Free The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child by Anne Mather
Authors: Anne Mather
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 getyou a drink, senhora . What will you have? Wine, perhaps? Or a cocktail?’
‘White wine, please,’ said Isobel gratefully. The last thing she
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 getyou a drink, senhora . What will you have? Wine, perhaps? Or a cocktail?’
‘White wine, please,’ said Isobel gratefully. The last thing she