Going to Brazil

He leaned back in the chair, head tilting toward the ceiling, and let out a slow, low laugh. A man like him, used to winning, used to commanding, used to seducing at will... had been bested in fascination by a girl in a bikini. By a woman who carried blood on her skin like perfume.
The thought alone made him shiver.
Diego closed his eyes, whispered once more in that soft, rolling Portuguese, letting it echo in the suite:
"Minha louca... minha perfeita... você é impossível."
Impossible. That was her.
And he had no intention of walking away, no matter how dangerous the game had just become.
Diego set the glass down on the lacquered table, the faint clink of crystal echoing in the stillness of the suite. His mind raced even as his body ached, each pulse of pain from his wounded arm reminding him of her-the way she had moved, the way she had dominated even when chaos screamed around them. Ada Moreau was a hurricane contained in human form, and he couldn't stop thinking about how close he had been to being crushed by it, physically and... otherwise.
He rose slowly, limping just slightly from the arm wound, eyes scanning the room as if she were there with him now, watching, calculating. Every man who had come into his life had been manageable. Predictable. Disposable. Not her. Not Ada.