He gathered her up against him, taking her across the balcony and through the doors to his bedroom.
Nora shut off her mind, focusing on showing him the love she felt with every touch of her lips and her body against his.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DUARTE AWOKE TO an empty bed.
Sunlight streamed in through the balcony doors and a single look at the time on his watch had his brows raising. He hadn’t slept for this long or this peacefully...ever. Not a single nightmare had plagued his sleep and his dreams had been filled with Nora. Vivid depictions of them together that had been so realistic they’d almost seemed real.
He ignored the strain of his own desire against the sheets, showering and dressing in clothing fit for sailing. He had a mountain of emails that needed his attention before the Florida opening, but he felt a deep longing to get out on the waves. He felt an urge to grab his sketchbooks and disappear into his ideas—but, strangely, he didn’t want to be alone.
His mind conjured up an image of red curls flowing in the sea breeze and sultry silver eyes watching him as he commanded the ship to move over the waves. No, he didn’t want to be alone today. He’d take them all out on O Dançarina for the afternoon.
His light mood followed him downstairs, where he stopped in the doorway that led out onto the terrace and took in the simple sight of Nora below, dangling her legs in the water of the swimming pool, Liam in her arms. She looked beautiful, her glossy red waves seeming to glow around her face in the mid-morning sunlight.
He was hit with a sudden erotic image of wrapping her hair around his fist as he made love to her from behind—one of the moments in his
strange dreams the night before. She’d been different in the dream...her hair shorter. They’d been in the back seat of a car, with mountains all around them. The image had been intense...
As though she sensed him, she turned—and the look on her face was not what he’d expected. She looked miserable.
Something heavy twisted within him as he moved to walk towards her, but the gentle clearing of a throat behind him stopped him in his tracks.
Angelus Fiero stood just inside the archway of the dining room, his expression sombre and agitated.
‘Angelus. It’s good to see you.’
Duarte tried and failed to keep the annoyance from his voice. For once he hadn’t been thinking of his investigation. He hadn’t been consumed with revenge. But Duarte shook his hand, dropping the customary two kisses on his cheeks.
His father’s oldest friend was a thin man, but today he looked even thinner since the last time Duarte had seen him, a few weeks previously. He leaned heavily on his cane—a recent addition after the gunshot wound that had almost ended him.
‘You’ve always been a terrible liar.’ Angelus chuckled, a strange tightness in his gaze. ‘I’m sorry to bother you here, with your lovely guest...’
In his peripheral vision Duarte saw Nora stand up next to the pool, Inés at her side, the two women chatting animatedly.
He guided Angelus away from the windows and down the long hall to his barely used study at the back of the house. It was a dark room, lined with dusty bookcases, and it had an air of bleakness about it. He’d always hated the room, even when his father had used it as his study during their long summers here.
He sat on one of the high-backed armchairs and motioned for Angelus to take the other, frowning when the man refused his offer of coffee or any other refreshment.
A tightness settled into his gut.
‘I have news.’ Angelus snapped open the slim file he carried, a look of mild discomfort on his face. ‘The evidence on the thumb drive was...fruitful.’
‘Excellent.’ Duarte reached for the file, only to have Angelus pull it back, a look of warning in his eyes.
‘It involves your parents.’
The older man’s eyes shone suspiciously as he glanced away, out of the window, towards the view of the front courtyard beyond. When he finally met his eyes again, they were suspiciously misty.
‘Their deaths were not an accident, Duarte.’
The world stopped for a moment.
Duarte felt himself stand up, felt his hand snatch the file from Angelus’s fingers. He saw the old man’s pained look as though through a fog.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he read the detailed report outlining the various anonymous hitmen on Lionel Cabo’s payroll and the jobs they’d been paid to complete. One item had been highlighted, dated seven years previously in London, England. Targets: Guilhermo and Rose Avelar.
He closed his eyes against the awful truth, willing it to disappear.