She was also looking forward to, as she had promised she would, writing to Sister Maria to tell her that everything was going smoothly and that she would soon be returning to Rio.
Her stomach muscles tensed with a nervous apprehension that she told herself firmly was entirely natural as the plane began its descent into Heathrow Airport.
The Imogen who had left Heathrow four years earlier had been pretty in a soft, still-girlish way, but the woman she had become could never in a thousand years have been described as wishy-washily pretty. The hardship of a life that was lived without any kind of luxury, a life that was spent giving one hundred and fifty per cent physical commitment and two hundred and fifty per cent emotional love, had stripped Imogen’s body of its late-teenage layer of protective flesh and honed her face to a delicately boned translucency. This revealed not just her stunningly perfect features and the deep, intense amethyst of her amazing eyes, but also gave her a luminosity that was almost spiritual and that made people turn to look at her not just once but a second and then a third time.
She was dressed simply in soft chinos and a white cotton shirt, but no woman could possibly live in Rio without absorbing something of the sensuality of its people, of a culture that flagrantly and unselfconsciously worshipped the female form. Brazilian clothes were cut in a way that was unique, and not even the loose fit of what she was wearing could conceal the narrowness of Imogen’s waist, the high curve of her breasts, the unexpected length of her legs, but most of all the rounded curve of her bottom.
Her dark hair meant that her skin had adapted well to the South American sun, which had given her a warm, ripe, peachy glow. As she raised her hand to shield her eyes from the shaft of sunlight breaking through the grey cloud the gold watch her father had given her shortly before his death glinted in the light, emphasising the fragility of her wrist. A group of stewardesses walking past her looked enviously at the careless way she had tied the tangled thickness of her curls back off her face with an old white silk scarf.
Taking a deep breath, Imogen summoned a taxi. Once inside it, she studied the piece of paper she had removed from her purse, and gave the address written on it to the driver.
As he repeated it he commented, ’Bute Wharf. That’ll be one of them new developments down by the river.’
Imogen smiled dutifully in acknowledgement of his comment but said nothing. She had asked the advice of her solicitor on where to stay, specifying that it had to be reasonably close to his office, and cheap.
To her astonishment, not only had he replied with a terse note that explained that he had made arrangements for her to stay ‘at the enclosed address’ but which had also enclosed a cheque to cover her air fare. A first-class fare—although she had chosen not to make use of it.
This particular Docklands area of London was unfamiliar to her and Imogen’s eyes widened a little as she studied it through the taxi window: streets filled with expensive cars, young men and women dressed in designer clothing, an air about the whole area of affluence and prestige. Was this really the kind of place where she was going to find cheap accommodation? She began to panic a little, wondering if the solicitor had misunderstood her request.
The taxi was pulling up outside an impressive apartment block. Getting out, Imogen glanced up uncertainly at her surroundings, paying off the taxi and then picking up her one small case before squaring her shoulders and heading determinedly towards the entrance.
As she did so she was vaguely aware of the dark shadow of a large car gliding into the space left by the taxi, but she paid no attention to it, too busy making sure that she had the right address to concern herself with it.
Yes, the address was the same one the solicitor had given her.
A little warily Imogen walked into the luxurious atrium that was the apartment block’s lobby and then stopped, drawn by some compelling force she couldn’t resist to turn round and stare, and then stare again. Her breath froze in shock in her lungs as she recognised the man casually slamming the door of the car she had been so vaguely aware of before turning to stride determinedly through the entrance towards her, exclaiming coolly as he did so, ’Imo! I had hoped to meet you at the airport, but somehow I missed you.’
‘Dracco!’
How weak her voice sounded, shaky and thin, the voice of a child, a girl… Fiercely she tried to clear her throat, reminding herself that she was twenty-two and an adult, but her senses had shut down. They were concentrating exclusively on Dracco.
Four years hadn’t changed him as much as she believed they had changed her, but then, he had already been an adult when she had left.
He still possessed that same aura of taut male sexual power she remembered so vividly, only now, as a woman, she was instantly, intensely aware of just how strong it was. It was like suddenly seeing something which had previously only been a hazy image brought sharply into focus, and she almost recoiled physically from the raw reality of it.
Had she forgotten just how magnetically sexy he was or had she simply never known, been too naïve to know? Well, if so, she wasn’t now.
His hair was still as dark as she remembered, but cut shorter, giving him a somewhat harder edge. His eyes were harder than she remembered too. Harder and scrutinising her with a coldness that made her shiver.
‘You didn’t travel first class.’
‘You knew that I was coming?’ Try as she might, Imogen couldn’t keep her appalled shock to herself.
‘Of course. I’m your trustee, remember, and since the purpose of your visit is to discuss your inheritance…’
Her trustee! Well, of course she knew that, but somehow she had assumed, believed, that it would be David Bryant she would be talking to and that he would act as a negotiator between herself and Dracco. The last thing she wanted or needed was to be confronted by him like this when she was already feeling nervous and on edge. Not to mention jet-lagged.
Determined to grab back at least some small measure of control, she threw at him acidly, ’I’m surprised that Lisa isn’t with you.’
‘Lisa?’
She could see from his sharply incisive tone and the look he was giving her that he didn’t like her pointed comment.
‘This was nothing to do with Lisa,’ he told her coldly.
Of course, he would want to protect his lover, Imogen acknowledged angrily.
The shocking realisation of how much she wanted to hurl at him all the accusations she had thought safely disarmed and vanquished years ago hit her nerve-endings like the kick of a mule. The old Imogen might well have given in and done so, but there had been something in the way he had looked at her when he had reminded her that he was her trustee that was warning her to tread very carefully.
Surely it was only a matter of formality for her to be able to reclaim the income she had previously rejected? It was, after all, legally hers, wasn’t it?
Surely David Bryant would have told her, warned her, if this wasn’t the case or if he had foreseen problems, rather than encouraging her to come all this way?
When it came to disposing of her share of the business, Imogen felt that she was on firmer ground. Since Dracco had been willing to marry her to secure it, surely it made sense that he would be delighted to be given legal control of her share of it in return for guaranteeing its income would be given to the charity?
After all, if she wished she could always sell it on the open market! Knowing that she held that power, that threat over him, helped to rally her courage.
Dracco had reached her now, and Imogen discovered that one thing hadn’t changed. She still had to tilt her head right back to look up into his eyes when he stood next to her.
Too late to regret now the comfortable low-heeled pumps she was wearing.
‘Come on.’ As he spoke Dracco was propelling her forward, the fear of experiencing the sensation of that powerful long-fingered