Brazilian Nights. Sandra Marton
A meaty hand clamped down on her shoulder, fingers biting hard into her flesh.
“Pirhana!”
The foul Portuguese curse word was followed by a stream of profanities. Her eyes flew open as Ferrantes yanked her out of Dante’s arms, a stream of words even worse than whore flying from his lips.
Dante shot into action, grabbed Ferrantes’s arm, twisted and jerked it high behind the man’s back. Ferrantes hissed with fury and pain.
“I will kill you, Orsini,” he said, spittle flying from his lips.
“Dante,” Gabriella said desperately, “Dante, please. He’ll hurt you!”
Dante pushed her behind him and brought his lips close to Ferrantes’s ear.
“Touch her again,” he snarled, “and I promise, you bastard, I’ll be the one doing the killing!”
“She is a witch! She makes a fool of you. That you do not see it—Ahh!”
The big man yelped; his face contorted with pain as Dante forced his arm even higher.
“Listen to me, Ferrantes. You are not to speak to her. You are not to speak of her. You are not to so much as look at her or so help me God, you’re a dead man!”
Dante was dimly aware of the room emptying, men rushing for the door, footsteps hurrying across the veranda, truck and car engines roaring to life outside, but he never took his eyes from Ferrantes.
“You hear me? You’re to keep away from her. You got that?”
The big man’s breathing was heavy. At last he gave a quick jerk of his head in assent.
Dante let go, took a step back, and Ferrantes spun around and swung at him. His hand was the size of a ham but there had been many things to learn in the wilds of Alaska, including how to defend yourself in some of the roughest bars in the world. Dante danced back; Ferrantes’s fist sailed harmlessly by his face and when the big man came at him again he grunted, balled his own fist and jabbed it into the man’s solar plexus with the force of a piston.
Ferrantes went down like a felled tree.
Dante stood over him for a long moment. Then he looked up, saw de Souza, saw the auctioneer…
But Gabriella was gone.
De Souza was staring at the motionless hulk on the floor as if it were a rodent. Dante grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
De Souza gulped, looked from Ferrantes to Dante. “You have made a bad enemy, senhor.”
“Answer the question, man. Where is Gabriella?”
The advogado shrugged. “She is gone.”
“I can see that for myself. Where?”
De Souza licked his lips. “Listen to me, Senhor Orsini. This situation is—how do you say—more complicated than it might at first seem.”
Dante barked a laugh. “You think?” His eyes fixed on the lawyer’s. “Where did she go?” he demanded. “Upstairs?”
“Not there,” de Souza said quickly. He gave another expressive shrug. “She fled with the others.”
Dante ran from the house. Only three vehicles remained in the clearing: his, a gold Caddy he figured was the lawyer’s and the big, ugly black SUV that surely belonged to Ferrantes.
He sagged against the veranda railing.
Gabriella was gone.
And maybe that was just as well.
He’d come here to buy this place for his father. Instead, he’d bought it for a woman who had once meant something to him but no longer did. Yes, he’d kissed her. And, yes, that one kiss had damned near consumed him, but so what?
He was a normal, healthy male. She was a beautiful woman. They had a shared history. But that was it.
He looked around him at the weed-choked corral, the dilapidated outbuildings. He’d dropped five million bucks on this place—his money, not Cesare’s—but so what? The truth was he had a lot of money. An obscene amount of money, and he’d made every penny on his own. Losing five million dollars was nothing. And Gabriella didn’t owe him anything. Hadn’t he promised her there would be no strings? Hadn’t buying the fazenda for her been his idea?
A muscle in Dante’s jaw began to tick.
It had been his idea…hadn’t it?
Yes. It damned well had. Still, he had the right to a couple of minutes of conversation. Okay, questions, not conversation, but he was entitled to ask them. Why had she returned to Brazil? Why did she want this rundown disaster? Why did it belong to the bank?
Most of all, why would an ugly SOB like Ferrantes act as if he had a claim on her?
The muscle ticked again.
And then there was the biggest question of all. Why had she melted in his arms when he’d kissed her? Hell, why had he kissed her in the first place? Forget the history thing. He was a man who never looked back—
“Yo, American!” Ferrantes stepped out of the house. He was grinning, even though his gut had to be aching. “You throw a good punch, for a Yankee.”
Dante’s lips drew back from his teeth. “My pleasure.”
The other man chuckled. “The pleasure is all mine, Orsini. Your blow gave me the chance to think. That two intelligent men would have fought over such a woman…”
Dante narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you learn anything?” he said, his tone soft and dangerous. “I told you to watch your mouth!”
The big man lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Trust me, meu amigo. The woman is all yours.” A sly smirk lifted one corner of his mouth. “But I must be honest. You saved me from wasting a lot of money.”
Dante folded his arms. “Glad to have been of service.”
“And from wasting the rest of my life.”
What in hell was the man talking about?
“So, senhor, now I owe you a favor.” Ferrantes made a show of looking around, then lowered his voice. “Before you get in too deep, ask the lady a question.”
“Listen, pal, when I need advice from you—”
“Or ask the advogado. Perhaps he will tell you what you need to know about his charming client.”
A coldness danced along Dante’s spine. Don’t fall for it, he told himself, but it was impossible to ignore the bait.
“What in hell are you talking about?”
All pretence at camaraderie vanished from Andre Ferrantes’s ugly face.
“Ask de Souza whose bed your Gabriella has been sleeping in,” he said coldly, “until you showed up and she decided it might be more profitable to sleep in yours.”
He’d wanted to go for Ferrantes’s throat, but pride held him back.
Why give the man even a small victory? Dante thought hours later, as he sped along a narrow road that led deeper and deeper into a verdant wilderness.
Bad enough she’d played him for a fool in front of everybody, including the lawyer, who’d known her game all along, and the auctioneer, who was probably still celebrating the haul he’d made. Bad enough, too, that every man in that room knew she’d slept with Ferrantes.
Not that he gave a damn that she’d been with someone else—he had no claims on her anymore—but Ferrantes? She’d wanted the ranch badly enough to lie beneath a pig like that? Open herself to him, take him deep inside her, beg him to touch her, taste