Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child

The only children he ever saw were being pushed through the park in strollers. And, yeah, there were people with kids living in his condo building, now that he thought about it. Like a woman he’d met in the lobby a couple of weeks ago. He’d been heading out, so had she, both of them waiting for taxis in a driving rainstorm, except she’d had a pink-swathed bundle in her arms.

“Nasty weather,” he’d said, because she’d kept looking at him as if she expected him to make conversation.

“Uh-huh,” she’d replied, but she’d seemed to be waiting for something more. Finally he’d caught on.

“Cute,” he’d said, nodding at the bundle. It wasn’t. Not particularly. It was just a baby, but evidently he’d said the right thing because the mom beamed.

“Isn’t she?” she’d said, and then she’d added, proudly, as if the information rated applause, “She’s four months old today.”

Four months.

And about the same size as the baby he’d just seen. The difference was that Gabriella’s kid had those blue eyes, that solemn I’m-an-adult-in-miniature look he’d seen before….

The realization almost stole his breath away.

He saw those eyes, that expression in the mirror each morning when he shaved.

“No,” he said aloud. “No! Impossible.”

But it was adding up. The eyes. The expression. The dark hair. Figure the child’s age at four months, add on nine more…His head did the calculations no single, unattached, contented male wanted to do and reached an inescapable possibility.

Gabriella might have become pregnant in New York. And if she had…

Dante sat back. No. He couldn’t go there. All those years ago, Teresa D’Angelo’s monumental lie. He’d never had sex with her, with any woman without using a condom.

Gabriella could be lying, too.

Except she hadn’t lied. She hadn’t said the child was his. And she’d have told him. “Dante,” she’d have said, “I’m pregnant with your baby.” Teresa damned well had. There were times he could still hear her voice whining that he had to marry her.

Surely, Gabriella, any woman, would have made the same demand.

Which meant, he thought, on a relieved rush of exhaled breath, which meant the kid was not his.

Forget the eye color. The face. The time frame. Babies were babies. They all looked alike…

“Merda,” he hissed, and he turned the key, put the car in gear, and drove back to the fazenda for the second time that night.

Daniel had finally fallen asleep.

He’d fussed for the last half hour. Unusual for him. He was generally an easy baby to deal with.

He ate, he slept, he kicked his tiny legs, pumped his arms and grinned. The grin, especially, was a delight because his usual expression was thoughtful, almost solemn, so that when he grinned, his whole face lit.

Just like his—

Gabriella blinked. No. She was not going there. It had taken her weeks and weeks not to look at her son and see the man who’d once been her lover. She was not going to permit the events of one day to start her on that path again.

Carefully she lowered her baby into his crib, drew a light blanket to his chin, then bent and kissed his forehead, inhaling his sweet, baby scent. Her lips curved in a smile. Deus, how she adored her little boy. She’d been terrified when she’d realized she was carrying him. Now he was the focal point of her life.

Everything she did, she did for him.

It was why she’d wanted to save the fazenda.

Sighing, she turned out the light, went to her own room and undressed.

If only she could have done it. For Daniel. For his connection to a place that was in the Viera blood. And for the memory of her brother. She had loved Arturo with all her heart, just as he had loved her. No one else ever had, surely not Dante. She’d been his plaything. His toy.

And she had let him hurt her for the last time today.

Gabriella turned on the shower and stepped under the spray.

Dante was history. Her son was the future. She had to plan what she would do next, now that the ranch was truly gone. She’d harbored hope until the last minute, even though she’d known, in her heart, that the small amount of money she still possessed would not be sufficient to save it.

The amount owed on it was too big. Her father had mortgaged and remortgaged the fazenda so often she’d lost count, frittering the money away on women, horses and cards. By the time Arturo had inherited it, the bank stood ready to foreclose.

And then, despite the doctors, the treatments, virtually all her savings from modeling, he had died.

The bank had moved in for the kill. She’d made her pathetic financial offer, they’d turned it down, and Ferrantes had come sniffing at her heels. She’d told him what he could do with his disgusting suggestions. He’d laughed and said she would change her mind after the auction. She told him she would never do that; in fact, she had not even intended to go to the auction—why break her heart even more by seeing a pig such as him take what should have been her son’s inheritance?