The Alvares Bride. Sandra Marton

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      Carin finished her wine just as she spotted another waiter with a tray of drinks.

      “Waiter,” she said briskly.

      There were no glasses of wine on the tray, only cocktail glasses filled with a colorless liquid and onions or olives impaled on tiny plastic swords.

      “Cute,” she said, and smiled as she swapped her empty glass for a full one that held an onion and then, because the drink looked small, she shifted her evening bag under her arm and took a second glass that contained an olive.

      The waiter lifted an eyebrow.

      “Thank you,” Carin said, as if she drank two-fisted every day of her life. She took a sip of the glass that held the onion. “Wow,” she whispered, and took a second sip.

      It was true. Frank had, in fact, traveled a lot. What neither she nor Iris knew was that the traveling he did was mostly between their two apartments. Thinking back, remembering how naive—no, how stupid—she’d been she almost laughed.

      A month ago, it had all come apart. Frank must have realized he couldn’t keep up the act much longer, not with things like the rehearsal dinner and his marriage vows staring him in the face. So he’d phoned one evening, sounding nervous, and said he had to see her right away; he had to tell her something important.

      Carin had hurried down to the corner wine shop, bought a bottle of champagne and popped it into the fridge. He was going to propose, she’d thought giddily…

      Instead, he’d told her that he’d trapped himself in a nightmare. He had, he said, become engaged to another woman. And while she was staring at him in horror, trying to digest that news, he’d told her who the woman was.

      “You’re joking,” Carin had said, when she could finally choke out a coherent sentence.

      Frank had shrugged, grinned sheepishly—grinned, of all things—and that was when she’d lost it, when she’d gone from gasping to shrieking and screaming. She’d thrown things at him—a vase, the waiting wine bucket—and he’d run for the door.

      Carin took a deep breath, raised her glass to her lips and drank down half of the martini.

      She’d survived, even managed to put it all in perspective. Frank was no great loss; a man like that, one who couldn’t remain faithful, was not a man she’d want for a husband. All she had to do was get through the wedding that loomed ahead—the wedding between the woman who’d been her friend and the man who’d been her lover—and she’d be fine. She wouldn’t attend the wedding, of course, but that didn’t mean she’d mope.

      No, she’d told herself firmly, no moping. No sitting around feeling sorry for herself. She’d order in pizza, drink the bottle of champagne she’d put in the fridge that horrid evening. To hell with Frank. Iris could have him.

      Everything was fine, or almost fine, until an invitation to the wedding arrived along with a note from Iris asking, very politely, if she’d mind passing along her bridesmaid’s gown to the girl who’d be taking her place.

      Carin had ripped the note and the invitation into tiny pieces, stuffed them back into their envelope and mailed it to the happy couple. Then, because it was time to admit she’d never get through the wedding weekend alone without either crying or screaming or maybe even going to the wedding and standing up to make a public announcement when the minister got to the part where he’d ask if anyone present knew a reason the marriage shouldn’t take place, she’d phoned Marta and said, as gaily as she could, that there’d been a change in plans and she’d be flying in for the party, after all.

      “With Frank?” her mother had asked and when Carin said no, no, he wouldn’t be coming, Marta had said “oh” in a tone that spoke volumes. If she knew more now, if Amanda had told her anything, she hadn’t let on, except to hug Carin tightly when she arrived and whisper, “I never liked him, anyway.”

      Carin sighed.

      Nobody had liked Frank, it was turning out. Not her secretary, who’d wanted to kill him almost as much as Carin. Not Amanda, not Nicholas, not anybody with half a brain—except her. She’d been so dumb…

      “Canapés, miss?”

      Carin looked up, smiled at the white-gloved waiter, put the empty martini glass on a table and plucked a tiny puff pastry from the tray.

      “What is it?” she asked.

      “Lobster, I believe, miss.”

      Lobster, indeed, and decadently delicious, Carin thought as she popped the little hors d’oeuvre into her mouth and crunched down. All that it needed was another swallow of whatever was in the glass with the onion to make it perfect…except, the glass was empty.

      How had that happened? Well, it was a problem easily solved. She put the empty glass beside the other and set off through the crowded room in search of a drink.

      “Mizz?”

      The voice was masculine, heavily accented, and right behind her. She took a deep breath, pasted a smile to her lips and turned around. As she’d expected, it was the Brazilian Bombshell.

      Up close, he wasn’t quite so good-looking. His jaw was a little weak, his nose a little long. Actually, he looked a lot like Frank.

      “Mizz,” he said again, and took her hand. He bent over it, brought it to his lips, planted a damp kiss on her skin. Carin snatched her hand back and fought against the almost overwhelming desire to wipe it on her gown.

      “Hello,” she said as pleasantly as she could.

      “Hello,” he said, and smiled so broadly she could see a filling in his molar. “I ask who is the beautiful lady with the black hair and the green eyes and I am tell she is Carin Brewster, yes?”

      “Yes,” Carin said. Was this what a Portuguese accent sounded like? “I mean, thank you for the compliment, senhor.”

      “Senhor,” he repeated, and laughed. “Is amusing you should call me that, Carin Brewster.”

      “Well, I know my pronunciation isn’t very good, but—”

      She babbled her way through a conversation that made little sense. The Latin Lover spoke poor English and she spoke no Portuguese. Besides, she really didn’t want to talk with him. She didn’t want to talk to anybody, especially not a man who reminded her, even slightly, of Frank.

      Frank, that no-good rat. That scum-sucking bottom crawler. That liar—but then, all men were liars. She’d learned that, early. Her father had lied to her mother. To her, too, each time she’d climbed into his lap and begged him not to go away again.

      “This is the last time, angel,” he’d say, but that was never the truth.

      What was wrong with the Brewster women? Hadn’t they learned anything? Their father had lied. From the stories she’d heard, Jonas Baron had turned lying into an art form. Yes, there might be exceptions. She was hopeful about her stepbrothers, and about Amanda’s new husband but still, as a rule—

      “…a funny joke, yes?”

      Carin СКАЧАТЬ