His bedroom. She bit a knuckle in consternation. The last place she wanted to be! Whirling around, she tried to escape but he was standing in the door. She started to shut the door in his face, but he easily blocked her.
“Obrigado, querida,” he said with a sensual smile. “This will be much easier.”
He came forward and pulled her tightly against his body, then unzipped the back of her gown. Ellie's damp skin felt suddenly cold against the air. Her body felt light, freed of the heavy weight of her dress as he pulled the thick, wet skirts down to her thighs with a single hard yank. She watched yards of taffeta fall to her feet.
And she realized she was standing in front of him with nothing but a white silk bra and panties that clung transparently to her skin.
With a gasp, she tried to cover her breasts with one arm and panties with the other. He gave her a smug, masculine smile.
“I can see you naked anytime I want, Ellie,” he said, sounding amused. “All I have to do is close my eyes.”
He was laughing at her modesty! A flash of anger went through her.
“You have so many women in your bed,” she snapped, “I'm sure it's someone else you're picturing. I'm not a bit worried!”
“I see,” he murmured silkily. “Surely you're not jealous, querida?”
“Of course not,” she huffed. Of course she was. She tossed her long, wet hair. “You can sleep with every supermodel in Brazil for all I care! It's not like I have any reason to…”
Her strident voice faltered as Diogo turned away from her, pulling off his wet white shirt and dropping it to the floor. Distracted by the vision of Diogo's hard chest, impossibly covered with muscles and scars of a warrior, she couldn't finish her sentence. His tanned skin was etched with black hair that descended from his broad shoulders down his flat belly. His rain-dampened gray trousers clung to his hips and fit buttocks as he went into the adjacent bathroom.
She heard him turn on the shower. Heat flooded her cheeks—and everywhere else in her body. What was wrong with her? How could she still want him so badly when he'd made it clear that, aside from her pregnancy, he didn't find anything about her particularly interesting or special?
Folding her bare arms, she shivered in the wet silk bra and panties clinging to her skin. Three months ago, Diogo Serrador had taken everything from her. Her innocence, her faith, her courage in her dreams. Was she really such a desperate fool that she was willing to throw herself under the same train again, the Serrador Express that stopped for no woman?
And worse, it was no longer just her own heart and soul at risk. Now she had her child to think about. When Diogo left, as he inevitably would, he wouldn't just abandon Ellie. He would leave behind a heartbroken child who would always wonder why her father hadn't loved her enough to stay.
Just like Ellie's father. He certainly hadn't loved them enough. He'd been forced into marriage by a baby—Ellie. He'd married her mother, he'd been Ellie's father. Sort of. He'd mostly spent years on the couch after work, watching mindless television and drinking beer, barking at Ellie or her mother if they ever dared to ask him a question.
Then when her mother had gotten sick, just when they needed him most, he'd packed up his bag. “Sorry,” he'd muttered to fifteen-year-old Ellie without meeting her eyes. “I've just got to take my own happiness while I can.”
And so Ellie had dropped out of school to take care of her mother, working nights at the Dairy Burger to support them. Her mother had accepted her care bitterly, blaming Ellie as the cause of her miserable marriage and all her own missed chances.
Ellie's child wasn't going to grow up that way.
“Ellie,” Diogo said. She looked up and saw echoes of her own pain in the dark depths of his gaze. It was so tempting to reach out to him. To try to protect him from whatever had caused that hidden anguish in his eyes.
But what was she thinking? Diogo need her help? That was a laugh!
“You're shivering.”
She turned away. “I'm just cold.”
He reached out to stroke her cheek.
“So let me warm you,” he whispered.
Pulling off her bra and panties, he lifted her naked body up into his arms. She was too numb to protest as he carried her into the marble-and-steel bathroom. He carried her into a tall, freestanding shower surrounded by a round wall of clear glass and pushed her gently inside.
She gasped as hot water hit her skin. It caressed her body, running down her hair, her throat, between her breasts. Down her belly to the tuft of hair between her legs. So hot, so sensual, so alive. For so long, she'd felt nothing but heartache. She'd felt so numb when she agreed to marry Timothy. What difference did marrying him make? She almost hadn't cared if she lived or died.