Читать книгу The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 9

‘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.