“…a funny joke, yes?”
Carin nodded her head and laughed mechanically. Whatever joke the senhor had told, it couldn’t be half as funny as the one she’d thought of.
Question: How do you know a man is lying? Answer: His lips are moving.
Frank had fed her lies, said he loved her, and now he was in New York, standing at an altar and saying “I do” to another woman.
Enough, Carin thought, and in the middle of the senhor’s next joke, she took his hand, pumped it up and down and said it had been a pleasure, an absolute pleasure. Then she let go of his hand, tried not to let the wounded look in his puppy-dog eyes get to her, and made her way out of the living room, through the massive hall and into the library where a string quartet sawed away in direct opposition to the country fiddler holding court in the dining room.
A white-jacketed waiter was threading his way through the crowd, a tray of glasses balanced on his gloved hand.
“Hey,” she said to the waiter’s back.
It was an inelegant way to draw his attention; she knew her mother would have lifted her eyebrows and told her so, but it worked. The waiter turned towards her and Carin plucked a glass from the tray. This glass was short and squat, filled halfway with an amber liquid and chunks of fruit. She lifted it to her nose, took a sniff, then a sip. “Yuck,” she said, but she swallowed another mouthful, anyway.
Amanda came floating by in her husband’s arms. “Careful,” she sang softly, “or you’ll get blot-to.”
“Thank you for the sisterly advice,” Carin said as her sister sailed off.
Amanda was right. She would get blotto, if she weren’t careful. The only one of the three Brewster sisters who could hold liquor was Sam, and Sam wasn’t here. She was in Ireland, or France, or England. Wherever, whatever, Sam was probably having fun.
Well, she’d be careful. She didn’t want to get drunk. This was, after all, a social event. Not for her, maybe, but for everybody else. For Caitlin, certainly, and for her husband, Tyler Kincaid. She didn’t want to spoil their party. Her sister’s party. Well, not exactly her sister. Catie was her stepsister…Wasn’t she?
Carin drained the last of the amber stuff from the glass and plunked the empty on a table.
The falimial—familial—structure of the Barons, the Brewsters, the Kincaids and now the al Rashids, was complicated. She hiccuped, grinned, and made her way through the library on feet that felt encased in foam rubber.
“Better watch yourself, kid,” she whispered.
If she couldn’t think “familial,” much less say it, it might just be time to slow down the drinking…but not yet.
The hell with it. She was thirsty, and she was an adult. She could drink as much as she wanted.
She hiccuped. Loudly. She giggled, clapped a hand to her mouth and said, “’Scuse me,” to nobody in particular.
Somebody laughed. Not at her, surely. People laughed at parties, that was all. Most people came to parties to laugh. To have a good time. Not everyone came to try and forget what a complete ass they’d been made to look, and to feel.
What she needed right now was some fresh air. A cool breeze on her flushed cheeks. Carin made for the doors that led outside.
The thing of it was, Frank had claimed he didn’t want to get married. Not ever. She’d told him that was fine and it had been, at first, because what was marriage except two people making vows they never intended to keep? Not the man, anyway.
She slid the doors open, stepped out onto the middle level of Espada’s waterfall deck, and drew the soft night air deep into her lungs.
As for sex—how could marriage improve something that wasn’t so terrific to start with? Sex was sex, that was all, not the light-up-the-sky stuff people made it out to be.
Still, after a few months she’d started to think it might not be so bad, getting married. Companionship, at the end of the long day spent in her Wall Street office. Someone with whom to share the Sunday paper.
As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one who’d changed her mind. Frank had, too. Actually, it was pretty funny. He’d decided he wanted to get married, all right. Just not to her.
Carin swallowed hard.
She had to stop thinking about that. About him. About whatever it was she lacked that he’d found in Iris.
What she needed was something to eat. She hadn’t touched food in hours, except for that lobster thingy. And there was a marvelous buffet laid out in the house. Clams, oysters, lobster salad; prime ribs, poached salmon and quail.
What was on the menu at Frank’s wedding? She made a face. Snake’s belly, most likely, to suit the groom.
What was that? A prickle, on the back of her neck again. Uh-oh. He’d followed her, the Brazilian Bozo. She didn’t have to look; who else would it be? She wouldn’t even give him the satisfaction of turning around. Let Senhor Wonderful try his charms on some female who was interested in playing those games.
Frank had been above game-playing. That was what she’d thought, anyway. It was what she’d initially liked about him.
They’d met at a fund-raiser, and what a revelation he’d been! At least half a dozen men had come on to her that night, all of them using the oldest pickup lines in the world, everything from “Excuse me, but haven’t we met before?” to “I just had to tell you, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Frank had walked straight up to her, offered his hand and his business card and said he’d heard about her from one of his clients.
“He described you as one of the best investment advisors in New York.”
Carin had smiled. “Not one,” she’d said. “I am the best.”
That had been the beginning of their relationship. They saw each other often but she had her life and he had his. That was how they’d both wanted it. Separate existences, no dependency—they’d discussed things honestly and pragmatically. No keys exchanged, no toothbrushes left in either apartment, his or hers.
Had he left a toothbrush in Iris’s bathroom?
“Hell,” Carin said, and planted her fists on the teak railing.
She was thirsty again. Surely, there was a bar out here. Hadn’t Jonas said something about a barbecue on the deck? Was that hickory smoke she smelled, wafting up from the first level? If there was a barbecue, there’d surely be a bar.
Carin headed for the steps. They were wide and straight; she’d never had trouble with them before but tonight, for some reason, she had to hang on to the railing to keep from tripping over her own feet.
“A glass of sauvignon blanc, please,” she told the bartender when she found him.
Actually, her tongue tripped the way her feet had. What she said sounded more like “A grass of so-vee-on brahnk, pease,” and she almost giggled but the bartender gave her a funny look so she looked straight back at him, her brows lifted, her gaze steady. “Well?” she said, and waited.
At last, he poured the wine and gave the glass to her but her hand was, for some reason, unsteady. The pale gold liquid slopped over the side. She frowned, licked the wine from her hand, drained what remained and held out her glass.
“Again,” she said.
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Red, then, if you’re out of the white.” She smiled, to make it clear she really wasn’t particular. He didn’t smile back.
“I really am sorry, ma’am, but I believe you’ve had enough.”
Carin’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward; the simple action made her woozy but why wouldn’t it? This was summer in Texas, even if this was hill country, and the night was warm.
“What do you mean, you think I’ve had enough? This is a bar, isn’t it? You’re a bartender. You’re here to pour drinks for people, not to be the sobrie—sobree—not be the ‘too much to drink’ police.”
“I’ll be happy to get you some coffee.”
He spoke softly but everyone around them had fallen silent and his words seemed to echo on the night air. Carin flushed.
“No, ma’am. But—”
“Then, pour me a drink.”
“Ma’am.” The bartender leaned towards her. “How about that coffee?”
“Do you know who I am?” Carin heard herself say. She winced mentally, but her mouth seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “Do you know—”
“He knows. And if you do not shut that lovely mouth, so will everyone else.”
The voice came from just over her shoulder. It was masculine, low-pitched, and lightly accented. The Latin Lover, Carin thought, and turned around.
“I suppose you think this is your big chance,” she said, or started to say, but she didn’t finish the sentence.
In spite of the accent, this wasn’t the man. This was someone she hadn’t seen before. Tipsy or not—and hell, yes, okay, she was, maybe, a little bit potted—she’d have remembered him.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, bigger by far than the guy Amanda had tried to set her up with. His hair was the color of midnight, his eyes the color of storm clouds, and his face was saved from being pretty by a square jaw and a mouth that looked as if it could be as sensual as it could be cruel.
Carin caught her breath. Sober, she’d never have admitted the truth, not even to herself. Tipsy, she could.
He was the stuff of dreams, even, once in a very rare while, the stuff of hers. He was gorgeous, the epitome of masculinity…
And what she did, or said, was none of his business.
“Excuse me?” she said, drawing herself up. Big mistake. Standing straight and taking a deep breath made her head feel as if it didn’t actually belong to the rest of her.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said.” She poked a finger into the center of his ruffled shirt, against the hard chest beneath the soft linen. “Well, let me tell you something, mister. I don’t need your vice. Voice. Advice. And I don’t need you to censure—center—censor me, either.”
He gave her the kind of look that would have made her cringe, if she hadn’t been long beyond the cringing stage.
“You are drunk, senhora.”
“I’m not a senhora. I’m not married. No way, no how, no time.”
“All women, single or married, are referred to as senhora in my country.” His hand closed on her elbow. She glared up at him, tried to tug free, but his grasp on her tightened. “And we do not savor the sight of them drunk, making spectacles of themselves.”
His voice was low; she knew it was deliberate, so that none of the curious spectators watching the little tableau could hear what he was saying, and she told herself to take a cue from him, keep things quiet, walk away from the bar, but, dammit, she was not going to take orders from anyone tonight, especially not from a man.
“I’m not interested in your country, or what you do and don’t like your women to do. Let go of me.”
“Senhora, listen to me—”
“Let—go,” she repeated, and, when he didn’t, she narrowed her eyes, lifted her foot and stepped down, hard, on his instep.
It had to hurt. She was wearing black silk pumps with spiked, three-inch heels. In the self-defense course she’d once taken, the instructor had taught his students to put all their weight and energy into that foot stomp.
The stranger didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, he reached out, swung Carin into his arms and, amidst laughter and even a smattering of applause, strode across the deck and down the steps, away from the brightly lit house into the darkness of the garden.
“You—you bastard!” Carin shrieked, beating her fists against his shoulders. “Just who in hell do you think you are?”
“I am Raphael Eduardo Alvares,” he said coldly. “And you, Senhora Brewster, are the epitome of a spoiled—”
* * *
“Rafe?” Carin’s eyes snapped open. She stared, blindly, at the light. “Rafe, where are you?”
“We’re losing her,” a voice said urgently, and then there was only silence.
CHAPTER TWO
Rio de Ouro, Brazil
Saturday, May 4
RAPHAEL EDUARDO ALVARES shot upright in bed, his heart pounding, his naked body soaked with sweat. He had been dreaming, but of what?
The answer came quickly.
He had been dreaming of the woman again, and the one time he’d been with her.
Rafe threw back the blanket and sat up.
Why? She and the night were nothing but a memory, a memory almost nine months old. Still, the dream had been so real, and not the same as it always was. In this dream, she’d been hurt. In an accident, perhaps. And she was calling out to him…
Not that it mattered. The woman meant nothing to him. Besides, he didn’t believe in dreams. What a man could see and touch, that was what mattered. Dreams were foolishness, and only led to pain.
Rafe rose to his feet, stretched and walked to the window. Dawn was just touching the sky; the endless savannah stretched under its pale pink glow all the way to the low, dark hills in the distance.
It was good he had awakened early. He was flying to Sao Paulo this morning for a business meeting, and then for lunch with Claudia. He’d told his pilot to have the plane ready by eight. Now he’d have a couple of hours to do some work first.
By the time Rafe showered, shaved and dressed, the dream was forgotten. He went downstairs, greeted his housekeeper, took the cup of sweet, black coffee she handed him and went down the hall, to his office.
Twenty minutes later, he shut down his computer and gave up. He couldn’t concentrate. He was thinking about the dream again. And about the woman. Would he never be able to get her out of his head?
Rafe reached for the phone.
Might as well move up his departure…but once he had his pilot on the line, he canceled the flight entirely. After that, he telephoned São Paulo, left messages of regret on the answering machine of the man he’d intended to meet and then on Claudia’s. She never stirred until late morning; he still remembered that. There was no reason to think she’d changed, even in the five years since he’d ended their engagement.
His behavior was out of character, he knew. Not putting aside lunch with Claudia. She’d pout, but it was not a problem. Canceling his meeting—that was different. He had not built his empire of horses, cattle and banks by doing things precipitously, but what was the logic of trying to concentrate on business when his thoughts were not in Brazil but tangled in a dream that made no sense?
Even if Carin were in trouble, he was the last man in the world she would want beside her.
Rafe changed into a black T-shirt, faded jeans and the scuffed riding boots he’d owned since he’d come to Rio de Ouro more than a decade before. Perhaps a long ride would clear his head. Down at the stables, he waved off his men, led his horse from its stall and saddled it. He mounted the stallion and touched its flanks lightly with his heels.
He’d put the Brewster woman out of his thoughts months ago, and with good reason. She’d made it clear that what had happened meant nothing. An hour was all she’d wanted of him…one hour, when he’d stood in for another man.
Not that he’d wanted more of her. He’d only sought her out in the first place because courtesy demanded it. He’d been a guest at a party he’d had no real wish to attend, and one of his hostess’s daughters—the wife of a friend, in fact, the very friend who’d introduced him to Jonas Baron, and to the Baron stables—had said that she hoped he’d meet her sister.
The rest of the Barons had hinted at the same thing.
“Gonna be lots a’ good-lookin’ women at the party,” Jonas had told him, and grinned. “Sounds like a pretty fine weekend to me, Alvares. Spend the day vettin’ that stallion you’re interested in, spend the evenin’ checkin’ out some of Texas’s finest fillies.”
Marta Baron had smiled as Jonas handed her a sherry. “My husband is right, you know. There’ll be some charming young women at the party. I’m sure they’ll all want to meet you.”
“How nice,” Rafe had replied, lying politely. Why did women of a certain age seem to view all unmarried males as a challenge? “But I hadn’t planned on staying for the party—”
“Oh, please do!” Amanda al Rashid took her husband’s arm. “Really, Rafe, it’ll be fun. My sister, Carin, will be flying in from New York. Did I mention that?”
Warning bells rang in Rafe’s head. He knew that smile, knew that all-too-casual tone of voice.
“No,” he’d said, even more politely, “you didn’t.”
“Ah. Well, she is. And I just know you’ll hit it off.”
“I’m sure we will,” Rafe had replied.
That had been lie number two. He had no such expectation but then, he’d been down this road before. Many times, in fact. Mothers, aunts, the wives of his business acquaintances…there were moments he could almost believe that every woman on the planet had a daughter, sister or niece she was certain he’d like.
It went, as the North Americans said, with the territory. He was thirty-four, he was single; he had money and property and, according to the things women said to him in bed, he supposed he had what were known as good looks. The only thing he didn’t have was a wife—but why would he want one?
Still, he hadn’t wished to insult his host, his hostess, his friend and his friend’s wife, all at the same time. So he’d stayed for the party and gone looking for the woman. A polite hello, followed by an equally polite apology for retiring early, had seemed simple enough.
Except, it hadn’t worked out that way.
Rafe reined in the horse and stared blindly into the distance. Instead of finding the woman, he’d found a spitting, hissing, wildcat.
And he’d taken her to bed.
He’d had many women in his life. More than his share, some would say, but never one like her.
The way she had gone into his arms, as if he were the only man she’d ever wanted. The wildness in her kisses. The way her body had hummed with delight under his hands and mouth. Deus, she’d set him on fire. Her climax had made him feel as omnipotent as a god; his, seconds later, had shaken him to the depths of his soul. But when he’d tried to draw her close, she’d pushed free of his embrace, asked him to leave in a way that made it clear he’d served his purposes and was being dismissed.
The Alvares Bride Page 2