Read Online The Brazilian Millionaire's Love-Child by Anne Mather - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Mather
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accommodation for her, and she’d naturally assumed she’d be staying in the small town. She bit her lip. Did she want to stay with a perfect stranger, however generous her offer might be? She always preferred to maintain her independence on these occasions. She found it made it easier all round.
But if there was no hotel…
‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured half to herself, but evidently Manos heard and understood her.
‘Por favor.’ He gestured towards the car again, and this time he opened the boot and stowed her suitcase inside. ‘Is not far, senhora . I drive ver’ good.’
Isobel shook her head. She could hardly explain that it wasn’t his driving that bothered her, not without getting embroiled in a conversation that probably neither of them would understand.
So, with a gesture of acceptance, she did as he’d asked and got into the limousine, wincing as her short skirt exposed her thighs to the hot leather of the seat.
Beyond the airport, the road wound along the coastline. The ponderous vehicle was surprisingly comfortable, which was just as well, because in places the surface of the road was rough and uneven. It was late afternoon, but the heat was still oppressive, and the old car had no modern amenities to counter the humidity.
‘How far is it?’ she asked at last as they drove through a small village, where colour-washed cottages with tiled roofs clustered round a small square. Barefoot children and lean dogs broke off what they were doing to watch the limousine’s stately progress, and Isobel wondered if Anita Silveira enjoyed the superiority the big car gave her.
‘Nao e muito longe,’ Manos replied, his dark eyesmeeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not far, senhora . You relax, sim ?’
Isobel didn’t feel very relaxed. She was still recovering from the long flight, and even Uncle Sam had been surprised when she’d phoned the night before to tell him she had to go to Porto Verde. Now the prospect of spending several days in the house of a perfect stranger was not appealing, and she half-wished she hadn’t accepted the assignment and was safely at home with her little daughter.
She saw there was obvious development taking place along the coastline. She guessed that if she’d put off her visit for a few months there might have been a hotel where she could stay. Still, she was a stranger to Senhora Silveira too, and she’d been kind enough to offer her her hospitality. She should stop feeling sorry for herself and look forward to meeting the woman.
And then a wall of flowering trees on one side of the road gave way to an iron gateway. A small cupola topped the entry, and beyond a crushed-shell drive curved steeply out of sight. Manos swept the car between the gates with more enthusiasm than he’d shown thus far and accelerated up the driveway.
Isobel saw manicured lawns to left and right, before a screen of flame-trees exposed a pillared colonnade that evidently encircled the house. Arched windows on the upper floor gave the building a graceful appearance. Bushes heavy with blossom surrounded the forecourt, where a stone fountain spilled water into an orchid-filled basin.
The colonnade was shaded; it would be an ideal place to walk in the late-afternoon heat. Shallow steps led down to the forecourt where Manos first braked and then stopped the car.
Two men came down the steps on their arrival, dressed similarly to Manos, but much younger. One of them swung open the door for Isobel to alight, while the other went to rescue her suitcase from the boot.
Isobel was totally unused to this kind of treatment, but evidently Anita Silveira lived in some style, even at her seaside villa. Stepping out, she acknowledged the sense of tiredness that gripped her, half-wishing she was staying at a hotel and therefore was not obliged to greet her hostess tonight.
Then a woman appeared in the arched entrance to the villa, a tall woman of Junoesque proportions whose long, dark
But if there was no hotel…
‘I—I don’t know what to say,’ she murmured half to herself, but evidently Manos heard and understood her.
‘Por favor.’ He gestured towards the car again, and this time he opened the boot and stowed her suitcase inside. ‘Is not far, senhora . I drive ver’ good.’
Isobel shook her head. She could hardly explain that it wasn’t his driving that bothered her, not without getting embroiled in a conversation that probably neither of them would understand.
So, with a gesture of acceptance, she did as he’d asked and got into the limousine, wincing as her short skirt exposed her thighs to the hot leather of the seat.
Beyond the airport, the road wound along the coastline. The ponderous vehicle was surprisingly comfortable, which was just as well, because in places the surface of the road was rough and uneven. It was late afternoon, but the heat was still oppressive, and the old car had no modern amenities to counter the humidity.
‘How far is it?’ she asked at last as they drove through a small village, where colour-washed cottages with tiled roofs clustered round a small square. Barefoot children and lean dogs broke off what they were doing to watch the limousine’s stately progress, and Isobel wondered if Anita Silveira enjoyed the superiority the big car gave her.
‘Nao e muito longe,’ Manos replied, his dark eyesmeeting hers in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not far, senhora . You relax, sim ?’
Isobel didn’t feel very relaxed. She was still recovering from the long flight, and even Uncle Sam had been surprised when she’d phoned the night before to tell him she had to go to Porto Verde. Now the prospect of spending several days in the house of a perfect stranger was not appealing, and she half-wished she hadn’t accepted the assignment and was safely at home with her little daughter.
She saw there was obvious development taking place along the coastline. She guessed that if she’d put off her visit for a few months there might have been a hotel where she could stay. Still, she was a stranger to Senhora Silveira too, and she’d been kind enough to offer her her hospitality. She should stop feeling sorry for herself and look forward to meeting the woman.
And then a wall of flowering trees on one side of the road gave way to an iron gateway. A small cupola topped the entry, and beyond a crushed-shell drive curved steeply out of sight. Manos swept the car between the gates with more enthusiasm than he’d shown thus far and accelerated up the driveway.
Isobel saw manicured lawns to left and right, before a screen of flame-trees exposed a pillared colonnade that evidently encircled the house. Arched windows on the upper floor gave the building a graceful appearance. Bushes heavy with blossom surrounded the forecourt, where a stone fountain spilled water into an orchid-filled basin.
The colonnade was shaded; it would be an ideal place to walk in the late-afternoon heat. Shallow steps led down to the forecourt where Manos first braked and then stopped the car.
Two men came down the steps on their arrival, dressed similarly to Manos, but much younger. One of them swung open the door for Isobel to alight, while the other went to rescue her suitcase from the boot.
Isobel was totally unused to this kind of treatment, but evidently Anita Silveira lived in some style, even at her seaside villa. Stepping out, she acknowledged the sense of tiredness that gripped her, half-wishing she was staying at a hotel and therefore was not obliged to greet her hostess tonight.
Then a woman appeared in the arched entrance to the villa, a tall woman of Junoesque proportions whose long, dark
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