Brazilian Cattle Baron (Siren Publishing Ménage and More ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “That was the best—the best sex I have ever had,” Estevao stammered unevenly as he pulled his flaccid dick out of Sebastien’s willingly violated ass.

  Sebastien ran his fingers lightly up and down Estevao’s sweaty chest, paying particular attention to the still-stiffened and extremely sensitive, hard, dusky-brown nipples. Estevao closed his eyes and sighed happily, reaching back and running his hands lovingly up and down Sebastien’s upper thighs.

  “I’m too worn out to get up and find my way back to the guest wing,” Paolo declared happily. “I want to sleep with you again, Sebastien, if I may.”

  “Please do. I was counting on it, in fact.”

  “It won’t be the first time Guglielmo has gotten up in the morning to wake me and found my bed unoccupied,” Paolo joked. “Don’t worry—he won’t send out a search party.”

  “Don’t go anywhere, Estevao,” Sebastien said as the valet stirred beside him and started to sit up. “I want you to sleep with us. There’s plenty of room in this bed. I usually feel rather isolated, alone in here at night. It’ll be nice to have two beautiful men in bed with me, all night long, for a change. So you stay here, too—and that’s an order.”

  “Yes, mestre.” Estevao sounded sleepy.

  Sandwiched between Estevao and Paolo, Sebastien soon fell asleep—the deep, restorative sleep of a happy man.

  Chapter Seventeen:

  A Fugitive from the Rain

  Early the next morning, Sebastien and Paolo breakfasted together. Then they sent Guglielmo and Paolo’s driver ahead to the boat landing, with the luggage. Sebastien and Paolo followed the vehicle on horseback at a slightly more leisurely pace, keeping it in sight while they talked.

  Sebastien was selfish enough to hope that the Cândido Rondon would be late, or even stalled farther downriver, but there it was, tied up at the dock, waiting for its two passengers—and looking, Sebastien now had to admit, rather like an old friend. Guglielmo was already busy supervising the transfer of the luggage on board. The two men on horseback dismounted, and Paolo took a moment to give a few final instructions to his driver, who then drove off.

  “Well,” Paolo said, standing in front of the gangplank. “I suppose we can’t delay any longer.”

  “No, you must go, as much as I don’t want you to.”

  “Thank you so much for your hospitality, Sebastien.”

  “Thank you for being my friend. My first friend, here in Brazil.”

  “I thought we had agreed that I am not going to fall in love with you,” Paolo reminded Sebastien, with a smile, “as much as I am tempted to. So you must not stand there like this, looking so desirable.” They embraced and kissed, which none of the waiting crew members seemed to find at all unusual. “Arrivederci, carissimo mio Sebastien.”

  “So long, Paolo. Until I see you again.”

  The boat pulled away, with both Paolo and Guglielmo, who stood beside each other on the deck, waving good-bye to Sebastien.

  The mestre of Saõ Martinho suddenly found himself alone on the landing, except for the two horses. For a moment, he felt very lonely indeed. But then he remembered that he had his people waiting for him back home, at the fazenda. He waited until the stern of the boat vanished from his sight, as did, a moment later, the plume of smoke rising from its engine. Then he mounted his horse and led the other one by its reins as he rode slowly back to the fazenda.

  He remembered the day he had gotten off the boat and first ridden along this path.

  Home, he realized. I just thought of the fazenda as “home,” didn’t I? And it already seems to be, in a way.

  He decided to keep busy. He went into the house and headed straight for the study.

  Sebastien checked the computer and was pleased to find a prompt reply to his e-mail.

  I see no insurmountable difficulties with the plan you propose. The only real question is how we can arrange matters to give you the most advantageous tax setup. I enclose an attachment detailing some of the potential issues, listing alternative ways of dealing with them, and giving you my recommendations. Please contact me if you have any questions about any of this material, or I can offer additional suggestions.

  Satisfied by this answer, Sebastien experienced an odd feeling of relief, almost as though some oppressive, invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He worked diligently for an hour or so. Then, feeling the need for a little fresh air, he turned off the computer and went outdoors.

  As he often did, he wandered toward the stables, where he observed some of the men at work, feeding and grooming the horses. As Sebastien made small talk with the men, Cristiano rode up, obviously having completed his day’s work. He dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to one of the grooms.

  “Your guests have gone?” Cristiano asked Sebastien.

  “Yes. I was sorry to see them leave.”

  “Yes, I am afraid that now you will be bored.”

  “Well, hardly that, Cristiano. I’ve never felt bored here on the fazenda. Still, I did enjoy having my friend here. Entertaining him.”

  “I suppose that man, Paolo Brescanti, will become a regular visitor here.”

  Something about the way Cristiano inflected the words that man, Paolo Brescanti, put Sebastien on his guard.

  “Paolo will always be welcome here,” he replied cautiously. “I’m sorry he couldn’t stay longer this time.”

  “And no doubt you will visit him, at his own fazenda, the next time he comes to Marajó.”

  “That would be nice. It would give me a chance to see another part of the island…and to compare different ways of running a ranch, perhaps.”

  “Ha! I am sure you and that pretty blond carcamano will spend a great deal of time discussing ranch management.”

  Sebastien fought back a smile. Cristiano wasn’t particularly good at concealing his feelings. Carcamano was a somewhat archaic Brazilian Portuguese term for a Brazilian who was descended from Italian immigrants. It implied poverty, ignorance, and a lack of sophistication, and as such, was highly incongruous when applied to Paolo.

  During their conversation, Sebastien had begun to walk away from the stables, out of earshot of the other men, and Cristiano fell into step beside him. Now that the two of them were, for all practical purposes, alone together, Sebastien decided to attack the issue head-on. “Is there some reason why you dislike Paolo so much?”

  “He is—” Cristiano was clearly fumbling for words. “He is an opportunist,” he said at last. “He has never worked for a living.”

  “That’s not quite accurate, Cristiano. He had jobs before he was married, and he certainly works now, managing his fazenda and his other business interests. When it comes down to it, I have never worked for my living at all.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Sebastien.”

  “All right, then. What did you mean?”

  “The only reason Paolo Brescanti is a rich man today, an important man, is because that landowner persuaded him to marry one of his ugly daughters.”

  “Really, Cristiano. I’ve seen photos of Paolo’s wife. She is a great beauty. She could have married anyone she chose. It was a love match, not an arranged marriage. And they seem to be very happy.”

  “She is happy because she can live in Manaós and play at being the big society lady. She doesn’t have to live here on Marajó, where she grew up, and dirty her hands. Meanwhile, she turns a blind eye while that handsome husband of hers betrays her with other men. With many other men,” Cristiano added spitefully. “You need not think you are his only lover. Far from it!”

  “So now it comes out. I thought so.”

  “What has come out? What did you think?”

  “You are jealous of Paolo. Not because he is rich, not because he is a landowner. And you could care less about whether his marriage is a happy or an unhappy one, or about how his wife feels about his infidelities. You are jealous of Paolo because he and I have slept together.”

  “That isn’t true!” Cristiano exploded
.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “If you despise Paolo so much, then you ought to despise me just as much. There seems to me to be little difference between the two of us. Unlike Paolo, in fact, I’ve been idle for most of my life. The only reason I’m here now is because of an accident of birth. I happened to be senhor Gilberto’s nephew, and for some reason he chose to make me his heir. I didn’t have to marry anyone, willingly or unwillingly, ugly or beautiful, in order to acquire Saõ Martinho. It just sort of fell into my lap.”

  Cristiano suddenly seemed lost in thought. “An accident of birth,” he repeated quietly.

  “As for questions of morality,” Sebastien went on, “I try not to judge others, because I don’t like to be judged, myself. I’m not so sure my own conduct would stand up to close scrutiny. You seem to have a high regard for marital fidelity, Cristiano. But be honest with me—are you telling me you have never seduced a young unmarried woman, with no intention whatsoever of offering her marriage? Or had an affair with a married woman, who preferred you to her husband, and fooled around with you behind his back?”

  “You will make me very angry, Sebastien, if you go on talking like that.”

  “Why? Because it’s true?”

  “My love affairs are my own business.”

  “Undoubtedly. And, by the same logic, Paolo Brescanti’s affairs are his business…and my affairs are mine.”

  “You prefer that pretty blond man to me. You like him better than me.”

  “Don’t be childish, Cristiano. You talk as though I chose my friends—and my lovers—by picking them out of a catalogue, cold-bloodedly. You and I are friends. Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who has chosen not to take our relationship beyond friendship?”

  Cristiano, glaring at him, drew himself up to his full height and spoke in haughty tones. “We will not talk about this anymore, not now. If we do…I might say things which I would regret, later.”

  “Yes, perhaps it might be better if we both backed off and cooled down a bit,” Sebastien agreed—although he rather smugly felt that he had maintained his temper during the conversation, and had nothing to reproach himself for.

  Afterward, when he was alone, Sebastien was rather more upset than he was willing to admit, even to himself. He couldn’t figure Cristiano Lapuente out. Here was this big, butch, self-confident guy, who was exceptionally competent at his job and who was very easy-going most of the time. Cristiano was sexually active, and didn’t seem particularly uncomfortable with the idea of homosexual relations in general. Sebastien had been around long enough to be able to recognize when another man enjoyed male-male contact. There was no doubt in his mind that Cristiano fell into that category. Sebastien flattered himself that Cristiano was attracted to him—and yet, for some reason, Cristiano was fighting his impulses. Why? The religious scruples Cristiano had evoked, in their previous conversation, didn’t seem to prevent Cristiano from fooling around with Estevao and other men. It didn’t make any sense.

  Sebastien concluded that Cristiano was still a bit emotionally immature. He was still a young man, after all, and he’d lived a comparatively sheltered life here on Marajó. Everybody—including Sebastien’s late uncle—seemed to find Cristiano’s combination of physical attractiveness and personal charm impossible to resist. Cristiano was a great favorite, here on the fazenda.

  I bet he’s always been popular, Sebastien speculated, even when he was a little boy. Not like me. He wasn’t shy, the way I was. I bet he’s never had to really work at forming relationships—other people are just naturally attracted to him, and want to be his friend—or more than his friend. Cristiano doesn’t know how lucky he is. He has some nerve, criticizing Paolo, just because Paolo happens to be good-looking and charming, too. Hypocrite!

  Well, this’ll blow over, Sebastien’s thoughts ran on. We’ll get over it. So we had a tiff. A lovers’ quarrel—which is kind of funny, considering we aren’t even lovers!

  He went about his business and didn’t see Cristiano during the rest of the day. He envisioned the big lug off somewhere by himself, sulking, and he found the mental image perversely amusing.

  Sebastien had already fallen into the rural dweller’s habit of regularly monitoring the weather reports. A cold front was rolling in—it might actually be on the chilly side during the daytime, and there would be more rain. And so it proved. The next day was downright cold, which everyone agreed was a novelty on Marajó. It was a last, defiant gesture on the part of the rainy season, before it yielded to the drier winter months.

  Taking his cue from the weather, Sebastien decided to be a bit cool toward Cristiano, to see how he would react. When they met in the morning, Sebastien greeted Cristiano politely, as though nothing was the matter, but he studiously avoided talking about personal matters—and he made sure that, as they worked, he and Cristiano were never left alone with each other. Cristiano’s usually ebullient manner seemed decidedly subdued.

  After dinner, Sebastien decided, for a change, not to spend some time in the study, working. Instead, he sat in the library and experimented with the shortwave radio, tuning in a few programs, one after the other, while idly paging through a couple of books. When Estevao brought him his coffee, he invited him to sit down.

  “Tell me something, Estevao. I imagine you don’t have a passport, do you?”

  “Oh, but I do, senhor Sebastien. I needed to get it because your uncle occasionally went to Buenos Aires, on business, and also once to Santiago, in Chile. And he took me with him on these trips.”

  “Do you like to travel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Estevao, let me ask you a theoretical question. Well, perhaps not such a theoretical one, in fact.”

  “Yes, senhor?”

  “I flatter myself that you enjoy working for me.”

  “Oh, yes. Very much.”

  “Suppose I decided to divide my time between my home in New York City—which is a condominium in a high-rise apartment building—and here? In other words, I might spend three months in New York, then come down here and live here on the fazenda for a month or so…and so forth. And in addition to these regular trips, back and forth between the United States and Brazil, I might travel to other places. For starters, I suppose on my next visit here I really ought to go see Rio de Janiero, and São Paolo, and the Patanal. And the other places here in Brazil that are considered worth seeing, all in good time. Do you follow me so far?”

  “Perfectly, senhor.”

  “What I am asking you, in my roundabout way, is whether you would consider living with me in New York, when I am there, and traveling with me. Working for me as my valet, in other words, all the time, even when we are not here.”

  “Do you mean it, senhor Sebastien? You are not joking with me?”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “I would be delighted. I will go with you, work for you, anywhere you choose to go.”

  “Keep in mind that life in New York City is very different from life here. You may experience what they call ‘culture shock,’ at first. But you seem like a resourceful man, and I’m sure you would be able to adapt.”

  “You, too, have already learned to adapt,” Estevao said, not a little slyly. “You have learned to adapt to having a servant to attend to your needs—as befits a gentleman in your position.”

  “Yes, I don’t see how I managed to do without one, all that time up to now.”

  “What is your home in the city of Nova York like?”

  “It’s about the size of Anibal’s house, I think, in terms of square footage. There are big windows that look out onto the other tall buildings, and the streets down below. You would have your own room, and your own bathroom. It’s technically the second bedroom, or the guest room, but since I have so few visitors, and almost no overnight guests, that room can be yours. You can redecorate it, any way you like. We’ll have anything you want to take along shipped there, to help you feel at home.”

 
; “You will see, senhor. I will take very good care of you.”

  “I know that you will.” Especially at night! Sebastien couldn’t help thinking.

  Estevao was obviously excited by the possibility of accompanying his master to the United States. Later, in the master bedroom, he lingered, as Sebastien got ready for bed.

  “Would you like some company tonight, mestre?” Estevao asked.

  “Not tonight, Estevao. Thanks all the same. Go to your bed and get some sleep. I plan to do the same. It’s a rather cold night, for a change.”

  “Yes. I have put an extra blanket at the foot of your bed.”

  “You think of everything, Estevao. But there’s no need for you to actually tuck me in, you know. Boa noite.”

  “Boa noite, senhor.”

  For the first time since his arrival at the fazenda, Sebastien kept all his bedroom windows closed at night, and instead of sleeping in the nude, he slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt before he climbed into bed. There, sitting up with the covers pulled up to his waist, he read one of the books he’d brought with him from the library. The book, about some of the finer points of animal husbandry, was not exactly compelling reading material. Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets.

  It was almost midnight, and Sebastien was feeling drowsy, his attention wandering from the printed pages, when he heard a light rap on one of the windows.

  “What the hell?” he muttered out loud.

  The knock was repeated. Reluctantly, Sebastien got out of his warm bed and went to open the window. He was astonished to see Cristiano standing there on the terrace, barefooted and bare-headed, in his shirt and trousers—and soaking wet from the rain.

  “Cristiano. What the hell are you doing out there at this time of night, and in this rain? Is something wrong?”

  “No. I could not sleep. I was walking about, and I saw that you still had your light on.”

  “You were walking around, in this fucking downpour, without a coat and a hat? Or shoes? Or, God forbid, an umbrella? What is it about this country, where it rains all the time, but nobody ever seems to have the sense to carry an umbrella? Don’t stand out there, get in here, quick. Now get those wet clothes off you. Don’t argue, come on, get them off, all of them. Jesus!”