Kitabı oku: «One Night in... Rio», sayfa 6

CHAPTER SEVEN

EVEN after taking a shower, Isobel didn’t feel a whole lot better.

What was she going to do?

It was ironic, really. She’d spent half the night wondering what Alejandro was doing in this part of the country, and now that seemed the least of her worries.

Yet when she’d known him—if she had ever really known him!—he’d told her he lived in Rio, hadn’t he? Perhaps it had been Julia who’d divulged that particular piece of information, when she’d been warning her that Alejandro had only been slumming at the party.

She should have listened to her friend, she mused unhappily. Julia had always been more streetwise than she was. Julia would never have let a man make love to her without using any protection. Even if Alejandro had probably assumed that, as she’d been married already, she knew how to take care of herself.

But that was just making excuses for him, something she’d done a lot of when she’d first discovered she was pregnant. Or had she just been finding reasons why she should have the baby? Even without her aunt and uncle’s offer of support, she’d known she’d find some way to keep her child.

And now, it seemed, he was living in Porto Verde. Or if not here, exactly, then not too far away. Near enough for him to have contrived their meeting that morning. She should have asked him where his house was, she thought ruefully. But, right then, she’d had too many other things on her mind.

Not least what she was going to tell her uncle. He was going to be so disappointed when he learned that there was to be no interview after all. She dreaded having to tell him. He’d been so excited at the prospect of a possible scoop.

Wrapping herself in the pristine-white bathrobe hanging on the bathroom door, she returned to the living room. And found that in her absence someone had delivered a tray of fruit, rolls and coffee. The table had been set with porcelain flatware and silver cutlery, a napkin-wrapped basket keeping the bread warm.

Despite the appetising aroma of the coffee, Isobel looked about her rather apprehensively. She was sure she’d locked the door before going for her shower. But evidently certain members of Senhora Silveira’s staff had keys. Did Alejandro have a key? She didn’t even want to consider that.

When a knock came at her door, she started nervously. Now what? she wondered. Was this Anita’s housekeeper, telling her she wasn’t needed any more? But the fear that whoever it was might also have a key forced her to answer it. Putting down her coffee, she walked unwillingly to the door.

To her surprise, a young man was standing outside. Of medium height and build with handsome Latin features, he seemed very sure of himself. And, unlike the other servants, he was wearing a well-tailored grey suit, shirt and a matching tie.

‘Ms Jameson?’ he said expectantly, and Isobel wondered who else he thought she could be. But it did remind her that she was still wearing the bathrobe, and faint colour entered her cheeks at his frank appraisal. ‘I am Ricardo Vincente, senhora—Senhora Silveira’s personal assistant.’

‘Oh.’ Isobel was a little taken aback when he offered her his hand in greeting. ‘Um, how do you do?’ She hesitated, taking a surreptitious glance at the watch on his wrist. It was still barely eight o’clock. ‘What do you—I mean, what can I do for you?’

She’d been about to say ‘what do you want?’, but she managed to bite the words back. However, after her encounter with Alejandro, she wasn’t under any illusions as to why she was here.

‘Ah. I am to escort you on a tour of the villa, senhora,’ he said, his smile just the tiniest bit condescending. ‘The public areas, e claro. Senhora Silveira’s apartments are private, naturelmente.’

Naturally.

Isobel moistened her lips. ‘And Senhora Silveira?’ she ventured, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain the question.

She didn’t.

‘Senhora Silveira does not allow visitors before midday,’ Ricardo told her dismissively. Then, his eyes assessing her appearance. ‘You would like me to come back, sim?’

What else? thought Isobel, a little irritably. As there was probably going to be no interview anyway, did it matter either way? Of course, Ricardo might not know what had happened. Had Alejandro explained the situation to his mother-in-law after Isobel had gone to bed? Or was that something else she had to look forward to—being humiliated in front of a woman who clearly had no liking for her.

But, ‘Yes,’ she said now, deciding that, short of making a run for it, she was obliged to meet her hostess again. ‘If you could give me half an hour. It is rather early.’

Ricardo arched dark brows. ‘Mas, the best time of day, senhora,’ he assured her. ‘Before it gets too hot.’ Now he looked at his watch. ‘I will come back in thirty minutes. Ate entao, adeus.’

‘Adeus,’ said Isobel, feeling a little foolish.

She was incredibly relieved when he turned away and she could close the door. She wondered when Alejandro was going to make his next move as the coffee she’d just consumed roiled unpleasantly in her stomach. If only she’d considered her aunt and uncle’s reservations and let some other features writer take this assignment.

Yet, she suspected, that wouldn’t have happened. If Alejandro had planned her involvement, he’d have found some other ploy to gain his own ends. She doubted Anita had been aware of the situation. Not before she got here, at least. Which might give Isobel a little leverage. Would Alejandro want to expose his duplicity to the mother of the woman he’d loved?

Who knew?

Alejandro was an enigma. She had no idea what he thinking, what he might do next. He’d changed. He wasn’t the man she remembered. Was it something to do with the accident? Had he been responsible for Miranda’s death?

She thought about ringing her uncle and telling him what had happened. She knew he’d be sympathetic. Once her aunt found out what was going on, she’d expect her to come home. But perhaps she should wait a little longer and see what happened. If Alejandro had his way, she suspected she wouldn’t have a choice.

Alejandro flew back from Rio in the late afternoon.

There’d been a message waiting for him when he’d got back from the beach to the effect that his father had called a board meeting that afternoon.

These days, Alejandro virtually ran Cabral Leisure himself. His father had had a stroke about eight months ago and he’d been ordered to take things easy from now on.

Not that Roberto Cabral had obeyed his physician. Despite Alejandro’s success in creating new outlets for the company, Roberto insisted on attending all board meetings, making his opinion felt when he didn’t agree with his elder son’s ideas.

Just today, the extraordinary board meeting he’d called had been to question Alejandro’s decision to install health spas in all their Latin American hotels. The hotels in the United States and Europe already had these facilities, and it was Alejandro’s intention to give all their guests the chance to enjoy a healthier lifestyle.

Needless to say, his father’s motion hadn’t been carried. Even Alejandro’s brother Jose, who didn’t always see eye to eye with his older brother, had agreed that it was a necessary expense in these days of diet-conscious patrons. But it had taken Alejandro away from Porto Verde at a time when he’d had other problems on his mind.

Now, as his private jet began its descent towards the airstrip adjoining his ranch at Montevista, Alejandro acknowledged that, subconsciously, he’d spent the last eight hours fretting about what Isobel might do in his absence.

After that scene on the beach that morning, he’d been left with no illusions that dealing with her was going to be easy. But then, he hadn’t expected to find her so attractive.

Despite his memories of his time in London, over the years he’d managed to convince himself that his attraction to the English girl had been as fleeting as their relationship. And, after his return to Rio and subsequent events, he’d never expected to see her again.

Had the accident never happened, would he have pursued the connection? There was no doubt in his mind that when he’d left London he’d intended to return within the next couple of months.

But, two months later, he’d been fighting for his life in the intensive-care unit of a private hospital in Rio. With a lacerated face, broken ribs, a punctured lung and the possibility that he might have to have one of his legs amputated, he’d been in no state to pursue any kind of relationship.

And by the time he’d got out of hospital and seen his injuries for himself …

The runway was partially illuminated by the lights from an off-road vehicle. Carlos Ferreira, his friend and stable-manager, was waiting for him when he stepped down from the plane. Between them they owned and bred polo ponies, thoroughbred animals that were sought after by many of the most famous riders in the sport today.

Alejandro’s great-grandfather had built the ranch—or estancia—many years ago, and after the accident Alejandro had spent many weeks recuperating in the cooler mountain air. These days, it provided a welcome retreat from the demands of his work in the city. Since virtually inheriting the company he’d spent far too much time in Rio, in his opinion. And, as he’d always enjoyed riding, he found it was one sport he’d not had to give up.

Of course, since he and Carlos had started the breeding programme, the ranch had become very successful in its own right. Friends since university days, the two men trusted one another completely, and Alejandro was glad to leave all business decisions concerning the stud in Carlos’s capable hands.

It was a relief to climb into the comfortable Lexus that Carlos had brought to meet him—although his friend’s news that one of their prize mares had aborted her twin foals was a blow. Alejandro knew that only about twenty percent of conceived twins made it to full term, but in this case they’d had high hopes of pulling it off.

‘And Senhora Silveira has called at least half a dozen times,’ Carlos continued, turning onto the rough track that skirted a stream. In the headlights of the car, Alejandro could see a handful of long-horned cattle wading in the reeds that grew in the marshes beside the water. ‘I don’t think she believed me when I told her you were in Rio. She wants you to join her for dinner this evening. She says she isn’t happy about the interview.’

Alejandro swore, and Carlos offered him a rueful grin. ‘The lady is persistent,’ he agreed. ‘Maybe this young woman you were telling me about isn’t willing to put up with Anita’s dramatics.’ He chuckled. ‘I told her you might not be back until tomorrow. Cheer up, my friend. Maria has made enchiladas for supper and you’re invited.’

Alejandro scowled. ‘Thanks.’ He gritted his teeth. And then, almost to himself, ‘I guess it is too late to drive down there tonight.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Carlos staunchly.

The road from Montevista to Porto Verde could be hazardous at times, especially after dark. A series of hairpin bends, the descent from the plateau where the ranch was situated was dangerous. And when it rained parts of the track had been known to wash away completely.

‘In any case, it won’t hurt her to wait until tomorrow,’ asserted Carlos as a white-painted fence appeared ahead of them.

A gate in the fence guarded the lush paddocks where the horses grazed from the agricultural land outside. As well as horses, the ranch reared a herd of pedigree cattle, a few of whom they’d seen wading among the reeds earlier.

‘I suppose not,’ Alejandro agreed now, staying Carlos when he would have jumped out of the vehicle to open the gate. ‘I can do it,’ he added. ‘I need the exercise.’

All the same, his leg twinged as he swung down from the Lexus. It brought another scowl to his face as he threw the gate wide so that Carlos could drive through.

Still, he thought after closing the gate and climbing back into his seat, if Anita was complaining it surely meant that Isobel was still there. He had been concerned that she might use his absence to leave the villa. Though, unless Anita had told her, she could have no real knowledge of where he might be.

He blew out a breath. He knew the child was his. He just knew it. It wasn’t wishful thinking. Apart from anything else, the dates fitted, and there was no doubt in his mind now that Isobel’s body had been nurturing his seed when he’d left England.

If only she’d told him. If only, as soon as she’d realised what had happened, she’d tried to get in touch with him. She could have reached him via the company’s website. He was sure her friend—was her name Julia?—could have told her how to do that.

All right, perhaps he hadn’t behaved very responsibly at the time. He wasn’t particularly proud of his actions. And his father’s phone call had created a difficult situation. After that, she hadn’t listened to a thing he’d said.

They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and he’d left her apartment feeling gutted. All through the long flight back to Rio, he’d fretted over what he could have done differently. But he’d assured himself things would be different when he saw her again. He would make her listen to him. But a savage fate had intervened.

He still believed she should have attempted to contact him. He’d had a right to know, whether she’d wanted him to be involved or not. The baby was his child as much as it was hers—the only child he was likely to have, if the doctors who’d eventually discharged him from the hospital were to be believed.

A long drive edged by massive acacia trees led up to the main house. Two-storeyed, with white stucco walls and a railed balcony running across the front portico, even in the lights of the car it looked elegant and impressive. In all, the living area covered over half an acre, a wraparound veranda smothered with flowering vines giving the place a lived-in appearance.

Carlos brought the car to a halt on the block-paved forecourt, but Alejandro hesitated a moment before attempting to get out.

‘Tell Maria thank you, but I’ll take a rain check on the enchiladas,’ he said, clapping his friend on the shoulder. ‘But don’t worry—I have no intention of driving down to Porto Verde tonight.’

Carlos regarded him doubtfully. ‘You mean that?’

‘Would I lie to you, old friend?’ Alejandro countered, which wasn’t quite an answer. He thrust open his door. ‘Tell your beautiful wife I’ll join you another evening if I may?’

Carlos gave a resigned grimace of acceptance, and with a farewell lift of his hand he set the car in motion again. Turning, he drove back to a fork in the drive and followed the gravelled track that led to his own house some half a mile further on.

Alejandro decided to take a shower before ringing Anita. It was a deliberate decision, a concerted attempt to prove to himself that he was still in control of the situation.

All the same, he didn’t stop to dress before crossing the vast expanse of his bedroom to where the phone extension was situated. His mobile phone was useless at the estancia. There was no signal, and they had to rely on the sometimes unpredictable land line to keep in touch with the coast.

Clad only in the towel he’d wrapped carelessly about his hips, he dialled the number, and to his surprise Anita answered the phone herself.

‘Alex, darling!’ she exclaimed, not without some annoyance. ‘Where have you been all day? Carlos said you’d gone to Rio, but I couldn’t believe it. You’d said nothing to me about going to the city when you were here last evening.’

Alejandro bit his tongue on a scathing retort and said instead, ‘It was an emergency.’ Then, disguising the irritation in his voice, ‘Is something wrong?’

Anita chose not to answer his question, but said annoyingly, ‘What kind of an emergency? Is your father ill again? Oh, I must speak to Elena. When I am away from the city myself, I am afraid I neglect—’

‘My father isn’t ill,’ Alejandro broke in flatly, the chilled air from the cooling system bringing goose bumps out all over his skin. Or was that a sign of his apprehension? For God’s sake, why didn’t the woman get to the point? What was this all about?

‘Then what—?’

‘It was an emergency board meeting, right?’ Alejandro knew he had to put a stop to her prevarication. ‘Why have you been ringing me? I would have thought—um—Ms Jameson would have kept you busy.’

‘Oh her.’ Anita made a sound of irritation. ‘I haven’t seen Ms Jameson all day.’

‘Why not?’

Alejandro only just managed not to bark the words, but he guessed Anita had caught the impatience in his voice.

‘Well …’ He could imagine she was pouting now. ‘If it’s of any interest to you, I’ve had a migraine. But, after the way you left here last night, I doubt it matters.’

‘Anita!’

‘What?’ she asked sulkily. ‘When I couldn’t reach you today, I was sure you were avoiding me. I know what Carlos said, but he’s never liked me, and you know it.’

Alejandro sighed. ‘Anita,’ he said again, ‘why would I want to avoid you?’

‘Why indeed?’

Alejandro’s free hand balled into a fist on his thigh. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Oh, please!’ Anita snorted. ‘I’m not a fool, Alex. I saw the way Ms Jameson reacted when she saw you. You were the last person she expected to meet. But you weren’t surprised, were you, Alex? You knew she was coming.’ She uttered an angry oath. ‘I suppose that was why you persuaded me to give the interview?’

Alejandro stifled the retort that sprang to his lips and said levelly, ‘I thought it was your agent who arranged the interview.’

Anita sniffed. ‘Strictly speaking, I suppose it was, yes.’

‘So why blame me?’ Alejandro was dismissive. ‘I thought you said that as well as talking about your writing you’d welcome the chance to lay some of the rumours about Miranda’s, ah, problems to rest.’

‘You say that so callously, Alex.’ Anita clicked her tongue. ‘She was your wife, you know.’

‘Do you think I can forget it?’ Alejandro’s tone was bitter. ‘But you know as well as I do that our marriage was a farce!’

‘Don’t say that!’ Anita caught her breath. ‘Miranda loved you.’

‘Miranda loved herself,’ retorted Alejandro flatly. ‘Come on, Anita. Telling the truth won’t hurt her any more.’

‘Well, I don’t think I want to talk about Miranda,’ said Anita, sniffing again. ‘Let the gossips say what they like. I don’t care.’

She did, but Alejandro wasn’t cruel enough to remind her of it. So far as his late wife was concerned, he’d had to cope with far too many demons of his own.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘why did Anton choose that particular publication?’

Alejandro avoided a direct answer. ‘I believe you said you’d known Sam Armstrong when you first started writing.’

‘I did, of course.’ Anita was momentarily diverted. ‘He was very nice to me.’ But then she remembered her accusation. ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that the Jameson woman recognised you, Alex. Was it you who advised Anton to contact Lifestyles magazine? You might as well tell me. I’m going to find out anyway.’

‘All right.’ Alejandro blew out a breath. ‘I did know who she was before she got here. We met some years ago, when I was in London. I—liked her. And, according to all reports, she’s very good at her job. Why not have the best?’

Anita was silent for a moment and then she said silkily, ‘And did you sleep with her?’

Alejandro’s laugh was harsh. ‘Goodnight, Anita,’ he said grimly, and, holding the receiver with the tips of his fingers, he dropped it back into its cradle.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ISOBEL slept badly again and was up soon after six, gazing out at the shadowy silhouettes of the palms swaying beside the veranda.

She was waiting for the first trace of daylight to appear on the horizon, that tinge of pink that would rapidly turn to lemon-yellow as the sun began its morning ascent.

She wasn’t dressed yet, but she would have loved to put on a vest and shorts, or even her swimsuit, and go down to the ocean. The water was so warm and appealing, and she longed to plunge her sticky body into the waves.

But the fear that she might run into Alejandro again was stronger. For the time being, at least, she would have to be content with taking a shower.

But she was so confused.

She’d spent the whole of the previous day waiting for Senhora Silveira to send for her, but it hadn’t happened. Oh, Ricardo Vincente had taken her on a tour of the villa, as promised, and she’d duly admired the rich, if rather oppressive, opulence of its appointments.

But there’d been no sign of her hostess, or of Alejandro. Either the woman had changed her mind about the interview, or she was allowing her guest a little time to get over her jet lag.

As for Alejandro …

Isobel sighed.

As far as Anita was concerned, she couldn’t quite believe she was that considerate. So what? Had Alejandro told his mother-in-law the truth? And, if so, had she pulled the plug on the interview? So why had Ricardo behaved as if she might be interested in Anita’s background? When was anybody going to tell her what was going on?

The previous day had passed incredibly slowly. Although Isobel had her laptop with her, and she’d been able to edit an earlier article she’d written for the magazine, her heart hadn’t been in it. Several times she’d gone into the bedroom and considered packing her suitcase, but pride wouldn’t let her. She was here to do a job and, if she was permitted, that was what she had to do.

By the time she’d a shower and one of the maids had brought her breakfast, she was feeling a little better. Not optimistic, exactly, but prepared to face whatever was ahead. It was time that she showed some initiative. If Anita didn’t know about Emma, there was no reason why she should change her mind about the interview.

Bearing in mind what Ricardo had said about Anita sleeping late, she delayed leaving her apartment until after eleven o’clock. But then, dressed in black-cropped capris that buttoned at the knee, a cream gauze-smock over a black vest, wedge-heeled sandals, and carrying a bag containing her recording equipment and laptop, she walked along the veranda and entered the hall of the villa.

It was already hot outside. Isobel could feel the beads of perspiration on the back of her neck. But the hall was cool and airy.

Two maids were using a power cleaner, polishing the mosaic-tiled floor. Her heels clattered on the tiles and attracted their attention. Isobel was about to try out her phrasebook Portuguese and ask where Senhora Silveira was, when a man appeared in the arched doorway across the wide expanse of the floor.

Tall and dark, with broad shoulders tapering to lean hips, the man’s face was in shadow. But, even backlit by the sun pouring in through the windows of the room behind him, Isobel had no hesitation in identifying who it was.

Alejandro.

For a moment, her legs almost buckled. She hadn’t forgotten the way they’d parted the previous day. But then, remembering her determination not to be intimidated, Isobel walked stiffly towards him.

‘Senhor,’ she said, using his title for the maids’ benefit. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’

‘Now, that I can believe,’ remarked Alejandro drily, allowing her to make all the running. He leant his shoulder against the marble pillar that supported the lintel. ‘How are you this morning, Ms Jameson?’

Isobel had to clear her throat before replying. ‘I—I’m very well, thank you, senhor,’ she said, halting a few feet from him. ‘Eager to get started on the interview.’ She hesitated and then continued, ‘Do you know if Senhora Silveira is up?’

It was another of those ambiguous questions, and Alejandro’s mouth took on a cynical curve. ‘How would I know that?’ he asked. ‘I am not my mother-in-law’s keeper. But, if you want to know why she did not send for you yesterday, I can tell you she was—what do you say?—indisposed?’

Isobel listened to what he was saying, but it wasn’t easy. His nearness was too acute. Despite the fact that the scar on his cheek that had previously been obscured by shadow was now starkly visible, she was intimately aware of him. The power of his sexuality overwhelmed her, made a mockery of her intention to remain detached.

But, ‘Indisposed?’ she managed after a moment, and Alejandro inclined his head.

‘She had a headache,’ he said flatly. ‘Anita’s headaches are legendary. They appear at the most convenient times.’

Isobel concentrated on the neckline of his shirt, trying not appear interested in his explanation. ‘Don’t you mean inconvenient times?’ she questioned, and his lips curled with momentary amusement.

‘I mean what I said,’ he retorted drily. ‘As you will find out in time, querida.’

Isobel shivered.

He was wearing a black shirt that clung to his torso this morning, smudged with sweat in places as if he’d been exerting himself in the heat outside. Black trousers clung to long, powerful legs, tight and revealing, the cuffs pushed into ankle-high suede boots.

‘And do you think she’ll be well enough to see me this morning?’ she got out eventually, and sensed rather than saw the indifferent shrug that marked his response.

‘She seemed all right yesterday evening,’ Alejandro declared carelessly. ‘But I doubt she will want to see you before noon.’

Isobel chanced a look at him. ‘You were here yesterday evening?’

‘No.’ Alejandro spoke tolerantly. ‘I spoke to her by telefone only.’ There was a moment’s silence, and then he added softly, ‘I have been waiting for you, cara. I knew that sooner or later you would appear.’

Isobel expelled a breath. ‘I thought we said all that needed to be said yesterday morning,’ she declared, shifting her bag from one hand to the other. She glanced about her. ‘Despite the senhora’s absence, perhaps you could tell me where the interview is likely to take place.’

Alejandro straightened from his lounging position. ‘It is not going to work, you know,’ he said mildly, and Isobel felt the sense of panic she’d experienced when she’d first seen him engulfing her again. He hesitated, evidently choosing his words with care. ‘But by all means take some time to consider the situation. I suggest we spend a little time together.’ His brows lifted sardonically. ‘You liked me once. I realise I have changed.’ A rueful hand brushed his scarred cheek. ‘Even so, perhaps I can persuade you I am not an unreasonable man.’

Isobel took an involuntary backward step. ‘I—I didn’t come here to spend time with you,’ she protested, hoping the maids, who had abandoned their floor-buffing in favour of polishing the panelling, couldn’t understand English.

‘I know that.’ Alejandro’s lips twisted. ‘But you don’t have to be afraid of me. I may look like an ogre but, I assure you, I am still depressingly human.’

Isobel’s eyes widened. She realised he had mistaken her panic for something else. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, her eyes darting towards his and then away again. ‘I just meant I was asked to interview Senhora Silveira, and—’

‘I understand what you meant very well, Isobella,’ Alejandro retorted drily. ‘And I also know why you were invited to come here. But surely it is not unreasonable in the circumstances to expect a little understanding on your part?’

Isobel’s knees were trembling with the effort to maintain her composure. ‘Are—are you saying there is to be no interview?’ she asked. ‘Because if that’s the case—’

‘Listen to me!’ A muscle jerking in Alejandro’s cheek betrayed his agitation. ‘The interview is not at stake here. Do you understand me? Your association with Anita is your concern, not mine. What I would like to do is have a serious conversation with you about our daughter. I had planned to show you my estancia this morning, but—’

Isobel was distracted. ‘Your estancia?’ she echoed, and Alejandro sighed.

‘Sim. My estancia,’ he agreed, noticing she hadn’t contradicted his other statement. ‘My ranch, if you like. As well as my work for Cabral Leisure, I breed polo ponies.’

‘Polo ponies?’

A faintly mocking smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips. ‘Sim, polo ponies. My manager does all the hard work, I am afraid. I just share in the rewards. It is my—como se diz?—my escape from the city, nao? You will like it, I am sure. But it is some miles from here, and since Anita was indisposed yesterday …’

His words reminded her of the situation, and she realised she’d allowed him to divert her with his talk of estancias and polo ponies. She also realised how little she knew about this man. Despite the comfort of her upbringing, she certainly wasn’t used to the kind of wealth Alejandro seemed to take for granted. Perhaps he thought it would influence her.

But he was wrong.

‘And did your wife like staying at the estancia, senhor?’ she asked, deliberately bringing Miranda into the equation. ‘I imagine she must have. Were you married as soon as you returned to Brazil?’

Alejandro’s pale eyes hardened. ‘Why would this interest you?’ he demanded. ‘Unless what you really want to know is why the accident occurred.’ His mouth curled. ‘Ah, you think Miranda would not have married me if it had happened before our wedding, hmm? You are suggesting that she must have regretted it? That that is why she overdosed on heroin within a year of taking her vows?’

‘No!’ Isobel was horrified at the emotions she’d inadvertently unearthed. She hadn’t even known how his wife had died. ‘That wasn’t what I meant at all.’

‘But I notice you do not deny that you find me repulsive,’ retorted Alejandro bitterly. ‘Still, I do not care what you think of me, cara—so long as you do not interfere with what I want.’