Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child
Then she’d heard Dante’s voice.
She could not have kept from going to him any more than the big, beautiful hawk moths could keep from beating themselves to death against the lit windows of the house at night.
Why had she believed he’d buy the fazenda for her? Worse, why had she let him kiss her? To let that happen…to give in to the kiss, to respond like a wanton to the feel of his arms, the heat of his body, the never-forgotten taste of his mouth and then to have him show how little he thought of her by believing she would have slept with Ferrantes…
That she would have slept with any man after having been with him and, Deus, she hated him for that, for leaving his mark on her lips, her skin, her stupid heart.
Gabriella froze.
Someone was ringing the doorbell. Banging on the door. She could hear it all the way up here, even with the water running. It would wake Daniel, but how could she let Ferrantes in?
Because, this time it would be him.
She didn’t take the time to towel off. Instead, she flung on her robe, tied the sash and ran downstairs. Her heart was racing. She needed a weapon. Her father had kept guns but she didn’t know where they’d be. Arturo, who’d despised killing things, had probably disposed of them.
“Gabriella! Open this door.”
She blinked. Dante? Why had he returned? It couldn’t be him. But when she turned on the outside lights and peered out the window, it was his rental car she saw parked before the house, not Ferrantes’s obscenely extravagant SUV.
What did he want now? There was only one way to find out. She took a steadying breath and cracked the door an inch.
“I don’t know why you came back,” she said, or started to say. But just as he’d done a little while ago, Dante brushed past her as if she were nothing. His easy arrogance was infuriating.
A good thing, because it swept away the sudden ache in her heart the unexpected sight of him provoked.
“Excuse me,” she said coldly, “but I did not invite you in. It is very late, and—”
He swung toward her, eyes bright and hard as diamonds.
“Yes,” he said coldly, “it is definitely very late.”
His gaze swept over her, lingering on the rise of her breasts, the length of her thighs. She thought of how the thin cotton robe must be clinging to her damp body and she flushed and folded her arms.
His smile was thin and dangerous. “Dressed for company?” he said softly.
She could feel her color deepen. “Dressed for bed,” she said coolly. “My days have an early start.”
His smile vanished.
“Taking care of a kid must cut down on your social life.”
Her chin lifted. “What do you want?”
“It’s hard to imagine a city girl like you enjoying this kind of life.”
“That only shows how little you know about me.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. What was she talking about? He knew a lot about her. She preferred white wine. She didn’t eat red meat. She wore clothes by big-time designers.
Those things constituted knowing a woman, didn’t they? Sure they did. It meant he knew what restaurants she preferred, what to choose on a menu, what to tell his PA to buy her whenever he decided it was time to give a woman a gift.
“Dante. I asked you a question. Why did you come back? We said all we had to say an hour ago.”
He dragged his thoughts together. She was wrong; they hadn’t said all there was to say an hour ago and he damned well wasn’t leaving this time until they had.
“That’s just the point,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure we did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You never answered the one question that matters.”
She kept her eyes on his, but her face lost a little color. “What question?”
“Gabriella. No games.” He took a step toward her; his eyes grew suddenly dark. “Is the child his?” He paused. “Or is it mine?”
His words hit her with an almost physical force. When she’d first realized she was pregnant, she’d imagined this scene endless times.
It had never ended well.
That was the reason she hadn’t fallen apart that terrible night Dante had taken her to dinner and told her he didn’t want her anymore, just seconds before she’d been about to tell him she was carrying his child.
He had not wanted her then. He did not want her now. So, why was he asking the question?
Better still, how should she answer it?
He came closer, close enough so she had to tilt her head back to look at him.
“It’s a simple question, Gabriella. Whose kid is it?”
Her heart was pounding. His voice was hard. So was his face. Hard and threatening. What did he want? If only she knew.