The Alvares Bride

“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.

“Are you saying you think I’m drunk?”

“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.

She had gone into the bathroom. He’d heard the click of the lock and for one insane moment, he’d thought of kicking down the door, carrying her back to bed and showing her that she could not use a man and then discard him as if he were trash…

Rafe’s mouth thinned.

The boy he’d once been might have done such a thing. The man he’d become would not. Instead, he’d dressed in the dark, gone to his room in the silent, sleeping house…

The horse snorted and danced beneath him. Rafe patted the proudly arched neck. Carin Brewster was not simply a distant memory, she was an unpleasant one.

Then, why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

His vision blurred as he remembered that night, how someone had laughed and pointed to Carin, when he’d asked where she was; how he’d stood on the deck of a Texas mansion, watching her make a fool of herself while people smirked, and wondered if he ought to be a gentleman and do something about it or just let the scene play out…

Hell. He wasn’t a gentleman. He never would be.

But Jonas Baron was his host and Nick al Rashid was his friend, which made Nick’s wife his friend, too, and the woman making a fool of herself was Amanda al Rashid’s sister…

Without any more thought than that, Rafe strode towards Carin, scooped her into his arms and carried her down the steps and towards the garden. People saw it happen; they laughed and cheered but nobody tried to stop him—nobody except the wildcat in his arms, who was kicking and cursing and beating at his shoulders with her fists.

That Nick’s wife and her mother would even imagine he’d be interested in the kicking, cursing woman he was carrying deep into the garden, seemed impossible.

Carin Brewster was the very antithesis of the sort of woman he’d someday search out and marry because, yes, he supposed he would marry, eventually. A man needed heirs so that all he’d sweated and struggled to build would not be lost, but the woman he’d choose to be his wife would be compliant and faithful. She would want to devote herself to him and to the children she would bear him.

That was the whole reason for marriage, wasn’t it?

“Are you crazy?” Carin shrieked, as he carried her further from the house. “Put me down!”

No wonder the woman’s family was having such difficulty marrying her off. She was beautiful, yes. She was also sharp-tongued, evil-tempered and self-centered. Rafe could hardly wait to get rid of her.

“You idiot!” She pounded her fists against his chest. “You—you moron! Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Yes,” Rafe said coldly, “I know precisely who you are.”

“You can’t just grab a woman and carry her off like this!”

“Ah,” he said calmly, jerking his head back just in time to avoid a wildly thrown punch, “if only you’d mentioned that sooner, senhora. I wouldn’t have done it.”

“You—you—you…”

She called him a name that implied he was related to the scatological habits of canines. He laughed. That only made her more furious. She flailed out with her fists again; this time, her knuckles dusted his jaw.

Deus.

There was a saying in this country about being careful not to catch a tiger by the tail without having a plan for letting it go.

What was he going to do with Carin Brewster?

“You just wait! Oh, you just wait until I get back to the house. I’ll have you thrown off this property so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

“I am—how do you say? I am shaking in my boots.”

“Quaking. And you’d damn well better be.” Carin pounded his chest again. “For the last time, put me down!”

“If I do, will you go to your room, ask the housekeeper to bring you a pot of black coffee and drink every drop?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you are drunk.”

“I am no such thing.”

“You are drunk,” Rafe said firmly, “and you were making a spectacle of yourself.”

“If you were correct…if you were correct, it would be my business, not yours. You had no right to interfere.”

“I interfered on behalf of your family, and on behalf of the poor young man you were threatening.”

“That’s pathetic. Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Actually, I did it for your sister, who thinks a great deal of you.”

“You don’t know a thing about what my sister thinks.”

“On the contrary, senhora. I know that she has false illusions about you, or she would not have assumed I might find you appealing.”

“Yeah, well, she has the same illusions about you, you—you South American Neanderthal. And if you’re really thinking about my family, start concentrating on how they’ll react when I tell them what you did.”

“Nicholas and Jonas would surely agree a gag might be an excellent idea.” Rafe shifted her weight in his arms. She was slender and fine-boned but she wriggled and twisted like a snake. Holding on to her and ducking those flying fists wasn’t easy. He thought of tossing her over his shoulder, thought of all the alcohol he’d seen her consume, and decided against it. “As for your stepbrothers…” He looked down at her, his expression severe. “I have met them. And from what I know of Tyler, Gage, Travis and Slade, they would…”

Rafe came to a halt. There was a clearing just ahead. Teak benches ringed a subtly lighted reflecting pool into which a stone nymph emptied an endless stream of water from a copper ewer.

“They would what?” the warm, sweet-smelling, bad-tempered burden in his arms demanded.

“They would applaud me for what I am about to do.”

With that, he marched up to the pool and dumped her straight into it.

She landed on her bottom, legs splayed, up to her hips in water. Showered and sober, he thought with satisfaction, because the nymph was no longer emptying the ewer into the pool, she was emptying it over Carin Brewster’s head.

A hush fell over everything. Even the cascading water seemed to grow silent. Carin’s mouth opened; her lips formed a stunned, “Oh…”

And then she let out a blood-curdling shriek.

What a pity, to ruin such a lovely dress, Rafe thought dispassionately. What there was of it. Black silk, cut low enough to show the ripe curves of her breasts, high enough to show the long length of her legs. Wet, the silk clung lovingly to her body; he saw her nipples peak from the sudden chill of the water.

Beautiful, indeed, but that was all. She was nothing a man in his right mind would want…

Not for a lifetime, no. But she might prove interesting, for a night.

With heart-stopping swiftness, Rafe felt his body respond. It would be a challenge, getting past that hot temper, searching out ways to turn the fury in those dark eyes to passion. He could do it, though. He could tame her in bed, as he had tamed her here.

He imagined stripping off that black dress and the hint of black lace he could see beneath it, letting those long legs close around him as he cupped that lovely face in his hands and tasted that full, soft-looking mouth…

Deus. Was he crazy? Carin Brewster was beautiful but the Baron mansion was, as Jonas had promised, filled with beautiful women who were sweet-tempered, soft-spoken and sober, though he suspected Carin was sober enough, now. The combination of anger, adrenaline and cold water would have ended her alcoholic haze.

Yes, he thought, as he looked down at her, it had. Her shrieks had turned into moans; she was holding her hands to her temples as she tried to struggle to her feet.

Despite himself, he felt a stab of pity. He hesitated, then moved closer, bent down and held out his hand.

“Here,” he said, “take my hand.”

The woman looked at it as if it were a snake with its fangs bared. He supposed he could hardly blame her.

“Do you hear me, senhora? Take my hand and I’ll help you up.”

“I’d sooner stay here all night.”

“Are you determined to go on behaving like a spoiled brat? Let me help you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of helping myself.”

She tried to prove it by scrambling to her feet but she slipped on the wet marble, made a wild grab at the air, and Rafe ended up with her in his arms again.

“Do not do that,” she said furiously. “Just put me—”

“—down,” he said. “Yes, most assuredly, that is what I intend to do.” He set her on her feet, peeled off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She tried to shrug it off but he lifted her hair free of the collar—the water had ruined the curls that had been swept up high on her head. He drew the lapels together and held the jacket closed.

“I don’t need your jacket. I don’t need anything from you.”

“You are cold.”

“I am wet,” Carin snapped, “and if you try very, very hard, you might just be able to figure out the reason.”

“You were drunk.”

“And?”

“And, now you are not.”

“Wonderful. Is that some special Brazilian method used to deal with hangovers? Didn’t you ever hear of black coffee?”

“I suggested coffee, but you declined it.”

“And so you d-d-decided to take th-things into your own hands.”

He frowned. “Your teeth are chattering.”

“So wou-would yours, if s-someone dropped you in a f-fountain.”

“Come.” He reached for her; she drew back.

“I’m n-not going anyplace w-with you.”

She lifted her chin and glared at him. Rafe thought about arguing, thought better of it, sighed and hoisted her into his arms again.

“Hey!” Her voice rose as he started back through the gardens. “Do you have a d-death w-wish? I told you, my family w-will…”

“They will visit you in the hospital,” he said grimly, “if you don’t behave yourself and get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

“That I’m soaked to the skin isn’t your pr-problem, dammit, it’s your f-fault!”

“You’re also sober, or haven’t you considered that?”

“I can’t be sober. I mean, assuming I were drunk, which I wasn’t, how could I be sober five minutes later?”

“Cold water. There are times, if one is fortunate, it has that effect.”

“How would you know?”

“A man knows these things.” Especially if he’d ever had one drink too many, trying to prove himself in a backwater bar on the Amazon, Rafe thought, and shuddered. “Put your arms around my neck, please, Senhora Brewster.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Rafe sighed, debated the wisdom of tossing her over his shoulder and, once again, decided against it.

“Is there an entrance to the house that will permit us to avoid the other guests? Unless, of course, you prefer a dramatic entrance. It might be quite effective, considering the exit you made.”

“That’s your story, senhor, but you were the one who made the scene.”

“The bartender might not agree.”

“What bar…” she began to say, and then he heard her catch her breath. He knew it was all coming back to her and that once it had, she would be crushed. “Oh. That bartender.” She cleared her throat. “I—I remember now.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. At least, I remember some of…Tell me the truth. Did I—was I—” She cleared her throat again. “I made an ass of myself, didn’t I?”

Rafe hesitated. She had, but what was the point in telling her that? “You were—how do you say it—you were a bit high-spirited.”

“In other words,” she said in a small voice, “the answer is ‘yes.’”

“People forget,” he said briskly.