Free Brazilian Revenge (The Brazilians) by Carmen Falcone Page A

if she needed something and stormed in his room in the middle of the night? He had to enforce at least some decorum. For how long? What would happen after they found Lyanna?
    One problem at a time. Shaking his head, he slipped out of his room. He’d go downstairs to the library and send out some emails. He would take any distraction to keep his mind occupied until morning came.
    Before he even crossed her room, he noticed the light trespassing under the door. Frowning, he slowed his steps. Was she still awake? She needed some rest after the past couple days, even he knew that. Sucking in his breath, he closed the distance between him and the door.
    He felt, rather than heard, the frantic pacing on the travertine tile. So she was having a hard time falling asleep, too. He palmed the polished stainless-steel handle. Why would he get involved? He’d made one mistake already. Why did his fingers tremble with need to storm inside and help her? That wasn’t his job. That wasn’t his goal.
    He clasped the door handle, and, without delay, twisted it and opened the door.
    Shit. She moved frantically from one side to the other, barefoot, and with her hands perched at her waist. A good amount of hair kept falling on her face as she spun, which was why it took her a minute to notice when he stood in the middle of the room, legs apart. His spine locked into place when his eyes found hers.
    Fear. Her irises darkened to a forest green, and there was a gloom paralyzing her expression. A sheen of sweat covered her forehead, cheeks, and neckline, even though the air conditioning was on. The nightgown from earlier adorned her. “W-what are you doing here?” she said, eyebrows shooting to her hairline. “Is there any news? Do you know something?”
    He lifted his hands in denial. “No news, yet. I was going downstairs and saw you were up. What’s going on?” he asked for the sake of asking. It was obvious she was going through some sort of anxiety attack.
    “No news.” She plopped on the bed and started to fan herself. “I-I can’t breathe.”
    He did a quick scan of the room, but didn’t find a paper bag or anything else she could breathe into. “You can breathe,” he said, and sat next to her. He’d once read that focusing on the breathing part could make the person even more nervous. So maybe he had to distract her. “I’m here with you.” He grabbed her hand in his, and gave it a light squeeze. Her palm was slick with cold sweat.
    His heart raced like he was the one panicking. “It’s okay. Take a deep breath, and tell me what you wanna do once we find Lyanna. Talk about that.”
    “I-I…” She took a deep breath, and clasped his hand like she didn’t want to let go of him. A strange sensation bolted through him, igniting some sort of protective response within him. Despite what had happened, she was the mother of his child, and he wanted, no, needed, for her to be well. “I want to take her to the beach. Not right away, but I’d like to do that someday.”
    Nodding, he stared deep into her eyes. “What else?”
    Satyanna’s face was pale, but at least she was talking to him. “Central Park. I’ve dreamed of doing that while I was pregnant.”
    Central Park in New York City. He felt the contours of his face tightening, but he willed the uneasiness away. They would find Lyanna first, then iron out the details. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to travel so soon. Certainly not without him. “What else?”
    “I want to be there for her. I want her to know she has a mother.”
    “Weren’t you adopted as a baby?” he asked, remembering the bits of information Ulisses had been able to dig on her.
    “Yes, by a widow. I called her Mom. But when I was nine she dated this guy, who married her. And he…wasn’t nice to me.”
    “I’m sorry.” All he’d known was that her mother had died and she’d been under the care of Arnold Wallace, her stepfather, who ended up giving legal rights to the State