Returning to Claim His Heir

Her body was on edge with tension as she tried over and over to think of the best way to tell him that he was a father. She hadn’t outright lied to him about Liam, she told herself as she worried at her lower lip. He had made assumptions which she hadn’t corrected, but she hadn’t directly fabricated the lie, had she?

As if sensing her turmoil, Inés insisted she take an hour for herself to unwind in the pool. The older woman refused to take no for an answer, so Nora changed into the powder-blue swimsuit, covered her pale skin with sun lotion and spent a delightful half-hour wading from one side of the huge pool to the other, floating on her back and staring up at the cloudless sky.

Taking a moment to lie back on a sun lounger and dry off, she found herself able to take in the details of her surroundings. She was awed by the solitude of this cliffside villa. The nearest neighbour was a five-minute drive away, leaving no man-made sound to disturb her peace, only the wind in the trees and distant rush of the waves on the rocks below.

Inés had been right; she’d needed some time to reconnect with herself. She had almost forgotten she could function outside of the tiny bubble of motherhood.

When she got back to her room she found Inés had already fed Liam and put him down to sleep. Her son was starting to slumber for longer stretches at night now, and it was all down to Inés’s magic touch. In the absence of her own mother, Nora felt enormously grateful to have such a caring maternal influence. And Inés had developed quite a bond with her son too—although she often threw strange glances Nora’s way and commented that the boy could almost pass for an Avelar, with his defined dimple and dark skin.

Nora only blushed and looked away.

The older woman told her that dinner would be at seven and gave her a stern look, instructing her not to be late. It was already getting dark outside, so she forced her tired body to shower and dress in a simple emerald-green shift dress and flat sandals, not wanting to be rude if Inés had prepared a meal.

Putting the baby monitor into the pocket of her dress, she padded downstairs.

In the short time she’d been gone the net of lights above the terrace had been switched on, and underneath was a small dining table, neatly set up for two. In the distance she could see two bodyguards, doing their nightly sweep of the property. She frowned. If there were two bodyguards, that meant Duarte had returned.

‘Welcome, senhorita.’ A slim waiter appeared, motioning for her to take a seat.

‘I don’t think this is for me...’

She looked around, half expecting a parade of wealthy socialites to come marching through the house. Instead, she saw Duarte emerge from the dining room, striding towards her as if he’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. His short crop of hair was still damp and glistened in the twinkling lights, as did his eyes as he pinned her with an intense gaze.

‘I decided I needed to make up for missing last night.’ He smirked.

‘You’ve done all this for me?’ She frowned, a knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach as she looked around, seeing a man in full chef’s uniform hard at work in the kitchen.

‘Not exactly.’ Duarte let out a low hum of laughter. ‘Chef Nico and his team have applied for the catering contract on the new superyacht I’m designing. I’m seeing if he lives up to the hype.’

‘Oh.’ She felt her arms relax slightly with relief. The name sounded vaguely familiar—she thought he was a minor Brazilian celebrity. ‘They’re cooking for you as an audition, then?’

‘They are cooking for us.’ He raised a brow. ‘You need to eat, no?’

‘Well, yes, but...’

‘Inés made me promise to feed you. Besides, I found I rather missed your company last night,’ he said softly, guiding her over to a chair. ‘Do with that what you will.’

Her eyes widened at his admission and Duarte had to fight himself to look away, to ignore how his heartbeat sped up in his chest and pay attention to the dishes that began arriving in front of him for his judgement.

It turned out that Chef Nico’s hype was more than justified. By the time the last of the dishes had been cleared away he had already decided to hire the man.

Nora glanced down at the slim monitor in her pocket every so often, but otherwise seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself, and kept up with his deliberately light tales of the day of manual work he’d completed at one of the Avelar Foundation’s newest housing projects. He’d spackled walls and lifted furniture up and down steps all day, thanking his good luck that his body was strong despite his injuries.

It dawned on him that he hadn’t had a headache in weeks, and that his mood had become more balanced and predictable—almost like his old self.

They took a small break before dessert, and Nora slipped up to her room to check on her son. When she returned, Duarte suggested they take their drinks to the viewing deck and allow the serving staff to clear away the dishes.

She walked ahead of him, the gentle sway of her hips a naturally sensual sight. He shook off his errant thoughts, realising that while he should be planning his approach to secure her agreement to be a witness against Lionel Cabo, all he could think about was kissing her again.

‘I love the view from up here. I can’t remember the last time I left the city.’ She sighed, taking a long sip of her drink.

‘You said you didn’t always live in Rio...?’ Duarte said, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Still, he couldn’t miss the way she visibly stiffened by his side, then forced herself to relax.

‘Not always, no. My mother and I moved around a bit.’

‘You said she’s Irish?’

Nora nodded her head, her fingers twirling around the stem of her glass for a moment.