The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child. Anne Mather

to finish the piece on the celebrity make-up artist after the party was over, but it had been a good two hours after Alejandro Cabral had departed that she’d ushered the last of Julia’s guests out of the door. Julia, herself, had left at least half an hour earlier, giggling with her bearded escort, fluttering fingers at Isobel and showing no remorse at leaving her friend to clear the place up.

      In consequence, when Isobel did get home that afternoon, she still had to face the debris of the previous night’s festivities. She had dumped the remains of the cold buffet into the sink-disposal before she’d gone to bed, but she’d been too tired then to start picking up the rest of the mess.

      The first thing she did now was open all the windows. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and spilled beer was disgusting, and she leaned on the sill for a moment, taking in deep breaths of cool air.

      There were scuff marks on the floor, she noticed, and cigarette burns on the arm of one of the chairs. But no irretrievable damage had been done. It could have been much worse, she assured herself.

      Nevertheless, it took her a good half-hour to collect all the empty cans and bottles and drop them in refuse sacks for collection. Then, feeling she deserved it, she made herself a fresh pot of coffee.

      Carrying her cup into the living room, she looked critically about her. The floor needed waxing and the rugs needed vacuuming, but the worst was over. For now, she was grateful just to sit down on the sofa and close her eyes. She grimaced. The truth was, she wasn’t used to such late nights.

      When the doorbell rang, she was tempted to ignore it. She suspected it might be Mrs Lytton-Smythe, come to complain again about the disturbance she’d suffered the night before. Isobel had already had to apologise to the two doctors downstairs, whom she’d met on her way to the office. Thankfully, they’d been understanding, but her next-door neighbour was another matter.

      Putting her coffee cup down on the low table beside the sofa, she got wearily to her feet. She’d kicked off her shoes when she came in, and she couldn’t be bothered to look for them right now. Instead, she trod barefoot to the door.

      It wasn’t Mrs Lytton-Smythe.

      But she had no difficulty at all in identifying the man whose shoulder was propped so casually against the wall outside. He was still as tall, dark and disturbingly good-looking as she remembered, even with a night’s growth of beard. And a tremor of awareness feathered her spine.

      ‘Oh,’ she said, momentarily unnerved by his appearance. Her stomach hollowed and she pressed a hand to her midriff, trying to ground her scattered emotions. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Ola,’ he greeted her softly, his voice as dark and sensual as molasses, with that distinctive accent that made everything he said sound like a caress. He straightened, dark brows lifting as he noticed her confusion. ‘Am I disturbing you?’

      Only totally, thought Isobel, swallowing to ease the dryness in her throat. ‘Um—no. I just got in, actually.’ She glanced behind her at the untidy living room. She couldn’t invite him in. She just couldn’t. ‘Would you like to come in?’

      Alejandro doubted she would appreciate his reaction at the moment. Going into her apartment had definite attractions—but taking her by the shoulders, crushing that tempting mouth beneath his own, pulling her close against his aroused body and letting her feel the response he seemed incapable of controlling was far more appealing.

      He shook his head. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Okay, he’d been attracted to her the night before, but he hadn’t intended to pursue it. He’d wanted to see her again, yes, but not to feel this overwhelming need to touch her. For goodness’ sake, what was wrong with him? His family would be appalled if they knew what he was doing.

      However, Isobel had taken that rueful shake of his head at face value. ‘Okay, then,’ she said a little stiffly, misunderstanding him completely. ‘How can I help you?’

      ‘Nao!’ Alejandro couldn’t help himself. He spread his hands apologetically. ‘I did not mean—isto e—I would very much like to come in.’

      ‘Oh!’ She was disconcerted now, but too polite to refuse. ‘Okay.’ She moved aside to allow him to enter, her hand fluttering towards the living room. ‘I’m sure you remember the way.’

      Alejandro stepped into the small entry, immediately dwarfing the hall. What had possessed her to do this? Isobel was asking herself. After what had happened the night before, she must be crazy. In the narrow confines of the hall, she was much too aware of him. As well as his size, which was intimidating, he was so disturbingly male.

      When he looked down at her, Isobel felt as if she couldn’t breathe suddenly. What now? But then he said, ‘Voce primeiro,’ the words sounding absurdly sensual. ‘After you, cara,’ he added, and she realised she was letting her imagination run away with her good sense.

      Somehow she managed to close the door and lead the way into the living room. But now the state of the apartment was the least of her worries. She was intensely aware of him watching her, and she wished she was wearing something a little more feminine than a cropped black tee-shirt and jeans.

      And how pathetic was that?

      ‘So,’ she said when he halted in the doorway, looking about him with obvious interest. ‘As you can see, I haven’t had time to repair the damage yet.’

      Alejandro shrugged. This afternoon he was wearing black jeans and a dark-green hooded fleece with the logo of some sporting club sprawled elegantly across the front. ‘I did not come to check on the apartment,’ he said, his golden eyes resting almost tangibly on her mouth. His brows drew together. ‘You look tired, pequena. Did you not get any sleep?’

      Isobel let out a breath. ‘Gee, thanks,’ she said, finding relief in sarcasm. ‘That’s so good for my ego.’

      Alejandro’s mouth compressed. ‘It was not a criticism, cara,’ he said, stepping towards her, and before she could restore the space between them he’d put out his hand and smoothed his thumb over the circles beneath her eyes. She blinked rapidly, her stomach plunging at the disturbing intimacy of his touch, and his lips curved in satisfaction. ‘Relax, little one. Is it my fault that even your neighbour—Mrs Smith?—’

      ‘Lytton-Smythe,’ Isobel corrected him breathlessly, and his lips tilted.

      ‘Sim; the good Mrs Smith,’ he went on, ignoring her intervention. ‘She complained that no one had had—what was it she said?—I wink of sleep, nao?’

      Isobel couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips at his deliberate corruption of the old lady’s name. ‘How do you know my neighbour’s name?’ she asked, backing out of harm’s way. ‘Did she speak to you just now?’

      ‘This morning,’ Alejandro amended, and to her relief he transferred his gaze to his surroundings again. ‘This is a beautiful room.’ He paused and once again his eyes drifted back to rest on her nervous face. ‘Your husband—ex-husband, nao?—must have regretted having to leave.’

      ‘He never lived here,’ said Isobel swiftly. ‘We lived, well, somewhere else.’

      ‘But you do not wish me to know where?’ suggested Alejandro shrewdly, and Isobel sighed. ‘I think the memory is still painful, nao?’

      ‘Not any more.’ Isobel could be very definite about that. Sometimes she thought it had just been her pride that had been hurt rather than her emotions.

      ‘There was another woman?’

      He was persistent, and Isobel’s lips flattened at the memories his words evoked. ‘No,’ she said flatly. ‘Look, can we leave it? It all happened a very long time ago.’

      Alejandro stepped towards her and now, when she backed away, she felt the unyielding coolness of the wall behind her. ‘So,’ he said a little roughly, ‘are you still seeing this man?’

      ‘What man?’ Isobel gazed up at him blankly.

      ‘If there was