Fiona Hood-Stewart - The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress

As she drove down the dark country road and headed back to Taverstock Hall Araminta took herself seriously to task, asking over and over how she could possibly have behaved in such a wanton manner. Never had anything remotely similar occurred before in her life, not even when she was a teenager. That Victor was a man whom she’d met only a few times didn’t make it any better. And thank goodness for that sudden flash of common sense that had intervened just in time, or right now she might very well be rolling between Victor Santander’s wretched sheets!

It was appalling, shocking, and so unlike her that she had difficulty recognizing herself in the writhing woman of minutes earlier. For a moment she thought of Peter, and a new wave of guilt swept over her. She hadn’t thought of him once all evening, hadn’t remembered the gentle, quiet nights spent in each other’s arms after tender but, she had to admit, guiltily comparing the sensations of earlier in the evening, not very exciting sex.

Araminta 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.

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