Brazilian Nights. Sandra Marton
that solemn I’m-an-adult-in-miniature look he’d seen before….
The realization almost stole his breath away.
He saw those eyes, that expression in the mirror each morning when he shaved.
“No,” he said aloud. “No! Impossible.”
But it was adding up. The eyes. The expression. The dark hair. Figure the child’s age at four months, add on nine more…His head did the calculations no single, unattached, contented male wanted to do and reached an inescapable possibility.
Gabriella might have become pregnant in New York. And if she had…
Dante sat back. No. He couldn’t go there. All those years ago, Teresa D’Angelo’s monumental lie. He’d never had sex with her, with any woman without using a condom.
Gabriella could be lying, too.
Except she hadn’t lied. She hadn’t said the child was his. And she’d have told him. “Dante,” she’d have said, “I’m pregnant with your baby.” Teresa damned well had. There were times he could still hear her voice whining that he had to marry her.
Surely, Gabriella, any woman, would have made the same demand.
Which meant, he thought, on a relieved rush of exhaled breath, which meant the kid was not his. Forget the eye color. The face. The time frame. Babies were babies. They all looked alike…
“Merda,” he hissed, and he turned the key, put the car in gear, and drove back to the fazenda for the second time that night.
Daniel had finally fallen asleep.
He’d fussed for the last half hour. Unusual for him. He was generally an easy baby to deal with. He ate, he slept, he kicked his tiny legs, pumped his arms and grinned. The grin, especially, was a delight because his usual expression was thoughtful, almost solemn, so that when he grinned, his whole face lit.
Just like his—
Gabriella blinked. No. She was not going there. It had taken her weeks and weeks not to look at her son and see the man who’d once been her lover. She was not going to permit the events of one day to start her on that path again.
Carefully she lowered her baby into his crib, drew a light blanket to his chin, then bent and kissed his forehead, inhaling his sweet, baby scent. Her lips curved in a smile. Deus, how she adored her little boy. She’d been terrified when she’d realized she was carrying him. Now he was the focal point of her life.
Everything she did, she did for him.
It was why she’d wanted to save the fazenda.
Sighing, she turned out the light, went to her own room and undressed.
If only she could have done it. For Daniel. For his connection to a place that was in the Viera blood. And for the memory of her brother. She had loved Arturo with all her heart, just as he had loved her. No one else ever had, surely not Dante. She’d been his plaything. His toy.
And she had let him hurt her for the last time today.
Gabriella turned on the shower and stepped under the spray.
Dante was history. Her son was the future. She had to plan what she would do next, now that the ranch was truly gone. She’d harbored hope until the last minute, even though she’d known, in her heart, that the small amount of money she still possessed would not be sufficient to save it. The amount owed on it was too big. Her father had mortgaged and remortgaged the fazenda so often she’d lost count, frittering the money away on women, horses and cards. By the time Arturo had inherited it, the bank stood ready to foreclose.
And then, despite the doctors, the treatments, virtually all her savings from modeling, he had died.
The bank had moved in for the kill. She’d made her pathetic financial offer, they’d turned it down, and Ferrantes had come sniffing at her heels. She’d told him what he could do with his disgusting suggestions. He’d laughed and said she would change her mind after the auction. She told him she would never do that; in fact, she had not even intended to go to the auction—why break her heart even more by seeing a pig such as him take what should have been her son’s inheritance?
Then she’d heard Dante’s voice.
She could not have kept from going to him any more than the big, beautiful hawk moths could keep from beating themselves to death against the lit windows of the house at night.
Why had she believed he’d buy the fazenda for her? Worse, why had she let him kiss her? To let that happen…to give in to the kiss, to respond like a wanton to the feel of his arms, the heat of his body, the never-forgotten taste of his mouth and then to have him show how little he thought of her by believing she would have slept with Ferrantes…
That she would have slept with any man after having been with him and, Deus, she hated him for that, for leaving his mark on her lips, her skin, her stupid heart.
Gabriella froze.
Someone was ringing the doorbell. Banging on the door. She could hear it all the way up here, even with the water running. It would wake Daniel, but how could she let Ferrantes in?
Because, this time it would be him.
She didn’t take the time to towel off. Instead, she flung on her robe, tied the sash and ran downstairs. Her heart was racing. She needed a weapon. Her father had kept guns but she didn’t know where they’d be. Arturo, who’d despised killing things, had probably disposed of them.
“Gabriella! Open this door.”
She blinked. Dante? Why had he returned? It couldn’t be him. But when she turned on the outside lights and peered out the window, it was his rental car she saw parked before the house, not Ferrantes’s obscenely extravagant SUV.
What did he want now? There was only one way to find out. She took a steadying breath and cracked the door an inch.
“I don’t know why you came back,” she said, or started to say. But just as he’d done a little while ago, Dante brushed past her as if she were nothing. His easy arrogance was infuriating.
A good thing, because it swept away the sudden ache in her heart the unexpected sight of him provoked.
“Excuse me,” she said coldly, “but I did not invite you in. It is very late, and—”
He swung toward her, eyes bright and hard as diamonds.
“Yes,” he said coldly, “it is definitely very late.”
His gaze swept over her, lingering on the rise of her breasts, the length of her thighs. She thought of how the thin cotton robe must be clinging to her damp body and she flushed and folded her arms.
His smile was thin and dangerous. “Dressed for company?” he said softly.
She could feel her color deepen. “Dressed for bed,” she said coolly. “My days have an early start.”
His smile vanished.
“Taking care of a kid must cut down on your social life.”
Her chin lifted. “What do you want?”
“It’s hard to imagine a city girl like you enjoying this kind of life.”
“That only shows how little you know about me.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. What was she talking about? He knew a lot about her. She preferred white wine. She didn’t eat red meat. She wore clothes by big-time designers.
Those things constituted knowing a woman, didn’t they? Sure they did. It meant he knew what restaurants she preferred, what to choose on a menu, what to tell his PA to buy her whenever he decided it was time to give a woman a gift.
“Dante. I asked you a question. Why did you come back? We said all we had to say an hour ago.”
He