The thought was enough to make her feel ill.
And then, the miracle. The second miracle, because the first had been hearing Dante’s voice, discovering him in the room, tall and imposing, hard-faced and intent. For an instant she’d imagined he’d come for her. Searched for her, found her, wanted her again.
Gabriella wrapped her arms around the pillow and shut her eyes.
Stupid thoughts, all of them.
He was here, that was all. She still didn’t know why he’d come; she only knew it had nothing to do with her. But his coming had still saved her. He’d bought the fazenda. For her. At least, that was what he’d said.
So far, that had not happened.
He had not gone to the advogado’s office to sign the documents de Souza said he would have to sign for the transfer of ownership. Instead he had vanished.
The lawyer had no idea where.
“Perhaps he returned to New York,” de Souza told her, shrugging his shoulders. “I do not know, Senhorita. I have not heard from him. I know only that he spoke with Senhor Ferrantes after their, ah, their disagreement.”
Gabriella tossed the pillow aside.
Disagreement? She almost laughed. Was that what you called it when two men went at each other with blood in their eyes? She had fled then, terrified of the consequences, of Ferrantes winning the fight…
Of the noise of it traveling up the stairs.
So she’d gone up to the rooms that were hers, stayed there until de Souza called her name. Everyone was gone, he’d told her, including the senhor from the United States.
“How did—how did the fight end?” she’d asked in a shaky voice.
“Senhor Orsini won,” the lawyer had replied with a little smile. Then his expression had sobered. “But he and Ferrantes had a private talk after. When it was done, the senhor drove away very fast.”
Without arranging to sign transfer papers. Without doing anything to fulfill that “no strings” promise.
Why? The question plagued her through the ensuing hours. She’d come at it from a dozen different angles but she still had no answer, only the nagging worry that though Dante’s initial intent had been decent, his machismo had gotten in the way.
That kiss.
The way he’d held her. Plundered her mouth. As if no time had passed since they’d been lovers. As if he still owned her. Not that he ever had, but that was the way he’d acted when they were together, as if she belonged to him even though she’d known he had no wish to belong to her.
Had it all been an act for Ferrantes? The kiss? The outrageous bid? The promise? The questions were endless, but the one that mattered most was the one she’d posed to de Souza.
“What do we do now?” she’d said.
That had earned her another little smile.
“We wait to hear from Senhor Orsini, of course.” The smile had turned sly. “It is good to have such a powerful man as a friend, yes?”
The way he’d said “friend” had made her want to slap his face.
But she hadn’t.
She knew how things looked. Dante had kissed her and she had responded, but so what? It was a simple matter of hormones and he was an expert at making her hormones respond. Besides, he’d caught her by surprise. She had never expected to see him again, never wanted to see him again. He meant nothing to her; he never had. It had taken her a while to figure that out—his easy disposal of her had wounded her pride, that was all.
She was over him. Completely over him, and—
What was that?
Gabriella threw up her hand. Lights blazing through the front windows from a fast-moving vehicle all but blinded her.
Her heart began to gallop.
“Ferrantes,” she whispered. It had to be him, hot with fury. Dante had made a fool of him in front of everyone, and, he would surely think, so had she.
Tires squealed. A car door slammed. Footsteps pounded up the steps to the veranda and a hand stabbed at the doorbell, over and over and over.
Her mind raced.
What should she do? Phone the policia? The nearest station was miles away. Besides, would they give a damn? Ferrantes was of this place. She was not. Not anymore. Her father had seen to that. He’d told endless lies about her, turned her into an outsider…
The bell was still ringing and now the sound of a fist pounding on the door added to the din. She could not let this continue. It was too much, far too much, and she gave one last frantic look up the stairs before she took a deep breath, went to the door and flung it open.
But it wasn’t Ferrantes filling the night with his presence.
It was Dante. And even as her traitorous heart lifted at the sight of him, the expression on his face made the breath catch in her throat.
Dante saw a rush of emotions flash across Gabriella’s face.
Surprise. Shock. Fear. And, just before that, something he couldn’t identify. Not that it mattered. Whatever she felt was meaningless compared to his rage.
She was good, though. He could almost see her clamp the lid on all the things she’d felt on seeing him again.
“Dante,” she said, as politely as a capable hostess greeting a not-so-welcome drop-in guest. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
“I’ll bet you didn’t.”
“In fact, I thought—Senhor de Souza and I both thought—you’d gone back to New York.”
“Without signing over the deed?”
She could almost see the sneer on his face. Don’t react to it, she told herself, and forced a calm response.
“I only meant—”
“Trust me, sweetheart. I know exactly what you meant.” He smiled; he could feel the pressure of his lips drawing back from his teeth. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
She hesitated. He couldn’t blame her. She was far from stupid.
“Actually, it’s rather late.”
“It’s the shank of the evening. Back home, you and I would be heading out for a late supper right about now.”
She flushed. “That was a long time ago.”
“Supper,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “and then maybe a stop at one of those little clubs way downtown that you liked so much.”
“You liked them,” she said stiffly, “I preferred simpler places.”
He felt a stir of anticipation in his blood. Her accent had just thickened. She had only the slightest accent. She’d told him once, in a rare moment when they’d talked about their lives, that she’d been tutored in English from childhood—but her accent always grew more pronounced when she was trying to contain her emotions.
In bed, for example.
When they’d been making love. Her whispered words would take on the soft sounds of her native tongue. Sometimes she’d say things to him in Portuguese. Things he had not understood but his body, his mouth, his hands had known their meaning.
He looked down at her, his muscles tense.
“But you liked what we did when we went back to your apartment