The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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