Ellie covered her face with her hands.
His voice was almost gentle. “Is it really so bad as that?”
She shot her new husband a look full of hate.
“Why have you treated me like this?” she whispered. “What have I ever done to deserve this?”
“What have you done?” He clenched his jaw, looking out into the dark night. “When I was eight years old, my mother dropped me off on the doorstep of a mansion in Barra. She pinned a note to my shirt and told me that I was my father's problem now.” He gave her a flinty grin. “She didn't know that he'd died the week before. Or that his legitimate children would have no interest in sharing their home—or their inheritance—with his bastard, who was a living insult to their mother.”
Ellie stared at him with her jaw open. She couldn't imagine such a thing—a mother abandoning her child like that! She forgot her anger at Diogo in the onslaught of pity, imagining him as a boy. “They didn't want you to stay?”
“My half sisters had me sent to an orphanage like a prison. There was no food. No clothes. So I ran away.” He gave her a hard smile. “Maria Carneiro found me on the streets and brought me home. Her oldest son taught me how to fight. Mateus taught me everything, and I looked up to him as my idol. Until I realized I wanted a different life than any favela could provide.”
Looking at Diogo, Ellie couldn't stop herself imagining an eight-year-old boy with a note pinned to his shirt. Bewildered and abandoned. Left on a doorstep for a father he'd never even met, then mocked and unwanted by half siblings. Taught to fight for food in the slums. Without a family, he'd been…
Alone.
No wonder he'd been so determined to make sure his own children didn't suffer the same. In spite of herself, she couldn't help feeling desperately sorry for what he'd experienced as a little boy.
Sorry—for Diogo Serrador? There was a laugh!
She shook her head. “But the whole world believes that you're a Serrador—you attended the best schools and were born with a silver spoon in your mouth!”
“After I made my first million, my half sisters decided to recognize me. I suddenly met their standards, since they'd already squandered their money buying royal European husbands.” He glanced out the window. “So I started paying their bills, and they generously awarded me the name of Serrador. Complete with a new biography that they found more flattering to their public image.”
“And you forgave them,” she whispered.
“Forgave?” He gave her an incredulous look. “It was purely a business decision. I knew my father's connections would be useful. Gold and iron ore are not so different. Wrestling metal from the earth. Turning it into something that men will die for—that they will kill for.” He shrugged. “Taking my father's name accelerated my company's rise. I never planned to have children. I never thought…”
“Thought what?”
Shaking his head, he clenched his jaw. “I won't let any child of mine suffer ever again. Not when I can protect them. Not when I know…”
She looked at his taut jawline and cold dark eyes.
“But our babies haven't suffered, Diogo.” She timidly reached her hand over his own, pressing it against her belly. “They're safe. See?”
His haggard breathing calmed. The expression in his face lightened.
Then changed.
“Ellie,” he said hoarsely. He twisted a tendril of her hair around his finger. “You make me feel…”
But he didn't finish the sentence. He lowered his mouth to hers, stroking her tongue with his own and causing heat to rush up and down the length of her body. She wrapped her arms around his body, melting beneath the force of his touch.
As he kissed her, the black SUV barreled swiftly through the dark jungle, pursued by the unearthly cries of birds, the howls of monkeys and the whispered echo of ancient, long-forgotten civilizations.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELLIE WOKE WHEN THE Escalade stopped. She realized she'd spent the dark night with her head on Diogo's shoulder, sleeping against him as they traveled over endless bumpy roads.
He looked down at her. “We're here.”
“Where?” she said blearily.
The driver opened their door. Diogo took her hand and led her from the mud-splattered Escalade. She felt the warmth and strength of his fingers, felt the scorching heat in his dark eyes. The chauffeur left the suitcase with the discreetly waiting servants and drove down the road in a cloud of dust.
“Bahia. My beach house,” he said. “My favorite place in the world.”
She saw a luxurious, contemporary beach house set on a sharp cliff over the Atlantic, silhouetted against the orange sunrise. Two sleek stories of glass windows overlooked swaying palm tress and an elegant infinity pool above a private white-sand beach.