Chapter Nine
I t was the loud thump which woke Alexandre. He groaned. Clapping a hand over his eyes, he turned around and buried his face in the pillow.
A gentle sway reminded him where he was—on his yacht. Sitting up, he looked out of the porthole. Light streamed in, brightening the entire cabin. He loved waking up to the sound of the sea, gentle waves breaking against the hull of the yacht, a sweet sound that he never tired of.
However, today, even the gentle lapping of the waves outside his cabin didn’t bring a smile to his face. After the night he’d had, he wondered if anything could lift his mood.
After his disastrous discussion with Raquel, he’d gone in search of Leandro, only to find him gone. A staff member informed him that Leandro had driven away after the DaCostas had departed and Alexandre tried to contact him on his phone, but to no avail.
Frustrated that he didn’t get a chance to speak with his brother, he had driven back to his apartment, where after an hour of tossing and turning in his bed, he decided to go out again. In his surly mood, he wasn’t up to partying, so he took his motorbike and went for a ride.
After hours of riding aimlessly around town, at the crack of dawn, he found himself at the marina where his yacht was docked. Knowing a skeletal crew would be onboard, he’d decided to crash in his home on the sea.
The Siren was the first yacht he’d ever bought and was one of his most prized possessions. It was a thing of beauty, but it was more than just a sea-worthy vessel.
It was a symbol of his success. It represented everything he had achieved in his life—power, wealth, fame, or rather infamy he’d achieved all by himself, with no help whatsoever from his family.
Every time he was on board The Siren , he relished his success. But not this time.
He’d merely stumbled into his cabin, brushing aside an offer of dinner from one of the crew members and crashed into bed. Then he fell into a dreamless sleep almost immediately.
But glancing at his wristwatch, which showed it was eight in the morning, he realized that he’d only got around three hours of sleep.
Rubbing his gritty eyes, he got out of bed.
Quickly, he brushed his teeth, splashed some water on his face before grabbing a pair of jeans and a white shirt from the concealed wardrobe in the cabin.
Folding back the sleeves up to his elbows, he left his cabin to investigate the commotion on the deck.
A female crew member scurried past him, looking harried as he ascended the steps to the deck. When he stepped onto the deck, a someone greeted him with a raised voice.
Who could it be? No one had the clearance to board the vessel without his permission, and he wasn’t expecting company. But when he reached the bow, his steps faltered.
Carlos stood arguing with his skipper. His grandfather’s sudden, unexpected arrival piqued him.
Carlos had never liked his line of business. Clubs and luxury yachts...they were breeding grounds for sin, according to his starchy, conservative grandfather.
But it didn’t matter to Alexandre what anyone thought of his line of work. He didn’t do anything illegal or dangerous, although rumors abound about his parties frequently turning into orgies. That he didn’t bother to quell the rumors only attracted the thrill seekers even more.
Yet instead of commending him on his swift rise to success, Carlos had been quick to condemn him. “Your money is evil,” he’d told him once. “You will rot in hell for leading a sinful life.”
But Alexandre took it on the chin, working ever harder to give his clients every luxury they desired, so long as it was legal, that is.
However, Carlos’s presence aboard his yacht puzzled him. His grandfather would never deign to visit him, and that too, on one of his yachts!
“Good morning, Pops.”
Carlos prickled at his welcome. “You have no right to call me that after this terrible thing you’ve done!” The old man’s vituperative outburst amused him.
“It’s a bit early to start giving me compliments, isn’t it?” His light-hearted reply further infuriated Carlos, who brushed past the skipper he’d been shouting at, crossed the length of the deck, and came to stand right in front of him.
Alexandre nodded at his skipper, who with a nod, made himself scarce. Everyone knew, when riled, Carlos could be irascible.
“Tell me, what brings you to my humble sea abode?” Alexandre loved needling the old man, but he sensed, today, Carlos was more than just cantankerous.
“This!” Carlos threw a newspaper at him which smacked him in the chest before falling to his feet. “For years, I’ve watched you do reckless stunts, engage in deplorable acts, one after the other, but this one is the vilest of them all.”
Unamused by Carlos’s castigating words, Alexandre bent and picked up the newspaper. Unfolding it, he automatically turned to page three, where his exploits—true and fictional—were often reported.
“How could you do this to your brother?”
Carlos’s accusation rang loudly in his ears as he stared—disbelieving—at the damning article.
Billionaire hides secret love child.
His eyes blurred and his heart jerked to a stop before beginning to thump madly again. With blood roaring in his ears, Alexandre tried to read the short article, but he could barely see past the fury that blinded him.
Billionaire... Alexandre Monteiro... secret relationship... Raquel DaCosta.
How had the press got hold of their secret? Who knew about the child—besides him and Raquel? Had she told anyone? Or had she...gone to the press herself—to punish him?
But he quickly killed the thought. The grainy photograph which accompanied the article showed Raquel outside the Club M, in a blue dress, her hand on her cheek, as though wiping a tear.
He vaguely remembered that she’d worn that dress the previous day when she’d come to see him.
No, Raquel wasn’t responsible for this, he was certain.
Why would she incriminate herself if she wanted to punish him?
Then who had leaked the news to the press?
“How could you seduce your brother’s fiancée?”
His head jerked up and he stared at Carlos.
Blood rushed to his cheeks, and he swung away from his grandfather, ashamed that the whole world now knew his secret before he could even speak with Leandro and ask for his forgiveness.
The article didn’t mention Leandro. It mentioned an affair between him and Raquel, which had resulted in—a love child .
Will the most infamous bachelor in Goa , the reporter gleefully speculated, finally settle down?
“I never thought you’d fall so low,” Carlos carried on, uncaring that he was struggling to come to terms with the fact that his very personal life was now splattered across the papers for the whole world to consume and—jeer at.
“No matter what I gave you—my name, my wealth, nothing satisfied you. You always wanted what Leandro had, so much so that you even took his fiancée!” Carlos spat.
“I thought you’d be better than the man who fathered you, but you are just like him.
You have no moral compass, and you certainly don’t care how your actions affect others in your life.
“Your father shamed his wife and son with his many affairs. Now you’ve shamed your brother by seducing his fiancée—a kind woman who deserves much better than a despicable lothario like you. I’m ashamed of you. I wish you weren’t my grandson!”
Carlos’s castigation cut like a knife, but Alexandre didn’t wait around to refute him. He ran down to his cabin, his ears buzzing with his grandfather’s words. Remorse filled him—for failing his family yet again, but his only thought right now was about Raquel.
Grabbing his keys, he ran up to the deck, where his grandfather stood glowering—incredulous that he had the gall to run off in the middle of his tirade. No one left Carlos’s presence before they were dismissed.
Alexandre didn’t care about winning points with his grandfather anymore.
When he ran onto the plank, intent on leaving the yacht, Carlos called out. “If you have even a shred of decency in you, you will set this right, Alexandre! You hear me?”
Alexandre didn’t pause to answer his grandfather. Running to his motorbike, he started it. As the machine purred to life under him, he rang up his security team. “I need a phone number and address,” he growled into his mobile phone.
He already had a team gathering information on Raquel, so within minutes he got her address and phone number and rang her.
When she failed to pick up, he muttered a vile curse.
Calling up his security team again, he instructed them to send a security detail to Raquel’s home.
Then, he set out on the long ride to her home in Benaulim.
On a good day, the ride took close to an hour but with the morning traffic, he was sure it would take him longer to get to the Casa DaCosta where Raquel lived with her family.
As he rode past the morning commuters, he wished his would men reach her home before the press turned up. And he knew they would.
Over the years, he’d cultivated a symbiotic relationship with the press. He gave them juicy fodder for the papers, and they earned him the bad boy reputation which infuriated his father’s conservative family.
It had been a sweet deal for him, because he had been the one to set the narrative.
How the press got to know about Raquel and the child, he didn’t know yet, but he would find out. His security team would get him the information, only he didn’t have the luxury of time.
As he weaved his way in and out of traffic, he wondered how Raquel was. Had she seen the papers yet? Had her family?
At a traffic light, he grabbed his phone and hit speed dial, but Leandro also didn’t pick up his call.
It frustrated him that his brother wasn’t returning his calls.
Leandro would be furious with him, he was certain, and he deserved every bit of vitriol that was sure to come his way.
What decent man seduced his brother’s fiancée?
A kind woman, an innocent—a virgin—who had surrendered to his persistence.
But she hadn’t put up a token of protest , a small voice reminded him, which he simply brushed away. He had to protect Raquel—and his child. Both from the media furor and the disdain of their families.
He knew what it was like to be in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons. His teenage years had been marred by lurid speculations and dirty insinuations—as if the circumstance of his birth was his doing.
He vowed not to let his child be subjected to such notoriety. An innocent child, who came into being because he was selfish enough not to protect himself, or Raquel.
But he would make things right, he pledged.
The bumper-to-bumper traffic thinned as he drew closer to Raquel’s home.
But when he turned into the narrow lane which led to the grand estate that was the DaCosta family home, he saw a group of reporters standing outside the ornate gate.
His security detail managed to keep the press outside the gate, but Alexandre was sure if the reporters spotted him, they would turn on him.
But he had to get inside the compound and speak with Raquel, who even now, wasn’t answering his calls. Deciding to look around the estate, he pulled down the visor on his helmet, so the reporters wouldn’t recognize him and whizzed past them, and down the lane.
He circled the huge acreage twice before he noticed a woman walking down a steep, narrow path that led away from the estate. Something about the drooped shoulders, prickled the skin at his nape. Deciding to investigate who she was, Alexandre rode toward her.
The woman wore a dark-colored dress with a black stole wrapped tightly around her, disguising the shape of her body. When he drew close, the purr of his Honda motorbike, loud and crisp, made her stop and turn.
Raquel!
“What are you doing here?” That she recognized him even with more than half of his face hidden under the helmet, surprised him but the disapproval in her voice annoyed him.
“What the hell are you doing outside?” he growled at her, not caring that she flinched at his tone. “Are you mad to walk around listlessly, while the press lay waiting outside your gates?”
“This is all your doing!” She shot back angrily, pointing a finger—accusing—at him.
“Stop yelling! Just get on the bike.”
“No!” She bristled, throwing her head back.
And that’s when he saw her red-rimmed eyes, the spiked eyelashes, and her terribly pale face. A quick once-over confirmed his suspicion that she was still wearing the dress from last night.
“Have you been crying?”
“What do you think?” she hit back, her eyes flashing with unbanked fury. “Having intimate details about my life splashed across news is cause to celebrate, right?”
“Stop shouting!” he said, switching off his motorbike and climbing off. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her close. “Don’t make a scene. I just want to talk.”
“I have nothing to talk to you about.” Freeing herself from his hold, she turned away.
Letting out an exasperated sigh, he followed her. Pushing up the visor of his helmet, he tried a more polite approach. “Raquel, we have things to discuss.”
“No.” She twirled around. “I want to have nothing to do with you.”
“And the child?”
“What do you care about it?” she retorted, and he flinched.
“I care. About you and the child. Look,” he pleaded. “Sooner or later those reporters will figure out you aren’t at home. They will come looking for you.”
She frowned.
“Let me handle this situation. But first we need to talk about this...”
“I won’t consent to killing this child.”
Alexandre reared back as her words punched him in the chest. “What?”
Tearful eyes clung to his. “You asked me to get rid of the child yesterday.”
Alexandre didn’t remember saying those words to her, but he didn’t want to stand in a very public place, debating. “I don’t want you to get rid of the baby, okay? Now, come with me. We need to talk.”
Indecision made her stall.
“Please.”
She took her sweet timing making up her mind, then nodded.
Walking back to his motorbike, he climbed on. “Get on. Cover your head,” he advised. “I don’t have a helmet for you.”
Nodding, she arranged the stole around her head. Hitching up her dress, she grabbed his shoulder, stepped on the foot peg and threw her right leg over the seat before sitting down behind him.
“Hold on tight.”