“Purchased,” he said softly.
“Sim.”
“By whom?” Dante asked, though he was sure he knew the answer.
De Souza looked at him and flushed.
“Understand, please, I am simply the legal tool of the bank in the transaction.”
Dante rose slowly from the chair. “Answer the question. Who bought it?”
The lawyer swallowed hard. “Senhor Ferrantes.”
Dante wanted to haul de Souza to his feet.
“You were supposed to be working for Gabriella,” he growled, “but you were working for Ferrantes all along.”
“You must understand. Senhor Ferrantes is an important member of our community.”
Dante reached across the desk, took some small satisfaction as the lawyer shrank back in his chair. He scooped up the documents, stuffed them into the briefcase and stalked out the door. Out in the street again, he drew a deep breath as he took out his cell phone and called his own attorney. Sam was a senior partner at one of New York’s most respected law firms; Dante used his private number and Sam answered on the second ring.
“Dante,” he said pleasantly, “good to hear from—”
“Sam. I have a problem.”
“Tell me,” Sam said.
Dante gave him all the details. Well, almost all. He didn’t mention that he’d had a prior relationship with Gabriella Reyes. He damned well didn’t say that there was a strong possibility he had a son. What he explained, in concise terms, was that he was in Brazil, that he’d bid on a property and paid for it with a check that been deemed unacceptable twenty-four hours after the fact, and that the property in question had now been sold to someone else.
But he and his lawyer had gone to school together. Sam knew him well. Too well. There was a silence after Dante finished talking. Then Sam cleared his throat.
“What else?” he said. “Come on, man. I know there’s more to this than you’re saying. You want me to give you an opinion that has teeth, I need to hear the rest.”
So Dante told him. About Gabriella. That he and she had once been—that they had been involved. That she had a child. That it was his.
“You mean,” Sam said coolly, “she says it’s yours.”
A muscled knotted in Dante’s jaw. “Yes.”
“And you want to believe her.”
“Yes. No. Dammit, she’s not a liar—”
Sam interrupted. Asked him if the word option had ever been mentioned in the sale of the ranch, asked him for the name and phone number of the bank that had foreclosed on it, then said he’d get back to him in ten minutes.
The line went dead.
Dante stood in the heat of the Brazilian sun, impatience and anger humming through him. He wanted to go back into de Souza’s office, drag the man to his feet and show him what happened to those who sold out to the devil. Better still, he wanted to find Ferrantes and beat the crap out of him.
Logic prevailed.
He was in a strange country. His best bet was to let his lawyer find the appropriate legal solution, which he was doing right now. Ten minutes wasn’t that long to wait.
There was a café next door. He went inside, ordered coffee, sat at a small table and drank the coffee while he waited, eyes glued to his watch. Was the damned thing working? The minute hand seemed not to move. And then his phone rang and he flipped it open.
“Dante,” Sam said.
“Well?”
“The easy stuff first. Don’t make any legal commit-ments to the woman. Be pleasant, stay calm, but—I hate to use the word—keep your options open until we do some tests. Okay?”
It was solid legal advice. “Okay. What about the property issue?”
“The property.” Sam exhaled noisily. “You want it in legalese or words of one syllable?”
A muscle flexed in Dante’s jaw. It didn’t take a genius to know that Sam had not asked him a question meant to raise his hopes.
“Just tell me the bottom line.”
“The bottom line, dude, is that you’re screwed.”
“Screwed how? You mean, the bidding process has to begin all over again?”
“I mean,” Sam said carefully, “you bought an option to purchase the property and the option expired twenty-four hours from the moment you signed it. In other words, you have no further legal rights to it.”
Dante sprang to his feet. The other customers in the café shot him wary looks. He ignored them, tossed his coffee cup in the trash and stormed outside.
“I made the winning bid,” he said sharply. “The bank accepted it.”
“The auctioneer accepted it.”
“As the bank’s rightful agent. Listen here, Sam—”
“The guy who bought the property after the twenty-four hours were up is a national.”
“The twenty-four-hour thing is bull!”
“Maybe. But you’re not on a level playing field, Dante. You’re not in the U.S. of A., you’re in another country. Is what they’ve done legal?” Sam Cohen’s lift of the shoulders all but came through the phone. “Probably, but who knows? The only certainty is that you’d need a Brazilian attorney to walk you through this. I can get a name, fly down, meet with you and whatever guy is recommended, but—”
“There’s no time for all that,” Dante said grimly.
“Yeah. I figured as much. And, to be blunt, I can’t guarantee how it would work out. My best advice? Find yourself another ranch, man. Hey, you’re in Brazil. How tough could that be?”
Dante laughed. Even to his own ears, it was not a happy sound. He thanked his lawyer, disconnected and headed for his car.
Somehow the fazenda looked worse today than yesterday.
The potholes in the road seemed more numerous, the weeds higher, the house and outbuildings more forlorn. Dante parked, walked up the steps to the door and rang the bell. He could hear it echoing through the rooms.
He rang it again. And again. Finally the door swung open. A white-haired woman in a shapeless flowered dress scowled at him. She barked a question he figured was either what do you want or who are you? So he told her his name and said he wanted to see Senhorita Reyes.
The woman stood immobile. He started to repeat what he’d said when he heard Gabriella’s voice. He brushed past the woman, who hurried after him, and followed the sound to what seemed to be a library although, like everything else here, it had seen better times.
Gabriella’s back was to him as she squatted beside a cardboard box half-filled with books. She wore jeans and a T-shirt; the shirt had ridden up and he could see the ridge of her spine. Her hair was pulled back and secured with one of those things that looked like a rubber band but wasn’t. Her feet were bare and dusty.
She was, in other words, a mess.
And she was beautiful. So beautiful, she made his heart ache.
“Yara,” she said, without looking around, “quem está aí? Is it the man with the truck? If it is—”
“Hello, Gabriella.”
Gabriella sprang to her feet so quickly that she kicked over a stack of books piled on the floor. That