The Disobedient Virgin - The Ramirez Brides 03

by Sandra Marton

“Jake?” she’d said, as calmly as if she were talking about the weather. “Did you hear me? Will you teach me about sex? Or is that going to be a problem?”

  A problem?

  Snap!

  The pencil broke in half. Jake reached for another, began tapping again.

  The question had been bad enough. The brilliance of how he’d dealt with it had been even worse. He’d firmed his jaw, narrowed his eyes, pointed his finger straight at her…

  And told her to go to her room.

  He groaned at the memory.

  Go to her room. As if she were a child instead of a woman. When the fact was, Cat was every bit a woman. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could feel her straddling him again, her body molding itself to his, her nipples sweet against his tongue while she made those little sounds that could surely drive a man insane.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  He hadn’t touched her again.

  And she hadn’t mentioned her crazy plan again. Maybe because he wouldn’t give her the chance.

  He came home each evening, said a polite “hello” and that was that. While they ate dinner he read through whatever he’d stuffed into his briefcase before leaving his office. Cat kept silent: he figured that had been the way meals were at the convent, and that was fine.

  Dinner over, he excused himself, went up to his room and spent the rest of the evening there, working on his papers, catching up on his correspondence…

  Jake swung his chair around and stared out the window.

  Who was he kidding?

  He didn’t do anything even resembling work. He stared at the walls, at the TV screen, at the day’s newspapers, at whatever might take his mind off the woman down the hall.

  About how it was his responsibility to find her a husband.

  About what she’d asked him to do.

  How could she even suggest such a thing? He’d signed on to find her a husband, not to introduce her to sex—although the ugly truth was he’d come awfully close to doing exactly that.

  But he’d been good the past two weeks. He hadn’t touched Cat. And he’d kept his promise to phone the guy he knew at the Brazilian Embassy. He’d met Lucas for drinks, explained the situation…

  Well, no. Not all of it.

  Why go into the complicated details? That he’d inherited responsibility for the ward of the man who’d sired him, and that he was charged with finding her the right husband.

  That her fortune and his future hung in the balance.

  That Cat wanted to “buy” a fast divorce by offering the man who married her her innocence.

  Snap.

  Jake grabbed another pencil.

  No, he hadn’t told Lucas any of that. He’d just said the ward of a Brazilian acquaintance was staying with him and he wanted to introduce her to New York’s closely knit Brazilian community.

  “How old is the girl?” Lucas had asked.

  Jake had told him. Lucas had nodded.

  “There’s a party at the Embassy next week.”

  Jake had felt as if a load were easing from his shoulders. “Great.”

  “Is she very unattractive?”

  Jake had looked at Lucas. They were about the same age. Lucas was tall, dark-haired and he had a reputation as a ladykiller.

  “If she were a ten,” Lucas said, grinning over the frosted rim of his caipirinha, “I might just be interested—but she can’t be, otherwise you’d keep her for yourself.”

  Jake tossed aside the pencil, rose from his chair and paced the length of his office. Keep Catarina for himself? What a ridiculous idea. She needed a husband. He needed to find one for her. And if she thought he’d school her in the things men and women did in bed before that could happen, she was out of her mind.

  He turned sharply and paced in the other direction.

  The only thing he’d teach her was how to be civil. The night he’d told her to go to her room she’d turned white with anger, called him something in Portuguese he figured was better left untranslated, and marched away.

  A woman and a wildcat. That was what his supposedly demure ward had turned out to be. Mother Elisabete would probably vanish in a puff of smoke if she saw her charge now.

  Especially in her new clothes.

  That thought, at least, made him smile.

  A few days ago he’d told Cat he was taking her to work with him so he could send her on a shopping trip with his personal assistant. Cat had responded with a glare. She was still angry because he hadn’t agreed to enroll her in his personal version of Sex 101, but he’d ignored her sullen attitude.

  It had been time to replace the South American version of Little Orphan Annie with a woman ready to face the challenges of New York.

  Jake sat down again, tilted back his chair and folded his hands over his flat belly.

  His P.A. had hardly blinked when he’d introduced Catarina as the daughter of a Brazilian acquaintance—the definition had worked with Lucas, so why not with Belle? He’d said he wanted Belle to take her to Saks or Henri Bendel and clothe her from head to toe.

  Cat had stood in the center of the room, arms folded, eyes shooting sparks, but she hadn’t argued. Maybe she’d finally realized that the things she kept pulling from her bottomless satchel weren’t going to make it in Manhattan.

  “Not Saks,” Belle had said after she’d looked Cat over. “Not Bendel. Lauren, maybe. Calvin Klein.”

  “Whatever,” Jake had replied impatiently. “I want the works. Clothes, shoes, makeup, jewelry—”

  “A haircut?”

  “No haircut.”

  There must have been something in the way he’d said it, because Belle had looked at him, brows raised as high as they’d go. He’d cleared his throat and mumbled a few words about Brazilian culture and long hair. A pathetic lie, but all he’d been able to come up with to get himself off the hook.

  The truth was, he couldn’t handle the idea of all that long, glorious hair ending up on the floor in some trendy salon when what he dreamed of each night was Cat lying beneath him in his bed, her mouth pliant under his, her hair streaming over his pillow as he made love to her…

  “Hell,” Jake said, and rose from his chair again.

  Belle had done her job well. Cat had gone from beautiful to spectacular. When he’d entered the penthouse that night she’d greeted him at the door wearing jeans that fit her like a second skin, a sweater the same shade of coffee-brown as her eyes, spiky heels that had brought the top of her head almost level with his chin, and if her hair hadn’t been cut then somebody had done something to it that had made the curls less wild and twice as sexy.

  The sulky, imposed-upon expression had gone. For a change, Cat had been smiling.

  “How do I look?” she’d asked, twirling before him.

  Good enough to eat, he’d thought. Good enough to take in his arms and carry to bed.

  “You look okay,” he’d said briskly, and wondered if the lie was enough to make his nose grow. “You know, Catarina, I think I’ll pass on supper. These reports…”

  “I made our supper,” she’d called as he started toward the stairs.

  He’d turned and looked at her. “What about Anna?”

  “I told her I wanted to cook tonight.” She’d taken a deep breath. He’d seen that she’d worked up her courage for this. “It’s Brazilian. Come and see.”

  That was when he’d noticed an unfamiliar scent in the air. She’d rattled off the name of something unpronounceable and looked at him with such hope in her eyes that he hadn’t had the heart to refuse.

  So he’d followed her to the kitchen, where she’d dipped a wooden spoon into a pot, held it out, said, “No, wait,” and then brought the spoon to her own mouth, so she could purse her lips and gently blow on the steaming contents.

  Watching her blow on that spoon had almost driven him to his knees.

  “Now taste it,” she’d said, and he’d wanted to—God, he’d wanted to…

  Somehow, he’d gotten himself under control. Drag
ged his gaze from Cat’s mouth to the spoon, let her slide it between his lips, fought the swift tightening of his body when she parted her own lips and poked out the tip of her tongue in unknowing parody of him. But not even his hottest fantasy had been enough to keep him from reacting to the taste of whatever it was she’d cooked.

  “What is that?” he’d gasped.

  “You didn’t like it?”

  “No! I, ah, I loved it. It’s just—it’s different,” he’d said, and then he’d mumbled his lie about having work to do and fled.

  Hours later, when even the street far below his apartment had gone quiet, he’d heard a faint sound. He’d told himself it was the wind, sweeping through the leafless shrubs on the terrace, but he had known damned well it was Cat, weeping. About his reaction to her cooking? He’d doubted it.

  About his reaction to her request for help was more likely.

  And he’d thought, What if I went to her right now and said, Okay, you want me to teach you about sex? Here’s lesson number one.

  He hadn’t done it, of course. Lessons in seduction? In sex? If she thought he’d teach her what men and women did in bed, she was nuts.

  Or was she?

  In some way that danced on the edge of sanity he could almost see the logic of it. He relied on people he trusted to help him all the time: CPAs to do his taxes, lawyers to write contracts. Wouldn’t it be better for Catarina to learn about sex from a man she knew and trusted than from a man she intended to marry and then divorce?

  Jake sank down in the chair behind his desk again, picked up a pencil, rolled it mindlessly between his fingers.

  There’d be a lot to teach her.

  He’d start with the basics. How to let a man know she was interested. A little smile. A touch of her hand. No. She was innocent. He had to keep that in mind.

  It would be best to start with what a man would do to her. That way none of it would come as a shock. She’d be prepared for what would happen.

  He could do it tonight. Go home, confront Cat, tell her he’d decided to comply with her request. Say it just that way, so it sounded businesslike—because that was what it would be.

  Businesslike.

  Purposeful.

  Instructions on how to make love.

  He’d lead her to his room. Shut the door. Turn down the lights, leave just enough illumination so he could watch her face, see what pleased her when he touched her.

  Undress her. Slowly. God, yes. Very slowly. Strip her naked, one garment at a time. And when she was naked, when she tried to shield herself from him, as she almost surely would, he’d take her hands in his.

  Cat, he’d say softly, sweetheart, don’t. Let me look at you. You’re so beautiful, Cat. Any man would give his soul to see you like this.

  Her eyes, those huge pools of darkest brown, would fix on his.

  Tell me what pleases you, he’d say.

  Then he’d reach out, touch her breasts. Her nipples. Watch them tighten in anticipation. A whisper of excitement would sigh from her lips, and when it did he’d cup her breasts, bend to them, suck the nipples into his mouth, tasting them on his tongue as he had that night in the kitchen.

  She’d tremble with desire, but there’d still be fear in her eyes.

  Do you like that? he’d ask.

  And she’d say, Yes, oh, yes, Jake. Oh, yes.

  Then he’d kneel down before her, stroke his hand down her belly, hear the swift intake of her breath as he cupped her hips, brought her closer and blew gently against the soft curls that guarded her virginity.

  Jake, she’d sob. Oh, Jake…

  Let me, he’d whisper, and he’d press his mouth to those curls, inhale her scent until the splendor of it made him dizzy. Her hands would be in his hair, clutching at him as she swayed, as he made her mindless with need.

  That was when he’d scoop her into his arms, carry her to his bed, take her down and down onto the soft sheets, take off his own clothing, watch her eyes widen as she saw him naked for the first time.

  Jake? she’d whisper unsteadily.

  Shh, he’d say softly, I won’t hurt you. I’ll never hurt you.

  He’d draw her against him, stroke her, soothe her, and when she finally relaxed he’d take her hand, kiss the palm, then bring it to his chest, let her feel his skin, let her measure the pounding beat of his heart as she’d tried to do that very first night in Rio.

  See? he’d say. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Catarina.

  That pink tongue would peep out, touch her bottom lip in the way that drove him crazy. He’d force himself to hold still as she moved her hand over him, felt the heat of his skin, the softness of the hair on his chest, the flatness of his belly.

  She’d hesitate then, her eyes filled with questions, and he’d clasp her hand in his again, gently move it down, grit his teeth against the need to plunge deep inside her as he felt her cool fingers close delicately around his hard, eager length.

  She’d say his name, this time with a woman’s need, and he’d cup her face, kiss her mouth, let his tongue enter its honeyed depths, and when she whimpered and began moving against him he’d say, Yes, Cat, yes, sweetheart. This is what it’s like to be with a man. A man who wants you more than he wants his next breath.

  And then he’d touch her.

  Seek out that sweetness hidden between her thighs. Hear her cry out with passion as he opened her to him, as he sought out the delicate bud that had flowered just for him. He’d kiss her there, lick her until she writhed in his arms, and when she was lost, when she was sobbing his name and begging him to take her, then, only then, would he enter her, groan as he felt her exquisite heat, her tightness, close around him…

  Snap.

  The two halves of the pencil flew across the room.

  None of that could happen. Taking Catarina’s virginity would ruin her for another man. It would destroy her plan. He’d have to stop before he slid deep inside her, before he took her maidenhead, before he made her his, only his…

  God!

  Jake shot to his feet, turned to the window, leaned forward and touched his forehead to the cool glass.

  What was he doing? He’d come within seconds of humiliating himself. How could that be? He was a grown man, years and years removed from a boy’s game of sexual fantasy.

  And why should he resort to his imagination when the real thing was readily available?

  Jake grabbed the telephone and hit the button that connected him with Belle.

  “Belle,” he snapped, “call Vickers. Tell her I’ll pick her up for dinner. At seven-thirty.”

  “ Vickers?”

  He heard the surprise in his P.A.’s voice. He couldn’t blame her. He’d hardly spoken with Samantha since he’d returned from Rio, and then she’d been the one who’d made the calls.

  “Yes, Miss Vickers.”

  “And if she’s otherwise engaged?”

  Was that a polite admonition or a reasonable question? Frankly, he didn’t care.

  “She won’t be,” he said, with the unknowing arrogance of a man who’d never had the least bit of trouble attracting women. “Then phone that place I was supposed to take her to last time.”

  “Sebastian’s?”

  “Right. Make a reservation for eight.”

  “Yes, sir.” Belle hesitated. “What about Mendes?”

  “What about her?” Jake snarled, and slammed down the receiver.

  Sebastian’s was trendy and handsome, if you liked deliberately exposed copper pipes and cast-iron plumbing, steel beams and snaking electrical cables. The music was loud and fast; the too-small tables were jammed with Importantly Beautiful People and those who considered themselves Beautifully Important.

  Samantha was stunning. Every man in the room watched her enter on Jake’s arm; every man watched each time she laughed at his jokes, tossed back her mane of auburn hair and leaned forward to show off a cleavage that guaranteed she’d never drown should a flash flood mysteriously sweep through the city streets.


  Except his jokes were lame. So was his conversation. All Jake could think about was Catarina, and how crestfallen she’d looked when he told her he was going out.

  “With a woman?”

  “Yes,” he’d said, with almost deliberate cruelty. “With a woman. But you won’t be here alone. I called and asked Anna to stay for the evening.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter.”

  He’d started to say that he knew that, that he’d asked Anna to stay just to keep her company, when he realized that she never had company in the evening—not with him safely ensconced behind the closed door to the master suite.

  And then he’d thought, Why did I use that word? Safely? Why would I need to feel safe in my own home?

  But by then Cat had stormed away, and the clock said he had less than forty minutes to shower and change and get downtown to Sam’s. And now he was with Sam, and yet not with her, going through the motions of a date and stealing glances at his watch.

  “…want to tell me, Jake?”

  He blinked. Sam’s artfully made-up face swam into focus. She was leaning over again, all that cleavage on display, but there was a sharp glitter in her eyes.

  “Sorry. I, ah, I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

  “How could you? You aren’t paying the least bit of attention to me.”

  “Sorry,” he said again. “Business problems. You know how it is.”

  “I don’t know how it is. How could I? You don’t call for weeks and then you ask me to dinner—and where are you?”

  “Sam—”

  “Is this a…” She licked her lips. “Is it, you know, a farewell meal? Because if it is, if you’re breaking up with me—”

  “No,” Jake said quickly, “it’s not that. I’ve been…busy.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  He looked at her. Sam was sophisticated. Urbane. Maybe she could help him figure out the best way to deal with a woman who, until just two weeks ago, had lived a sheltered life.

  He cleared his throat. “Someone—someone died.”

  “Oh, Jake—”

  “Nobody I knew,” he said hastily. “Just someone I have a connection to.” He pushed his untouched plate aside. “It’s complicated, but the bottom line is that I’ve been charged with a difficult responsibility.”