The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress - Fiona Hood-Stewart

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changed gears crossly as she swerved into the gates of Taverstock Hall. That she should suddenly be denigrating her marriage was as absurd as all the rest. She’d been happy, hadn’t she? Had never felt that what they’d had was less than enough, had she? So why this? Why now? Why had she soared to unknown heights at the touch of a near-stranger, and never during the entire course of her sedate marriage to a man she knew—was one hundred per cent certain—that she had loved? Surely there must be something seriously wrong with her?

      Too troubled to go straight into the house, and possibly have to face her mother, Araminta dropped her car keys into her pocket and wandered into the rose garden, where she sat down on one of the stone benches. With a sigh she stared up at the half moon flickering through fast-travelling cloud and tried to make sense of the evening. But whichever way she viewed it she still couldn’t come up with any justification for her strange behaviour. She must, she concluded, have lost her mind. And she’d better make damn sure it never happened again. Not paying attention while parking, she reflected grimly, could carry a high price.

      Victor was also too wound up to go to bed, and he stood for a long time by the window, wondering why she’d allowed him to go that far. Was she innocent, or a hypocrite? he pondered, wishing to banish the niggling feeling of frustration that still hovered. Whatever, it was probably a lot better that she had upped and left when she had, for otherwise it might have proved embarrassing to have her wake up next to him when he’d had no intention of anything more than a night of good, satisfying sex.

      In fact, all round it was definitely preferable this way, he persuaded himself, wandering back to the drawing room and absently pouring another cognac, before retiring to the study to do some work before going up to bed.

      But half an hour later he found it impossible to concentrate on the project at hand. He must be tired, he concluded, folding up the plans of a new factory in Brazil.

      ‘Damn Araminta,’ he exclaimed, banishing the image of her lovely face as she’d reached orgasm in his arms, and the strangely satisfying sensation he’d experienced when he’d heard that little gasp of surprised shock that told him quite clearly she’d never reached those heights before.

      With a sigh and a short harsh laugh directed at himself, Victor downed the last of his brandy. Then, switching off the lights, he headed upstairs to bed, determined to rid his mind of his fair neighbour.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THERE was no use pretending it hadn’t happened, Araminta realised the next day. She just had to face the fact that for a few inexplicable minutes she must have gone mad.

      As it happened she was given little opportunity to stew over the events of the night before, for early in the day the telephone rang.

      ‘Araminta, it’s Pearce. Look, they’re advancing the book-launch date and there’s a huge party planned at the Ritz. I can’t believe it—they’re going to have it published in record time,’ he said excitedly.

      ‘Oh. Will I be expected to be there?’

      ‘Well, of course you will, silly girl. You’re the one person who has to be there, come hell or high water.’

      ‘But I don’t think I—’

      ‘One more word and I’ll scream,’ Pearce roared down the phone. ‘Araminta, get with the programme! This is your book, your success. Don’t you feel the least bit excited about it all? Girl, you’re about to make millions if it flies!’

      ‘Really? Yes, I suppose I might,’ she muttered vaguely. The thought of being exposed to all those strangers, having to smile and chit-chat, sound intelligent and answer questions about her book was thoroughly daunting.

      ‘Araminta, it’s not the end of the world,’ Pearce continued patiently. ‘You used to be so social before you married Peter. What’s the matter with you?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve changed, I suppose.’

      ‘Not really. You’re just hiding.’

      ‘Peter didn’t like going out much, so we rarely did.’

      ‘Araminta, Peter is no longer with us,’ Pearce said carefully. ‘And you are. You have to make a life for yourself. Thanks to your own efforts you’re going to be a great success. Enjoy it, girl, instead of running away.’

      ‘I’ll think about,’ she murmured, twisting the cord of the telephone. ‘When is the party going to be?’

      ‘In three weeks.’ He gave her the date.

      ‘So soon?’ Araminta squeaked.

      ‘Yes. Goodness knows how they’re getting the books done in time. And you’d better get yourself to London and buy a decent dress for the occasion. Don’t think you can come in those worn jeans of yours. I won’t have it. I want you to look stunning. In fact I’ll go shopping with you if need be.’

      ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Araminta responded in a dignified tone. This was all happening far too fast. First last night, now this. It was as if she couldn’t stem the flow of events sweeping her along, despite her desire to stay cushioned from the world at Taverstock Hall.

      But as she hung up she heard her mother calling from the stairs and winced, closing her eyes. Perhaps this really was her chance to move on. Of course if she moved it would mean more change. But at least she’d have a choice, which at present she didn’t. Plus, it would mean she wouldn’t be stuck next door to Victor Santander.

      This last did more to get her moving than any other element of the equation. The mere thought of coming across him in the village or elsewhere was enough to cause a rush of hot embarrassment. What would she do? How would she face him if it happened?

      ‘Araminta, I really must have your help for the Hunt Ball,’ Lady Drusilla said, walking into the hall and bringing her crashing back to earth.

      ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m afraid I’ll be away at that time,’ she responded absently.

      ‘Away?’

      ‘I’m going to London. I have to do some stuff for my book. There’s going to be some sort of launch party on the same day as the Ball.’

      ‘Goodness. How very tiresome.’ Lady Drusilla pulled her cardigan closer and sniffed. ‘Couldn’t you have got your publishers to arrange it another day? It can’t be that important, surely?’

      ‘Actually, it is,’ Araminta replied, drawing herself up suddenly aware for the first time just what she was about to achieve. ‘They’re publishing two hundred thousand copies.’

      ‘Goodness. That seems rather excessive, doesn’t it?’ Lady Drusilla’s brows rose in disapproval. ‘I hope they won’t sit on the shelves. It could be a terrible waste of good paper.’

      Furious at her mother’s response, Araminta turned on her heel and decided that Pearce was right. She needed out, needed to get on with her life and not tolerate her mother’s impossible behaviour any longer. In fact, she decided, running up the stairs and dashing the tears from her cheeks, the sooner she went to London and began looking for something decent to wear for the party the better. After all, if she was going to be the centre of attention then she might as well do it right.

      Three weeks later Araminta stood in the ballroom of the Ritz surrounded by Pearce, her publishers, and a number of journalists, critics and miscellaneous celebrities brought in for the occasion. There were stands with copies of Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise tastefully placed about the room, waiters circulated with trays of champagne and elegant finger food, and a jazz quartet played at the far end of the room.

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