Possessive Brazilian: An Older Man Younger Woman Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 75) Read online

  I’m definitely not the best looking girl that ever lived, but still for many of my twenty-five years I’ve had to deal with pervy professors, guys who “accidentally” bumped into my chest or “mistakenly” brushed against my ass on the subway because they weren’t paying attention while the train was in motion.

  Yeah right. Judging by the tiny jabs from their groin, that felt more like a half roll of dimes, pressing against me, I’d say they knew fine and well what they were up to and the only mistake was mine in believing guys won’t try anything.

  And there was something about hearing that popping sound in that guy’s arm when the second guy, the handsome hunk, twisted his arm back and pushed him towards the door.

  I felt like for the first time in my life all those guys who’d tried to take advantage of their size and strength were finally getting their comeuppance.

  And speaking of come, where in the world did that bold Brazilian come from?

  Out of nowhere apparently.

  But definitely to my rescue. That’s for sure.

  And what else was for sure was that this guy definitely is not packing a half roll of dimes in that sexy Speedo of his.

  Good lord, I thought Speedos were reserved for Europe, but apparently not.

  And apparently his heritage is something special because his genes have me wanting to get out of my jeans after seeing the way he’s hung.

  But I didn’t pack a single pair of pants for this trip.

  This was all about coming down here to get away from it all…coming down to the land immortalized by Brigitte Bardot in the 1960’s and turning an unknown fishing village into a staple vacation spot for Rio’s high society.

  And of course to write an unbiased review of this resort for Jetset Girl Magazine, which is a bit of a misnomer, considering after three years with the company I make the grand sum of twenty-one thousand dollars a year.

  Not to mention this is my first time actually writing one of the many I write each week where I get to actually go to the property versus spending sixteen hours a day researching Google and Instagram trying to spin some sexy words into a review for the magazine so our advertisers can pitch all kinds of tented Botswana safaris at over five thousand dollars a night and Monaco martinis that would cost multi-year salaries from me to even be able to afford one sip.

  Although I am proud of the unbiased way we do our reviews.

  We call up to a year in advance and ask the hotel if they’re willing to provide a free accommodation in return for a review. If they agree, we simply tell them we’ll be down to visit within the next twelve calendar months, but we don’t tell them the name of the reviewer or anything like that. We simply book a room, using a normal credit card, and then when it’s time to check out we provide the information that we are indeed with the magazine and the trip is comped.

  So no one at the hotel knows why I’m actually here. I’m just pretending to be another guest, although one of the reasons I was able to wiggle my way down here was because I had something else I needed to check up on in Rio, or quite possibly Búzios.

  Something I’ve been working on for years that has become sort of my life mission.

  To track down my biological father.

  Apparently he’s a surf instructor these days in either Barra da Tijuca, a neighborhood in the West Zone of Rio de Janeiro often referred to simply as Barra, or here in Búzios.

  I couldn’t believe it when I first saw his pictures on Instagram from a surf school in Barra. I knew it was him instantly.

  It was like I suddenly knew where I was from, and where home was, especially considering my mother died in an automobile accident and never had contact with my biological father because she felt she could do a better job raising me than getting help from some “beach bum.”

  Beach bum or not he’s still my dad and I have to meet him.

  And he still doesn’t even know I exist, which is why it took me an entire week to direct message the Instagram account of that surf school in Barra only to be told he’d moved on to Búzios, but that he might be back.

  They said he doesn’t even have a phone, which actually made me laugh. Now I know why I’m so bad with technology.

  But my dad isn’t my only man trouble at the moment.

  I still can’t get my mind off that guy at the pool.

  Are all guys in Brazil like that?

  How come more men back home don’t come to the aid of women more often? I’m all for woman empowerment, but sometimes a big, strong man can do a lot more than any words can…especially when another big, strong man has a hold of your arm.

  But I’m supposed to be here on holiday, and looking my dad.

  I’m not here to find a man. That’s for sure.

  And although I rarely drink back home I promised myself I’d try one of Brazil’s famous caipirinha, their national drink made with cachaça, which is a kind of sugarcane hard liquor, sugar and lime.

  And right now “finding” the bottom of a glass of that sweetness sounds about my speed.

  I need to chill out after what happened, and what needs to happen, on this trip.

  I pull out my travel guidebook and look at the recommendations for this quaint beach town, choosing a bar that looks just right.

  I can’t put my finger on why I put my finger on it in the guidebook, but that’s where I’m off to.

  Let’s just hope the guy from the hotel doesn’t see me.

  Or maybe let’s hope he does.

  CHAPTER 3

  Vitor

  I’ve got all my security guys ready to alert me if they see that woman…the one who’s name I have to know and make mine.

  I considered locking down the property, but even I’m not that crazy, not to mention I don’t want to scare the guests or get bad PR.

  If it was just me I’d do it in a heartbeat, but this place employs a lot of people and their livelihood is riding on how well this place operates and how many satisfied guests leave to tell their friends who then come and stay with us too.

  But it’s that girl I want to stay here…forever.

  I’ve got the penthouse suite and I’ve never considered sharing it with anyone else. It’s my sanctuary. Mine.

  But with her it will be ours.

  Our love nest where we get started on making a bunch of beautiful babies.

  Damn, since I saw her I keep having these thoughts of what I will name my first-born son…our first born son.

  But she doesn’t look local, which means I’ve got to convince her that my place has to become our place.

  “Jaguar is on the prowl. Back exit,” comes into my earbud from Thiago. “Want me to follow her, boss?”

  “No!” I snap at Thiago. “Sorry, Thiago. I’m just…stressed or something,” I say, but I know the truth.

  I don’t want anyone else looking at her let alone following her and getting a look at her backside.

  She’s mine and for my eyes only. And claiming her to Thiago ensures he’ll pass the message along to Royce who will let everyone know she’s mine.

  Some of the guys on my security team are already married, and I trust them completely. I never hire guys that I suspect might cheat on their wives. First of all because it angers and repulses me. And second of all because a cheater’s a cheater and if a man cheats on the woman he stood in front of the world with and promised to love and share his life with and then he can’t be trusted to do that…well what can he be trusted to do?

  Nothing as far as I’m concerned.

  I only hire people with a good character and I could see by her body language and her shyness that she’s that kind of a person.

  She may even be too trusting. She’s from a first world country without so much corruption, unlike here.

  I need to be with her at all times, to protect her. Unfortunately even from the cops who may try and issue her a fake ticket, but not so much in Búzios.

  But all of that won’t matter when the entire country knows the Brazilian Bad Boy, as they call
ed me, has found a wife.

  No one will be foolish enough to ever cause her any trouble.

  But I’m in trouble if I don’t get to the back exit immediately.

  I move quickly after the “jaguar.” It’s the perfect nickname for her. The jaguar is Brazil’s national animal and it’s long, sleek, and still has the sexiest curves regardless of whether it’s slender or muscular.

  And it’s sophisticated, which is how she looked lying by that pool.

  And it doesn’t show off when it stalks its prey, which is what she did by wearing that wrap around her perfect body which instantly made her my prey.

  Now I’m the hunter on her trail as I see her just ten yards outside the gate about to turn down a small cobblestone street.

  CHAPTER 4

  Vera

  “Your name!” The deep tone hits me in the back and echoes off the green trees which seem to be everywhere.

  I freeze mid-step as I feel goose bumps overtake my body.

  “You are the jaguar,” the voice continues.

  The jaguar? As in the car or the animal?

  There are no cars on this street so he must be talking about the animal.

  Me, a jaguar?

  No one’s ever given me a nickname before and I never really thought of myself as such a sexy animal.

  A jaguar? I’m more of a big pussycat, especially knowing who’s standing behind me.

  I slowly turn around and there he is.

  He’s decked out in shorts that hit perfectly mid-thigh and a lightweight cotton polo and a pair of Jason Statham looking sunglasses. Are those Cartier?

  I love Ray Ban aviators on a man, but these say, “I’ll see your aviator’s and raise you until your luxury good budget is tapped…for the year.” They’re perfect, and not gaudy at all.

  And from this distance, and even with my cheapie sunglasses on, I can see this man means business.

  His legs are built like logs, and not just his thighs. His calves are thick and defined and perfectly compliment his powerful torso and upper body which starts off wide and quickly tapers to a V-shape. Even his neck is masculine.

  And his body language is just as congruent with the rest of his masculinity. I don’t know how many guys I’ve seen these days stuffing their hands into the pockets of their cargo shorts.

  Not him.

  No cargo pockets to be found and his hands are calmly by his side, almost like an old Wild West gunslinger as we stand in the little street separated by about thirty feet.

  But who’s gonna draw first?

  “It’s our national animal in Brazil,” he says answering the question I hadn’t asked out loud. “You belong in Brazil. Your attitude. Your personality. Your walk. And you belong with me.”

  Gulp!

  My throat tightens and I feel my muscles tense as my body starts shaking a bit. I even feel my eye twitching out of nervousness.

  I belong in Brazil? With him?

  “Join me for a drink,” he says and it’s not a question.

  “How do I know you won’t grab me like that last guy?”

  “That last guy will never bother you again. I made sure of that. I’m not the kind of man who goes around grabbing women. It’s not how I was raised. The only things I will grab will be your chair, to pull it out, and the bill, as a gentleman should.”

  Wow, this guy is good. Too good.

  His answer seemed natural and unrehearsed but that last line was a little too perfect.

  But even though he looks like a million bucks, and that he’s done about a million push-ups and sit-ups…just this morning, it doesn’t mean I should just throw myself at him.

  As a matter of fact I’ve never thrown myself at anyone. Or tossed, or given, or offered for that matter.

  And it’s not because of some cliché b.s. daddy issues, which I don’t have. It’s simply because I’m saving myself for the one.

  The one who’s never seemed to come.

  Until him.

  This man who’s giving me nicknames and telling me I’m his.

  I should take off running in the other direction and cancel my reservation online, send someone to pick up my things so he doesn’t see me.

  But I trust him and I’m excited by him at the same time.

  I work with plenty of women who tell me stories about their boyfriends and husbands and not once have I ever heard one where the guy claimed them.

  The only thing most of those guys seem to claim is that they were working late when in fact they were at some seedy strip club in a dodgy part of town, at least from the stories I’ve heard about men coming home late while smelling of perfume and cigarettes with disheveled clothing.

  And with a body like that I doubt he smokes, but I bet he sure smells nice. A man who takes care of his body and appearance like that must care about the way he smells too.

  Maybe I should just get a little whiff of him, just to see?

  “Where?” I ask.

  “I know a place, and you won’t find it in that overpriced guidebook you’re carrying.”

  “What’s wrong with my guidebook?”

  “Nothing, if you want to go to the places where everyone else from around the world will be while they’re getting overcharged for water-downed drinks while the true Brazilians are in the real places experiencing the energy of our country…together.”

  “Your offer sounds too good to be true,” I say knowing I’m extremely interested and want this kind of authentic experience so badly, but don’t want to appear desperate or come across as someone who just takes the advice of anyone she meets.

  “You’re too good to be true, and that is why I am asking you to join me,” he says as he begins walking my way.

  I feel like my feet are stuck in quicksand. I’m not sure if I should run away from him or run towards him, but either way I’m not running anywhere anytime soon.

  I feel my heart accelerate with each step that he takes as I feel the rumble reverberate through the cobblestones and up through my thin rubber Havaianas, which I was lucky enough to find for five dollars last fall on a summer close out rack.

  He called me jaguar but right now he’s the one who looks like the hunter and I’m his prey, judging by the way his shoulders sway as he glides towards me.

  I try and take deeper breaths in through my nose but it’s not helping and just as he reaches me he stops.

  And extends his hand.

  “Give me twenty minutes, and if you’re not having the time of your life I’ll pay for a cab to take you anywhere you like.”

  I look at his large palm and the calloused digits that extend from it. This is a man who’s done things with those hands, and suddenly I’m thinking of more than a few things I’d like those hands of his to do to me.

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Fifteen if you prefer, but I’ll tell you right now that it’s only going to take five.”

  “Five?” I say louder.

  “Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds to walk there and one second to feel the atmosphere, the energy, the people, and let the samba enter your soul.”

  My hand slowly rises. It’s like I have no control over my bodily movements…like my mind is telling me this is a chance of a lifetime and not to blow it. What’s the worst that can happen? Well, actually I can think of a lot of things but there’s one thought that’s overriding the fear.

  Live a little, girl.

  I place my hand just over the top of his and pause, noticing how easily my tininess fits in his enormity. I like that he’s not too eager or grabby and a second later my hand descends those final few inches and I swear I feel his pulse as he takes my hand and lowers our hands down to our sides as I step forward to be by his side.

  Let the samba enter your soul?

  He didn’t mention the way the heartbeat in his hand would cause my own heartbeat to skip a beat.

  But he doesn’t skip a beat as we immediately set out towards this place he’s got me giddy about.

  I just pray it l
ives up to the hype…all the while secretly hoping I don’t come down from this high he’s giving me.

  “Vitor,” he says.

  “Vera,” I say.

  It’s perfect...just like you.