The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart
‘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