She stared at him, her expression blank and uncomprehending. He made it sound as though she were going to stand up and give evidence.
‘Your business, Miss Thacker. As they are your sole supplier, your business is their business. Your fortunes are inextricably linked.’
‘That’s true.’
This man held her future in his hands and at that moment the future looked precarious. She should have been using every last ounce of brainpower to try and understand him so that she could find ways to change his mind.
And yet she was finding it almost impossible to concentrate. Instead of being crisp and businesslike, all she could do was notice tiny irrelevant details. Like the tangle of dark chest hair just visible at the open neck of his shirt, the movement of his hands—decisive and confident. And then there was his mouth. There was something about the sensual lines of his mouth that constantly drew her attention—something wholly masculine that hinted at an extremely physical nature. Grace suddenly remembered the pilot telling her that women flocked around
him.
At the time she’d dismissed his assessment as a natural consequence of wealth and power, but now she realised that it was something else entirely, something to do with the very essence of the man.
Rafael Cordeiro was full-blooded Brazilian male. He throbbed with concentrated, full-on sex appeal and masculine supremacy. If he’d been penniless, women would still have flocked. And sharing the same space as him made her immediately aware of their differences. Aware of her femininity.
She was so mesmerised by him that it was only when a cup of coffee was put in front of her that she realised that her plate had been discreetly removed.
Forcing herself to concentrate on something other than him, she lifted the cup to her lips, sniffed and gave an appreciative sigh. No matter what the stresses, coffee always soothed her. ‘That has to be the best smell in the world.’
‘I’m glad you think so. That coffee comes from the local fazenda that supplies your business.’
She sipped. ‘It’s delicious.’ Perhaps the owners of the fazenda would add their plea to hers because if her business closed down then they’d have to find a new buyer for their coffee. ‘I’m really looking forward to my visit.’
‘Good.’
‘Well—’ she placed the cup back down on the table ‘—we seem to have spent the entire evening talking about me, which is very boring. What about you? Were you born and bred in Brazil?’
‘I don’t understand what possible relevance my heritage can have on the survival of your business,’ he said softly, his accent strangely thickened. ‘Take my advice and concentrate on the things that matter.’
‘I just wondered about you, that’s all.’
‘I never talk about myself. Remember that.’ He rose to his feet in a lithe movement and she had the distinct impression that her simple question had troubled and unsettled him.
‘Why? Because if I find something out you’d have to kill me and then eat me?’ She made the joke in a pathetic attempt to raise a smile from him but there was nothing in his face that wasn’t bleak, dark and cynical and Grace allowed her own smile to die. ‘I’m not a journalist or a gossip, Mr Cordeiro. And I don’t think any of the tabloid newspapers would be interested in my visit to your lodge.’
His powerful body was taut, as if she was treading on a subject that he loathed. ‘Be ready early, wear something that dries easily because this is a rainforest and you’re likely to get wet. Extremely wet.’
‘No four-inch heels, then.’ Noting the forbidding, rigid lines of his mouth, she sighed.
His body language was stating clearly that nothing had changed between them, despite the fact that they’d spent an evening in one another’s company. There was no softening and no reassurance.
She might have been given an extension on the ten minutes but it was clear that she wasn’t expected to interpret the gesture as encouragement.
But if he had no intention of extending her loan, why bother taking her to see the fazenda?
Looking at the grim set of his lean, handsome face, she felt her insides lurch. She didn’t know what was going on in his mind but she was willing to bet that it was nothing good or gentle.
Wound up by the conversation, Grace slept badly and all around her the rainforest intruded. It was alive with sounds, squawks, howls, chirps and the occasional growl that made her wish there was glass between her and the treetops. And when she did doze, she slept lightly, her head full of images of an arrogant Brazilian billionaire with a tormented past and a dark, controlling personality.
At one point she gave up on sleep and wandered over to the window, discovering that it overlooked the smooth glass dome that housed his office. And he was there. Even in the darkness of the night he was at his computer, the phone trapped between his cheek and his shoulder, eyes fixed on the screen. He sprawled in the chair, the sleeves of his now rumpled shirt pushed up past the elbows and his jaw dark with stubble.
So being in the rainforest didn’t stop him working, then? Didn’t stop him steering his slick, impressive corporation to still more dizzying heights.
He might be hidden away in the jungle but he was still well and truly connected to civilisation.
Why couldn’t he sleep?
What was the cause of the hardness she saw in his eyes?