Brazilian Nights. Sandra Marton

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СКАЧАТЬ groaned. Retched. He didn’t think, didn’t hesitate; he flung the door open and stepped into the room. His Gabriella was hunched over the toilet, her hair streaming down her back, her body trembling. He cursed, ran to her and clasped her shoulders from behind.

      “Sweetheart. Why didn’t you ask me to help you? I’ll get a doctor—”

      “Go away. I don’t need—”

      She retched again. His hands tightened on her. He could feel her shaking; she was wearing a nightgown and she was soaked straight through with sweat. His heart turned over.

      “Gaby. Honey, what can I do to help?”

      What could he do? If she hadn’t felt as if she were dying, Gabriella would have laughed. What he could do was disappear. This was not what a woman wanted, to have a man see her like this. Sweaty, disheveled—and throwing up everything, starting at her toes.

      Pain fisted in her belly and she bent over and gave herself up to the spasm. By the time it ended, she was swaying on her feet. Dante cursed softly, drew her gently back against him. Go away, she thought desperately, just go away.

      But his body felt so good against hers. Strong. Hard. Comforting. Shivering, icy cold, she let his warmth seep into her.

      “Gaby?”

      His voice was filled with alarm. She wanted to reassure him that she’d be okay, that she’d come down with whatever had sickened Yara the week before, but it happened again, the wave of agonizing nausea, and she gagged, leaned forward and vomited.

      When she straightened up this time, she knew the spasms were over.

      “I’m okay now,” she said weakly.

      She reached out to flush the toilet but Dante did it instead. She felt her face fill with heat. Deus, the embarrassment of it! That he should see her like this, desperate and all but helpless when she prided herself on her independence, when it was, she knew, one of the things that had drawn him to her.

      Not that she cared about that anymore; it didn’t matter if he was drawn to her or not. Still, it was—it was—

      “Here,” he said gently.

      He brought a cup of water to her lips. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need his help, but that would have been a lie. Instead, she sipped the cool liquid, rinsed her mouth, spat it out. She did it twice and then he eased her onto the closed toilet and washed her face with a soft, damp washcloth.

      “Better?”

      She nodded. “Yes. Thank you. But really, you can go now. I’ll be—”

      “Do not,” he said quietly, “tell me what I can do, Gabriella.” He bent, lifted her in his arms and carried her into the bedroom. “I know exactly what I can do. What I’m going to do. And it starts with putting you to bed and calling the doctor, whether you like it or not.”

      “No. I do not need—”

      She followed his gaze to the bed, sighing with relief when she saw that Daniel had slept through it all.

      Dante headed for the door.

      “Where are you taking me?”

      “Don’t worry. I’ll come back for the baby after I get you settled.”

      “But—”

      Arguing was pointless. She knew that. Once Dante made up his mind to do something, nothing would deter him. She had no choice but to loop her arms around his neck and give in as he carried her down the corridor. When he shouldered open a door and she saw that he had brought her to his bedroom, sick as she was it sent a little thrill of recognition through her. She had not been here in a very, very long time but it looked the same. Big, masculine. A perfect reflection of the man who had once been her lover.

      He carried her to the bed. His bed. As he eased her back against the pillows, she thought of how many times he had done that in the months they’d been together.

      “Dante. Wait…”

      Too late. He was gone, returning seconds later with Daniel in his arms. Her heart skipped a beat. Her son, in his father’s powerful arms. The sight made her throat tighten. He gave Daniel to her while he arranged a pair of big, upholstered chairs so they faced each other, their soft, high arms forming the walls of an improvised crib. Then he took the still-sleeping baby from her, laid him gently in the improvised crib and covered him with a cashmere throw.

      “Okay?” he said softly, looking at her.

      Gabriella smiled. “Perfect. Thank you.”

      He nodded. His gaze swept over her; his dark eyebrows drew together. “You’re soaked.”

      She looked down at herself. Her cotton nightgown, plastered to her skin with sweat, She flushed, slipped under the duvet and drew it to her chin. The bed smelled of Dante: masculine, clean…wonderful. She looked up, ready to tell him she couldn’t stay here but he was gone again. Of course. She felt her color deepen. He had done all she could possibly expect and more, held her while she was violently ill, taken care of the baby…

      “Sit up.”

      She raised her head in surprise. His voice was gentle; he had a bowl of water, a towel and one of his T-shirts in his hands.

      “Dante. Really—”

      “Gabriella,” he said softly, “really. Just relax, sweetheart, and let me take care of you.”

      No, she thought, no, she could not do that. Not even for these precious moments. She could not permit herself to fall under his spell again; it would break her, if she did. He was kind, he was generous, he was the most gorgeous man she had ever known, but there could never be more to it than that.

      The cloth stroked lightly over her face. It felt wonderful. His nearness to her felt wonderful. Sighing, she closed her eyes and gave in. Let him bathe her face, her throat. Let him push aside the straps of her damp nightgown, run the warm cloth lightly over her shoulders, her arms…

      The upper slope of her breasts.

      His hand slowed. His breath quickened. So did hers. Her eyes flew open. Her lover’s face was all harsh planes and angles, his pale-blue eyes blazed with flame.

      “Gaby,” he said hoarsely.

      He had never called her that until today. There was something incredibly intimate in it. And when his hand paused, cupped her breast, she cried out at the pleasure of his touch. She was going to die from this. From wanting him. Needing him. Aching for him.

      He said her name again, brushed his thumb across her nipple, erect under the nightgown. He bent toward her, closer and closer—

      A thin wail broke the silence. It was Daniel. Her son’s cry grew stronger.

      “The baby,” she whispered.

      Dante drew back. His hand fell away from her; he was all business now.

      “Lift your arms,” he said briskly, and when she СКАЧАТЬ