‘Don’t say anything more. My God!’ She gave a harsh gulp. ‘I wondered where all thiswas leading. You nearly had me fooled, do you know that? Well, stuff your concern, senhor .’ She used the title contemptuously. ‘You don’t have to worry about me. I can look after myself.’
‘Isobella—’
‘And don’t call me that. My name is Isobel.’ She gathered the folds of the shirt almost defensively about her. ‘Just go, right? Before either of us says something we’ll regret.’
‘Isobel, por favor .’
‘No.’
There was a break in her voice and she prayed he couldn’t hear it. She would not break down in front of him, she told herself. She wouldn’t! But she wanted to; she wanted to shout and scream and yell her feelings of betrayal to the skies.
Instead of which she marched stiffly to the door, refusing to look at him as he picked up both his jackets and followed her.
‘Querida,’ he said in an agonised tone, but she merely shook her head.
‘Have a good journey,’ she managed tightly, waiting for him to go past her. Then she closed the door and locked it again before allowing the hot tears to stream unchecked down her face.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three years later
F ROM the air, the city of Rio de Janeiro was impressive: Sugar Loaf Mountain, the iconic statue of Christ on another mountain called Corcovado, and the glorious beaches surrounding Guanabara Bay.
Isobel had read that the earlier settlers had believed the bay was the mouth of a river. ‘Rio’ meant river, and, along with the month in which the country had been discovered, had given the city its name.
She’d read a lot on the journey, wanting to know as much about the country and its people as she could cram into the eleven-hour flight. She’d decided there’d be time enough to learn about her subject when she met her. She already knew Anita Silveira was a very successful writer. Having read many of her books, she felt she had learned a little of the woman’s character already.
The irony of accepting the Brazilian assignment wasn’t lost on her. Aunt Olivia hadn’t wanted her to go, and even her uncle had had his reservations. But apparently Senhora Silveira had read some of Isobel’s work and had asked that she conduct the interview. And, because it was such an important coup for Lifestyles magazine, Sam Armstrong had reluctantly agreed to let her go.
It wasn’t as if she was likely to meet Alejandro Cabral, Isobel had protested when her aunt had brought the subject up. Rio was a huge city, with a population of well over six million. What were the chances of her meeting her daughter’s father again? The odds were definitely stacked against it.
All the same, Isobel couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to seeing the place where Alejandro had been born and where he’d been living when she’d known him. Their acquaintance had been so brief to have such long-lasting consequences, she thought a little bitterly. Yet she wouldn’t be without Emma; her daughter had given real meaning to her life.
But now Rio was far behind her. When she’d arrived in the city two days before, Ben Goodman—a friend of her uncle, with whom he’d arranged for her to stay—had informed her that Senhora Silveira had retired to her coastal villa north of Rio. She apparently preferred the cooler ocean breezes of Porto Verde to the summer heat of the city.
Isobel didn’t blame her. Having left London in the depths of a cold and wet January, she hadn’t been prepared for the heat and humidity that had assaulted her as soon as she’d stepped out of the airport. In no time at all her cotton shirt had been clinging to her, and it had been such a relief to reach the Goodmans’ house in the leafy suburb of Santa Teresa and discover it had air-conditioning.
Nevertheless, the beauty of the city hadn’t totally escaped her. Despite the poverty of the favellas , there was so much she would have liked to explore: to ride the trolley cars and visit
‘Isobella—’
‘And don’t call me that. My name is Isobel.’ She gathered the folds of the shirt almost defensively about her. ‘Just go, right? Before either of us says something we’ll regret.’
‘Isobel, por favor .’
‘No.’
There was a break in her voice and she prayed he couldn’t hear it. She would not break down in front of him, she told herself. She wouldn’t! But she wanted to; she wanted to shout and scream and yell her feelings of betrayal to the skies.
Instead of which she marched stiffly to the door, refusing to look at him as he picked up both his jackets and followed her.
‘Querida,’ he said in an agonised tone, but she merely shook her head.
‘Have a good journey,’ she managed tightly, waiting for him to go past her. Then she closed the door and locked it again before allowing the hot tears to stream unchecked down her face.
CHAPTER FIVE
Three years later
F ROM the air, the city of Rio de Janeiro was impressive: Sugar Loaf Mountain, the iconic statue of Christ on another mountain called Corcovado, and the glorious beaches surrounding Guanabara Bay.
Isobel had read that the earlier settlers had believed the bay was the mouth of a river. ‘Rio’ meant river, and, along with the month in which the country had been discovered, had given the city its name.
She’d read a lot on the journey, wanting to know as much about the country and its people as she could cram into the eleven-hour flight. She’d decided there’d be time enough to learn about her subject when she met her. She already knew Anita Silveira was a very successful writer. Having read many of her books, she felt she had learned a little of the woman’s character already.
The irony of accepting the Brazilian assignment wasn’t lost on her. Aunt Olivia hadn’t wanted her to go, and even her uncle had had his reservations. But apparently Senhora Silveira had read some of Isobel’s work and had asked that she conduct the interview. And, because it was such an important coup for Lifestyles magazine, Sam Armstrong had reluctantly agreed to let her go.
It wasn’t as if she was likely to meet Alejandro Cabral, Isobel had protested when her aunt had brought the subject up. Rio was a huge city, with a population of well over six million. What were the chances of her meeting her daughter’s father again? The odds were definitely stacked against it.
All the same, Isobel couldn’t deny that she was looking forward to seeing the place where Alejandro had been born and where he’d been living when she’d known him. Their acquaintance had been so brief to have such long-lasting consequences, she thought a little bitterly. Yet she wouldn’t be without Emma; her daughter had given real meaning to her life.
But now Rio was far behind her. When she’d arrived in the city two days before, Ben Goodman—a friend of her uncle, with whom he’d arranged for her to stay—had informed her that Senhora Silveira had retired to her coastal villa north of Rio. She apparently preferred the cooler ocean breezes of Porto Verde to the summer heat of the city.
Isobel didn’t blame her. Having left London in the depths of a cold and wet January, she hadn’t been prepared for the heat and humidity that had assaulted her as soon as she’d stepped out of the airport. In no time at all her cotton shirt had been clinging to her, and it had been such a relief to reach the Goodmans’ house in the leafy suburb of Santa Teresa and discover it had air-conditioning.
Nevertheless, the beauty of the city hadn’t totally escaped her. Despite the poverty of the favellas , there was so much she would have liked to explore: to ride the trolley cars and visit
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