Читать книгу One Night in... Rio: The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child / Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child / The Surgeon's Runaway Bride - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 9

Three years later

FROM the air, the city of Rio de Janeiro was impressive: Sugar Loaf Mountain, the iconic statue of Christ on another mountain called Corcovado, and the glorious beaches surrounding Guanabara Bay.

Isobel had read that the earlier settlers had believed the bay was the mouth of a river. ‘Rio’ meant river, and, along with the month in which the country had been discovered, had given the city its name.

She’d read a lot on the journey, wanting to know as much about the country and its people as she could cram into the eleven-hour flight. She’d decided there’d be time enough to learn about her subject when she met her. She already knew Anita Silveira was a very successful writer. Having read many of her books, she felt she had learned a little of the woman’s character already.

The irony of accepting the Brazilian assignment wasn’t lost on her. Aunt Olivia hadn’t wanted her to go, and even her uncle had had his reservations. But apparently Senhora Silveira had read some of Isobel’s work and had asked that she conduct the interview. And, because it was such an important coup for Lifestyles magazine, Sam Armstrong had reluctantly agreed to let her go.

It wasn’t as if she was likely to meet Alejandro Cabral, Isobel had protested when her aunt had brought the subject up. Rio was a huge city, with a population of well over six million. What were the chances of her meeting her daughter’s father again? The odds were definitely stacked against it.

All the same, Isobel couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to seeing the place where Alejandro had been born and where he’d been living when she’d known him. Their acquaintance had been so brief to have such long-lasting consequences, she thought a little bitterly. Yet she wouldn’t be without Emma; her daughter had given real meaning to her life.

But now Rio was far behind her. When she’d arrived in the city two days before, Ben Goodman—a friend of her uncle, with whom he’d arranged for her to stay—had informed her that Senhora Silveira had retired to her coastal villa north of Rio. She apparently preferred the cooler ocean breezes of Porto Verde to the summer heat of the city.

Isobel didn’t blame her. Having left London in the depths of a cold and wet January, she hadn’t been prepared for the heat and humidity that had assaulted her as soon as she’d stepped out of the airport. In no time at all her cotton shirt had been clinging to her, and it had been such a relief to reach the Goodmans’ house in the leafy suburb of Santa Teresa and discover it had air-conditioning.

Nevertheless, the beauty of the city hadn’t totally escaped her. Despite the poverty of the favellas, there was so much she would have liked to explore: to ride the trolley cars and visit the many museums and art galleries, to walk along the beach at Ipanema and taste the vibrant nightlife for which the city was famous.

Still, she wasn’t here as a tourist, she reminded herself as the connecting flight from Rio to Porto Verde swept low over a high plateau, before descending with unnerving speed towards the coast. The small airstrip bordered the ocean; golden sand-dunes rippled beneath waving palms. In the distance, purple-fringed mountains looked remote and mysterious; nearer at hand the cliffs of the plateau gleamed white in the sinking rays of the sun.

Although Ben Goodman had never visited the Silveira villa, he’d told Isobel it was said to be very beautiful. She was a wealthy woman, he’d added without envy. A little arrogant perhaps, according to reports he’d heard, but also deserving of a little pity due to the fact that her only child, a daughter, had died when she’d been only twenty-two.

Not that her uncle expected Isobel to enquire into the woman’s personal life. Anita Silveira seldom gave interviews at all, and she had only agreed this time because Sam Armstrong had been kind to her when her first book had been published many years ago. She didn’t court publicity these days. She was a very private person. Isobel had been left in no doubt that she was extremely privileged to be given this opportunity.

The flight attendant passed along the aisle, informing passengers that they’d be landing shortly, and a few minutes later the small plane bumped down onto the runway. They taxied to where a cluster of iron-roofed buildings marked the terminal, the sea stretching away beside them, and no obvious security in sight.

There were only about a dozen passengers on the flight.

This area of the country was popular with tourists, and judging by the shorts and backpacks, and the cameras slung about their necks, her fellow travellers were looking forward to their holiday. According to her guide book, the area offered trekking and climbing opportunities, while the huge Sao Francisco Lakes offered all kinds of water sports as well.

Once again, the heat struck her as she descended the steps from the aircraft. There was no jetway here, just a short walk from the plane to the reception hall. Then a rather longer wait for her luggage, and finally she grabbed the handle of her suitcase and emerged into the sunlight again.

There were taxis, and she had Anita Silveira’s address, but this evening she was going to check in at a hotel and relax after her journey. She would make arrangements to see her subject tomorrow, after she’d had a decent night’s sleep.

However, before she could approach one of the taxis, an elderly man dressed in a white shirt, a black waistcoat and baggy trousers came ambling towards her.

‘Senhora Jameson?’ he asked, showing a row of uneven teeth liberally stained with tobacco.

‘Yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘I’m Ms Jameson.’

‘Muito prezer, senhora.’ Which must mean, ‘pleased to meet you’, Isobel thought as the old man commandeered her suitcase. He led the way to where an old-fashioned limousine was waiting. ‘Entrar, por favor.’ ‘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 you to the terrace.’

‘Thank you,’ Isobel said again, and the other woman raised a hand in acknowledgement before disappearing through the archway to their right. The wooden heels of her sandals clattered across the block floor, before the sound of a door closing cut off any further sound.

At once, Sancha took charge. ‘E por aqui,’ she said, her beckoning finger an indication of what she meant. With Isobel following, they passed beneath the arch of the stairs and out onto the veranda at the back of the villa.

After the coolness of the hall, the heat and humidity were intense, and Isobel wondered where the old woman was taking her. A cottage in the grounds, perhaps? Maybe employees of whatever persuasion didn’t stay in the luxury of the villa. She wilted a little. She hoped, wherever it was, it had air-conditioning. Every garment she was wearing felt as if it was plastered to her skin.

In fact, her rooms opened off the veranda. Double-panelled doors gave onto a pleasant sitting room with a wood-block floor, leather sofas and several colourful landscapes on the walls. There was a marble fireplace—although when that might be needed, Isobel couldn’t imagine—and a round, glass-topped table with four upright chairs. There was even a television, something Isobel hadn’t expected.

The room was done with a much lighter touch than the main part of the villa, and Isobel turned to the housekeeper with a grateful smile. ‘This is beautiful,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Sancha. I’m sure I will be very comfortable here.’

? quarto aqui,’ said Sancha obliquely, crossing the room and opening the door into an adjoining bedroom. Then, with an evident effort, ‘Is good?’

‘Very good. Um, muito bem,’ said Isobel, hoping her schoolgirlish attempt at a response might win her a smile.

But Sancha only nodded as if it was nothing less than she’d expected. She let herself out of the room again as the men arrived with Isobel’s luggage and her briefcase containing the laptop computer she’d brought with her.

She thanked the men, and was considering going for a shower when a maid arrived with a tray of refreshments: iced tea, hot coffee and a jug of fruit juice, as well as tiny sandwiches made from seafood and canapés oozing with caviar and cream-cheese.

Despite being certain that she wasn’t hungry, Isobel found she couldn’t resist tasting the delicious food. Like everything else at the villa, it was rich and sumptuous. She could get used to this, she thought drily. Or maybe not. She was simply too tired to think straight at the moment.

But not too tired to phone her aunt and uncle and let them know she’d arrived safely. She also wanted to hear about Emma. She missed the little girl so much when she had to go away.

‘She’s fine,’ Aunt Olivia said reassuringly. ‘She helped me feed the horses, and then we went for walk with the dogs. She’s sound asleep now, probably dreaming about the puppies in the barn.’ She gave a laugh. ‘Not that she didn’t ask at least a dozen times where you were and when you’re coming back.’

Isobel’s throat tightened. ‘You will give her my love, won’t you?’ she said, a catch in her voice.

‘Of course we will,’ her Uncle Sam called over his wife’s shoulder. ‘Anyway, what’s the hotel like?’

‘Oh, I’m not staying at a hotel,’ said Isobel quickly. ‘The man who met me at the airport told me Senhora Silveira expected me to stay at her villa, so here I am.’

Her aunt was a little concerned that Isobel wasn’t to be staying at a hotel where they could reach her easily, but her uncle wasn’t alarmed. ‘So what is it like at the Villa Mimosa?’ he asked. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to Anita yet?’

‘Well, I’ve met her,’ conceded Isobel, blinking back the tears that talking about her daughter had caused. ‘She seems—very nice.’

‘Do I detect a reservation there?’ Her uncle’s voice was more distinct now, and she guessed he’d taken the phone from his wife.

‘Hardly,’ protested Isobel. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve had time to get to know her. I’d better go. This phone needs charging and I don’t want to run it right down.’

She rang off and helped herself to one of the seafood sandwiches and a cup of coffee. The iced tea looked inviting, but she needed the kick the caffeine would give.

A maid arrived a few moments later and asked in broken English if Isobel would like her to unpack her cases. But, despite the temptation, Isobel assured her that she could do it herself.

She rested for a while after her shower, finding the queen- sized bed just as comfortable as she’d anticipated. But she was too hyped up now to go to sleep. Which was just as well, as she still had to unpack and decide what she was going to wear for dinner.

A little while later, she got up again and walked into the living room. The long curtains at the windows were not drawn, and she went to peer through the windows, turning on more lamps as she crossed the room. It was fully dark now, but lights had sprung up in the grounds of the villa. The glint of water seemed to indicate a pool, but it was too dark to be sure.

And then a shadow crossed the veranda outside. Immediately, Isobel drew back, half-alarmed. It was a man; she was sure of it. Had he been spying on her? She glanced towards the double doors in alarm. Goodness; she hadn’t even locked them before going for her shower.

She considered opening the door and peering out, but that seemed foolish. Besides, when one of the palm trees outside swayed towards the windows, she couldn’t be sure that wasn’t what she’d seen before. She was on edge, she thought, anxious about her daughter and anxious about the upcoming interview. Once she’d had a good night’s sleep, she’d view everything in a different light.

Returning to the bedroom, she quickly stowed her underwear on the shelves in the armoire. The few tops and dresses she’d brought barely filled the hanging space. Tank tops and shorts were folded into the drawers of the vanity, while the little make-up she’d brought with her looked lost on the cut-glass tray.

After several attempts, Isobel finally decided to wear a plain black slip-dress. It was formal without being too traditional, and was cooler than a sleeved top would have been.

Strapless sandals, also in black, gave her height as well as confidence. But viewing the few pounds she’d gained since Emma was born was not the most reassuring thing.

The maid arrived so quickly after she rang that she was half-inclined to believe the girl had been waiting outside the whole time. Perhaps that was who she’d seen earlier, she thought. She hadn’t been sure it was a man—or anybody, to be precise.

As soon as she stepped outside, Isobel was glad she’d worn the silk dress but the breeze off the ocean was appealing. It was the first time she’d noticed the scent of the sea.

Once again, they entered the main building, crossing the hall and through one of the immaculate rooms Isobel had glimpsed on her arrival. Beyond the room, a glass-walled terrace provided additional living space. And it was there that she found Anita Silveira, reclining languidly on a cushioned chaise longue.

She got to her feet at Isobel’s entrance, however, her eyes flickering critically over the younger woman, making Isobel feel as if she was wanting somehow. Anita, for her part, was dressed in a flowing caftan of many colours, its dipping neckline and hip-high slit accentuating her voluptuous figure.

‘Ah, Ms Jameson,’ she said, putting down the cocktail glass she was holding and regarding her guest with guarded eyes. ‘How delightful you look. So essentially English, nao?’

Isobel wouldn’t have said so, but she supposed, compared to Anita’s colourful outfit, she did look unexciting. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said, trying to make a joke of it. She glanced about her, noticing the waiter hovering over a chilled cabinet in the corner. ‘This is nice. Less formal than—than—’

‘You find my home formal, Ms Jameson?’

Anita leapt on her words, and Isobel decided she would have to think more carefully before she spoke. ‘Um, traditional,’ she said at last. ‘It reminds me of houses I’ve seen in Portugal.’ She moistened her lips and then continued, ‘Actually, you have a very beautiful home.’

Anita looked a little mollified, and as if deciding there was no point in pursuing the topic she said, ‘Let Ruis get you a drink, senhora. What will you have? Wine, perhaps? Or a cocktail?’

‘White wine, please,’ said Isobel gratefully. The last thing she needed was anything too alcoholic to confuse her already tired brain.

‘Muito bem.’ Anita snapped her fingers. ‘Some wine for the senhora, Ruis, por favor.’

‘Sim, senhora.’

Ruis sprang into action, and a moment later Isobel had a glass of white wine in her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said as the young man resumed his position by the cabinet. ‘This is very nice.’

Ruis bowed his head, and as he did so Isobel heard other footsteps crossing the room next door. They were slow footsteps, slightly halting, but Anita turned with evident pleasure towards the door.

‘Ah, here is my son-in-law,’ she said, startling Isobel, who hadn’t known her daughter was married. ‘Come and greet our guest, Alex. We have been waiting for you.’

Isobel expelled a sigh. She had wondered if Anita intended to start the interview tonight, and now she didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry this wasn’t so. Despite the hospitality she’d been offered, she couldn’t deny she’d be glad when this particular assignment was over. And meeting members of Anita’s family hadn’t been part of the deal.

And then her legs weakened under her. The man who joined them was regarding her with a cool, sardonic gaze. Anita might know him as Alex, but Isobel was more familiar with Alejandro. It might have been three years and God knew how many miles since they’d last seen one another, but the man who stepped rather unevenly onto the terrace was undeniably her daughter’s father.