Brazilian Nights. Sandra Marton

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       Chapter Five

      HE DROVE like a man possessed by demons, a hot fist of rage twisting in his belly.

      That Gabriella should have slept with a pig like Ferrantes, that she’d carried his child in her womb…

      Dante slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel.

      “Come on,” he muttered, “come on, dammit!” Couldn’t this freaking car go any faster? He couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel, toss his stuff in his suitcase and get the hell out of Brazil.

      He had to phone his old man eventually, but what would he tell him? That he’d gotten it all wrong, there was no dissolute Viera son inheriting the ranch…

      Only a dissolute daughter.

      A woman who’d warmed his bed every night for, what, a few weeks? Okay. For three months. He’d taken her the first night they’d gone out, in an explosion of mutual passion like nothing he’d ever known before, taken her night after night, and the intensity of that passion had never diminished, not even when it had begun a subtle change to something he hadn’t been able to define except to know that it made him uncomfortable.

      Was that the reason he’d ended their affair?

      Not that it mattered. There were more important things to consider.

      Like what in hell he was going to do with a ranch.

      He’d bought it for a woman who’d never existed, a woman who’d walked away from him and never looked back, who’d gone from his arms to another’s without missing a beat, and who gave a damn? God knew, he hadn’t been celibate these past months. There’d been a parade of women in and out of his life. So what if there’d been a parade of men in and out of hers?

      What mattered now was that he was stuck with five million bucks’ worth of absolutely nothing.

      He’d been scammed, and scammed good—and now he was the unfortunate owner of a place he didn’t want, all his until he could unload it.

      Note to self, Dante thought grimly. Phone de Souza. Instruct him to sell the fazenda and never mind the price. Forget how much money he’d lose on the deal. Just find a buyer, he’d say. Any buyer and, yeah, that included Ferrantes. In fact, selling the ranch to Ferrantes was a great idea.

      Until he’d shown up, Gabriella had been more than willing to pay the price Ferrantes demanded. She could damned well go on paying it now.

      He wasn’t the Sir Galahad type. Sir Stupid, was more like it, a Don Quixote tilting at windmills. Well, that was over. Yeah, definitely, let Ferrantes buy the damned ranch. It was what Gabriella deserved, the perfect payback. Let her spend the next hundred years in the pig’s bed. It didn’t matter to him. She was just someone he’d been with for a while.

      Nothing special. Just like seeing her with another man’s kid was nothing special…

      A kid with a solemn expression and pale-blue eyes.

      Dante cursed and pulled onto the shoulder of the road, put the engine in neutral and sat gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

      You could put what he knew about kids in a teacup and have room left. Why would he know anything about them? His brothers, his sisters, were all unmarried. If the guys he played touch football with Sundays in Central Park had kids, he never saw them. Children were aliens from a planet he’d never had any interest in inhabiting.

      The only children he ever saw were being pushed through the park in strollers. And, yeah, there were people with kids living in his condo building, now that he thought about it. Like a woman he’d met in the lobby a couple of weeks ago. He’d been heading out, so had she, both of them waiting for taxis in a driving rainstorm, except she’d had a pink-swathed bundle in her arms.

      “Nasty weather,” he’d said, because she’d kept looking at him as if she expected him to make conversation.

      “Uh-huh,” she’d replied, but she’d seemed to be waiting for something more. Finally he’d caught on.

      “Cute,” he’d said, nodding at the bundle. It wasn’t. Not particularly. It was just a baby, but evidently he’d said the right thing because the mom beamed.

      “Isn’t she?” she’d said, and then she’d added, proudly, as if the information rated applause, “She’s four months old today.”

      Four months.

      And about the same size as the baby he’d just seen. The difference was that Gabriella’s kid had those blue eyes, 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 СКАЧАТЬ