Master Of Her Innocence. Chantelle Shaw
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‘Do you remember what I said I would do if you called me Mr Cazorra?’ he drawled.
Diego’s silver wolf’s eyes gleamed with a feral hunger as he drew Clare’s face down to his and angled his mouth over her lips. His kiss was like no other she had ever experienced: deeply sensual and so utterly irresistible that she did not stand a chance against his skilful seduction.
Still half-dazed with sleep, but more dazzled by him, she found her lips parting of their own volition when his mouth exerted subtle pressure. Like a connoisseur of fine wine he tasted her slowly and unhurriedly, and yet with such bone-shaking eroticism that she melted against him.
The sense of unreality she had felt since she’d arrived in Brazil increased, and she sank into a dreamlike state in which she was only conscious of the strength of Diego’s arms around her and the divine smell of him … the taste of him when she dipped her tongue into his mouth. He overwhelmed her, and the feel of his hand smoothing up and down her spine evoked a languorous warmth in her veins.
He deepened the kiss, and the languorous feeling was replaced with a fierce pull of desire in the pit of her stomach so that she lifted her hips, unconsciously seeking to assuage the ache inside her. She sensed a new urgency in Diego, a barely controlled savagery as he ravished her mouth with his intoxicating mastery, taking everything she offered him and demanding more.
Claimed by passion!
Cruz Delgado and Diego Cazorra—two men brought up in Brazil’s favelas—have literally dragged themselves from dirt to a diamond empire.
But having the world at their feet and dripping with their jewels is not enough. Now they will have their revenge against the women who walked away.
It’s time for Cruz and Diego to claim what’s theirs … and for both of these women to be Bought by the Brazilian!
Read Cruz and Sabrina’s story:
Mistress of His Revenge
Read Diego and Clare’s story:
Master of Her Innocence
Master of Her Innocence
Chantelle Shaw
CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast and thinks up her stories while walking on the beach. She has been married for over thirty years and has six children. Her love affair with reading and writing Mills & Boon stories began as a teenager, and her first book was published in 2006. She likes strong-willed, slightly unusual characters. Chantelle also loves gardening, walking and wine!
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For New York Times bestselling historical romance author Sarah MacLean, who gave brilliant workshops at RWA 2015 and inspired me to go with my crazy ideas and write bonkers! Thank you, Sarah.
Contents
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘SISTER ANN, DO I really need to wear a habit?’ Clare Marchant looked doubtfully at the Mother Superior. ‘It seems wrong to pretend that I belong to the Holy Order of the Sacred Heart. I feel like I am an imposter.’
‘My child, I strongly advise that for your safety you should dress as a nun. Torrente is one of the most dangerous places in Brazil. Its close proximity to the border with Colombia has made it a route for drug smuggling and people trafficking and I have heard of young women in the town who have been forced into prostitution. It is a lawless place where even the police are too scared to visit. The men who run the drugs cartels have little respect for life, but they do at least retain some respect for the church.’
The Mother Superior smiled gently at Clare, noting the signs of strain on the young Englishwoman’s face and the shadows beneath her eyes that told of too many sleepless nights of worry.
‘There is no need for you to feel like an imposter. You have come to Brazil with the selfless intention to search for your sister and pay the ransom her kidnappers have demanded. You are bravely prepared to put yourself in danger to help someone you love, and at least the church can offer you some small measure of protection.’ Sister Ann’s expression became grave. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that the men who took Becky are utterly ruthless.’
Clare followed the nun’s gaze to what looked like a jewellery box on the desk, and a feeling of nausea swept over her as she pictured the gruesome contents of the casket. Don’t think of it, she ordered herself. But her mind visualised the severed tip of an earlobe wrapped in layers of tissue paper like some ghastly mimicry of a gift from a lover. Surely it wasn’t a piece of Becky’s ear? She could not bear to think of her beautiful