Back in the Brazilian's Bed

‘As I would expect,’ Dante agreed. ‘There will be plenty of time for you to do that on my ranch.’

Her mouth dried at the thought of going to Dante’s ranch. ‘I need to work while my ideas are fresh,’ she argued. ‘You want carnival as your theme, and I’ll give you carnival, but I must make my notes before all the detail of today escapes me.’

‘You have all the answers, don’t you?’ Dante stared down at her. ‘Except for the one answer I want.’

She ignored that, but not before she saw the flash of anger in his eyes. Dante liked to control everything. When she started work on his ranch she would have to make sure that Dante and his people didn’t take over. This was her contract, her reputation at stake. He played on a team. Dante should be able to work with her. But would he work on her team? Her best guess was no. She maintained a diplomatic silence as they walked on side by side to the crowning.

The piazza where the celebration was to take place was packed. Towering walls kept in the sound and the heat, creating a dizzying counterpoint to her jangling thoughts. She had always known when she had agreed to take on this project that her biggest challenge would be Dante. They were both strong characters with set ideas of their own, but he would have to learn to compromise, just as she would have to learn to keep her thoughts confined to the job.

‘I’ll take you back,’ Dante insisted, when he saw her glance at a taxi rank.

‘I can walk.’

‘I won’t let you. Do you think I’m going to abandon you in the middle of the city?’

She almost laughed. Feeling abandoned by Dante was hardly a new sensation for her.

The crowd was thickening as people gathered to watch the ceremony, but Dante guided her safely through with his hand in a safe place in the small of her back. It was incredible that such a light touch could have such a profound effect on her body. Why could she remember his touch so clearly? Why did those hands directing her pleasure have to spring to mind now?

Dante seemed totally at ease. He bought them both a bottle of water and a pair of flip-flops for her from a market stall so she could take off her high-heeled shoes. She groaned with pleasure as she replaced them with the simple footwear.

‘Please, stop,’ she begged, when he added a shawl that was billowing above them like a sail. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘But I want to,’ he argued, as he draped the soft jade-green fabric around her shoulders. When he drew it tighter over that part of her body and she flinched, he gave her a questioning stare.

‘I’ll need this,’ she said, gazing about to distract him. ‘The wind is cool at night.’

Dante stared at her for a moment, and then relaxed. ‘It just reminded me of that dress you wore on your eighteenth birthday.’

Why wouldn’t he remember? He had enjoyed sliding it off her.

‘Your party was themed. Arabian Nights, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right. And as for that dress,’ she added with relief, glad that he’d turned from suspicion to thinking back, ‘I could hardly expect my guests to turn up in costume while I wore a suit.’

He huffed a laugh as he scanned her office outfit. ‘I doubt you had one in your wardrobe. You didn’t dress like an undertaker back then.’

She stroked the shawl as she remembered the soft folds of chiffon of her birthday dress beneath her hands. The outfit she had chosen to wear at her party had been floating and insubstantial...and very easy to remove.

Time to change the theme of their conversation to a safer track. ‘I love the shawl. Thank you.’ An involuntary quiver crossed her shoulders as his hands brushed the back of her neck. He was only lifting the shawl a little higher to protect her against the wind, but it was close enough to the danger area to make tremors of an unpleasant kind run through her. And then, thankfully, a group of people recognised him and crowded around, letting her off the hook.

‘You’re a complex man,’ she said, when he’d signed the last autograph.

He frowned. ‘I’m complex because I talk to people?’

‘You’re so generous with your time, and that’s not the image you give out with the team.’

‘Ah, the team.’ His dark eyes turned black with amusement. ‘The brooding and unapproachable barbarians.’ He laughed. ‘Do you think we would attract the same crowds if our publicist worked the image of clean-shaven, pipe-and-slippers men?’

Against her better judgement, he made her laugh. ‘There’s no danger of that.’