From Passion To Pregnancy

And mouth. And raging hormones.

She bit her lip. “I can’t.”

Neither could he. He was appalled that his body had responded with an immediacy that had yanked him from that fully-in-control-but-fake-as-hell persona he liked to cloak himself in. It had exposed the true Sebastian Texeira. And he didn’t like it. At all.

“We can still do this. We have to do this. Otherwise I might as well turn this mobile center back over to the hospital and forget I ever asked for the funds to try.”

“Which means there would be no reason for me to stay in São Paulo.” Her eyes sought his. “The hospital wouldn’t keep me on?”

“I could talk to them and ask—”

“No. I want to do this. I need to do this.”

“Why?” He wasn’t quite sure what had driven her to come here. She’d probably made more money in Rio Grande do Sul.

“When my dad was sick, I realized how isolated my little hospital was. Doing things the same way as they’d been doing them for decades. I want to make a difference.”

“I’m sure you already have.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but I saw the effect you, Natália and Adam had on my father. I want to be a part of something like that. To take back new ideas and ways of doing things.” She motioned around the inside of the truck. “This is exactly what I’ve been looking for. And I’m not going to let an embarrassing lapse in judgment stand in the way of that. Neither one of us should, if you’re as serious as I think you are about doing this.”

“I am.”

“Then let’s focus on that, okay?”

She was right. He knew she was.

The only thing left was to get his body to agree to forget this “lapse in judgment”, as she’d put it, had ever happened.

Only he knew that was going to be almost impossible.

So he was just going to have to pull that cloak tighter and pretend. And hope to God that Sara never saw the truth.

CHAPTER THREE (#ub19a6f9a-ad1a-52e0-ae03-e6245029e71e)

SIX WEEKS.

That time frame rattled around in her head over and over as she sat in the cab of the truck beside Sebastian.

Stress. A change of jobs.

Working with a man she’d slept with.

Slept. With.

Those two words linked arms with the other two words and began to dance a little jig in her stomach. Right beside the butterflies that had never left.

Six weeks.

She couldn’t be. They’d used protection. All three times.

Oh, God.

“Have you ever visited a favela?”

The question slid past her before turning in a smooth circle and coming back at her. “I’m sorry?”

He glanced at her with a frown. “I asked if you’d ever been to a favela.”

“Yes.” She blinked back the growing fear. “I think all cities have some kind of slum. There was one a few miles from our house. It was fairly safe—run by a group of women who decided to fight back against the image that all favelas are dangerous, drug-infested places. They had to give the okay for anyone new to move in.”

“This one is not like that. It has had—and still does have—a drug presence. You’ll need to be on the lookout for any unusual activity.”

She was. Only that unusual activity wasn’t happening outside the windows of the mobile unit. It was happening deep inside her body. And there was a sense of panic that said the unthinkable could very well be reality.

But it couldn’t. It was—while not impossible, it was highly unlikely.

Except hadn’t she read recently about a spate of condom tamperings across the country? A fad where kids dared each other to go into stores unnoticed and stab pinholes in packages? It had caused an uptick in unwanted pregnancies. And STDs.

Deus. STDs. An even stronger spurt of alarm went through her.

Surely she was safe. The condoms had been provided by the motel. There were quality control checks. There had to be.

At a motel?

Those establishments were gorgeous on the outside with their high walls, beautiful signs and manicured landscapes. But the elegant facade hid what really went on behind the entry gate. Sex. Lots of it. Mostly between people who weren’t married—or who were, but not to each other.

It’s okay. You’re overreacting. It’s an easy thing to check.