Virgin Mistress, Scandalous Love-Child

Happy that the man she had loved was a selfish, critical, amoral bastard who didn’t deserve to be any baby’s father?

“But, Gran…” Ellie said softly. “I don’t love Timothy.”

Her grandmother’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “You will,” she said briskly. “You’re going to have his baby.”

The doors to the nave opened, and the wedding march rolled over her like a wave. People turned around in the pews, craning their heads to see her.

Standing alone at the end of the aisle, Ellie’s body trembled. Her wedding bouquet shook in her hands as if an earthquake moved beneath her feet.

“Walk,” her grandmother whispered with a smile, taking her arm.

Feeling numb, Ellie walked forward with Lilibeth at her side.

This felt so wrong. But how could she trust her own feelings? Her instincts had only steered her wrong. She’d fallen in love with the worst possible man in New York. Surely, she was marrying the right man now?

And she’d already treated Timothy so badly. She couldn’t humiliate him further by running out of the church… Could she?

Flowers and candles were everywhere. She could feel the sharp eyes of the society matrons on her, hear the whispers of people she’d known since childhood. Old Mrs. Abernathy, who’d told her she’d never amount to anything. Candy Gleeson, the former cheerleader, who’d mocked her shabby clothes in high school and called her Stork because she’d had such a thin, ungainly body. They all now watched with envy, believing the fairy tale.

When she reached the end of the aisle, Lilibeth handed Ellie into Timothy’s keeping. He held her hand tightly, looking down at her face with a strange, almost demented look in his pale blue eyes.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

Compared to the broil of emotions inside her, the ceremony was so civilized. So hollow. The minister’s beautiful words had nothing to do with how she felt inside.

She—Timothy’s wife? To love him? Share his bed? Raise his children?

It had to be. Anything was better than to love someone only to be brutally rejected by them again and again. That must be how Timothy had felt, loving her for so long.

She would learn to enjoy his tepid kisses somehow. She would earn his forgiveness for her mistake, even if it took a lifetime. She would.

But when she closed her eyes, the memory of her night with Diogo still overwhelmed her. The way he’d ruthlessly spread her virgin lips with his own. He’d taken her innocence carelessly, like a conqueror. All the tenderness of her first kiss, the sweetness she’d timidly dreamed of sharing with a man she could love, Diogo had scornfully swept away, leaving in its place something hot and dark that burned her through, melting her to ash.

She desperately pushed the thought away. Struggling to calm the pounding of her heart, Ellie clenched her hands tighter around the green stems of her bridal bouquet. Pink and white petals fluttered slowly to the flagstones.

“Do you, Timothy Alistair Wright, take Ellie Jensen to be your lawfully wedded wife…”

Even in the midst of her wedding, she couldn’t stop thinking about Diogo!

The bastard. The lying bastard.

“…for as long as you both shall live?”

Timothy looked at her. Bright light from the soaring church windows shimmered off his wire-rimmed glasses, illuminating his pale, thin face. “I do.”

The minister turned to her. “And do you, Eleanor Ann Jensen, take Timothy Wright—”

The church doors opened, banging against the walls.

“Stop!”

At the harsh sound of the voice, the crowd gasped. Ellie whirled around.

Diogo.

He was dressed as she’d left him in New York, in a crisply cut gray suit and blue tie that elegantly clung to his hard-muscled body. But he no longer looked anything like a civilized man of business. His footsteps echoed against the worn gray stones as he stared at her with a ruthless, demanding intensity.

“How dare you come here, Serrador?” Timothy’s voice hit a high note, and he furiously cleared his throat. “You have no right—”

“You.” Diogo stared at Timothy. Then he gave a hard laugh. “I should have known.”

Ellie saw a depth of darkness in the Brazilian billionaire’s eyes. Black, she thought with a shiver, black as a coal mine twisting deep into the earth.

“Get out of here, Serrador,” Timothy spat out. “This is no business of yours.”

“Is it?” Diogo turned to her with a searing intensity. “Is it my business, Ellie?”

He knew!

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She couldn’t tell him he was the father of her baby. Timothy might forgive her eventually, but not if he knew that the real father was Diogo. The two men had had some kind of falling out at Christmas, and she still didn’t know why.

But she did know that Diogo Serrador was as hard and unfeeling as the diamond on her finger….

He leaned forward, looking straight into her eyes.

“Is it true, Ellie?”

Biting her lip, she looked away, hiding her face beneath her veil’s thick waves of netted tulle.

He ripped back her veil, and she cried out in shock. His face was so close to hers, she saw him clearly—his angular cheekbones, his rough jaw, his scarred temple, his nose that had been broken at least once.

The facade of wealthy playboy and international steel tycoon was gone. Diogo Serrador grabbed her with the brutality of a Viking barbarian claiming his woman. And a sensual current rocked Ellie’s body like lightning cracking through stone.

“Tell me the truth.”

She shook her head, unable to speak. She felt burned, electrified by his touch. He leaned forward, his face inches from hers, and she knew he was going to kiss her—right there in the church! While she was standing in front of the minister with another man!

And yet she couldn’t lift a hand to stop him. Her knees trembled beneath her. Her bouquet dropped unheeded from her senseless fingers, falling in a splash of pink flowers against stone.

“Tell me, damn you!” His hands tightened on her shoulders. His voice rang through the church. “Am I the father of your baby?”

Three hundred people gasped aloud. She heard her grandmother give a little choked sob. She could feel the stares of the guests. Of the shocked minister. And worst of all, she could feel Timothy goggling at her, pitiful, humiliated fury on his face.

A slow burn went through her, making her cheeks feel hot as flame.

“You have no right to humiliate me like this,” she whispered. “You’re the bastard, Diogo. You’re the liar.”

“Him?” Timothy turned on her with a look of rage. “You’ve kept me at arm’s length for all these years—so you could give yourself to Serrador?”