Dante: Claiming His Secret Love-Child

by Sandra Marton

  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 her, take her…

  Dante’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  She’d done all the things with Ferrantes she had once done with him—and then he’d come along and she’d seen an easy way to put the bastard out of her life.

  His mouth twisted.

  What a piece of work she was! The earrings he’d bought her had been worth a small fortune but she’d made it seem as if she were too good to accept such an expensive gift from a lover. A former lover, okay, but that wasn’t the point.

  Apparently, accepting a ranch was different.

  The car hit a pothole and swerved to the right. Dante cursed and fought the wheel, brought the car back on the road.

  No wonder Ferrantes had stood there with that slab of beef he called an arm wrapped around Gabriella’s waist. No wonder he’d objected when Dante kissed her. Gone crazy when she’d kissed him back.

  Except, she hadn’t.

  He knew that now. It had all been a carefully calculated performance. The lady had seen her chance to get possession of those useless acres without continuing to spread her legs for Ferrantes.

  An image, so hot and erotic it all but obliterated his vision, filled Dante’s mind.

  “Dammit,” he snarled, and pushed the gas pedal the last inch to the floor.

  The car rocketed ahead.

  What an idiot he’d been! Falling for her act. Behaving precisely as she’d intended so that now he owned a useless piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere, every stinking weed, every collapsing outbuilding all his. He’d written a check for the auctioneer, ignored the man’s outstretched hand, brushed past the lawyer without a word because they’d both known what was happening. They could have told him. Warned him.

  Warned him?

  The auctioneer’s job was to sell the ranch. The lawyer’s was to protect his client. Besides, de Souza had tried. There is more to this than you know, Senhor, he’d said. Something like that and Dante had chosen to ignore—

  Something raced across the road, came to a dead stop, glared at him through eyes that were a shocking red against the dark onset of night. Dante stood on the brakes, fought to control the steering. The car swerved, spun; the tires squealed as if in pain. A wall of thick trees reared up ahead and he cursed, hung on to the steering wheel…

  The car came to a shuddering halt.

  The sound of the engine died. Silence and the night closed in as he sat behind the wheel breathing hard, hands shaking.

  The car had done a one-eighty, ending up pointing in the direction from which he’d come.

  He looked in the rearview mirror. The road behind him, what had moments ago been the road ahead of him, was empty. The animal—a big cat, he was almost certain—was gone.

  His heart was still pounding. He took half a dozen breaths, sat back until his hands were steady again.

  All this crap, reliving the stupid things he’d done almost as soon as he’d stepped off the plane at Campo Grande, was not getting him anywhere. What was done, was done. It was something he had learned to live by, how he had gone from almost flunking out of high school to doing okay in college and then putting in those years in Alaska before finally admitting that success in life wasn’t such a bad thing, after all.

  Besides, he was the one who’d get the last laugh.

  Sure, he’d been conned into dropping a big chunk of change buying property he didn’t want for a woman who meant nothing to him, but this wasn’t over. As he’d walked past de Souza, the lawyer had put out his hand.

  “Senhor Orsini?” he’d said politely. “I will expect your phone call.”

  Dante had looked at him blankly. De Souza had cleared his throat.

  “To make an appointment to come to my office, yes? To transfer ownership of Viera y Filho to Senhorita Reyes.”

  “Yeah,” he’d said brusquely, as he’d brushed by the man.

  Now, Dante smiled.

  Why would he transfer the deed to Gabriella?

  She’d wasted her time. No way would he give her the ranch. He’d sell it to the first buyer that wanted it. Or let it go on rotting until every last sign of it had been swallowed up by the surrounding scrub. He would do whatever it took to keep her from profiting from what she’d done to him.

  Still smiling, he turned the key. The engine coughed, then caught, and he headed for Bonito.

  The drive, even the near accident, had done him some good. Cleared his head. He felt a thousand times better, calm and in control, and that was important.

  He was a man who prided himself on being in control.

  Goodbye and good riddance to this place, this cast of characters. He was going home.

  By the time he reached the main road, he was whistling. He felt good. He’d get to the hotel, shower, change, phone down for room service—or no, why do that? The travel agent had faxed him a list of restaurants and bars. This was Brazil and even in a town that speciali
zed in eco-friendly tours, there was sure to be a hot night scene, and Brazilian women were spectacularly beautiful.

  A little rest and relaxation was what he needed.

  He didn’t just feel good, he felt great…

  Until he approached the road that led to the Viera y Filho fazenda and saw distant lights blazing like the fires of hell against the black night sky at the end of that road.

  His good mood disappeared.

  Lights. There was someone in the house. And he knew, instinctively, that someone was Gabriella. De Souza had deliberately misled him. Gabriella hadn’t gone out the door, she’d gone up the stairs.

  The rage he’d fought for so many hours reached out, all but consumed him. To hell with heading back to the States without confronting her. No matter what he told himself, he’d be leaving with his tail between his legs.

  No way, he thought grimly. Not him.

  Dante made a sharp left and headed for Gabriella.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  GABRIELLA came slowly down the stairs, exhausted at the end of the long day.

  At least the house was quiet. Yara had left; she had her own responsibilities.

  Just as well. Gabriella wanted to be alone. There were memories in this house, some bad but a few that were good; she could, at least, gather them to her tonight.

  She went from room to room, switching on the lights. She’d been up since before dawn. There was nothing she could do to restore the property from the years of neglect it had suffered, but she’d done what she could inside the house, cleaning and polishing as if for company, ridiculous when the only people who had been coming were those who had wanted to take it from her.

  The bank’s representative. The auctioneer. Her attorney, who kept patting her on the shoulder and saying how sorry he was, yet never finding a single way to help her.

  And Andre Ferrantes.

  She shuddered.

  Just thinking of Ferrantes sent a chill through her. He’d turned up, too. No surprise there. He’d sniffed after her like a wolf on a blood trail ever since she’d returned to the fazenda. Lots of sympathetic words. Lots of tsk-tsking. Lots of deep sighs.

  But none of those things ever disguised the avaricious glint in his tiny eyes or the way he ran his tongue over his fleshy wet lips when he looked at her.

  Today he’d finally made his move. Put his thick arm around her, his way of announcing his intentions to the world, that when he bought the ranch, she would be part of the furnishings.

  Never, she thought grimly, plucking a throw pillow from the sofa and all but beating it into shape. No matter how badly she wanted this land, this house, no matter what the reasons, she’d sooner live on the streets than be in Ferrantes’s debt or, even worse, his bed.

  The thought was enough to make her feel ill.

  And then, the miracle. The second miracle, because the first had been hearing Dante’s voice, discovering him in the room, tall and imposing, hard-faced and intent. For an instant she’d imagined he’d come for her. Searched for her, found her, wanted her again.

  Gabriella wrapped her arms around the pillow and shut her eyes.

  Stupid thoughts, all of them.

  He was here, that was all. She still didn’t know why he’d come; she only knew it had nothing to do with her. But his coming had still saved her. He’d bought the fazenda. For her. At least, that was what he’d said.

  So far, that had not happened.

  He had not gone to the advogado’s office to sign the documents de Souza said he would have to sign for the transfer of ownership. Instead he had vanished.

  The lawyer had no idea where.

  “Perhaps he returned to New York,” de Souza told her, shrugging his shoulders. “I do not know, Senhorita. I have not heard from him. I know only that he spoke with Senhor Ferrantes after their, ah, their disagreement.”

  Gabriella tossed the pillow aside.

  Disagreement? She almost laughed. Was that what you called it when two men went at each other with blood in their eyes? She had fled then, terrified of the consequences, of Ferrantes winning the fight…

  Of the noise of it traveling up the stairs.

  So she’d gone up to the rooms that were hers, stayed there until de Souza called her name. Everyone was gone, he’d told her, including the senhor from the United States.

  “How did—how did the fight end?” she’d asked in a shaky voice.

  “Senhor Orsini won,” the lawyer had replied with a little smile. Then his expression had sobered. “But he and Ferrantes had a private talk after. When it was done, the senhor drove away very fast.”

  Without arranging to sign transfer papers. Without doing anything to fulfill that “no strings” promise.

  Why? The question plagued her through the ensuing hours. She’d come at it from a dozen different angles but she still had no answer, only the nagging worry that though Dante’s initial intent had been decent, his machismo had gotten in the way.

  That kiss.

  The way he’d held her. Plundered her mouth. As if no time had passed since they’d been lovers. As if he still owned her. Not that he ever had, but that was the way he’d acted when they were together, as if she belonged to him even though she’d known he had no wish to belong to her.

  Had it all been an act for Ferrantes? The kiss? The outrageous bid? The promise? The questions were endless, but the one that mattered most was the one she’d posed to de Souza.

  “What do we do now?” she’d said.

  That had earned her another little smile.

  “We wait to hear from Senhor Orsini, of course.” The smile had turned sly. “It is good to have such a powerful man as a friend, yes?”

  The way he’d said “friend” had made her want to slap his face.

  But she hadn’t.

  She knew how things looked. Dante had kissed her and she had responded, but so what? It was a simple matter of hormones and he was an expert at making her hormones respond. Besides, he’d caught her by surprise. She had never expected to see him again, never wanted to see him again. He meant nothing to her; he never had. It had taken her a while to figure that out—his easy disposal of her had wounded her pride, that was all.

  She was over him. Completely over him, and—

  What was that?

  Gabriella threw up her hand. Lights blazing through the front windows from a fast-moving vehicle all but blinded her.

  Her heart began to gallop.

  “Ferrantes,” she whispered. It had to be him, hot with fury. Dante had made a fool of him in front of everyone, and, he would surely think, so had she.

  Tires squealed. A car door slammed. Footsteps pounded up the steps to the veranda and a hand stabbed at the doorbell, over and over and over.

  Her mind raced.

  What should she do? Phone the policia? The nearest station was miles away. Besides, would they give a damn? Ferrantes was of this place. She was not. Not anymore. Her father had seen to that. He’d told endless lies about her, turned her into an outsider…

  The bell was still ringing and now the sound of a fist pounding on the door added to the din. She could not let this continue. It was too much, far too much, and she gave one last frantic look up the stairs before she took a deep breath, went to the door and flung it open.

  But it wasn’t Ferrantes filling the night with his presence.

  It was Dante. And even as her traitorous heart lifted at the sight of him, the expression on his face made the breath catch in her throat.

  Dante saw a rush of emotions flash across Gabriella’s face.

  Surprise. Shock. Fear. And, just before that, something he couldn’t identify. Not that it mattered. Whatever she felt was meaningless compared to his rage.

  She was good, though. He could almost see her clamp the lid on all the things she’d felt on seeing him again.

  “Dante,” she said, as politely as a capable hostess greeting a not-so-welcome drop-in guest. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  �
��I’ll bet you didn’t.”

  “In fact, I thought—Senhor de Souza and I both thought—you’d gone back to New York.”

  “Without signing over the deed?”

  She could almost see the sneer on his face. Don’t react to it, she told herself, and forced a calm response.

  “I only meant—”

  “Trust me, sweetheart. I know exactly what you meant.” He smiled; he could feel the pressure of his lips drawing back from his teeth. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  She hesitated. He couldn’t blame her. She was far from stupid.

  “Actually, it’s rather late.”

  “It’s the shank of the evening. Back home, you and I would be heading out for a late supper right about now.”

  She flushed. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Supper,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “and then maybe a stop at one of those little clubs way downtown that you liked so much.”

  “You liked them,” she said stiffly, “I preferred simpler places.”

  He felt a stir of anticipation in his blood. Her accent had just thickened. She had only the slightest accent. She’d told him once, in a rare moment when they’d talked about their lives, that she’d been tutored in English from childhood—but her accent always grew more pronounced when she was trying to contain her emotions.

  In bed, for example.

  When they’d been making love. Her whispered words would take on the soft sounds of her native tongue. Sometimes she’d say things to him in Portuguese. Things he had not understood but his body, his mouth, his hands had known their meaning.

  He looked down at her, his muscles tense.

  “But you liked what we did when we went back to your apartment or mine,” he said, his voice low and rough. “What we did in bed.”

  Her color deepened. Or maybe the rest of her face turned pale. He didn’t give a damn. If she thought she was going to control the situation the way she’d controlled it this morning, she was in for a hell of a surprise.