Duarte's Child

‘I told you to leave it…’ Duarte ground out, the long sweep of his muscular golden back rigid with stormy tension as he hauled on his chinos.

Emily felt she’d already been reduced so low that nothing else could hurt her. However, it belatedly dawned on her that he was getting dressed again and that he wasn’t staying the rest of the night and that seemed the lowest blow of all. ‘Where are you going?’

Duarte swung back round to face her, his lean strong features ferociously set. ‘Any place I don’t have to listen to you getting it all wrong—’

‘How am I getting it wrong?’ she pressed in desperation. ‘Duarte?’

Brilliant eyes grim, he let a harsh laugh escape. ‘Do you think this is so easy for me? I’m thinking about you with Jarrett almost all the time. I can’t get it out of my head…’

Her tummy twisted, her drawn face tightening.

‘So all kudos to me for pulling off a fantastic performance between the sheets.’ His derision, whether angled at her or himself made her flinch. ‘Two years ago, I was your first lover and that meant something to me. Now it’s all gone and I am just so bloody angry with you that I don’t know why I brought you back here!’

She felt dead inside because he had killed her hopes. She was being rejected again. ‘It was only a kiss and I didn’t even like it…’ she framed strickenly.

‘If you open the subject one more time… Where the hell is my shirt?’ he demanded in raw completion.

Realising that he had yet to notice what she was wearing, she peeled off his shirt and threw it back at his feet.

Duarte stared at her with pronounced intensity. She stood there like a statue, her hair falling round her like tongues of fire against her fair skin but for once she made no move to cover herself.

‘Take your blasted shirt and get out!’ she suddenly gasped.

He flicked it up, the movement all grace and derision somehow perfectly combined. She yanked open the door, spread it wide.

Duarte threw her a sardonic look. ‘If you were looking for a guy who turns the other cheek, you shouldn’t have married a Monteiro.’

She slammed the door shut on his exit, turned the key in the lock and then ran all the way back to the bed to throw herself facedown on the mattress.

Almost simultaneously it seemed the noise of a sudden jarring crash sent her rolling over in shock to glance back in the direction of the door. She was just in time to see it smash back against the wall. She focused on Duarte, who had kicked it open, with shaken eyes of disbelief. He stood there with clenched fists, breathing heavily, all powerful and quite unashamed masculinity.

‘You lock a door against me again and I’ll break it down every time!’ Outraged golden eyes assailed hers with pure aggressive force. ‘Do you understand?’

Very slowly and carefully, she nodded.

CHAPTER SIX

HAVING scarcely slept during a night of emotional turmoil, Emily was up early the following morning and in the nursery with Jamie.

When his nanny found her there, the young woman smiled in understanding and left them in peace. Given lots of cuddles, Jamie was in the sunniest of moods, but soon his big brown eyes turned sleepy again. His every need met, Jamie had an enviable capacity to be as happy in Portugal as he had been in England.

Emily had a shower and put on a denim skirt and tee-shirt. A maid brought her breakfast and she had it out on the balcony—white coffee and wonderful fresh-baked bread served with home-made honey. She was told in answer to her enquiry that ‘Don Duarte’ had left for his Lisbon office shortly before eight.

It promised to be a glorious day. Surrounded by woods of pine, eucalyptus and oak, the gardens were lush and tropical, full of spiky palms and superb flowering shrubs, the extensive lawns already being industriously watered by the gardeners. Beyond the trees stretched the extensive quinta estate of orange and lemon and olive groves. Against the backdrop of the purple green mountains, the tiny village houses sprinkled the hillside like toys. In every direction the views were breathtaking.

Emily had missed Portugal so much during her absence yet, two years earlier, she knew she’d severely underestimated the challenges of marrying a male who not only did not love her but also whose world and expectations were so very different from her own…

Even their wedding had not been what she had wanted. Duarte had desired neither frills nor fuss and, as she loved him, she’d suppressed her longing for a wedding gown and worn a suit. Lunch had followed at an exclusive hotel but it had been attended only by her family and a handful of Duarte’s business acquaintances.

‘I’d call it a bit shabby,’ her sister Hermione had said with a sniff. ‘Are you sure this isn’t a shotgun do?’