Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child. Jennie Lucas
It felt like some strange dream. The sunlight from the windows shimmered and shone around her, blurring the bright colors of ladies’ dresses in the pews. Her ripped veil fluttered forlornly around her, her white taffeta train dragging behind them as he carried her out of the church, stealing her from her own wedding like a Roman centurion with a Sabine maiden.
“Come back here!” Timothy’s voice was a furious squeak as he followed behind them like a yapping terrier. “She’s mine, you Brazilian bastard! Do you hear me? Mine!”
Ignoring him, Diogo flung open the tall double doors.
The bright spring sun outside hit her like a slap in the face. Two of Diogo’s bodyguards slammed the church doors shut behind them, trapping all the guests inside as Diogo set her gently on her feet.
But she found herself face-to-face with Timothy.
“I can’t believe you did it.” His wire-rimmed glasses trembled on his nose. His eyes were red and wet, fog¬ ging up the glass. “I waited for you nearly ten years. I did everything I could to win you. And you spread your legs for Serrador, who treats his women like whores?”
Every word was like a stab in her heart. “I…”
“You are mine, Ellie,” he cried, reaching for her. “Mine—”
Diogo stepped between them. Carelessly, he tucked his hands into fists, widening his muscular legs into a confident stance that suggested he was ready for anything. Even in his perfectly tailored gray suit, he looked like a warrior who could fight—and kill—at will.
“Ellie’s not yours. Neither is her baby. What exactly were you planning, Wright?”
Timothy’s face blanched with fear. He backed away.
“Now,” Diogo said softly, turning to Ellie. He brushed a tendril of hair away from her face in a gesture that was deceptively gentle. “You’ll tell me the name of your baby’s father.”
She rubbed her forehead. “You swore on your honor you couldn’t get me pregnant,” she muttered. “Your honor.”
Diogo’s dark eyes swept her face, pulling out every secret she’d ever tried to keep, leaving her vulnerable and bare. He tightened his hold on her, causing her to cry out. “I’m the father, Ellie. Say it!”
“I hate you,” she whimpered.
“Say it!” he thundered.
“All right!” she shouted. Tears of grief and rage streamed down her face. “You’re the father!”
Timothy gave a loud, high moan. She turned to him desperately. “I’m so sorry. So sorry…”
She tried to reach for him, but he slapped her hand away. Bitterly, he turned to Diogo.
“Take her, and be damned. She’s filled with your child. It disgusts me. Another whore for you. Another bastard—”
Diogo punched him hard across the jaw. Ellie screamed as Timothy dropped like a stone into the lush green grass.
The Brazilian turned to her, and the rage in his eyes made her draw back in confused fear. He blinked, staring at her. His dark eyes suddenly looked sad, as if haunted by shadows and ghosts of long ago.
Then he abruptly turned away without a word. At his signal, two black sedans pulled forward on the street. As a bodyguard opened the door, Diogo pushed her gently into the backseat, holding her against the leather as he drew the seat belt over her body. She struggled, but his grip was implacable. His hands were like iron shackles wrapped in silk.
And every accidental brush of his fingertips made her feel fire in her veins. How could she fight her own desire? How? She swallowed, trying to control the pounding of her heart as she glanced through the back window.
“Timothy—”
“He’ll have a headache.” His teeth gleamed in a feral growl. “He deserves worse.”
Why? What had Timothy done? But she didn’t have the nerve to ask. She had far more pressing issues to worry about. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the airport.” He sat next to her as the driver pulled away. She could feel his thigh pressing against hers through the layers of her wedding dress.
He looked down at her, his eyes black as onyx. Then he gave her the heavy-lidded half smile that had led so many women to ruin.
“Now,” he said, “you belong to me.”
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