The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress. Fiona Hood-Stewart

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