Dante Claiming His Secret Love-Child

Hadn’t she?

She’d seemed so innocent in his bed. As if everything they did, everything he did, was new to her. And that night, after he’d told her it was over, there’d been something in her eyes, a quick flash he’d chosen not to think about.

It was there now.

Was it a flash of pain?

His throat tightened.

He knew how to soothe that pain. He could gather her in his arms. Hold her against his heart.

Kiss her. Caress her. Tell her that he’d never stopped thinking of her. That he’d missed her. That he still wanted her.

Merda!

What in hell was he thinking? How could she still have this effect on him? It was why he’d stopped seeing her, not because the affair had gone on too long but because he’d felt her getting inside him, getting to him. Well, it wasn’t going to happen again, especially now. The last thing he needed was to react to her, feel that tug of lust low in his belly that he’d always felt when he was with her.

For all he knew, she was counting on it.

Some tears, a kiss, and he’d bought her the fazenda. Now this fantastic story, a few tears, another kiss and he would say, sure, the kid was his and how much would she need to keep it and herself in the style to which she so obviously wanted to grow accustomed?

Was the boy his? That was the question of the century. If the answer was yes, he’d do whatever had to be done, but he wasn’t about to accept a woman’s word as proof. Been there, done that, he thought grimly, and he let go of Gabriella’s wrist and stepped back.

“I want proof.”

“You don’t need proof. I want nothing from you.”

“Like you didn’t want the fazenda when you climbed all over me this morning? Come on, baby.

Let’s not play games. I want proof of the kid’s—of Daniel’s parentage. When was he born?

Where? Is my name on his birth certificate?”

Tears were streaming down her face. If this was a performance, it was a damned good one.

“Get out,” she hissed. “Get out of my life! I did not ask you for anything when I carried my baby. I am not asking you for anything now. I never wanted anything from you, Dante! Not your money, not your fancy gifts—”

“But you wanted this,” he growled, and he gave up fighting what he wanted, what he always wanted when he was near her. He swept his arms around her, bent his head and captured her mouth with his, kissing her hard, kissing her without mercy, forcing her lips apart, his tongue penetrating her, demanding the response she had always, always given him.

But she gave him nothing tonight. She stood motionless within his embrace. Slowly he raised his head. Her eyes were open, dark and empty and filled with pain.

“I beg you,” she whispered. “If you ever cared for me at all, please, go away.”

He stared at her. Of course he had cared for her. The truth was, he’d cared for her too much. He wanted to tell her that, to kiss her again, to hold her close and change her unhappy tears to soft, sweet sighs…

He stepped back.

What the hell had he been thinking?

The fact of it was, he hadn’t been thinking.

He had to get out of here. Talk to his lawyer. His brothers. Arrange for tests and if the tests came up positive, figure out how to handle all of this.

He went out of the house without so much as a backward look.

One thing was certain, he told himself as he drove away.

This time, he would not turn around and go back. He was done with Gabriella. With Brazil.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing here for him.

All he could think of was getting home.

To hell with waiting for morning, he thought grimly as he strode into the lobby of his hotel. It was very late and the concierge was dozing behind his desk, but who gave a damn?

Dante woke him. Told him he wanted to rent a plane and a pilot. The concierge yawned. Dante spoke sharply. Pulled out his checkbook, said he wanted that plane, wanted it now.

A couple of calls, and it was done.

He was airborne an hour later. The plane was handsome, the pilot was efficient, the sky was shot through with moonlight and stars.

And Dante…Dante was in a mess.

He was a man who had never shirked responsibility. Wasn’t that how he’d ended up in Bonito in the first place? Because Cesare had somehow transferred responsibility for righting some longago wrong to him? Yes, Cesare had gotten the details wrong. There was no dying man, no successful ranch about to be dropped into the hands of a son incapable of running it. There was, instead, a ranch he’d somehow ended up owning.

Like it or not, the fazenda was his, not his father’s.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

And there was more.

There was a woman, alone and penniless. A baby she said was his.

Dante groaned and closed his eyes.