The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

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‘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 was far too overpowering, Araminta realised as she listened to his knowledgeable analysis of several paintings gracing the drawing room walls. Araminta showed suitable interest, wondering all the while how it was possible that a man she barely knew could have such a powerful effect on her.

It was as if she’d changed, as if something within her yearned for him in a visceral, primitive way that was not only unladylike, but which she’d also always despised in other women. The truth was she’d never experienced such longing first-hand. In fact, now that she thought about it, she’d rarely been just physically attracted to anyone. Even when she’d met Peter it had taken quite a while before she’d realised she was fond of him. And that had been because of his character, his charm, his fun, not because he oozed charisma and sex appeal.

But this man was different. Even as they chatted he exuded a tense, dangerous quality that should repel but that instead acted upon her like a magnet.

Dinner was delicious—lobster bisque followed by roast pheasant. Victor had gone to great trouble to make her feel at ease. To her astonishment Araminta confided in him, told him about her next book, and some of her future hopes and fears in that domain. And he listened, obviously interested and admiring.

She sighed now, feeling warm and at ease. Perhaps it was a combination of the pleasant conversation, the softly candlelit room, the wine and the after-dinner drink that she held loosely in her left hand that were responsible for her being so aware of him. She smiled when he looked down at her, those dark eyes flecked with gold so penetrating that she wondered suddenly if he could read her soul. She shivered and hoped he hadn’t a clue what was on her mind. Wished she didn’t know herself.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked, slipping a firm arm around her shoulder and turning her slowly towards him.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she murmured, aware that her pulse was beating wildly, willing herself to move away from him. But her body didn’t follow her head.

‘Let me take your glass.’ Victor laid it down on the small table next to him, his eyes mesmerising hers. Jazz played softly in the background, and for a moment Araminta wondered if this was real or merely a dream from which she would suddenly wake.

Then Victor took a step closer, and she could feel the warmth of his body, breathe the scent of his aftershave. For a moment a flash of logic penetrated the delicious haze surrounding her, telling her this was asking for trouble. But his hypnotic gaze was upon her, she could feel his body heat, could not resist the draw as his arms slipped possessively around her. And all at once Araminta knew that, defying all reason, she wanted his kiss more than anything.

And it came. Surprisingly soft at first, then harder, his tongue exploring her mouth in a manner so new and so unknown, so different from anything she’d experienced with Peter that she almost drew back. For this was no quick, purposeful kiss designed to prepare the way for what was to follow, but rather a slow, lazy, languorous, delicious, yet taunting discovery.

Even as the kiss deepened, Araminta knew that she had never experienced anything similar before, and slowly she gave way to the myriad of sensations coursing through her being, felt her body yield, soft and melting in his arms, felt his hardness against her and knew that she had never desired a man as she desired Victor Santander.

His hands were wandering now, travelling up and down her spine, along her ribcage, cupping her bottom, bringing her even closer, caressing, pressing her to him, until, oblivious to reality, she let out a sigh of utter longing.

The next thing she knew they were lying on one of the wide couches and Victor was deftly unbuttoning her silk blouse. Even as her brain told her she should put a stop to this immediately, her body craved his touch and she could do nothing to halt the onslaught. When his thumb grazed her nipple through the thin texture of her bra she gasped, and a shaft of heat, a white hot arrow like none she’d ever known, left her arching, yearning for the touch of his fingers, travelling south, deftly removing all barriers, seeking until he encountered the soft mound of throbbing desire between her thighs. When he cupped her she let out a moan of delight and threw her head back, unable to do more than succumb to the delicious torture, give way to the turmoil of sensation that exploded in a pent-up rush when his fingers finally reached her core.

‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered, ‘gorgeous, and I want you.’

As Araminta lay in his arms, recovering from the most unexpected, mind-shattering orgasm of her life, a tiny voice spoke in the back of her mind. This couldn’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening. Was she really lying wantonly with Victor Santander—a man she barely knew—allowing him to touch her intimately? What must he think of her?

In fact, at that very instant he was determinedly trying to strip her of the rest of her garments.

With a jerk Araminta pulled herself up and out of his arms.

Victor fell back and looked at her, brows creased. ‘Is something the matter, querida?’ he asked, dragging his fingers through his thick black hair, eyes bright with undisguised desire.

‘No—yes—look, I don’t know what happened just now,’ she mumbled hoarsely, aware of her mussed hair as she fumbled around for her bra and shirt. ‘I—I know this will sound absurd, but I honestly don’t know how it happened.’

She began fiddling with the hook of her bra, then the buttons of her blouse, wishing she were a thousand miles away, feeling her cheeks burning as all at once she realised just how far this whole episode had gone. And so quickly. It was unthinkable, shaming, even ludicrous that she could have behaved in such a manner with a total stranger.

Victor rose from the couch and, picking up his brandy snifter, stood a few feet away, watching her thoughtfully. He made no attempt to hold her back, merely contemplated her feeble attempts to tidy herself as though he were a spectator at a show. What had happened to make her react thus? he wondered. For, despite his initial spark of anger at her sudden rejection, his interest was piqued.

He considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and her sudden willingness to succumb to his caresses had surprised him. Now, as he stood there in the aftermath of their tryst, he reflected that his first opinion of her—that she was relatively inexperienced and unaware of just how attractive and sexy she was—was probably the correct one. Well, then, perhaps it was better that things hadn’t gone any further.

He walked to the window, letting himself cool down while Araminta sorted herself out. Better, he repeated silently. Still, he could not pretend that what had just happened between them hadn’t been incredibly seductive and to his utter surprise, incredibly unique. Okay, it was just a kiss and a few caresses but— Victor cut off the thoughts that followed and turned.

‘Why don’t you stay the night?’ he asked, suddenly but smoothly, unwilling to let her go.

‘I—look, this never should have happened—never has happened before. I don’t know how it did,’ Araminta mumbled, embarrassed.

‘It happened because we both wanted it to happen,’ he said harshly, viewing her through narrowed eyes. ‘Because we are two consenting adults who feel desire for one another.’

‘Perhaps,’ she conceded grudgingly, retrieving her shoe from beneath a cushion. ‘But that isn’t a reason to—well, to—’ She threw up her hands.

‘To go to bed together?’ he finished. ‘Why on earth not? I can’t think of any better reason.’

‘Can’t you?’ she exclaimed, suddenly cross. ‘Well, I can. Tons of them.’

‘It took you rather a long time to remember them, querida,’ he murmured dryly.

Araminta steadied her gaze and he read anger there. ‘Perhaps it did. I don’t know where my head was at. I’m sorry if I misled you. I had no intention of giving you the wrong impression. I—look, I need to go home.’

‘Why of course,’ he murmured with a sardonic twist of his lips. He watched her pick up her purse, ignoring a sudden twinge of disappointment. Though why he should feel disappointment when he barely knew this woman was ridiculous!

Perhaps it was proof that, despite all he’d been through with Isabella, he still hadn’t tamed that irrationally romantic nature of his. Or was Araminta Dampierre less innocent than she seemed? He of all people knew what women were capable of. Why, for a single moment, should he imagine that this one might be any different from all the others?

As she drove down the dark country road and headed back to Taverstock Hall Araminta took herself seriously to task, asking over and over how she could possibly have behaved in such a wanton manner. Never had anything remotely similar occurred before in her life, not even when she was a teenager. That Victor was a man whom she’d met only a few times didn’t make it any better. And thank goodness for that sudden flash of common sense that had intervened just in time, or right now she might very well be rolling between Victor Santander’s wretched sheets!

It was appalling, shocking, and so unlike her that she had difficulty recognizing herself in the writhing woman of minutes earlier. For a moment she thought of Peter, and a new wave of guilt swept over her. She hadn’t thought of him once all evening, hadn’t remembered the gentle, quiet nights spent in each other’s arms after tender but, she had to admit, guiltily comparing the sensations of earlier in the evening, not very exciting sex.

Araminta changed gears crossly as she swerved into the gates of Taverstock Hall. That she should suddenly be denigrating her marriage was as absurd as all the rest. She’d been happy, hadn’t she? Had never felt that what they’d had was less than enough, had she? So why this? Why now? Why had she soared to unknown heights at the touch of a near-stranger, and never during the entire course of her sedate marriage to a man she knew—was one hundred per cent certain—that she had loved? Surely there must be something seriously wrong with her?

Too troubled to go straight into the house, and possibly have to face her mother, Araminta dropped her car keys into her pocket and wandered into the rose garden, where she sat down on one of the stone benches. With a sigh she stared up at the half moon flickering through fast-travelling cloud and tried to make sense of the evening. But whichever way she viewed it she still couldn’t come up with any justification for her strange behaviour. She must, she concluded, have lost her mind. And she’d better make damn sure it never happened again. Not paying attention while parking, she reflected grimly, could carry a high price.

Victor was also too wound up to go to bed, and he stood for a long time by the window, wondering why she’d allowed him to go that far. Was she innocent, or a hypocrite? he pondered, wishing to banish the niggling feeling of frustration that still hovered. Whatever, it was probably a lot better that she had upped and left when she had, for otherwise it might have proved embarrassing to have her wake up next to him when he’d had no intention of anything more than a night of good, satisfying sex.

In fact, all round it was definitely preferable this way, he persuaded himself, wandering back to the drawing room and absently pouring another cognac, before retiring to the study to do some work before going up to bed.

But half an hour later he found it impossible to concentrate on the project at hand. He must be tired, he concluded, folding up the plans of a new factory in Brazil.

‘Damn Araminta,’ he exclaimed, banishing the image of her lovely face as she’d reached orgasm in his arms, and the strangely satisfying sensation he’d experienced when he’d heard that little gasp of surprised shock that told him quite clearly she’d never reached those heights before.

With a sigh and a short harsh laugh directed at himself, Victor downed the last of his brandy. Then, switching off the lights, he headed upstairs to bed, determined to rid his mind of his fair neighbour.

CHAPTER FIVE

THERE was no use pretending it hadn’t happened, Araminta realised the next day. She just had to face the fact that for a few inexplicable minutes she must have gone mad.

As it happened she was given little opportunity to stew over the events of the night before, for early in the day the telephone rang.

‘Araminta, it’s Pearce. Look, they’re advancing the book-launch date and there’s a huge party planned at the Ritz. I can’t believe it—they’re going to have it published in record time,’ he said excitedly.

‘Oh. Will I be expected to be there?’

‘Well, of course you will, silly girl. You’re the one person who has to be there, come hell or high water.’

‘But I don’t think I—’

‘One more word and I’ll scream,’ Pearce roared down the phone. ‘Araminta, get with the programme! This is your book, your success. Don’t you feel the least bit excited about it all? Girl, you’re about to make millions if it flies!’

‘Really? Yes, I suppose I might,’ she muttered vaguely. The thought of being exposed to all those strangers, having to smile and chit-chat, sound intelligent and answer questions about her book was thoroughly daunting.

‘Araminta, it’s not the end of the world,’ Pearce continued patiently. ‘You used to be so social before you married Peter. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve changed, I suppose.’

‘Not really. You’re just hiding.’

‘Peter didn’t like going out much, so we rarely did.’

‘Araminta, Peter is no longer with us,’ Pearce said carefully. ‘And you are. You have to make a life for yourself. Thanks to your own efforts you’re going to be a great success. Enjoy it, girl, instead of running away.’

‘I’ll think about,’ she murmured, twisting the cord of the telephone. ‘When is the party going to be?’

‘In three weeks.’ He gave her the date.

‘So soon?’ Araminta squeaked.

‘Yes. Goodness knows how they’re getting the books done in time. And you’d better get yourself to London and buy a decent dress for the occasion. Don’t think you can come in those worn jeans of yours. I won’t have it. I want you to look stunning. In fact I’ll go shopping with you if need be.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Araminta responded in a dignified tone. This was all happening far too fast. First last night, now this. It was as if she couldn’t stem the flow of events sweeping her along, despite her desire to stay cushioned from the world at Taverstock Hall.

But as she hung up she heard her mother calling from the stairs and winced, closing her eyes. Perhaps this really was her chance to move on. Of course if she moved it would mean more change. But at least she’d have a choice, which at present she didn’t. Plus, it would mean she wouldn’t be stuck next door to Victor Santander.

This last did more to get her moving than any other element of the equation. The mere thought of coming across him in the village or elsewhere was enough to cause a rush of hot embarrassment. What would she do? How would she face him if it happened?

‘Araminta, I really must have your help for the Hunt Ball,’ Lady Drusilla said, walking into the hall and bringing her crashing back to earth.

‘I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m afraid I’ll be away at that time,’ she responded absently.

‘Away?’

‘I’m going to London. I have to do some stuff for my book. There’s going to be some sort of launch party on the same day as the Ball.’

‘Goodness. How very tiresome.’ Lady Drusilla pulled her cardigan closer and sniffed. ‘Couldn’t you have got your publishers to arrange it another day? It can’t be that important, surely?’

‘Actually, it is,’ Araminta replied, drawing herself up suddenly aware for the first time just what she was about to achieve. ‘They’re publishing two hundred thousand copies.’

‘Goodness. That seems rather excessive, doesn’t it?’ Lady Drusilla’s brows rose in disapproval. ‘I hope they won’t sit on the shelves. It could be a terrible waste of good paper.’

Furious at her mother’s response, Araminta turned on her heel and decided that Pearce was right. She needed out, needed to get on with her life and not tolerate her mother’s impossible behaviour any longer. In fact, she decided, running up the stairs and dashing the tears from her cheeks, the sooner she went to London and began looking for something decent to wear for the party the better. After all, if she was going to be the centre of attention then she might as well do it right.

Three weeks later Araminta stood in the ballroom of the Ritz surrounded by Pearce, her publishers, and a number of journalists, critics and miscellaneous celebrities brought in for the occasion. There were stands with copies of Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise tastefully placed about the room, waiters circulated with trays of champagne and elegant finger food, and a jazz quartet played at the far end of the room.