The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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