Her hand flew through the air, connected, hard, with his cheek. He caught her wrist, dragged her arm behind her back. He knew he wasn’t being gentle. She winced, rose to her toes but he didn’t give a damn.
“Do not,” he snarled, “do not, whatever you do, try to make it my fault you didn’t inform me of this—of this situation!”
“Is that what it was?” Her voice shook. “Because I’d describe it differently. I was pregnant. Pregnant with your child. And you were dumping me and tossing me a…a bauble when all I’d ever wanted from you was…was—” She tried to jerk away but his hand only tightened on her. “Let go of me, Dante. Do us both a favor and just go away.”
She was trembling.
She had trembled that night, too. He had noticed it but he’d told himself it meant nothing, that she’d get over it. She was an adult; she was a model, dammit. She’d dated a lot of men.
Hadn’t she?
She’d seemed so innocent in his bed. As if everything they did, everything he did, was new to her. And that night, after he’d told her it was over, there’d been something in her eyes, a quick flash he’d chosen not to think about.
It was there now.
Was it a flash of pain?
His throat tightened.
He knew how to soothe that pain. He could gather her in his arms. Hold her against his heart. Kiss her. Caress her. Tell her that he’d never stopped thinking of her. That he’d missed her. That he still wanted her.
Merda!
What in hell was he thinking? How could she still have this effect on him? It was why he’d stopped seeing her, not because the affair had gone on too long but because he’d felt her getting inside him, getting to him. Well, it wasn’t going to happen again, especially now. The last thing he needed was to react to her, feel that tug of lust low in his belly that he’d always felt when he was with her.
For all he knew, she was counting on it.
Some tears, a kiss, and he’d bought her the fazenda. Now this fantastic story, a few tears, another kiss and he would say, sure, the kid was his and how much would she need to keep it and herself in the style to which she so obviously wanted to grow accustomed?
Was the boy his? That was the question of the century. If the answer was yes, he’d do whatever had to be done, but he wasn’t about to accept a woman’s word as proof. Been there, done that, he thought grimly, and he let go of Gabriella’s wrist and stepped back.
“I want proof.”
“You don’t need proof. I want nothing from you.”
“Like you didn’t want the fazenda when you climbed all over me this morning? Come on, baby. Let’s not play games. I want proof of the kid’s—of Daniel’s parentage. When was he born? Where? Is my name on his birth certificate?”
Tears were streaming down her face. If this was a performance, it was a damned good one.
“Get out,” she hissed. “Get out of my life! I did not ask you for anything when I carried my baby. I am not asking you for anything now. I never wanted anything from you, Dante! Not your money, not your fancy gifts—”
“But you wanted this,” he growled, and he gave up fighting what he wanted, what he always wanted when he was near her. He swept his arms around her, bent his head and captured her mouth with his, kissing her hard, kissing her without mercy, forcing her lips apart, his tongue penetrating her, demanding the response she had always, always given him.
But she gave him nothing tonight. She stood motionless within his embrace. Slowly he raised his head. Her eyes were open, dark and empty and filled with pain.
“I beg you,” she whispered. “If you ever cared for me at all, please, go away.”
He stared at her. Of course he had cared for her. The truth was, he’d cared for her too much. He wanted to tell her that, to kiss her again, to hold her close and change her unhappy tears to soft, sweet sighs…
He stepped back.
What the hell had he been thinking?
The fact of it was, he hadn’t been thinking.
He had to get out of here. Talk to his lawyer. His brothers. Arrange for tests and if the tests came up positive, figure out how to handle all of this.
He went out of the house without so much as a backward look.
One thing was certain, he told himself as he drove away.
This time, he would not turn around and go back. He was done with Gabriella. With Brazil.
There was nothing, absolutely nothing here for him.
All he could think of was getting home.
To hell with waiting for morning, he thought grimly as he strode into the lobby of his hotel. It was very late and the concierge was dozing behind his desk, but who gave a damn?
Dante woke him. Told him he wanted to rent a plane and a pilot. The concierge yawned. Dante spoke sharply. Pulled out his checkbook, said he wanted that plane, wanted it now.
A couple of calls, and it was done.
He was airborne an hour later. The plane was handsome, the pilot was efficient, the sky was shot through with moonlight and stars.
And Dante…Dante was in a mess.
He was a man who had never shirked responsibility. Wasn’t that how he’d ended up in Bonito in the first place? Because Cesare had somehow transferred responsibility for righting some long-ago wrong to him? Yes, Cesare had gotten the details wrong. There was no dying man, no successful ranch about to be dropped into the hands of a son incapable of running it. There was, instead, a ranch he’d somehow ended up owning.
Like it or not, the fazenda was his, not his father’s.
A muscle knotted in his jaw.
And there was more.
There was a woman, alone and penniless. A baby she said was his.
Dante groaned and closed his eyes.
A mess, indeed.
What he’d said was true. He always used a condom even though, okay, there’d been times with Gabriella—and only with Gabriella—that he’d wanted to make love without that thin layer of latex sheathing him. The need to feel the slide of his erect penis against the warm silk walls of her had driven him half-crazy. He’d wanted to know that nothing, absolutely nothing separated him from her, that she was his in a way he’d never wanted another woman to be his.
“Dammit,” he growled, shifting his weight in the leather seat.
Thinking X-rated thoughts gave a man’s body a predictable reaction. And turning himself on was not what this was all about.
Besides, he would never have done such a stupid thing as have unprotected sex.
He enjoyed risk. Back-country skiing with the ever-present danger of avalanche. White-water kayaking. Skydiving. Letting his money and his reputation ride on financial deals that made other men blanch. He was into all that.
But sex without protection? That wasn’t risk, it was suicide unless you were ready to marry, settle down, have kids. He wasn’t. For all he knew, he would never be ready. He knew what women were like. They schemed. They plotted. They wanted wealthy husbands and they weren’t above doing whatever it took to get them.
So, no sex without protection.
Still, accidents happened.
If you didn’t leave a woman’s body quickly enough, after you ejaculated, if you didn’t get out and get that rubber off, there could be a problem. He’d always done it right. That one explosive moment, the sense of welcome release and then a kiss, because he knew after-play was important to a woman, a light caress, and he withdrew, headed for the John, took care of things. No wham, bam, thank you, ma’am, but no lingering so long that a rubber could leak, either.
Except…except, toward the end of things with Gabriella, he hadn’t always followed those rules.
There’d been times the thought of withdrawing from all that heat, that sweet warmth, had seemed impossible. Times he’d stayed deep inside her, holding her, kissing her, not wanting to leave her even after he’d come.
How protective was a condom then?
Not very, he thought glumly. And whose fault was that, if not his own?
And, damn, even now, his body stirred at the memory.
Okay. Enough of that. The sex had been fantastic. The truth was, he’d never had better sex before or since, but that had nothing to do with this situation. And, yeah, it was a situation, even if she found the word offensive. And the only way to deal with it was head-on.
He took out his phone, flipped it open. Brought up his contact list. Paused, his finger above his attorney’s name. Thought about the tests the guy would recommend, the time they’d take to run. Thought about Gabriella, alone with a baby in that big, falling-down house and Ferrantes salivating all over her.
Dante muttered a couple of ripe obscenities, put the phone away, rose to his feet and walked to the front of the plane. The flight attendant looked up as he made his way past her, gave him a surprised smile.
“Ah, senhor, you wish something? You had only to press the call button.”
He ignored her, rapped sharply on the cockpit door, then opened it.
“Captain.”
The pilot and copilot turned and looked at him. He saw confusion, then concern on their faces and silently called himself a fool. One did not enter an airplane cockpit, even on a chartered plane, so precipitously in today’s world. That he had done so only gave proof to what he already knew: he had not settled things in Brazil, and until he did, he would not be in any condition to move on with his own life.
“Captain,” he said quickly, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “forgive me for intruding but I wish to change our destination.”
His words only made the men look more alarmed.
“I wish to return to Bonito,” he said, even more quickly. “My apologies for the inconvenience and, of course, I will pay for the flight as arranged, plus an additional amount for the change in plans.”
The pilot got straight to the point.
“Because?” he said, and waited.
What was the answer that would be best understood? “A woman,” Dante said briskly.
The pilot and copilot both grinned. “Ah. In that case…no problema, Senhor Orsini. We will be back on the ground in no time.”
Dante nodded. “Excellent.”
And it was excellent. He’d return to Brazil, do everything that had to be done. He’d promised Gabriella the deed to the fazenda and she could have it. As for the rest…DNA tests. Blood tests. Sure, but who was he kidding? The child was his. The blue eyes. The dark hair. Besides, he knew Gabriella. She wouldn’t lie to him. There wasn’t a deceitful bone in her body.
Her lush, beautiful body—And what did that matter?
She was out of his life. That was what he’d wanted the night he broke up with her; it was what he wanted now. But he’d do the right thing. Give her the ranch. Set up a trust fund for the kid. Another for her. And that would be the end of it.
The absolute, complete end.
Then he’d get on with his life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE DIDN’T go to the fazenda or the hotel.
What would be the point?
He didn’t need to see Gabriella and he certainly didn’t need a room. His stay in Bonito would be brief, a couple of hours at most. All he had to do was meet with de Souza, set things up, then turn around and head home.
He arranged for the pilot and plane to remain on call, phoned to arrange for another rental vehicle, then phoned the advogado, who sounded astonished to hear that he was in Bonito.
“I thought you had returned to New York, Senhor Orsini.”
“You thought wrong. I wish to see you this morning, senhor.”
De Souza hesitated. “That is not much notice. Let me put you through to my secretary. She can check my appointment schedule—”
“I’ll be at your office in half an hour,” Dante said, and ended the call.
He grabbed a cup of coffee on his way to the car rental counter. His stomach growled as he sipped the hot liquid, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in a while. First things first. The meeting with the lawyer. Get the legal details out of the way. Then there’d be time for everything else.
For getting his life on track.
De Souza sprang to his feet when Dante stepped into his office. Did the senhor want anything to drink? Coffee? Water? It was early but perhaps a capirihana? Dante thanked him, said he wanted nothing and wondered at the drops of sweat on the lawyer’s shiny brow. It was a hot day but not in here; if anything, the AC was set to an uncomfortable low. When he shook de Souza’s extended hand, it was like shaking hands with a chunk of ice.
The man was nervous, but why?
“Sit down, please, Senhor Orsini. This is an unexpected pleasure, but I am afraid my time is limited. Had you called last evening—”
“My time is limited, as well,” Dante said briskly. He took the chair in front of the lawyer’s desk and opened the black leather briefcase he’d brought with him. “So let’s get straight to business. I want the deed to Viera y Filho transferred to Senhorita Reyes immediately. What will you require from me?”
The attorney took a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket and delicately mopped his brow.
“A transfer,” he said. “But when you left without making those arrangements, I assumed—”
“I signed some papers after the auction yesterday.” Dante took the papers from the briefcase and slid them across the desk. “They’re in Portuguese, of course, but I’ve seen enough such documents to assume the blank lines on the last page are where I’d sign to transfer ownership.”
De Souza barely glanced at the papers.
“Actually…actually, it’s a bit more complicated than that, senhor. The documents you signed should have been accompanied by a check.”
“They were accompanied by a check.” The advogado was shaking his head. Dante frowned. “What?”
“The check must be a—what do you call it? A check authorized by a bank.”
“A cashier’s check? I understand that, but I didn’t have one with me. I had no way of knowing the auction was taking place yesterday morning and I definitely had no idea how much I would bid, but the auctioneer said—Dammit, de Souza, why do you keep shaking your head? Is there a problem? Fine. I’ll call my bank. They can wire the funds here, to you or to the bank, or—” Dante narrowed his eyes until they were an icy blue glimmer. “Now what?”
“Twenty-four hours have passed, Senhor Orsini.” De Souza gave an expressive shrug. “You have forfeited your option to the property.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“It is in the contract you signed.”
“Well, what happens now? Do I contact the auctioneer? The bank? Surely we don’t have to go through that bidding process all over again?”
“There will be no bidding process, senhor.”
“Well, that’s something.” Dante took his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll contact my bank in New York while you contact the bank—”
“The property has already been purchased.”
Dante felt his body stiffen. He had participated in enough tough business deals to sense that the statement was not a negotiating tactic.
“Purchased,” he said softly.
“Sim.”
“By whom?” Dante asked, though he was sure he knew the answer.
De Souza looked at him and flushed.
“Understand, please, I am simply the legal tool of the bank in the transaction.”
Dante rose slowly from the chair. “Answer the question. Who bought it?”
The lawyer swallowed hard. “Senhor Ferrantes.”
Dante wanted to haul de Souza to his feet.
“You were supposed to be working for Gabriella,” he growled, “but you were working for Ferrantes all along.”
“You must understand. Senhor Ferrantes is an important member of our community.”
Dante reached across the desk, took some small satisfaction as the lawyer shrank back in his chair. He scooped up the documents, stuffed them into the briefcase and stalked out the door. Ou
t in the street again, he drew a deep breath as he took out his cell phone and called his own attorney. Sam was a senior partner at one of New York’s most respected law firms; Dante used his private number and Sam answered on the second ring.
“Dante,” he said pleasantly, “good to hear from—”
“Sam. I have a problem.”
“Tell me,” Sam said.
Dante gave him all the details. Well, almost all. He didn’t mention that he’d had a prior relationship with Gabriella Reyes. He damned well didn’t say that there was a strong possibility he had a son. What he explained, in concise terms, was that he was in Brazil, that he’d bid on a property and paid for it with a check that been deemed unacceptable twenty-four hours after the fact, and that the property in question had now been sold to someone else.
But he and his lawyer had gone to school together. Sam knew him well. Too well. There was a silence after Dante finished talking. Then Sam cleared his throat.
“What else?” he said. “Come on, man. I know there’s more to this than you’re saying. You want me to give you an opinion that has teeth, I need to hear the rest.”
So Dante told him. About Gabriella. That he and she had once been—that they had been involved. That she had a child. That it was his.
“You mean,” Sam said coolly, “she says it’s yours.”
A muscled knotted in Dante’s jaw. “Yes.”
“And you want to believe her.”
“Yes. No. Dammit, she’s not a liar—”
Sam interrupted. Asked him if the word option had ever been mentioned in the sale of the ranch, asked him for the name and phone number of the bank that had foreclosed on it, then said he’d get back to him in ten minutes.
The line went dead.
Dante stood in the heat of the Brazilian sun, impatience and anger humming through him. He wanted to go back into de Souza’s office, drag the man to his feet and show him what happened to those who sold out to the devil. Better still, he wanted to find Ferrantes and beat the crap out of him.
Logic prevailed.
He was in a strange country. His best bet was to let his lawyer find the appropriate legal solution, which he was doing right now. Ten minutes wasn’t that long to wait.
Dante: Claiming His Secret Love-Child Page 7
