Free? The word terrified her. Another hard contraction went through her, making her knees weak. She grasped the hard metal bedframe for balance. “The babies… aren’t due for two weeks,” she gasped.
“It’s close enough. The little brats will be fine. They’ll be going to their new parents in Manhattan, who have paid me a hefty sum for newborn twins with no questions asked. I’m a rich man now, Ellie. Not as rich as Serrador, but I can buy you everything you could want. You’ll never have to work again. Your only job will be to love me all day long….”
Her belly tensed, and she nearly fell. She had to get out of here. If she gave birth to her twins now, they would be taken from her. She and Diogo would never see them again.
She had to be strong. Strong for her children. Strong for the man she loved!
“If you take the babies, Diogo will kill you.” She sat down on the bed as her legs threatened to give way beneath her.
“He won’t even find me,” Timothy said scornfully. “As soon as we leave here, we’ll disappear forever.”
She couldn’t let that happen. She had to distract him. Her heart pounding, she unbuttoned the top buttons of her shirt, giving him a better look at her full cleavage. “Ooh, it’s hot in here,” she said, fanning herself. “Why not just let Diogo have the babies, Timothy? Then you and I can leave together.”
She could see the beads of sweat on Timothy’s pale, thin forehead as he came closer, staring at her chest.
“But I want Serrador to suffer,” he whispered. “And those babies are my getaway money. I want that four million dollars. The private plane will take us to West Africa, to a place where he’ll never find us.”
She tried to hide her fear.
“What’s the hurry to leave?” she said, leaning back against the bed. “Why not stay and enjoy ourselves right here?”
“Yes…” With a shudder, he buried his head in her hair, smelling it deeply. She felt him tentatively reach out to touch her breasts. It made her ill, but she forced herself to remain still.
Diogo, she thought desperately, where are you? He was so powerful, so smart. Somehow he would find them. She just had to give him time. Had to…
Timothy slowly squeezed one full breast, then the other. “Yes,” he breathed. “It’s so good. Just as I always thought it would be…”
But revulsion overcame Ellie. As he tried to kiss her, she couldn’t stop herself from struggling. As he leaned over her, she kicked him in the face.
He fell back for a moment, dazed. But as she tried to scramble up for the door, he grabbed her hair. With a growl, he threw her back against the bed.
“So that’s how it’s going to be, eh?” She saw him pick up a small, wickedly gleaming knife from a tray. “Fine. Have it your way—”
She gave a desperate scream as he held the knife above her in a flash of cold steel—
A dark shadow swept upon him like an angel of death. Six feet, four inches of hard muscle threw Timothy back, tossing him to the ground.
Diogo towered over him, his expression contorted with vengeful fury.
“Serrador,” he whimpered, quivering on the floor. “How?”
Diogo didn’t answer. But beneath his mask of rage, Ellie saw the fear. He’d been so afraid of losing her.
Timothy slithered up from the floor, trying to slash at him with the knife. With a growl, Diogo punched him in the face, knocking him back down easily. He grabbed the blade, bending it back in the other man’s hand. Blood trickled from Diogo’s fingers, but his face showed no pain—only rage.
The knife fell to the floor with a clatter.
“Mercy. Please,” Timothy cried, feebly trying to protect his face. “Don’t hurt me.”
“I showed you mercy. Twice.” Diogo punched him across the jaw, knocking him back. “You’ve threatened my wife. My children. Never again!”
“Diogo,” she whispered. “He didn’t hurt me. Please… let him go.”
“Yes, let me go!” With a high, eerie scream, Timothy fell flat onto the ground, a weak, shapeless, whimpering mass.
Diogo took a deep breath, visibly controlling his rage. “I will let you leave, Wright,” he said in a low voice. “Because she asked me. But if I ever see you again…”
“You never will!”
Ellie felt another hard contraction. “Help, Diogo,” she choked. “The babies…”
Diogo immediately flew to her. He fell on his knees before the bed, cradling her face in his arms. “Ellie. What’s wrong?”
“Catia?” she gasped. “Did you—find—”
“She’s safe,” he said. “We have her. We found Pedro. But if Wright hurt you—”
“I’m all right,” she sobbed, holding him tight. “But I’m having contractions. The babies are coming.”
He picked her up in his strong arms.
“You’re safe now, querida,” he said soothingly. “My bodyguards are right behind me. We’ll get you to the hospital.”
Ellie caressed his strong, handsome face.
“You came for me,” she whispered in wonder. “You knew I would never leave you. You know I’ll love you forever.”
“I knew.” Unshed tears shone in his dark eyes as he shook his head. “It just took me too damned long. Forgive me for being a coward and a fool.” He looked down at her. “I love you, Ellie. Your strength, your pure heart, your joy. I want you to know. I will love you until the day I die.”
He loved her.
A rush of joy went through her body.
But she saw Timothy rise to his knees behind them. Holding a gun in his hand, he raised it deliberately…
“Diogo!” she shrieked. “Look out!”
Diogo turned, holding heavily pregnant Ellie in his arms. But he moved slowly. Too slowly.
Timothy said hoarsely, “If I can’t have her…” And he fired.
EPILOGUE
“OH, MOM, LOOK! SNOW!”
Christmas morning dawned bright and fine. Snow had fallen overnight in New York. Ellie looked up from the quiet hush of the front room sofa, where she’d been nursing one of her six-week-old babies while the other one slept in a little bassinet beside her. The house was unusually dark and quiet. The servants had the day off. Ellie had been dreaming, watching the twinkling blue lights of the enormous Christmas tree when she heard Catia—now officially her adopted daughter—clap her hands with delight.
“Can we go outside, Mom?” the little girl pleaded, wiggling in front of the large plate window as only an ecstatic six-year-old could. “Please, can we?”
“It’s Christmas morning!” Ellie replied with a soft laugh. “Don’t you want to open your presents?”
Catia spared a quick glance over at the tree, and for an instant seemed to waver. “Yes, but…” She glanced back at the window. “I’ve never seen snow before!”
Ellie heard a creak on the stairs. She loved all the creaks of this one-hundred-year-old house. Especially when she recognized the footsteps.
“Diogo,” she said. A glow went through her as he entered the room. Even dressed in a white T-shirt and pajama pants, with his chin dark with bristle and his hair a mess, he was the handsomest man in the world to her.
“Ellie.” His dark eyes lit up with his smile as he came down the stairs. On the other side of the sofa, he leaned over to kiss Ellie on the lips. “Feliz Natal, meu amor.”
“Merry Christmas,” she replied, caressing his cheek.
“Papa?” Catia cried eagerly. “Can we go play in the snow?”
Diogo groaned, stretching with a yawn. “Just a minute, little one.”
Ellie grinned impishly at the dark circles under his eyes. “Thanks for keeping Gabriel company last night.”
He grinned back, glancing down at the baby snuggled in her arms. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Life was a miracle, she thought happily. Since Diogo told her he loved her, every day was a new precious miracle to her.
In more ways than one. When Timothy had raised the gun in the favela, she’d th
ought their lives were over. She’d felt Diogo whirl around to protect her and the unborn twins with the shield of his body. But when the team of bodyguards stormed into the concrete house, he’d given a final frustrated scream—and turned the gun on himself.
The babies had arrived in Diogo’s Bentley on the way to the hospital. In spite of the many potential complications of a multiple birth—particularly being born in the backseat of a car—both Ana and Gabriel were healthy and thriving. Another gift to be grateful for, in this bright Christmas season….
Christmas in New York. Three weeks ago, Diogo had bought Ellie this historic nine-bedroom mansion. With a backyard—extremely rare for the Upper East Side—and a rooftop garden with a view of Central Park, the house was a showplace that had cost nearly fifty million dollars.
No, Diogo didn’t fool around when it came to giving presents, she thought wryly.
Every day, he found some new way of making her happy. He didn’t realize that just having him love her and the children was the greatest gift of all.
“Where’s Ana?” Diogo asked.
“Sleeping in her bassinet.”
“Lucky baby.” With another yawn, Diogo went to pour himself some coffee in the kitchen. He’d been up with his son for most of the night. Gabriel only seemed interested in night sleeping if his father held him against his chest, walking him up and down the creaking hallways.
Ellie glanced fondly at baby Ana, sleeping soundly in the bassinet. She was a much better sleeper than her brother—perhaps because Ana was more mature. After all, she was older by four minutes.
“Papa!” Catia begged, jumping up and down in agony. She’d already put on her coat over her pajamas and boots on her bare feet.
“I can help you, kiddo,” Lilibeth said as she came down the stairs. “I can show how to make a snowman. I’m a pro. Just let me put on my lipstick.”
“Lipstick?” Ellie exclaimed. “Who do you expect to meet in the backyard?”
“A woman never knows where she’ll find her prince,” Lilibeth said airily. “But I’m only free until New Year’s Eve. Harold Wynn is taking me out to the Flint Factory Ball!”
Ellie repressed a smile. Lilibeth had really come into her own since they’d returned to the U.S. But she insisted on keeping her own home in Flint, though she often spent weekends in New York visiting her grandchildren and shopping on Fifth Avenue. She’d become queen of her own town, driving all over in her yellow Ferrari, hosting Diogo at her house when he’d come to negotiate to buy the old factory.
He’d created a new subsidiary to sell specialty metals abroad, and decided Flint was the perfect location for the factory. As Ellie had been unwilling to travel much since the babies were born, Lilibeth had become his de facto hostess. She’d recently bought the biggest mansion on Main Street—the house that had gone on the market after Timothy Wright’s shocking suicide.
“I never liked that man,” Lilibeth had told her gravely when she learned of his baby-selling business. “I told you all along to wait for your true love, Ellie. Aren’t you glad you listened to me!”
Ellie’s smile faded. She still felt troubled when she remembered how Timothy had shot himself that horrible day in the favela. And yet, she admitted quietly to herself, she was glad to know that he would never threaten her family again, or try to steal another woman’s baby for his own profit.
Snuggling her son a little closer, she watched her grandmother, now chic in her signature bright orange lipstick and wearing a black puffy coat, run outside to play with Catia in the snow.
“Papa, you have to come, too!” the little girl insisted, pausing at the door. “Come now!” she ordered, every bit as bossy as her father. Then she ran into the backyard to play.
Diogo stared after her ruefully then shook his head. “I guess I have to go play in the snow.” He sighed. “Unless you need me?” he added hopefully.
She smiled at him, loving him with all her heart. “I always need you. But at the moment, I think Catia needs you more.” Ellie looked down at the hungry baby making contented gulps against her breast. His eyes were closed and he slept drowsily as she stroked his soft, downy hair. “Your son will keep me busy for some time.”
For several moments, they both looked down at their babies.
“Thank you for the best Christmas gift any man has ever had.” Diogo’s dark eyes met hers. “I love you, Ellie.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he stopped her with a light kiss that soon deepened into something far more provocative.
He looked down at her wickedly, quirking an eyebrow. “I’ll give you your Christmas present later.”
“Another present? You already gave me this house!”
“I have something else in mind.” By the hungry look in his face, she knew exactly what he meant to give her, and she shivered. Her heart started to pound. It had been so long since they’d last made love. They’d been so busy since the babies were born….
“As soon as they’re asleep, you’re mine,” he whispered. Reaching into the hall closet, he tossed his black cashmere coat over his T-shirt then paused at the door, looking at her. “I’ve always wanted to make love to a woman wearing nothing but a hundred-carat diamond necklace.”
“But I don’t have—”
“You haven’t seen what’s under the tree,” he said mischievously, and scampered outside.
Watching her grandmother and husband and daughter throw snowballs at each other through the back window, Ellie realized she’d never been so happy. She glanced at her two sleeping babies. She’d never dreamed life could be like this. Fate had created a life far better than she’d ever imagined for herself.
Fate, and Diogo.
“I love you, too,” she whispered aloud, and as she heard the soft whistle of the wind and the warm sigh of slumbering babies, she blessed the day that her boss had first seduced her in Rio.
The Surgeon’s Runaway Bride
OLIVIA GATES
About the Author
OLIVIA GATES has always pursued many passions. But the time came when she had to set up a “passion priority”, to give her top one her all, and writing won. Hands down. She is most fulfilled when she is creating worlds and conflicts for her characters then exploring and untangling them bit by bit, sharing her protagonists’ every heartache and hope and heart-pounding doubt until she leads them to their indisputably earned and glorious happy ending. When she’s not writing she is a doctor, a wife to her own alpha male and a mother to one brilliant girl and one demanding angora cat. Please visit Olivia at www.oliviagates.com
To my editor, Sheila Hodgson,
a true lady and professional.
This one is definitely for you.
Thank you for being there for me.
CHAPTER ONE
“IF IT isn’t my dear, deserting wife!”
The fathomless voice hit Jewel Johansson first. The mocking tone next. The import of his statement last—and hardest.
Dear, deserting wife. Wife?
Her eyes shot up from the crate she was stacking. The boats gliding across Rio Solimões’s muddy waters blurred, the thatch-and tin-roofed huts scattered on its banks receded, as everything was replaced by his image… No. Not him. Not here. He can’t be here.
But who else would say something like that? Had a voice like that? And it was no longer just a voice, but a presence. Even after all these years, it crashed down on her. His. Him. Roque. No doubt.
And he’d called her wife, instead of ex-wife!
A dozen scenarios played in her mind’s eye. All of them shocking her at the impulses fueling them, the volatile passions and bitterness she’d believed she no longer harbored.
Only one scenario found favor. Straightening up and walking—no, bolting—away. Without looking back to confirm that he was really here. She never wanted to see him again—never…
Stop. Breathe. Think. For whatever inconceivable—and, no doubt, transient—reason, he was here. So she would see him. Best to just face him and
get it over with.
But first she needed to stress the irrelevance of his sudden reappearance. And locate her voluntary controls.
One thing provided the means to both ends. Pretending that loading the crate she’d been filling with medical supplies remained her priority.
Once she judged her bones had once more solidified in her limbs, she swung up, tossing her curtain of hair down her back, injecting her body language with the detachment that had been an integral part of her façade as one of the last decade’s supermodels. She looked straight at him—and tears gushed in her eyes.
The blazing Brazilian midmorning sun was right at his back. Her hand came up, a belated shield against the glare and the impact of the moment of eye contact. Which didn’t happen. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.
So he had her at another disadvantage. He’d had time to get over whatever surprise he’d felt at the sight of her, and to choose his opening shot, which had clearly been calculated for maximum disruption. And now her reaction lay bare for him to read, while his lay unfathomable behind impenetrable shields.
Sure. As if she’d ever read anything in his unshielded eyes but the passion and tenderness he’d simulated at will…
A whistle dealt her another balance-annihilating blow. “So everyone was right.” A murmur followed the whistle, the elusive accent of his native Portuguese riding his seductive English delivery. “If not accurate. No one said you’ve become a goddess.”
What the hell was going on here? Was that… flirtation?
She scrunched her eyes tighter, still registering only his outline as he prowled nearer—and nearer. He gave no indication he’d stop any time soon, until she was sure he’d bump into her.
He didn’t, but he stopped so near he whisper-touched her in places. His knee to her thigh, his chest to her shoulder. She staggered a step back, a dozen in her mind. Her body stood its ground, more from having no volition than from courage. He’d always been like that, brazen, sure of his effect. So he hadn’t changed.
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