The chauffeur pulled the Bentley back into the busy Rio traffic. Turning around, Ellie looked through the back window as they drove away. She saw Diogo go up a flight of stairs to knock on the bright red door of a town house. A beautiful brunette flung open the door with a beaming smile. Taking his hand in her own, she pulled him inside.
And cold rage such as Ellie had never felt in her whole life swept through her. Fury swept through her body, freezing her heart into stone, congealing her spine into steel.
How dare he?
“Stop this car.” Turning to the chauffeur, she said more loudly, “Stop this car!”
“No, Senhora Ellie,” he replied, giving her a nervous smile in the rearview mirror. “The senhor, he ordered me to take you home—”
Her heart was pounding so furiously she thought she'd explode if she didn't tell Diogo exactly what she thought of him—and that little brunette of his, too. All right, so maybe Ellie wasn't the most glamorous or wealthy or well-educated woman in the world, but she didn't deserve to be tossed aside like a bag of chips!
“Fine,” she growled. “Don't stop!”
As the car still moved, Ellie flung open her door. With a horrified gasp, the chauffeur slammed on the brakes in the crawling rush-hour traffic.
She ran through the honking cars for the curb. Panting, red-faced with anger, she ran up the exact same stairs she'd seen Diogo climb.
She pounded on the door.
Once.
Twice.
The door opened. The same beautiful brunette answered. She was every bit as lovely, mysterious and irresistible as Ellie had feared.
She spoke with an upper-crust British accent as she looked Ellie up and down scornfully. “What do you want?”
“You must be Catia.” Ellie drew herself up with all the blue-collar pride of the generations of steel workers and coal miners that ran in her veins. She stalked past her husband's mistress with her chin held high. “Tell Diogo Serrador that his wife is here.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“ELLIE.” DIOGO'S FACE became instantly angry as he rose to his feet. He'd been sitting back on the sofa, looking far too comfortable in the brunette's cozy little house. As if this place were his home!
“I won't share you!” she ground out. “I won't!”
His brows lowered furiously. “Maldição, I won't be spied on like this—not by you or anyone!”
“You expect me to just accept whatever story you give me?” she demanded, perilously close to tears. “You think I should be quiet and grateful and put up with you cheating on me? I won't!” Her hands clenched into fists. “I'm your wife, I have feelings, and I expect you to—I expect—”
What did she expect?
I expect you to be true to me as I'm true to you.
I expect you to love me, as I love you.
God, she was a fool!
“Damn you,” she whispered, sinking into the couch as she struggled to hide her sobs. “Damn you to hell.”
In an instant, he crossed the room. He held her in his arms with unexpected tenderness. He kissed her temple softly, stroking her hair.
“She's not my mistress, Ellie,” he said. “She's not.”
“But—”
His eyes were dark with emotion. “I would not have married you if I intended to betray you.”
She looked at him, afraid to believe the words she desperately wanted to believe. “Then what are you doing here?”
He shook his head, tightening his jaw. “I didn't want you to know. I was…ashamed.”
“Ashamed?” she gasped. “Of what?”
“Know this.” Raising her chin, he forced her to meet his eyes. “When I forced you to take my name, I gave you my loyalty. I will never break my promise. Never.”
She shook her head tearfully. “But it's not a real marriage.”
Lowering his lips, he kissed her, a hot embrace that made fire rush through her veins.
“Tell me that's not real,” he demanded.
Ellie heard a startled squeak from the doorway. Dazed, she looked up to see the brunette standing in the doorway holding a tray. The woman was staring daggers at Ellie. If she wasn't Diogo's mistress, she obviously wished to be.
Ellie turned back to Diogo. “So why—Why are you here with Catia,” she asked in a small voice, wanting desperately to believe, “if she's not your mistress?”
“Ah.” He followed her gaze to rest on the brunette. “Her name is Angelique Price. She's a nanny.”
“Nanny?” she repeated numbly. As if on cue, she heard a sharp, rhythmic bang against the hardwood floor as a little girl, about five years old and holding a doll, ran into the room. She stopped, looking at Diogo with big, frightened eyes.