His throat was a tanned corded column, leading down to a flat, muscled chest. Still talking, he started tugging his shirt from his trousers.
“Yes,” he said. “Right. A pot of coffee. American coffee. And a glass of milk—”
Catarina saw a silky arrow of dark hair, a flat belly, that arrow of hair again…
He swung toward her. She looked up, their eyes met, and she turned on her heel and fled into the bedroom.
Jake heard the sound of the shower.
Once he did, he headed for his room.
Catarina could be playing games. She might have turned on the water to fool him. Even now, for all he knew, she could be huddled on the other side of the bedroom door, just waiting to make a break for freedom.
Maybe that would be for the best.
That expression on her face a few minutes ago, as if she’d seen…What? A ghost? A monster?
A man.
It was a safe bet she’d just experienced a first. A half-naked man. Well, not that he’d actually been half naked, but…
But that look in her eyes. Not fear, exactly. More like—like wonder. Curiosity. As if she were trying to imagine how it would feel to touch a man’s skin. Run her hand over his chest. Feel the difference between his hardness and her softness.
Because she would be soft, under that ugly dress.
She would be silk and satin, all warm golden skin that had never known a man’s caress. Breasts that had never been cupped by a man’s hands. Nipples that had never felt the whisper of a man’s tongue or the heat of his breath.
Jake shuddered, wiped the crazy images from his head, pulled off the rest of his clothes and got into the shower.
Minutes later, restored to sanity, wearing a pair of old grey sweatpants and a washed-out University of Michigan T-shirt, he strolled into the sitting room. His ward’s door was still shut.
Of course that didn’t mean she was still behind it.
Stupid to have left her unattended, he thought grimly…but the door that led from the suite to the hall was still bolted. Unless his charge had learned how to slip out through the keyhole, she was—
The door to her room opened. Jake swung around.
Catarina Mendes stood in the doorway. The ugly brown thing was gone, replaced by a long white nightgown over which she wore a white terrycloth hotel robe. From her little gasp of breath, he figured she hadn’t expected to find him in the sitting room, and she fumbled for the robe’s sash, brought the ends together and hurriedly knotted them. But not before Jake made some observations.
The first was that the nightgown was designed to be as sexless, as unfeminine as possible.
He swallowed dryly.
The second was that things didn’t always play out as intended. The plain, unsexy gown clung to her body in all the places it shouldn’t. He could see an outline of long, endless legs, rounded breasts and pebbled nipples.
“Oh,” she said.
Oh, indeed.
Jake swallowed dryly and dragged his gaze to her face. It didn’t help, not when she stared at him through darkly lashed eyes that held all the fear and vulnerability she’d done such a fine job of hiding until now; not when her newly washed hair fell to her shoulders in the chestnut and gold of an autumn woods.
Looking down didn’t do any good, either. Which made no sense because all he could see were her bare toes peeping out from beneath the hem of the nightgown. He wasn’t into feet—well, not unless they were encased in sky-high Manolos—so how come those toes, free of stilettos and even of polish, were having an effect on his hormones?
“I—I didn’t realize…”
Jake bit back a groan. “No,” he said, “neither did I.”
He knew they were talking about two different things, but hell, he was lucky he could talk at all—luckier still when a knock at the door signaled the arrival of Room Service.
“Coming,” he called, wincing at his bad choice of response, wincing that he should even be thinking such a thing…
Wincing because he knew it was time to stop kidding himself.
His ward, his charge, his unasked-for burden—whatever you wanted to call Catarina Mendes—was no child.
She was a woman, a gorgeous woman, untouched, unawakened, unexplored. He was charged with spending the next two months protecting her from the temptations of a century she wouldn’t recognize and from the men who’d surely come running when they saw her.
He would have to select one of those men to marry her.
To take her innocence.
To carry Catarina Mendes to his bed.
The knock at the door sounded again. Jake gave himself a little shake and opened it.
“Good evening, sir. I have your order here.”
No. He hadn’t ordered any of it. The woman, the will…
“Sir?”
“Yeah,” Jake said gruffly, and stepped aside.
CHAPTER FOUR
CATARINA had sworn she wouldn’t take a forkful.
She didn’t. She took shovelfuls.
Not right away, of course. First, she just stood by and watched as Jake pulled up a chair, uncovered half a dozen silver serving dishes, made a couple of appreciative umms and hmms and began heaping things on his plate.
By the time he’d tucked into what looked like a mushroom and cheese omelet, her belly was making unladylike noises. She colored, sure he could hear them, but he said nothing. He didn’t even look at her.
Was he going to eat everything in sight?
Catarina yanked out a chair and sat down opposite him. Jake picked up a plate, filled it and held it out.
“Thank you,” she said coldly, and took it.
God, she was starved! The omelet was wonderful. Mushroom and cheese, but there was bacon in it, too. The delicately fried potatoes were to die for, and the salad had something in the dressing—coconut?—that made each mouthful ambrosia.
She ate everything he’d served her plus two slices of buttered toast and a wedge of cheese. When he reached beneath the serving cart and produced a tulip glass filled with vanilla ice cream topped with strawberries, she vowed not to touch it. There was only the one serving; it was meant for her, and she knew it was the kind of treat an adult would order for a child.
The sooner he understood she wasn’t a child, the better.
But it looked so delicious, that cool mountain of vanilla. More than that, ice cream was a rare treat. Dessert at school had consisted of grainy puddings and stewed-to-the-point-of-death fruit.
Surely one mouthful wouldn’t hurt.
One. And then another and another. Before she knew it, the spoon clattered against the bottom of the glass. She twirled it around, captured the final sweet drops, licked them from the bowl of the spoon with the tip of her tongue…
And looked up and saw Jake watching her with burning eyes.
Something happened deep, deep in her belly. Heat, swift and sudden. Heat that spread through her blood, to her breasts.
Catarina’s breath caught. The spoon rattled against her plate. She broke eye contact and patted her lips with her napkin. When she looked up again, she knew she’d been hallucinating.
There was nothing in her guardian’s eyes but faint amusement.
“Feeling better?”
“It’s important to take proper nourishment,” she said stiffly.
A smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Words of wisdom from Mother Elisabete?”
“I don’t appreciate being made fun of, senhor.”
Jake pushed his plate away and reached for the coffee pot. “I’m not making fun of you, senhorita, I’m simply commenting on what I observed today.” He filled a cup with the steaming black liquid and began lifting it to his lips.
“I’d like some coffee, too.”
“You?”
“Me.”
“You’re too…”
Too what? Too young for caffeine? Not if he was right about what he’d seen a moment ago. That sudden awareness of the way he’d been looking a
t her…
No. Forget that. The rush of color in her face, the way she’d parted her lips, the swift rise of her breasts, hadn’t meant a thing. And if seeing her lick the last bit of ice cream from that spoon had almost driven him out of his mind, that was his problem, not hers.
Catarina Mendes might be of legal age but she was just a kid. She was his ward.
It would be unwise to forget that.
“Do they let you have coffee at the convent?”
“No,” she said unhesitatingly, “but you’ve made it quite clear I’m not at the convent any more.” She plucked a cup and saucer from the table and held them out. “Coffee, if you please, Senhor Ramirez.”
Jake tightened his jaw, picked up the pot and poured.
“Was I right?”
“About what?”
“About you getting words of wisdom from Mother Elisabete. I got the feeling she was filled with advice for her charges.”
“She means well.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“She looks out for her girls, and—” And what? Catarina frowned. Why was she saying these things? Mother Elisabete might be an excellent administrator but nobody, not even the nuns, would ever say she looked out for the girls. There wasn’t much sense in automatically contradicting everything Ramirez said. “Actually,” she said primly, “we learned about nourishment in Health Class.”
“Ah. Health 101. Let’s see…The food pyramid. A sound mind in a sound body. The value of exercise and of drinking eight glasses of water a day.”
He sounded serious but there was that hint of laughter again. It put little crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
Such green eyes. Deep, deep emerald…
“And sex.”
Catarina blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I was thinking about the topics we covered when I took Health.”
“You must have a good memory,” she said sweetly, and was pleased to see it was his turn to blush.
“I’m thirty. Not exactly ancient, Mendes.”
Thirty. She’d been trying to figure out his age. He was the youngest man she’d spoken to since she’d gone to live at the convent.
“Anyway, I’d bet the health curriculum hasn’t changed all that much.” He sipped at his coffee, his gaze steady on hers above the thin rim of his cup. “So, what about it?”
“What about what?”
“Did your Health Class include sex education?”
She could feel her cheeks burning. “No.”
He sighed, as if she’d just placed the woes of the world at his feet.
“No. I didn’t think it would.”
“And,” she said, with enough aplomb to have delighted the sister who taught Deportment, “it is not a proper topic for us to discuss.”
A muscle knotted in his jaw. “If you’re going to marry in two months, it is.”
Catarina jerked back in her chair. Jake could have happily cut out his tongue, but it was too late.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Damn it, I didn’t mean to be so blunt, but—”
But he had spoken the truth. For a little while she’d almost forgotten why she was here. The elegant suite, the delicious meal, the male-female banter with the incredibly gorgeous man seated across from her, had blinded her to reality.
She’d almost forgotten that all this was an illusion.
The hotel was only a more gilded prison than the one where she’d spent most of her life. The food was meant to lull her into complacent acceptance. And the man who looked like he’d stepped from a dream had no heart.
How could she have forgotten?
“Catarina.”
His expression was so earnest she longed to wipe it from his face.
“Catarina, listen to me. Your life is about to change. Don’t you want to talk about some of those changes before they occur?”
“I am not,” she said, her tone venomous, “going to talk about sex with you.”
Hell. He didn’t want to talk about sex with her, either. He wasn’t even sure how he’d come to bring up the topic but now that he had, okay, why not get it over with? He had to know what she knew. What she didn’t know. Because she didn’t, he thought grimly, know the first damned thing about what went on between men and women.
“You’ll have to talk with someone. You can’t just…I can’t just let you…” Jake said a word that made her eyes widen. “You think this is easy for me? It isn’t. It’s an enormous responsibility.”
“All you have to do is find a man who’ll be willing to take me as his wife and your so-called responsibility will be over.”
“The right man.”
“Oh, of course. Sorry. I forgot. A proper Brazilian husband.” Her mouth trembled. “That should be easy enough when you dangle my inheritance under his nose.”
“Goddamnit,” Jake said sharply. He rose from the table. “Do you really think I’d hand you over to just anyone?”
“You’re shouting.”
“Damned right I’m shouting!” He took a deep breath. “Look. None of this was my idea. I have a life. A life I made for myself. A life I enjoy.” The chair he’d sat on was in his way. He kicked it aside and stalked across the room. “And now I’m knee-deep in your life, and I don’t like it.”
“Is that why we’re flying to your country tomorrow?”
“You make it sound as if we’re flying to Mars.”
“I don’t have a passport,” Catarina said, with the desperation of a woman grasping at a straw that might keep her from being swept downstream.
Jake looked at her. “Yeah, you do.”
“I do?”
“Estes gave me some papers. Your birth certificate, your graduation diploma, your passport and visa.”
“But—but I don’t want to…” Catarina heard the mounting panic in her voice and took a deep breath. So far she was certain she’d managed to keep from showing how terrified she was. It was all the protection she had. “I don’t see why you’re taking me to the United States. If I have to find a—a suitable Brazilian husband, this is the place to do it.”
“I’m taking you there because it’s where I live,” he said brusquely. “My home is there. My office. I have people who depend on me.”
“And I,” she said, lifting her chin, “have nothing and no one. Is that what you’re saying, senhor?”
“Yes. No. Damn it, Catarina—”
“It is not proper for a man to use such language in front of a woman.” Tears burned her eyes. You will not cry, she told herself, and lifted her chin a notch. “Neither is it proper for a man to address a woman so intimately.”
“Great. Just great! Is that how you’re going to handle things? Each time we get to an impasse you’re going to toss some ridiculous nineteenth-century rule of etiquette in my face?”
“Etiquette is the glue that holds society together.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Jake strode toward her, his eyes snapping with anger. “Stop quoting Mother Elisabete to me. Maybe I haven’t made this clear. You’re done with that school, done with its antiquated notions. This time next week you’ll be living in New York, wearing clothes that don’t look as if they were sewn together by a—a band of monkeys, meeting people—”
“I made my clothes myself,” she said, and the tears she’d tried to control began streaming down her cheeks.
“Catarina. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, but—”
“I hated that class,” she sobbed. “I hate sewing!”
Hell, Jake thought unhappily. He put his arm around her.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” she said, her tears coming faster and harder. “I never cry.”
Maybe not, but right now she was weeping as if her heart were going to break. Clumsily, Jake drew her closer, put his other arm around her and patted her on the back.
“And I won’t be meeting people. I’ll be meeting men so you can find me a proper Brazilian husband. Do you know what that means, senhor?”
Jake didn’t know what anything meant. Not with Catarina in his arms. He’d meant his gesture to be kind. Brotherly. Avuncular. Yet somehow she was pressed against him, her body warm and supple against his.
Her face was buried against his shoulder; her hair brushed his nose. She smelled of soap and shampoo and sorrow, and he was the cause of it. Her unhappiness was all his fault.
“A proper Brazilian husband,” she sobbed, “will be a man who believes he owns me.”
“Hush,” Jake said softly, sweeping his hand up, then down her spine.
“That’s how it is here. Men are kings!”
“I won’t choose someone like that.”
“You’ll choose the first man who meets the criteria of the will!” She drew back in his arms and stared up at him through tear-washed eyes. “You said it yourself. You have only two months to marry me off.”
“Catarina—”
“I don’t understand how you can do this! What can you possibly gain that’s so important?”
Jake had no answer. What could he say that wouldn’t reveal more about himself than he’d ever revealed to another person? Could he say I have two half-brothers somewhere in this world but I don’t know who they are? Could he admit he’d been sired by a man who had the morals of a tomcat?
And why should he have to explain himself to this woman? No matter how you looked at it, none of this was his doing.
Jake took a deep breath, let go of her and stepped back.
“It’s late,” he said flatly, “and we have a long day tomorrow.”
Her eyes, still bright with tears, now also glittered with defiance.
“I’m not going with you, senhor.”
“You most certainly are. And, though I’m sure you can quote me something appropriately pithy about the benefits of formal address, I’m tired of hearing you call me senhor and even more tired of hearing the twist you put on the word. My name is Jake.”
“Mother Elisabete said it was Joaquim.”
“It’s Jake,” he said sharply. “And that’s how you’ll address me.”
“Fine. I don’t care one way or the other.”
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