The Alvares Bride. Sandra Marton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ