The French porcelain clock in the upstairs hall struck six. Drinks at eight, wasn’t that what he’d said? Drinks at eight, dinner at nine. She was to bathe, dress in something long and feminine, come down to greet his guests and behave like the perfect wife. At evening’s end, he would permit her to sleep in his bed. And someday soon, he was certain, she’d crawl to him on her belly, begging to be petted like a favored house cat.
“In your dreams, senhor,” she said coldly.
His suite of rooms was at the other end of the house. Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the door. She raised her hand to knock, but she didn’t. If she was to share his space, she would not come to him like a supplicant. She took a deep breath, hoped the butterflies in her stomach wouldn’t turn into a swarm, and opened the door.
She stood in the entrance to a sitting room. And it was empty.
Carin shut the door and sagged back against it. Bravado could only carry you just so far, and hers had vanished. Her knees seemed to be made of rubber as she surveyed the emperor’s lair. Breathe in, she told herself as she walked towards a doorway that she knew would lead to the bedroom. Breathe out. And whatever you do, don’t look at the bed…But how could she avoid looking at it? It would probably be covered in black satin, it would fill the center of the room, there’d be mirrors in the ceiling above it…
She laughed.
It was just a bed.
Oversize, yes, but that was all. No mirrors, no black satin, just a handsome four-poster covered with a white duvet and heaped with pillows. The bed faced a wall of glass that looked out on an enclosed terrace lush with potted plants and shrubs.
There was a mirrored wall to her left. There was a wall just like it in one of the Baron guest rooms; she knew the mirrors would hide a dressing room that led to a bathroom and shower. Yes, there was the latch.
Carin slid the doors open. Rafe’s clothes hung neatly in an alcove on the left…and there were her things, hanging on the opposite side.
The butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings and rose in a whirling cluster. There was a disturbing intimacy to seeing her clothing and his, together. She knew it was dumb to feel that way. Dressing rooms were dressing rooms, nothing more…
Except, this dressing room was Rafe’s. And he was her husband.
Carin slid the door shut. “Stop it,” she said under her breath. Bluebeard had been somebody’s husband, too. Being a “husband” didn’t make a man a good guy. Rafe certainly wasn’t. He was a cold-hearted dictator, who thought he owned her.
Well, he didn’t.
He could never own her, no matter what he believed.
She took a steadying breath and opened the mirrored door again. Rafe’s cool, commanding voice rang in her head. Bathe, he’d said, as if she wouldn’t have known enough to do that unless he ordered it. Put on perfume. Wear something long and feminine.
Long and feminine, indeed.
He was going to put her on display tonight, for his friends. She knew what sort of woman they’d expect, at least, she could take a pretty good guess. Dona Alvares would be a credit to her husband’s good taste. She’d be perfectly groomed, elegantly gowned and coiffed, docile and well-behaved. Her every smile would make it clear that her only purpose in life was to please her master.
Rafe’s wife would be a cat, she thought, with a taut smile, just as he’d suggested. A creature who lived to be stroked and petted, and to spend its nights in its master’s bed.
Carin slapped her hands on her hips. “Cats have claws, senhor,” she said, as if Rafe were standing in front of her. “You seem to have forgotten that.”
A cat with claws would not follow orders. Long and feminine, indeed, she thought grimly, as she ran her eye over the garments hanging before her. No, not the black silk. Not the red one, either. Impatiently, she pawed through her dresses. Any one of them would have suited her would-be master, but that was all the more reason they wouldn’t suit her…What was this? She’d never owned anything like this soft rose silk, or this slender bit of silver…
Carin’s breath caught.
These were the things Rafe had bought for her. She’d forgotten that he’d done that, or maybe it was more honest to say she’d studiously ignored it. The first couple of weeks after he’d brought her to Rio de Ouro, boxes and packages had arrived with stunning regularity, all of them bearing her name, but as soon as she’d realized what they’d contained, she’d stopped opening them.
“I don’t want anything my husband buys me,” she’d told Elena. “Give the stuff away. Burn it. Do whatever you like, do you understand?”
It was obvious Elena hadn’t done that. Instead, she’d tucked his gifts here, in Rafe’s dressing room. Now, for the first time, Carin saw all the things he’d bought for her.
They were beautiful. Soft silks. Iridescent satins. Butter-soft cashmeres.
She touched her hand to the rose gown, then to the shimmering column of silver. The colors, the cuts, were perfect. She’d have selected them herself, if she’d been Cinderella with a fortune at her disposal. The silver gown, especially.
How terrible would it be just to look?
She slid the gown from its hanger, held it against her body, looked into the mirror and sighed with pleasure. Oh, it was exquisite, simple and low-cut, with thin straps and a long, narrow skirt.
Carin put one hand into her hair, swept it high on top of her head. Yes, she’d do it just like that, with a couple of strands tumbling loose around her cheeks and maybe at the nape of her neck.
Her eyelids drooped. She imagined leaving the bedroom, going slowly downstairs, to Rafe. His eyes would darken when he saw her; he’d hold out his hand and she’d take it, entwine her fingers with his.
“Querida,” he’d say, not mockingly but with tightly-controlled passion, and she’d smile and lift her face for his kiss, and as the kiss deepened he’d lift her into his arms and carry her back up the stairs, here, to his room, to his bed…
“No!”
The word burst from her throat. She tossed the silver gown on the floor, pushed all the rest of the clothes Rafe had bought her aside…
And found what she would wear tonight.
The lime-green nightmare she was supposed to have worn for Frank and Iris’s wedding.
She waited to feel something, anything, a stab of pain or a rush of anger, but she felt nothing. It was as if all of that had happened to someone else, not to her.
Iris had sent her that note, asking her to pass the gown on. She hadn’t. She remembered standing in her bedroom, reading the note, then looking at the gown.
“I bought it,” she’d said grimly. “I paid for it. And I’m going to have the pleasure of shredding it into a million pieces of shiny polyester…”
But she’d forgotten all about it and now, here it was, packed by Marta or whoever had come in to empty her apartment and send her clothing to her, the stereotypical bridesmaid’s dress that people joked about.
Actually, it was worse than that. It was, plain and simple, a horror. Not her color, not her style. It was the ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever owned.
She took the gown from its hanger, held it against her body and looked into the mirror. The color was hideous, made even worse by gold ruffles at the neck and hem, and by the unhealthy shine of the fabric. There were dyed-to-match shoes, too, clumsy things with stubby heels and long, pointed toes.
Iris had loved it. She’d dragged her into the Beautiful Brides shop at the mall, gushing about the perfect dresses she’d found for her attendants.
“Isn’t this stunning?” she’d said, and Carin had finally said well, well, it certainly was unusual…
“Unusual” was the word.
What had Rafe commanded? Long and feminine. That’s what he wanted, so he could exhibit his conquest properly.
She smiled. The gown was long, and Iris had thought it was feminine.
“Don’t ask for something unless you’re sure you know what it is you’re going to get,
senhor,” Carin said softly.
She laid the gown on the bed, put the shoes on the carpet, locked the door and began to prepare for her debut as Dona Alvares.
For a man who was all ego, it was going to be a very long night.
* * *
At seven, Carin stepped from the shower. The tub had been tempting but what was the sense of taking a bath in something so big and beautiful if you didn’t dump in some beads of bath oil? And she wasn’t going to do that.
She wasn’t readying herself for a party, she thought coldly, she was readying herself for revenge.
She wrapped herself in an oversize towel, padded, barefoot, through ankle-deep carpeting to the bedroom…and turned rigid with shock, at the sound of someone at the door. Heart pounding, clutching the towel, she swung towards it. The knob was turning but that was all it was doing. The lock held.
“Carin?”
Rafe. Of course. How had she managed to forget that he’d expect to shower and dress, too? Her heart went into overdrive.
“Yes?” she said, hoping she sounded cool and unconcerned.
“Unlock the door.”
No “please.” No “would you kindly.” Just words spoken as a command. She straightened her shoulders, pushed her wet hair back from her face and glared at the door.
“No.”
Silence. Not even the doorknob rattled. She could almost envision the look on Rafe’s face at finding himself locked out of his domain.
“Our guests will be here soon.”
“Your guests, not mine.”
“Dammit, Carin, open this door!”
She smiled. It was lovely, hearing that harsh note of disbelief in his voice. “Sorry,” she said, and did her very best to make sure he could tell that she wasn’t in the least bit sorry. “I’m getting dressed. That’s what you told me to do, remember?”
“I did not tell you to lock me out of my own rooms.” He spoke softly, as if he were only inches from the door but then, he wouldn’t want Joao or Elena to witness him being defied by this insignificant creature, this woman he’d forced into a sham of a marriage. “Open this door at once.”
The door seemed to vibrate under the sudden weight of his fist. Carin took a quick step back. She was wrong. He didn’t care if his servants knew she’d locked him out of his rooms.
What if he got angry enough to break the door down? She imagined the wood splintering, Rafe bursting into the room, tearing the towel from her hands…
A shimmering wave of heat swept through her body as she imagined him reaching for her, his anger fading to something else as he bent her back over his arm and kissed her until she whispered his name, until she clung to him…
Oh, God.
“No! I’m not opening the door, Rafe, until I’m ready to come downstairs.”
An eternity crawled by before he spoke again, this time in a purring whisper.
“You’re playing with fire, querida. I would advise you to remember that those who play with fire can get burned.”
“And I would advise you to find somewhere else to get ready for the evening.”
“I could break this door down.”
“Yes.” Her voice trembled. “Yes, you could, and then we’d both know that you really are a barbarian.”
She heard him let out a long, heavy breath. “You wish to behave like a spoiled brat? Do so—but only for tonight. I will not permit this again, minha mulher. Do you understand?”
She understood, all right. He wasn’t a monster, not by his reckoning, anyway. That was why he hadn’t touched her during the past weeks. But he wasn’t a man with a conscience, either. As of tonight, the rules had changed.
Unbidden, certainly unwanted, that sweet, liquid heat thickened her blood again.
“Yes,” she said, “I understand.”
She sank down on the bed as his footsteps receded. She was still shaking moments later, when Elena tapped on the door. Carin opened it and the housekeeper murmured words that were surely apologetic as she went quickly through the room, collecting Rafe’s things. A white dinner jacket. Black trousers. A black silk T-shirt. Her husband was going to look gorgeous tonight…
But he wasn’t her husband, Carin reminded herself quickly. He was the enemy.
Elena shut the bureau drawer. “Senhora,” she said politely…and froze. She stared at the hideous lime-green gown draped across the bed, then looked at Carin with a stricken expression on her face.
Carin sighed. “I know,” she said, even though she wasn’t sure Elena understood the words, “but he deserves it.”
Oh, yes, she thought, as she locked the door again. It was going to be an interesting evening, and even more interesting to see if Rafe thought the prize was worth the game after she finished with him.
* * *
At five of eight, Carin stood before the mirror.
She looked awful.
Some dresses improved when you put them on. Not this one. If anything, it was uglier. Since she’d come to the ranch, her skin had taken on a soft golden hue. The shiny green fabric turned the golden tan a sickly yellow.
It was a bad shade for her hair, too. She’d deliberately not blown it dry or even brushed it out; it hung straight and lank, which was bad enough, but the color of the gown leached out all the highlights so that she looked as if she’d dipped her head in a bucket of dark brown paint.
Carin bit her lip, turned sideways and stared at her reflection.
She’d filled out, after having Amy. It wasn’t something she liked to admit, even to herself, but a couple of times she’d caught herself glancing in the mirror as she dressed in the morning, wondering if Rafe remembered her body as it had been and what he would think of it now, with fuller breasts and more gently rounded hips. Not that she cared. Not that she’d ever give him the chance to see it…but she’d wondered.
Filled out? She blew out a breath. Maybe that was an understatement. She didn’t just look fuller or rounder in this dress, she looked like a sausage.
Did she want Rafe to see her like this?
He was so handsome, her husband. So gorgeously masculine. He could have any woman he wanted, and he had chosen her…
She stiffened.
That wasn’t true. He hadn’t chosen her. Circumstance had done the choosing. If she hadn’t become pregnant with his child, if he didn’t have some—some crazy sense of Latin morality, she’d never have seen him again.
And it hurt, to know that. Oh, it hurt. In the dark hours of the night, she lay awake in her bed, alone, thinking of what it would have been like if Rafe had come to her, come for her, because he wanted her. Because he needed her, loved her…
A moan of despair burst from her lips. She spun away from the mirror, her hand at her throat. What in hell was she thinking? Rafe didn’t need her or love her, and she didn’t need or love him. He just thought he owned her but after tonight, he’d know better.
She strode into the bathroom. Elena, or perhaps Joao, had carefully placed her cosmetics on one end of the huge marble vanity. She opened half a dozen tubes and jars, then slapped something from each on her face. A lipstick she’d gotten as a giveaway and hated came next, and then so much mascara that her lashes stuck together in clumps.
She stepped back and took an appraising look at herself.
“Lovely,” she whispered and then, before her courage failed her, she shut off the lights, walked through the bedroom, unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. Soft music and the purr of voices drifted up the stairs.
Rafe’s guests had arrived.
Who would he have invited to dinner? Local people, almost certainly; who else could get here on such short notice? Neighboring ranchers, the kind Jonas enjoyed and Marta tolerated. Rawboned men would sip bourbon, chew their cigars and talk about horses and cows while pleasant women with sun-leathered skin exchanged the latest gossip.
And all through the evening, she’d sit demurely beside Rafe in her hideous gown and overdone makeup, with her hands neatly folded in her lap,
saying nothing, doing nothing, being the demure little woman while his neighbors tried to figure out why a man like him, a man who could surely have any woman he wanted, would have taken such an unattractive wife.
Laughter wafted towards her again, a mix of deep masculine and delicate female tones. Nothing about the sound suggested cigars or leathery skin. Butterflies took wing in Carin’s belly once more but this time, they swooped and darted.
Was this plan to humiliate Rafe really such a good idea?
It wasn’t too late to scrub her face, brush her hair, change from this awful gown into something else, something silky and soft that would make him smile with pleasure when he saw her, turn his eyes dark with desire as they had that first night…
She stopped, swallowed hard, took a couple of calming breaths. That night was long gone. Rafe had made her pregnant, she’d given him a child, and that was the only reason he’d returned to her, forced her into a marriage she didn’t want, a marriage he thought gave him the right to turn her into a slave.
Carin’s eyes narrowed. She flipped the ruffles at the neckline of her gown, smoothed down the skirt and started down the stairs.
She didn’t need Rafe, she didn’t love him, and she certainly didn’t want to stay married to him. With any luck at all, he wouldn’t want to stay married to her, either.
Not after tonight.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHERE was Carin?
Rafe took a drink of wine and glanced at his watch. It was well after eight and everyone was here—the da Sousas, who were his closest neighbors, and Claudia and her latest lover who, as it turned out, were visiting with Isabela and Luiz for the weekend.
Only his wife was missing.
“Where is she, darling?” Claudia had asked in English the second she came in the door.
“Making herself beautiful for her new husband,” the gentleman with her had replied.
“I’m sure she’s beautiful enough, as it is. A man like Rafe wouldn’t settle for anything less,” Isabela had joked, and everyone had laughed.
The Alvares Bride Page 10
