The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

“I—look, this never should have happened, never has happened before. I don’t know how it did,” Araminta mumbled, embarrassed.

“It happened because we both wanted it to happen,” he said harshly, viewing her through narrowed eyes. “Because we are two consenting adults who feel desire for one another.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded grudgingly, retrieving her shoe from beneath a cushion, “but that isn’t a reason to, well, to—”

“To go to bed together?” he finished. “Why on earth not? I can’t think of any better reason.”

“Can’t you?” she exclaimed, suddenly cross. “Well, I can. Lots of them.”

“It took you rather a long time to remember them, querida.”

VIVA LA VIDA DE AMOR!

They speak the language of passion.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT WAS a grey Tuesday afternoon in October when Araminta Dampierre, abstractedly parking her old Land Rover in front of the village shop, felt a jolt and heard a thud. With a sinking heart she twisted her head. Close behind her stood a four-wheel drive that she’d just hit.

With a sigh Araminta climbed out of her vehicle and took stock of the gleaming silver Range Rover’s squished bumper. Her own Land Rover was not in a great state anyway, but this Range Rover had been in pristine condition—obviously the latest model, and brand-new. Wishing she’d paid more attention to her surroundings, Araminta looked up and down the empty village street, searching for a possible owner. But there was no one to be seen.

Taking a last reluctant look at the damage she’d done, Araminta decided to proceed with her shopping and wait and see if the owner of the Range Rover appeared. Maybe the proprietor of the glistening vehicle that she was fast beginning to loathe would have returned by then, no doubt filled with much righteous indignation.

As she turned to head towards the grocer’s she visualised a dreadfully chic corporate wife—with whom Sussex seemed to be teeming lately—complaining furiously about her careless behaviour.

At the grocer’s Araminta handed her shopping list to dear old Mr Thompson and waited patiently while he shuffled about the shelves in search of several items.

‘And how is Her Ladyship?’ the white-haired bespectacled grocer asked solicitously.

‘My mother is fine, thank you,’ Araminta responded, smiling. ‘She’s recovered after that bout of bronchitis.’

‘Well, thank goodness for that. A bad spell it was. My wife had it too.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Araminta murmured, glancing out of the window back towards the cars, hoping she wouldn’t have to hear all the details of Mrs Thompson’s illness.

‘Will that be all?’ Mr Thompson smiled benignly from across the counter at Araminta, whom he had known since she was a small child, when she’d come in after going to the Pony Club to buy sweets.

‘Thanks, I think that’s everything. Just pop it onto the account as usual, will you? And do send my best to Mrs Thompson. I hope she makes a quick recovery.’

‘Thank you, miss, I will.’

Araminta stepped back onto the pavement, brown paper bag held under her arm, thinking how quaint it was that the villagers still called her ‘miss’, even though she was twenty-eight and had been married and widowed.

She made her way back to the car, deposited her bag of shopping on the passenger seat, and wondered what to do, since there was still no sign of the driver of the Range Rover. For all she knew, she or he might not appear for ages. She could hardly stand around waiting all afternoon.

With a reluctant sigh Araminta took out a pad and pen from her well-worn Hermès bag and scribbled what she hoped was a legible note, which she slipped behind the windscreen wiper of the Range Rover. There was little else she could do. The driver could get in touch with her and they could exchange information about their respective insurance companies over the phone.

‘I’m back!’ Araminta called round the drawing room door of Taverstock Hall to where her mother sat reading by the fire.

‘Ah. Good. I’ve just told Olive to bring in tea.’

‘Okay, I’ll be down in a minute. Just popping the groceries into the pantry. Mr Thompson sends his best, by the way.’

‘Ah. Thank you.’ Lady Drusilla inclined her head graciously. ‘I really must do something about the Christmas bazaar. Perhaps you could help, Araminta? Instead of scribbling away at those wretched children’s books of yours. It’s time you pulled yourself together and did something useful. After all, when your father died I didn’t spend my time drifting. I took charge.’