“Of course not,” she huffed. Of course she was. She tossed her long, wet hair. “You can sleep with every supermodel in Brazil for all I care! It's not like I have any reason to…”
Her strident voice faltered as Diogo turned away from her, pulling off his wet white shirt and dropping it to the floor. Distracted by the vision of Diogo's hard chest, impossibly covered with muscles and scars of a warrior, she couldn't finish her sentence. His tanned skin was etched with black hair that descended from his broad shoulders down his flat belly. His rain-dampened gray trousers clung to his hips and fit buttocks as he went into the adjacent bathroom.
She heard him turn on the shower. Heat flooded her cheeks—and everywhere else in her body. What was wrong with her? How could she still want him so badly when he'd made it clear that, aside from her pregnancy, he didn't find anything about her particularly interesting or special?
Folding her bare arms, she shivered in the wet silk bra and panties clinging to her skin. Three months ago, Diogo Serrador had taken everything from her. Her innocence, her faith, her courage in her dreams. Was she really such a desperate fool that she was willing to throw herself under the same train again, the Serrador Express that stopped for no woman?
And worse, it was no longer just her own heart and soul at risk. Now she had her child to think about. When Diogo left, as he inevitably would, he wouldn't just abandon Ellie. He would leave behind a heartbroken child who would always wonder why her father hadn't loved her enough to stay.
Just like Ellie's father. He certainly hadn't loved them enough. He'd been forced into marriage by a baby—Ellie. He'd married her mother, he'd been Ellie's father. Sort of. He'd mostly spent years on the couch after work, watching mindless television and drinking beer, barking at Ellie or her mother if they ever dared to ask him a question.
Then when her mother had gotten sick, just when they needed him most, he'd packed up his bag. “Sorry,” he'd muttered to fifteen-year-old Ellie without meeting her eyes. “I've just got to take my own happiness while I can.”
And so Ellie had dropped out of school to take care of her mother, working nights at the Dairy Burger to support them. Her mother had accepted her care bitterly, blaming Ellie as the cause of her miserable marriage and all her own missed chances.
Ellie's child wasn't going to grow up that way.
“Ellie,” Diogo said. She looked up and saw echoes of her own pain in the dark depths of his gaze. It was so tempting to reach out to him. To try to protect him from whatever had caused that hidden anguish in his eyes.
But what was she thinking? Diogo need her help? That was a laugh!
“You're shivering.”
She turned away. “I'm just cold.”
He reached out to stroke her cheek.
“So let me warm you,” he whispered.
Pulling off her bra and panties, he lifted her naked body up into his arms. She was too numb to protest as he carried her into the marble-and-steel bathroom. He carried her into a tall, freestanding shower surrounded by a round wall of clear glass and pushed her gently inside.
She gasped as hot water hit her skin. It caressed her body, running down her hair, her throat, between her breasts. Down her belly to the tuft of hair between her legs. So hot, so sensual, so alive. For so long, she'd felt nothing but heartache. She'd felt so numb when she agreed to marry Timothy. What difference did marrying him make? She almost hadn't cared if she lived or died.
Until she found out she was pregnant…
She heard Diogo enter the shower behind her.
With a sudden intake of breath, she closed her eyes, realizing he had to be naked. Awareness surged through her body as she leaned her hot forehead against the glass. She knew his hard, muscular body was just inches from her own, his muscles caressed beneath the same streaming hot water. She moved as far away as she dared, pressing her body against the glass.
“Please don't touch me,” she whispered, not turning around.
“You want me to touch you, meu amor.” His accented voice was deep, barely audible above the sound of rushing water. He put his hands on her shoulders, slowly rubbing the knots of tension with his thumbs. “And I want to touch you. I've wanted it for months. It has nearly killed me not to touch you.”
He hadn't forgotten her? He'd missed her?
But even as she told herself it couldn't possibly be true, she leaned back against him. His hands felt so good. Stress and anger and fear melted away beneath his ministrations.
He slowly rubbed her shoulders.
Then her back.
Then…
Her whole body felt pink and warm and limp as he turned her around in his arms. She closed her eyes, as if she could pretend she weren't naked in front of him. As if every inch of her skin weren't crying out for his caress, to feel his body hot and hard against her own.