuel reappeared, with a large tray holding a steaming glass and silver coffee pot, cups, and a dish with tiny biscuits.

‘Ah, here comes Manuel with the cafèzinho.’ He smiled again, showing a row of perfect white teeth. ‘In my country we drink this all day.’

‘Your country?’ She had detected a slight accent but couldn’t identify it.

‘I’m Brazilian. In Brazil we drink tiny cups of extremely strong coffee all day. This coffee you are about to drink was brought from my own plantation,’ he added with a touch of pride. ‘If you like it I shall give you some to take home with you.’

‘That’s very kind,’ Araminta murmured, slightly overwhelmed by her handsome host’s authoritative manner.

She watched as he poured the thick black coffee into two cups before handing her one. Then, as she reached for the saucer, their fingers touched again, and that same tingling sensation—something akin to an electrical charge—coursed through her. Araminta drew quickly back, almost spilling the coffee.

‘I hope you are not a decaf drinker,’ he said, his voice smooth but his eyes letting her know he was aware of what she’d just experienced.

‘Oh, no. I love coffee. It’s delicious,’ she assured him, taking a sip of the strong brew, its rich scent filling her nostrils.

‘Good. Then Manuel will send you home with a packet of Santander coffee.’

‘That’s most generous. Now, about the insurance,’ she said, laying her cup carefully in the saucer, determined to keep on track and not be distracted by this man’s powerful aura. ‘Perhaps we should go ahead and—’

‘I don’t mean to be impolite,’ he replied, looking at her, his expression amused, ‘but do we have to keep talking about a dented bumper? It is, after all, a matter of little importance in the bigger scheme of things. Tell me rather about yourself—who you are and what you do.’

Araminta, unused to being talked to in such a direct manner, felt suddenly uncomfortable. His gaze seemed to penetrate her being, divesting her of the shroud of self-protection that she’d erected after Peter’s death. It seemed suddenly to have disappeared, leaving her open and vulnerable to this man’s predatory gaze.

‘There’s nothing much to tell,’ she said quickly. ‘I live at the Hall and I write children’s books.’

‘You’re a writer? How fascinating.’

‘Not at all,’ she responded coolly. ‘It’s a job, that’s all, and I enjoy it. Now, I really feel, Mr Santander, that we should get on with the car insurance. I need to get to the village; I have a lot to do this morning,’ she insisted, glancing at her watch, feeling it was high time to put a stop to this strange, disconcerting conversation.

He looked at her intensely for a moment, then he relaxed, smiled, and shrugged. ‘Very well. I shall ask Manuel to bring your jacket.’

‘Uh, yes—thanks. It was silly of me to leave the papers in the pocket.’

‘Not at all,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You are a writer. Creative people are naturally distracted because they live a large part of their existence in their stories.’

Araminta looked up, surprised at his perception, and smiled despite herself. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I know because I have a lot to do with artists.’ He waved towards the walls. ‘Most of these paintings are painted by artists who are my friends. I am a lover of the arts, and therefore have a lot to do with such people. They are brilliant, but none of them can be expected ever to know where their keys are to be found. I am never surprised when I arrive at one of their homes and the electricity has been cut off because someone forgot to pay the bill!’

He laughed, a rich, deep laugh that left her swallowing. And to her embarrassment, when their eyes met once more Araminta felt a jolt at the implicit understanding she read there.

Unable to contain the growing bubble inside her—a mixture of amusement at his perception and embarrassed complicity—she broke into a peal of tinkling laughter. And as she did so she realised, shocked, that she hadn’t laughed like this for several years. Not since the last time she and Peter—

She must stop thinking like that—not associate everything in her life with her marriage.

‘You obviously have a clear vision of what artists are like,’ she responded, smiling at Manuel as he handed her the jacket.

She removed the papers from her capacious pocket, careful not to spill her worldly belongings: keys, wallet, dog leash, a carrot for Rania, her mare, and a couple of sugar lumps. She caught him eyeing the wilting insurance documents and blushed. ‘I’m afraid they’re a bit crushed, I’ve had them in my pocket a while.’

‘As long as they’re valid, it’s of no importance.’

‘Right.’ Araminta pretended to concentrate on the contents of the documents, but found it hard to do so when he got up and came over to the couch, then sat casually on the arm and peered over her shoulder as though he’d known her a while. Araminta caught a whiff of musky male cologne. ‘Here, Mr Santander,’ she said, shifting hastily to the next cushion. ‘Take a look at them. Perhaps we should phone the company?’

‘Why don’t you leave these with me?’ he said, taking the documents from her and glancing over them briefly. ‘I’ll deal with this matter. And, by the way, since we’re neighbours and not in our dotage, perhaps we could call each other by our Christian names?’ He raised a thick, dark autocratic brow.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ she replied nonchalantly, trying hard to look as if meetings of this nature happened to her every day. Then quickly she got up. ‘I think I’d better be going. Thanks for the coffee, and for being so understanding about the accident.’

‘De nada,’ he answered, rising. ‘Allow me to help you with your jacket.’

Another unprecedented shudder caught her unawares as his hands grazed her shoulders when he slipped the jacket over them.

‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Araminta.’ He bowed, and to her utter surprise raised her hand to his lips. ‘I shall phone you once I know more regarding the insurance.’

‘Yes, please do.’ She smiled nervously and began moving towards the door. The sooner she escaped the better.

Victor followed her into the hall, then after a brief goodbye Araminta hurried down the front steps, a sigh of relief escaping her as she finally slipped onto the worn seat of the Land Rover and set off down the drive.

What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered. And what was it about this man that had left her feeling so bothered, yet so unequivocally attracted?

Which was ridiculous, she chided herself. She wasn’t interested in men any more, knew perfectly well that she would never meet another man like Peter as long as she lived. Dear, gentle Peter, with his floppy blond hair, his gentle eyes and charming English manners. Even her mother had liked Peter, which was saying a lot.

Of course he hadn’t been terribly capable, or prudent with their money, and had made some rather unwise investments in companies that his friends had convinced him were a really good idea and that had turned out to be quite the opposite. But that didn’t matter any more—after all, it was only money.

The fact that because of his carelessness she was now obliged to live with her mother at Taverstock Hall she chose to ignore. Death had a funny way of expunging the errors and accentuating the broader emotional elements of the past.

Victor Santander walked back into the drawing room of Chippenham Manor and stared at the place on the couch where Araminta had sat. She had come as a complete surprise. An agreeable one, he had to admit. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d taken any pleasure in talking to a woman he barely knew.

Oh, there were the occasional dinners in Rio, Paris and New York, that ended in the suite of his hotel, with high-flyers who knew the name of the game. But ever since Isabella had taken him for the ride of his life he’d lost all trust in the opposite sex. So why, he wondered, when he, a cynic, knew perfectly well that all women were wily, unscrupulous creatures, only out for what they could get, had he found Araminta’s company strangely refreshing? He’d even taken her insurance papers as an excuse to get in touch with her again. And she’d seemed oddly reticent—something else he was unused to—as though she wasn’t comfortable being close to a man.

The whole thing was intriguing. Not that he was here to be intrigued, or to waste his time flirting with rural neighbours. He’d come to the English countryside to seek peace of mind, make sure his horses were properly trained and take the necessary time to study his latest business ventures without interruption.

Still, Araminta, with her deep blue eyes, her silky blonde hair and—despite the shapeless sweater—he’d be willing to swear her very attractive figure, had brightened his day.

With a sigh and a shake of the head Victor returned to the study, and, banishing Araminta from his mind, concentrated on matters at hand.

CHAPTER THREE

‘TWO hundred thousand copies!’ Araminta exclaimed, disbelieving. ‘Surely that can’t be right? You mean they like my new book that much?’

‘Yes,’ her agent, Pearce Huntingdon, replied excitedly down the line. ‘They’re talking about television interviews and the works. It’s going to be a raving success. Get ready for the big time!’

‘But I don’t know that I want the big time. I mean, of course I do want my books to be a success, for children to enjoy them and all that, and perhaps make some money too. But not all the hype the—’

‘Rubbish. You’ll love it.’

‘No, I won’t,’ she replied firmly. ‘And I don’t want you making any publicity arrangements on my behalf without consulting me first, Pearce. I’m just not up to that sort of thing yet.’

There was a short silence. ‘Araminta, when are you going to let go the past and face the fact that you have a brilliant future ahead of you? I know you started writing as a hobby, as something to get your mind off all that had happened. But it’s time you took yourself and your career seriously. Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise is a wonderful, captivating book that every child in this country is going to adore if it’s marketed right. For goodness’ sake, woman, wake up and smell the coffee.’

The reference to coffee caused Araminta to remember Victor Santander’s flashing black eyes, and then to glance over at the gold and black packet of freshly ground coffee sitting on the kitchen counter. He’d had it delivered later in the day.

‘Look, let’s talk about this once we know it’s real,’ she countered, not wanting to argue with Pearce, who could be terribly persuasive when he wanted. ‘I’ll think about it and be in touch.’

‘All right, but don’t think too long. I’m not letting you miss the chance of a lifetime because you’re determined to wallow in the past.’

‘Pearce, that’s a cruel thing to say,’ Araminta exclaimed crossly.

‘No, it’s not. It’s the truth. And the sooner you face it the better.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ she muttered, smiling, knowing he meant well.

But as she hung up the kitchen phone Araminta noted that for the first time in months she felt extraordinarily exhilarated. Her book looked as if it might take off, and, despite her desire to banish him from her brain, she could not help but recall her new neighbour’s captivating smile, and the musky scent of his aftershave as he’d leaned over her shoulder to look at her car insurance papers.

How absurd. She was reacting like a teenager to a handsome face. She must stop, she admonished herself, glancing at her watch and realising it was nearly time for tea. There was no room in her life for anything except her writing and getting out from under her mother’s roof. The rest—a social life, friends, a man and all that—would just have to wait for a time in some remote future that she tried not to think too much about.

‘Was he perfectly dreadful?’ Lady Drusilla enquired as soon as Araminta brought in the tea tray.

‘Who? The new neighbour?’

‘Well, of course the new neighbour. I would hardly want to know about the new milkman,’ Lady Drusilla muttered disparagingly. ‘I wish you would be less dreadfully vague, Araminta, it’s a most annoying trait. I would have thought you’d have grown out of it by now.’

Counting to twenty, Araminta placed the tray down on the ottoman and reminded herself that if all went well, if the book really did take off, she might not have to stand her mother’s jibes for too much longer.

‘Well?’ Lady Drusilla prodded. ‘What was he like?’

‘Oh, all right,’ Araminta replied evasively.

‘What do you mean, all right? Is he young? Old? Handsome? Rich? Or just dreadfully common? One of these nouveau yuppie types?’

‘Frankly, Mother, he was very nice. He was most gracious about the fact that I mucked up his car and that it’ll have to go into the repair shop, and, no, he was not common in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. I thought he was very much the gentleman. He gave me a packet of his coffee.’

‘Coffee?’ Lady Drusilla raised an astonished brow. ‘You mean he’s a food merchant?’

‘Not at all. He is—among, I would imagine, a number of other things—the owner of a coffee plantation in Brazil.’

‘Oh, well, that’s rather different, of course.’

‘I don’t see why,’ Araminta answered crossly. ‘Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn what the man does. The main thing is he seems to be quite pleasant and will hopefully be a good neighbour. He’s Brazilian, by the way.’

‘Well! I never thought to see a Brazilian coffee-planter at the Hall. Poor Sir Edward must be turning in his grave. Why that dreadful cousin of his didn’t keep the place, I can’t imagine.’

‘Thank goodness he didn’t. One look at him was enough to let me know he would be the kind of neighbour we could do without.’

‘Mmm. You’re right, I suppose. He wasn’t very prepossessing, was he?’

‘No, Mother, he wasn’t. And I can assure you that Victor Santander is far removed from Henry Bathwaite. Plus he speaks perfect English. I should think he was probably brought up here.’

‘Perhaps he had an English mother—or maybe a nanny,’ Lady Drusilla mused. ‘Do be careful pouring, Araminta, I’ve told you a hundred times to use the strainer properly.’ Lady Drusilla let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘You are aware that I have to chair the committee for the Hunt Ball this evening, and that I shall require your help, aren’t you?’

‘Mother, I’m sorry, but I simply don’t have the time. I have to finish the proofs of my book.’

Lady Drusilla pursed her lips. ‘I find it quite incredible that you should abandon your true responsibilities because of some ridiculous children’s story. I thought I’d brought you up better than that.’

Araminta was about to tell her mother about the two hundred thousand copies her publisher was putting on the market, and the launch party being planned, but thought better of it. The less her mother knew about her burgeoning career the better. At least she wouldn’t be able to put a spoke in the wheel. So she contained herself with difficulty and remained silent. Perhaps it would even be worth doing some of the public appearances, however hateful, if it meant she could buy her freedom and finally be her own person.

Three days later, Lady Drusilla had just picked up her basket to go and collect some vegetables from the garden when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’ she said, glancing out of the window, annoyed at being interrupted when she was sure it was about to rain.

‘Good morning. Could I speak to Miss Dampierre, please?’

‘Mrs Dampierre. I’m afraid she’s out. Who would like to speak to her?’

‘This is Victor Santander.’

‘Ah. The new neighbour. I am Lady Drusilla Taverstock, Araminta’s mother.’

‘How do you do, Lady Drusilla? I haven’t yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance, but I’m hoping that may be remedied in the very near future.’

Lady Drusilla unbent. At least the man had good manners. ‘How do you do? Perhaps you’d better come over to dinner some time?’

‘That would be very kind.’

Lady Drusilla thought quickly. She simply must get him over here before Marion Nethersmith caught him first. Then she could tell the others all about him. ‘What about tomorrow night?’

‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘Good. I’ll expect you at seven-thirty for drinks.’

‘Thank you. Perhaps you could tell your daughter that I shall bring her car insurance papers back to her then?’

‘Certainly.’

‘I look forward to tomorrow.’

Well, Lady Drusilla, thought as she picked up the basket once more and headed for the backstairs and the kitchen, where she removed her secateurs from the top drawer, at least she’d steal a march on the other neighbours. Marion would be writhing with curiosity and envy.

The thought brought her a considerable measure of satisfaction.

‘You did what?’ Araminta exclaimed, horrified, hands on the hips of her other pair of worn jeans.

‘I invited him over to dinner. Araminta, are you becoming hard of hearing?’

‘But, Mother, how could you? We don’t even know the man properly. It’s embarrassing—’ She threw her hands up in despair.

‘I really can’t see why you’re making such a dreadful fuss. I merely invited our new neighbour—whom you say is perfectly respectable—to dinner. It’s the courteous thing to do.’

‘I can’t believe it. You didn’t even ask me if I wanted—’ Eyes flashing, Araminta flopped into the nearest armchair, trying to understand why the thought of Victor Santander coming to dinner should be so absolutely disturbing.

After being told by Araminta that Victor Santander had uniformed servants at the Manor, Lady Drusilla decided to call in the local caterer, Jane Cavendish, and have dinner properly prepared, rather than count on Olive’s rather dull repertoire of dishes. That would do for old Colonel and Mrs Rathbone, but would certainly not impress someone grand enough to hire a professional cook.

By seven-fifteen the following evening Araminta’s bed was piled with discarded clothing as she wavered between a black Armani sheath that she’d bought shortly before Peter died and had never worn, or grey silk trousers and a top.

Perhaps the sheath was too dressy for a simple dinner.

Perhaps the grey silk was too dull.

After changing for the third time, she finally settled on the silk trousers and top, and after a last glance in the mirror—she’d actually gone to the trouble of putting on some make-up tonight, for some unfathomable reason—she walked down the wide staircase, feeling more confident than she had in months.

Perhaps it was time to bother more about her appearance, she decided, reaching the bottom step, particularly if she was going to have to promote herself. The thought made her shudder as she made her way to the drawing room, where her mother was giving last-minute instructions to the hired help. With a sigh, she went to join her.

Even in the dark, and illuminated only by the car lamps and outdoor lights, Taverstock Hall was an imposing old pile, Victor reflected as the Bentley purred to a halt. He alighted thoughtfully, straightened the jacket of his double-breasted dark grey suit, and walked smartly up the front steps and rang the bell. It was opened by a cheery-looking woman in what could be taken for a uniform, and he was ushered through the high-ceilinged hall and on towards the drawing room, from which voices and the clink of crystal drifted.

On the threshold he stopped a moment and took in the scene. Then he saw Araminta. For thirty seconds he enjoyed the view. His intuition had been right, and her figure was as sensational as he’d imagined it. She was stunning—and deliciously sexy, he realised, watching her as she stood sideways, talking to an old gentleman near the open fireplace. Long and lithe, the curve of her breast subtly etched under the sleeveless silk top— His thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

‘Ah, Mr Santander, I believe?’ A very distinguished, rake-thin woman in her mid-sixties, dressed in a smart black cocktail dress with a large diamond leaf pinned on her left breast, moved towards him. He raised her hand to his lips.

‘Good evening, Lady Drusilla, it is most good of you to have me.’

‘Not at all. Thank you so much for the lovely flowers. Quite unnecessary, I assure you,’ she murmured, taking in every detail of his person. ‘Now, do come in and meet the others. You’ve met Araminta, of course, and this is Colonel Rathbone and Mrs Rathbone—they live not far down the road, at the old vicarage—and this is Miss Blackworth.’ He shook hands politely with an elderly lady in a nondescript purple dress and a three-tier string of pearls before turning to meet what must be the vicar. ‘Vicar, may I introduce Mr Santander? Our new neighbour at the Manor.’

Her tone of satisfaction was not lost on Victor and he glanced at her, amused. So Lady Drusilla was enjoying introducing him into local society, was she? At that moment he raised his eyes and met Araminta’s. They held a moment, and he read amusement laced with discomfort and a touch of embarrassment. After exchanging a few words with the balding vicar, he edged his way towards her.

‘Good evening.’

‘Good evening,’ she replied, smiling politely, disguising her racing pulse, the slight film of perspiration that had formed on her brow the minute she’d sensed he’d entered the room. ‘I hope you won’t be too bored. The country doesn’t provide much in the line of entertainment, I’m afraid.’

‘I did not come to the country to seek entertainment,’ he replied, his presence and the scent of that same cologne leaving Araminta deliciously dizzy. ‘In fact, I came here specifically to find peace and quiet. I did not expect to be invited out so soon,’ he added. ‘Still, it is, of course, a great pleasure to meet one’s neighbours. Particularly when they are so…agreeable.’ He gave her an appraising look that left her feeling strangely feminine and desirable, something she hadn’t felt in ages.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ she said quickly.

‘A Scotch and water, please.’

Glad for the excuse to conceal her perturbed feelings, Araminta busied herself with the drink. What on earth was wrong with her? He wasn’t anything special. Just a neighbour.

Victor watched as she fixed his drink. A beautiful woman with tons of sex appeal. She probably had a husband. He wondered where that husband was. Odd that she seemed so shy for a married woman. Or maybe she was recently divorced. That might explain the reticence.

The thought was strangely appealing. Then with an inner shrug he accepted the drink and prepared to amuse himself for an evening.

From the opposite end of the table Araminta watched her mother grilling Victor Santander and admired his polite, concise answers that gave little away. But, oh, what she would have given for this evening not to have taken place! By the time coffee had been drunk, after-dinner drinks consumed and the better part of the guests had taken their leave, she was only too ready to usher him out through the door and send him off to his car.

‘This has been a most pleasant evening,’ he remarked, eyeing her again in that same assessing manner that left her slightly breathless. ‘Could I persuade you to join me for dinner tomorrow at the Manor? After all, we haven’t had a moment to go over the insurance papers.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ Araminta admitted, fumbling for words. It was very unlike her to be so—so what? Aware of herself? Of him, standing so close that it left her feeling tingly all over? What on earth was wrong with her?

‘Well? Would you like that? Or would you prefer to dine at the Bells in Sheringdon? I hear they serve a very decent meal.’

‘I don’t think I can,’ she said hurriedly, seeing her mother hovering in the hall. ‘Why don’t we speak tomorrow and set up a convenient time to do the papers?’

‘As you wish.’ He pressed his lips to her hand. Then, to her amazement, he brushed his lips on the inside of her wrist.

Araminta withheld a gasp as a shaft of molten heat coursed from her head to her abdomen. With a gulp she snatched her hand away, caught the devilish gleam in his eyes and the amused smile hovering at his lips, and seethed inwardly at her silly reaction. Then he moved, lean and predatory, towards the car.

Heart thudding, Araminta watched the Bentley purr smoothly off down the drive, then turned with a sigh of relief and stepped inside. This was ridiculous. How could she be put in a state because a man touched her hand? Thank God she’d refused Victor Santander’s offer of dinner if this was the way he affected her.

She never felt stirrings for any of the men she knew, yet for some inexplicable reason this Brazilian—who was almost a stranger—had touched something deep within her that she’d believed gone for ever. It both frightened and excited her. Her instinct warned her that the less she saw of the man the better. She knew very little of him, but sensed there was something sophisticated and dangerous about him. He was, she told herself firmly, the last person she would want to get involved with. That was if she was thinking of getting involved with anyone—which, of course, she wasn’t.

‘Araminta?’

‘Yes, Mother, I’m coming.’ Araminta closed the large front door, then made her way back through the hall to the drawing room, where her mother was seated complacently by the fire, twiddling a final glass of champagne.

‘Well, I must say that I was most favourably surprised by our new neighbour. Did you know that he went to Eton?’

‘No, I didn’t. Mother, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go up to bed,’ she said, passing a hand over her brow. ‘I’ve a bit of a headache.’

Lady Drusilla, dying to assess the evening further, pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘Oh, very well,’ she muttered.

And Araminta made good her escape.

CHAPTER FOUR

A COUPLE of days later Araminta told herself that any passing attraction she might have felt for her new neighbour was nothing more than that. She’d kept busy, going over and over the proofs of her book, making sure any last-minute errors did not escape her before she sent back the final version to her editor who was having it published at record speed. But today she was taking a break, and going riding.

As she gave Rania her head and galloped across the Downs, Araminta enjoyed the cool wind in her hair and the sense of freedom that was so far removed from being cooped up in the house, bent over her laptop, as she had been for the past days. But at least the proofs were ready and she could post them off tomorrow.

Slowing her pace, Araminta became aware of another horse and rider coming out of the copse. She glanced in their direction, noting the equestrian’s good seat and the fine proportions of the horse. Then all at once her heart stood still and she gulped. Surely it couldn’t be Victor Santander?

She’d been so involved in her work for the past few days that she’d forgotten the phone message he’d left and the insurance that still needed to be dealt with. Now, as the horses approached one another, she braced herself. He would probably be cross that she hadn’t phoned back. And he’d be entitled.

Victor reined in the fine chestnut and watched appreciatively as Araminta brought her mount to a stop. She looked quite lovely astride the skittish mare. A flash of amusement gripped him as he approached, realising that her expression was that of a guilty child. Amused rather than annoyed that she had obviously forgotten all about his call, he reined in next to her. The truth was, it intrigued him to meet a woman who was so outwardly unresponsive to him, yet who he was certain held hidden depths of sexual response.

Suddenly the idea of setting out to seduce Araminta and find out if that response truly existed became vastly appealing. He’d discovered now that she was a widow. Good. No jealous husband to contend with. Plus, he’d never seduced a widow. This could be a first.

‘Hello,’ he said casually, riding alongside her now, noting how lovely she looked, her cheeks pink and her golden hair a windblown mass that he wished he could drag his fingers through.

‘Hello.’

‘You didn’t get my message?’ he asked, looking her straight in the eye, allowing her no escape, amused as the colour in her cheeks heightened. He smiled inwardly. It would definitely be amusing to see the fair Araminta Dampierre writhing to his touch. And writhe she would, he assured himself, with all the arrogant confidence of one used to getting his own way.

‘I’m afraid I forgot to phone back,’ she apologised. ‘I’ve been very busy with my book the past few days.’

‘I see,’ he responded coolly. ‘Well, I got in touch with the insurance company and they’ll be sending you some forms to complete.’

‘I’m sorry. I should have remembered.’

‘Yes, you should.’

‘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.

Araminta steadied her gaze and he read anger there. ‘Perhaps it did. I don’t know where my head was at. I’m sorry if I misled you. I had no intention of giving you the wrong impression. I—look, I need to go home.’

‘Why of course,’ he murmured with a sardonic twist of his lips. He watched her pick up her purse, ignoring a sudden twinge of disappointment. Though why he should feel disappointment when he barely knew this woman was ridiculous!

Perhaps it was proof that, despite all he’d been through with Isabella, he still hadn’t tamed that irrationally romantic nature of his. Or was Araminta Dampierre less innocent than she seemed? He of all people knew what women were capable of. Why, for a single moment, should he imagine that this one might be any different from all the others?

As she drove down the dark country road and headed back to Taverstock Hall Araminta took herself seriously to task, asking over and over how she could possibly have behaved in such a wanton manner. Never had anything remotely similar occurred before in her life, not even when she was a teenager. That Victor was a man whom she’d met only a few times didn’t make it any better. And thank goodness for that sudden flash of common sense that had intervened just in time, or right now she might very well be rolling between Victor Santander’s wretched sheets!

It was appalling, shocking, and so unlike her that she had difficulty recognizing herself in the writhing woman of minutes earlier. For a moment she thought of Peter, and a new wave of guilt swept over her. She hadn’t thought of him once all evening, hadn’t remembered the gentle, quiet nights spent in each other’s arms after tender but, she had to admit, guiltily comparing the sensations of earlier in the evening, not very exciting sex.

Araminta changed gears crossly as she swerved into the gates of Taverstock Hall. That she should suddenly be denigrating her marriage was as absurd as all the rest. She’d been happy, hadn’t she? Had never felt that what they’d had was less than enough, had she? So why this? Why now? Why had she soared to unknown heights at the touch of a near-stranger, and never during the entire course of her sedate marriage to a man she knew—was one hundred per cent certain—that she had loved? Surely there must be something seriously wrong with her?

Too troubled to go straight into the house, and possibly have to face her mother, Araminta dropped her car keys into her pocket and wandered into the rose garden, where she sat down on one of the stone benches. With a sigh she stared up at the half moon flickering through fast-travelling cloud and tried to make sense of the evening. But whichever way she viewed it she still couldn’t come up with any justification for her strange behaviour. She must, she concluded, have lost her mind. And she’d better make damn sure it never happened again. Not paying attention while parking, she reflected grimly, could carry a high price.

Victor was also too wound up to go to bed, and he stood for a long time by the window, wondering why she’d allowed him to go that far. Was she innocent, or a hypocrite? he pondered, wishing to banish the niggling feeling of frustration that still hovered. Whatever, it was probably a lot better that she had upped and left when she had, for otherwise it might have proved embarrassing to have her wake up next to him when he’d had no intention of anything more than a night of good, satisfying sex.

In fact, all round it was definitely preferable this way, he persuaded himself, wandering back to the drawing room and absently pouring another cognac, before retiring to the study to do some work before going up to bed.

But half an hour later he found it impossible to concentrate on the project at hand. He must be tired, he concluded, folding up the plans of a new factory in Brazil.

‘Damn Araminta,’ he exclaimed, banishing the image of her lovely face as she’d reached orgasm in his arms, and the strangely satisfying sensation he’d experienced when he’d heard that little gasp of surprised shock that told him quite clearly she’d never reached those heights before.

With a sigh and a short harsh laugh directed at himself, Victor downed the last of his brandy. Then, switching off the lights, he headed upstairs to bed, determined to rid his mind of his fair neighbour.

CHAPTER FIVE

THERE was no use pretending it hadn’t happened, Araminta realised the next day. She just had to face the fact that for a few inexplicable minutes she must have gone mad.

As it happened she was given little opportunity to stew over the events of the night before, for early in the day the telephone rang.

‘Araminta, it’s Pearce. Look, they’re advancing the book-launch date and there’s a huge party planned at the Ritz. I can’t believe it—they’re going to have it published in record time,’ he said excitedly.

‘Oh. Will I be expected to be there?’

‘Well, of course you will, silly girl. You’re the one person who has to be there, come hell or high water.’

‘But I don’t think I—’

‘One more word and I’ll scream,’ Pearce roared down the phone. ‘Araminta, get with the programme! This is your book, your success. Don’t you feel the least bit excited about it all? Girl, you’re about to make millions if it flies!’

‘Really? Yes, I suppose I might,’ she muttered vaguely. The thought of being exposed to all those strangers, having to smile and chit-chat, sound intelligent and answer questions about her book was thoroughly daunting.

‘Araminta, it’s not the end of the world,’ Pearce continued patiently. ‘You used to be so social before you married Peter. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve changed, I suppose.’

‘Not really. You’re just hiding.’

‘Peter didn’t like going out much, so we rarely did.’

‘Araminta, Peter is no longer with us,’ Pearce said carefully. ‘And you are. You have to make a life for yourself. Thanks to your own efforts you’re going to be a great success. Enjoy it, girl, instead of running away.’

‘I’ll think about,’ she murmured, twisting the cord of the telephone. ‘When is the party going to be?’

‘In three weeks.’ He gave her the date.

‘So soon?’ Araminta squeaked.

‘Yes. Goodness knows how they’re getting the books done in time. And you’d better get yourself to London and buy a decent dress for the occasion. Don’t think you can come in those worn jeans of yours. I won’t have it. I want you to look stunning. In fact I’ll go shopping with you if need be.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Araminta responded in a dignified tone. This was all happening far too fast. First last night, now this. It was as if she couldn’t stem the flow of events sweeping her along, despite her desire to stay cushioned from the world at Taverstock Hall.

But as she hung up she heard her mother calling from the stairs and winced, closing her eyes. Perhaps this really was her chance to move on. Of course if she moved it would mean more change. But at least she’d have a choice, which at present she didn’t. Plus, it would mean she wouldn’t be stuck next door to Victor Santander.

This last did more to get her moving than any other element of the equation. The mere thought of coming across him in the village or elsewhere was enough to cause a rush of hot embarrassment. What would she do? How would she face him if it happened?

‘Araminta, I really must have your help for the Hunt Ball,’ Lady Drusilla said, walking into the hall and bringing her crashing back to earth.

‘I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m afraid I’ll be away at that time,’ she responded absently.

‘Away?’

‘I’m going to London. I have to do some stuff for my book. There’s going to be some sort of launch party on the same day as the Ball.’

‘Goodness. How very tiresome.’ Lady Drusilla pulled her cardigan closer and sniffed. ‘Couldn’t you have got your publishers to arrange it another day? It can’t be that important, surely?’

‘Actually, it is,’ Araminta replied, drawing herself up suddenly aware for the first time just what she was about to achieve. ‘They’re publishing two hundred thousand copies.’

‘Goodness. That seems rather excessive, doesn’t it?’ Lady Drusilla’s brows rose in disapproval. ‘I hope they won’t sit on the shelves. It could be a terrible waste of good paper.’

Furious at her mother’s response, Araminta turned on her heel and decided that Pearce was right. She needed out, needed to get on with her life and not tolerate her mother’s impossible behaviour any longer. In fact, she decided, running up the stairs and dashing the tears from her cheeks, the sooner she went to London and began looking for something decent to wear for the party the better. After all, if she was going to be the centre of attention then she might as well do it right.

Three weeks later Araminta stood in the ballroom of the Ritz surrounded by Pearce, her publishers, and a number of journalists, critics and miscellaneous celebrities brought in for the occasion. There were stands with copies of Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise tastefully placed about the room, waiters circulated with trays of champagne and elegant finger food, and a jazz quartet played at the far end of the room.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.