Brazilian Escape: Playing the Dutiful Wife / Dante: Claiming His Secret Love-Child. Carol Marinelli

knew instinctively that when the car doors opened she would be shoved in, that that was why he had taken the call—to arrange all this. Terrified, Meg did the only thing she could think of to survive. She bit hard on his lip with all she had—took that beautiful mouth and bit it as hard as she could. In the second when he recoiled, as he cursed her in Portuguese and reached for his gun, Meg ran—ran as she never had—ran and ran faster as she heard gunshots.

      She kept running till rough arms grabbed her and pulled her down, slamming her to the ground. She felt her cheek hit the pavement and the skin leave her leg as she rose to run again, heard another volley of gunshots and looked behind her. She saw police cars screeching up. Whoever had shielded her from him had gone. Then she stared at the body on the ground and it was the only thing she could see.

      ‘Niklas!’ she screamed, and tried to run back to him, for she hated the man but it was agony to see him lying dead and riddled with bullets.

      She could not stop screaming. Not even when other arms wrapped around her and her face was buried in rough prison denim and she smelt him again—not his cologne, but the scent of Niklas, her drug of choice, a scent that till now had been missing. She heard him saying over and over that she was safe, that he was here, that now it would all be okay, but she still did not believe it was him—until he lifted her face and she met his eyes, saw that the beautiful mouth had not been bitten and knew that somehow it was him.

      That she was safe.

      It was just her heart that was in danger again.

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

      MEG DID NOT get to see him again. Instead she was taken to a police station. There were press clamouring outside as she was taken in to give a statement, and while she was waiting for a translator Rosa arrived.

      Meg gave her statement as best she could. They kept talking about twins, and although she had already worked that out when she was being held in Niklas’s arms, her brain was so scrambled and confused that even with a translator she could hardly understand the questions, let alone answer them.

      Every time she closed her eyes she saw Niklas—or rather the man she had thought was Niklas—lying there dead. The raw grief and panic, the knowing in that moment that she would never see him again, that the man she had fallen so heavily in love with was now dead, was not a memory or a feeling she could simply erase.

      Fortunately Rosa had told the police she would return with Meg tomorrow, but that for now she needed peace, and thankfully they accepted that.

      ‘We will return at ten tomorrow,’ Rosa told her.

      They stepped out into the foyer and she saw him standing there, still dressed in prison denim. He took her in his arms and she knew then that she had to be careful, because the one thing she had worked out before this embrace was that she wasn’t strong around him—that she’d only been able to break up with Niklas when it hadn’t actually been him.

      ‘I’m still angry with you.’

      ‘I thought you might be.’ He kissed her bruised cheek and didn’t let her go as he spoke. ‘We can row in bed.’

      Which sounded a lot more like the Niklas she knew. He held her tight and pressed his face into her hair and she could feel his ragged breathing. For a moment she thought he was crying, but he just held her a moment longer and spoke into her hair.

      ‘The press are outside so we have to go out the back. I am taking you far away from here. I need to stay in the city, but—’

      ‘Não,’ Rosa said.

      Meg heard the word amanhã again, and realised Rosa was telling him that Meg must return to the police tomorrow.

      ‘I’ll ring Carla, then.’

      With his arm still around Meg he took Rosa’s phone and started to dial the number. Whilst he was occupied Meg stepped out of his embrace, and a little later, when they climbed into a waiting car, she sat on the back seat far away from him, needing some time alone.

      Even though they went out the back way the press still got some photos and it was horrible. They scrambled over to the car and blocked their exit, but the driver shook them off. Niklas told her it might be like this for a while, and that he was taking her to a hotel. He saw the start in her eyes.

      ‘We’re not going back there—I’ve asked Carla to book us into a different one.’

      Us.

      So easily he assumed.

      They entered the new hotel the back way too, and were ushered straight to a waiting lift where Niklas pressed a high number. They stood in silence till Meg broke it.

      ‘Did you get off?’

      ‘I’ve been released on bail.’

      ‘So why are you still wearing …?’ And then she shook her head, because she was simply too tired for explanations right now.

      They stepped out of the lift and there was hotel security in the corridor—’For the press,’ Niklas said, but it felt a lot like prison to her, and no doubt to him too, but he said nothing, just swiped open a door, leading her into a plush suite.

      Meg stood there for a moment, only knowing for certain the city she was in and that Niklas was alive. She remembered her feeling at seeing him dead, and the fear that had gripped her in the moments before, and started shaking.

      ‘I wanted to take you away from the city tonight, but because we need to go back to the police station tomorrow it is better that we stay here. I’ve had your stuff packed up, but it is in the other place … you’ll have to make do for now …’

      It was hardly ‘make do’; there was food and soon she would take a bath, and then she sat and had a strong coffee. Niklas offered her cachaca—the same drink she had been offered a little while ago—and she shuddered as she remembered. He opened the fridge and opened a bottle of champagne instead.

      Which seemed a strange choice and was a drink she hadn’t had it in almost a year.

      Not since their wedding.

      It was the drink they had shared on the day they had met, and he poured her a glass now, kissing her forehead as they chinked glasses and celebrated that somehow they were both here. It was a muted celebration, and there was still so much to be said, but Niklas dealt with the essentials first.

      ‘You need to ring your parents.’

      ‘I don’t know what to say to them,’ Meg admitted. She felt like crying just at the thought of them, was dreading the conversation that had to be had—and how much worse it was going to be now, after not telling them anything.

      ‘Tell them the truth,’ Niklas said. ‘A bit diluted.’ He nudged her. ‘You need to speak to them now in case they hear anything on the news, or the consulate might contact them. Have they tried to ring you?’

      ‘I didn’t even bring my phone with me,’ Meg said.

      ‘It will be at the other hotel,’ Niklas said. ‘For now they just need to know you are safe. I will speak to them if it gets too much.’

      ‘No.’ She shook her head—not at phoning them, but at the thought of him talking to them. She knew how badly things were going to go. ‘I’ll do it …’

      ‘Now.’

      ‘I still don’t really know what happened.’ But she took the phone, because he was right. They needed to know she was safe. ‘Leave me,’ she said, and was glad that he didn’t argue.

      Niklas headed into the bedroom and she dialled the number, then looked out of the window to a very beautiful, but very complicated city. She held her breath when she heard the very normal sound of her mum.

      ‘How’s Brazil?’