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‘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 extremely careless of you.’
‘I’m very well aware of that,’ she said tightly. ‘Actually, he was very nice about it.’
‘So he should be. It’s not every day he’ll have the privilege of being bumped into by a Taverstock, as it were.’
‘Mother, why must you be so pompous?’ Araminta exclaimed, her dark blue eyes flashing at her mother’s ridiculous statement.
‘I shall have to find out from Marion Nethersmith who he is, exactly, and what is going on at the Manor,’ Lady Drusilla continued as though her daughter hadn’t spoken. ‘It’s been quite a mystery. Nobody knew who was moving in. I think it’s too bad that one doesn’t know anything about one’s neighbours any more. They might be anybody.’
‘Well, I’ll know soon enough,’ Araminta said shortly. ‘I’m due over there with my car insurance information to settle this matter tomorrow at ten.’
‘Really, Araminta, I find it hard to believe that you, a married woman—a widow, rather—who should know better, are belittling yourself in this manner. Why didn’t you tell him to come here?’
‘Because—’ Araminta had been about to say, I wouldn’t subject anyone, let alone a stranger, to your intolerable manners. But instead she shut up and shrugged. ‘I have to go into the village anyway.
‘Oh, very well. Pass me a scone, would you, dear? I know I shouldn’t, but I don’t suppose one can do much harm.’
CHAPTER TWO
AT TEN o’clock precisely, Araminta, clad in a pair of worn jeans, an Arran sweater, a Barbour rain jacket and Wellington boots, pulled up on the gravel in front of Chippenham Manor, noting that the gardens which for ages had run wild were carefully weeded, the hedges neatly trimmed and the gravel raked. Whoever Mr Santander was, he obviously liked things in good order.
For some reason this left her feeling less daunted. It was reassuring to see the Manor—abandoned and forlorn for so long after Sir Edward’s death, ignored by the distant cousin who’d inherited and whose only interest in the property had been to sell it—being properly looked after by the new owner.
Jumping out of the old Land Rover, Araminta winced at the sight of the crushed bumper on the smart new Range Rover parked next to a shining Bentley. With a sigh she walked up the steps and rang the bell. It was answered several moments later by a tanned man in uniform.
‘Mr Santander is expecting me,’ she said, surprised at the man’s elegance. Chippenham Manor was a large, comfortable English home, but one didn’t quite expect uniformed staff answering the door.
‘Mrs Dampierre?’ the man asked respectfully.
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Please follow me.’ The manservant stood back, holding the door wide, and bowed her in.
Araminta stood and stared for a full minute, barely recognizing her surroundings. The hall had been completely redecorated. She’d heard there was work going on at the Manor, but nobody knew much about it as all the firms employed had come from London.
She looked about her, impressed, enchanted by the attractive wall covering, the contemporary sconces, the bright flashes of unusual art. A particularly attractive flower arrangement stood on a drum table in the centre of the dazzling white marble floor which in Sir Edward’s day had looked worn and somewhat grubby, and which his housekeeper had complained bitterly about.
‘This way, madam,’ the servant said, leading her down the passage towards the drawing room.
When she reached the threshold Araminta gasped in sheer amazement. Gone were the drab, musty Adam green brocade wall coverings, the drooping fringed curtains and the gloomy portraits of Sir Edward’s none too prepossessing ancestors. Instead she was greeted by soft eggshell paint, white curtains that broke on the gleaming parquet floor, wide contemporary sofas piled with subtly toned cushions, and the walls—the walls were a positive feast of the most extraordinarily luminous paintings she’d ever set eyes on.
‘You seem surprised at the way this room looks.’
Araminta spun round, nearly tripping on the edge of the Arraiolo rug, then swallowed in amazement as her eyes met a pair of dark, slightly amused ones. The man who had come in through the door that linked the drawing room to the study next door stood six feet tall. His jet-black hair was streaked with grey at the temples, and his features—well, his features were positively patrician.
‘I hope it is admiration and not disgust that has you eyeing this room so critically,’ he said, raising a quizzical brow and giving her the once-over. Then he moved forward and reached out his hand. ‘I am Victor Santander.’
‘Araminta Dampierre,’ she murmured, pulling herself together with a jolt. ‘And, no, I wasn’t being critical at all—simply marvelling that Sir Edward’s dull drawing room could be transformed into something as wonderful as this.’
‘It pleases you?’
His hand held hers a second longer than necessary. Surprised at the tingling sensation coursing up her arm, Araminta withdrew her hand quickly.
‘Yes. It’s—well, it’s so unexpected, and bright, and so—well, so un-English. Yet it doesn’t look out of place,’ she ended lamely, hoping she hadn’t sounded rude. It was bad enough that she’d bashed the man’s car without insulting him as well.
‘Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I think it brightens the old place up. I hope I haven’t gone overboard with the Latin American art, though,’ he said, tilting his head and studying her.
‘Oh, no,’ she reassured him, eyeing the amazing pictures once more. ‘That’s what makes it utterly unique.’
Then, remembering why she was here, she drew herself up, wishing now that she’d worn something more flattering than her old jeans and sweater. Not that it mattered a damn, of course. But seeing him standing there looking so sure of himself, so irritatingly cool and suave in perfectly cut beige corduroy trousers, his shirt and cravat topped by a pale yellow cashmere jersey, did leave her wishing she had been more selective.
‘I must apologise again for my careless behaviour yesterday. I’m really very sorry to have caused your car damage.’
‘It is not important.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Please, won’t you take off your jacket and sit down? Manuel will bring us coffee.’ He turned to the manservant hovering in the doorway and murmured something in a language she didn’t understand. The man responded by stepping forward and taking her jacket, before disappearing once more.
‘Please. Sit down.’ He indicated one of the large couches. ‘You say that we are neighbours? I remember seeing a reference on the land map to Taverstock Hall. Does it belong to you and your husband?’ Victor asked, taking in the gracefully tall woman standing before him, with her huge blue eyes, perfect complexion and long blonde hair cascading over the shoulders of an oversized sweater that did not allow for much appreciation of her figure. Quite a beauty, his new neighbour, even if she was careless.
‘Uh, no. It belongs to my mother.’ He watched her sink among the cushions, elegant despite the casualness of her attire, and sat opposite. ‘As I said, I feel dreadful about yesterday. Still, I brought my insurance papers so that we can get it cleared up as soon as possible. Oh!’ she exclaimed, her expression suddenly stricken. ‘I put them in the pocket of my jacket.’
‘Manuel will bring them. Never mind the papers,’ he dismissed.
‘Thank you.’
He eyed her up and down speculatively, and drawled, ‘Frankly, I’m rather glad you banged into my bumper. I might otherwise never have had the opportunity of meeting my neighbour.’
He smiled at her, an amused, lazy smile, and again Araminta felt taken aback at how impressively good-looking he was. She also got the impression that she was being slowly and carefully undressed.
‘Well, that’s very gracious of you,’ she countered, sitting up straighter and shifting her gaze as Manuel reappeared, with a large tray holding a steaming glass and silver coffee pot, cups, and a dish with tiny biscuits.
‘Ah, here comes Manuel with the cafèzinho.’ He smiled again, showing a row of perfect white teeth. ‘In my country we drink this all day.’
‘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 he found Araminta’s company strangely refreshing? He’d even taken her insurance papers as an excuse to get in touch with her again. And she’d seemed oddly reticent—something else he was unused to—as though she wasn’t comfortable being close to a man.
The whole thing was intriguing. Not that he was here to be intrigued, or to waste his time flirting with rural neighbours. He’d come to the English countryside to seek peace of mind, make sure his horses were properly trained and take the necessary time to study his latest business ventures without interruption.
Still, Araminta, with her deep blue eyes, her silky blonde hair and—despite the shapeless sweater—he’d be willing to swear her very attractive figure, had brightened his day.
With a sigh and a shake of the head Victor returned to the study, and, banishing Araminta from his mind, concentrated on matters at hand.
CHAPTER THREE
‘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.’
