The Alvares Bride

by Sandra Marton

That was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Carin stared at Rafe for a moment. Then she sat down in one of the white wicker chairs that were grouped on the terrace.

  “You’ve never mentioned your mother,” she said slowly.

  “And you never mentioned your father.” He turned to her, leaned back against the wall and cleared his throat. “My mother was a dancer.”

  “In Italy?”

  He shook his head. “Her parents came here before she was born. No, she was Brazilian. She had dreams of dancing on the stage but…” He shrugged. “It didn’t work out. So she danced in clubs, in Rio de Janeiro.” He frowned, tucked his hands into his pockets. “That was where she met my father.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He was a selfish, arrogant son of a bitch.” Rafe’s mouth twisted. “Once he knew my mother was pregnant, he abandoned her.”

  “Oh,” Carin said softly.

  “Yes, ‘oh.’” Rafe took his hands from his pockets, folded his arms and leaned back against the terrace wall. “She tried to contact him—she loved him, you see. But he wanted nothing to do with her, or with the child she carried.”

  “Did your mother raise you alone?”

  “Yes. And for the few years she lived, she told me, endlessly, how she loved the man who had fathered me, until I hated him as much as she loved him, for what was there to love in this man who had turned his back on us?” Rafe jerked his chin towards the pampas. “All of this was his.”

  “He changed his mind, then? I mean, he must have, if he left this place to you…”

  Rafe gave a bitter laugh. “He left me nothing. He lost his wealth and died with empty pockets and with this ranch in ruins.” He stood straight and looked at her, eyes flashing. “I bought the ranch with my sweat, created everything you see, turned his failure into my success…”

  “Rafe.” Carin got to her feet and went to him. She reached out her hand, hesitated, then laid it on his arm. His muscles were hard as steel beneath her palm. “Rafe, I’m so sorry…”

  “Don’t be.” He jerked away from her. “I don’t admire men who whine. I only told you that story because, sometimes, when I look at Amalia—at Amy—I think of what her life might have been, of what your life might have been—”

  “No! I was much, much more fortunate than your mother. I had a career. Amy and I would have been fine.”

  “Not without a father for her, and a husband for you.”

  She wanted to shake him, for the arrogance of that remark. Instead, she told herself to remember how much life had hurt him.

  “You might be right,” she said softly. “I was much more fortunate than your mother that way, too. The man who gave me my baby is a good man. A decent man. He didn’t turn his back on me. He married me.”

  “You make it sound like a sacrifice, querida.”

  She looked up, into his eyes, afraid to ask the question. “Wasn’t it?”

  “No. I’m glad I married you.”

  Her heart seemed to stop beating. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he had married her for the wrong reasons, and now all those reasons had turned into the right ones.

  “Are you?” she said, with a little smile.

  “Of course. It was the right thing to do.”

  The right thing to do. She felt the swift, merciless sting of tears behind her eyes. Stupid, she told herself, how stupid you are, Carin.

  “Does Claudia know? About your mother and father?”

  “Claudia? What has she to do with this?”

  “Just tell me if she knows.”

  Rafe nodded. “Sim. I told her when I—when I asked her to marry me. I thought it was important she know the truth.”

  “Ah. It was important your fiancée know the truth. But not me. Not your wife.”

  “Carin.” He reached out his hand but she jerked away.

  “And—and I suppose she knows you married me because it was the right thing to do?”

  “I don’t understand where you’re going with this, querida.”

  Carin took a deep breath. “You know,” she said briskly, “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’d stop calling me that.”

  “Stop calling you…”

  “Querida.” She pulled her mouth into what she hoped was a smile. “It’s so—so affected. I really find it annoying.”

  She saw his eyes go dark. Don’t, she told herself, oh, don’t, but it was as if someone else were inside her, a woman filled with rage and pain and hurt who was speaking, and she was helpless to control the things that woman said.

  “You should have told me this sooner,” he said coldly. “I would have been happy to oblige.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you’d just answer my question, about Claudia. Did you explain the circumstances of our marriage to her?”

  “There was no need.”

  “But she knows we married after I’d had Amy.”

  “I suppose. Anyone who can count—”

  “Yes, you’re right. Anyone who can count.” She took a deep breath. “Amazing, the way you said that. Frank used to say the same thing.”

  “Frank,” Rafe said, and now it was his voice that was flat. He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. Well, maybe she had. But her heart was breaking. Anyone who knew Rafe knew why he’d married her—especially Claudia.

  “Frank,” she said, with a quick smile. “You do remember him, don’t you?”

  “Sim.” A muscle ticked in Rafe’s jaw. “I remember him well. What has he to do with this?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just—I just remembered, we were lying in bed once, talking—you know, the way people talk after—after sex—and I mentioned someone we knew who’d suddenly decided to get married, and Frank counted off nine months on his fingers, and—” She cried out as Rafe’s hands bit into her shoulders. “You’re hurting me!”

  “How dare you speak to me of what you and this—this man discussed in bed.” He shook her, lowered his head so his eyes were level with hers. “Do you think I want to hear this? Have you no shame, or respect?”

  “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. Frank is history.” She paused. “He’s more history than your sweet fiancée.”

  “Claudia?”

  “Claudia. Who drops by, has coffee, telephones you a thousand times a day. Who you lock in your office, with you…”

  Rafe said something sharp in Portuguese, lifted his hands from Carin’s shoulders and stalked away.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening here. Claudia is not in my life anymore.”

  “Neither is Frank.”

  He swung around, folded his arms, gave her a cold, searching look. “He is not in your life, but his name trips from your lips.”

  “Well, it’s only natural. He was—he was very important to me. So—so, for instance, when you talk about how much you love soccer, and how much I have to learn about it, I think of—of Frank. I mean, he loved soccer…”

  Frank wouldn’t have known a soccer ball from a tennis ball, and she never thought about him any more than she’d ever lain in bed and discussed anything with him, but what did that matter? She was in love with her husband and he was in love with some antiquated code of honor—and, most probably, with the woman he still regretted not having married.

  “I take it that you regret that you married me, and not your old lover.”

  “What a question. You didn’t give me much choice, Rafe, remember?”

  His mouth thinned. “I did the right—”

  “If you say that one more time,” she said, her voice trembling, “I’m going to—to throw something at you.”

  Rafe’s face darkened. “Perhaps,” he said carefully, “we’ve said more than we should have today.”

  She knew he was furious and that he was trying to control his temper, just as she knew it would be smart for her to do the same thing, but she was beyond caution or logic, twisting under the torment of knowing she’d stupidly fallen in love with a man who would never love her.

  “Perhaps
,” she said, “we should have said it all sooner.”

  “Carin. I know this hasn’t been easy for you. This change in your life, I mean…” He stopped, looked at her, waited for her to tell him he was wrong but she didn’t. Deus, she didn’t!

  “You’re right. It has. Living here, in the middle of nowhere, far from my home, my friends…” She choked back a sob, wishing she missed her home, her friends, wishing she hadn’t come to love this place, or this man. “But you never stopped to think about that.”

  “I had no choice!”

  “Don’t shout at me, dammit!”

  “I am not shouting,” he roared. “I’m talking, and reminding you of what brought us to this point. This—this precious lover of yours abandoned you.”

  “So?”

  “So, you were so distraught that you went to bed with me.”

  “No!”

  “Ah. Forgive me for getting the details wrong. Perhaps you’ll refresh my memory, querida. We met. You had nothing on your mind but the party and having as much fun as possible, so you tumbled into bed with the first man you laid eyes on.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “No? Well, then, let’s try something else. We met. You were drunk. And, because you were drunk, going to bed with a stranger seemed like—”

  She slapped him. He caught her wrist, twisted her arm behind her and pulled her against him. She could feel the race of his heart, smell the anger coming off him like heat rising from the earth after a summer storm.

  “I was unhappy.” Her voice trembled; she looked up at him through eyes bright with tears of defiance. “You know that.”

  “Unhappy enough to go to bed with the first man who asked you?”

  “No! It wasn’t like that. You know that, too. What happened with us—with you and me—was—it was different.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It was.”

  Rafe looked at her for a long moment, waiting for her to say more, to tell him that going to bed with him had been different because—because it had been different.

  He felt his stomach knot.

  Why had it been different? Was she going to speak of love? To say that she loved him, or that he loved her? No. There was no such emotion as “love.” And if she spoke of it, told him that what had happened between them was love, he would tell her…he would tell her…

  “How was it different?” he said, and hated the coldness of his voice and the way his heart was banging in his throat, but suddenly he knew her answer would be the most important one in his life. “Tell me,” he said roughly, “how was making love with me different?”

  Carin wrenched her hand from his. She stood straight and tall, her dreams lying like a shattered mirror at her feet.

  “It was different,” she said, because all she had left was her pride, and the lie that would allow her to keep it, “because you made me pregnant.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PALE sunlight, too weak to give life to the autumn leaves, filtered through the trees in Central Park and barely penetrated the windows of the guest suite in Amanda’s New York City penthouse.

  The room, ordinarily bright and cheerful, seemed filled with gloom.

  Amanda, who had just entered, stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Carin. Her sister was seated in a blue velvet armchair with Amy in her arms. She was nursing her—or trying to nurse her, with what appeared to be little success.

  Amanda gently touched her own swollen belly. Then she fixed a smile to her lips, walked briskly into the room and switched on a lamp.

  “It’s dark as a dungeon in here,” she said brightly. She went to the windows, drew the blue velvet drapes and turned on another lamp. “I swear, if this keeps up we’re all going to need sunlamps.”

  She looked across the room at Carin, but she was devoting all her attention to Amy. The baby was fussing unhappily, nuzzling Carin’s breast and making annoyed little cries. Carin looked as if she was certain she’d failed at being a mother.

  Amanda watched for a while. If at first you don’t succeed, she thought, and sighed, and decided to give it one more try.

  “Carin?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Honey, why not try her on a bottle?”

  “She had a bottle, this morning.”

  “Well, sure. But if you’re having, uh, having trouble…”

  “I am not having trouble. I’m just going through a phase where things are taking longer. It’s perfectly normal.”

  “So is supplementing more of Amy’s feedings with a bottle, or even switching entirely, if you have to. The book says—”

  “I know what the book says.” Carin shifted the baby in her arms. “I bought it, remember?”

  “Well, sure, but…”

  Carin looked up, eyes narrowed. Okay, Amanda told herself, okay, be diplomatic. Remember what Nick told you he does when he’s dealing with a thickheaded government official. Say what needs saying, but do it with a smile.

  “I mean, I know you know what the book says. I just, uh, I just think you might have skimmed over some stuff, you know? Or maybe misread—”

  “I don’t believe this.” Carin glared at her sister. “You read one book on babies, your own isn’t even born yet, and, poof, you’re an expert?”

  “Poof,” Amanda said, trying to hang on to her patience, “I’m your sister. I love you. And I love my niece.”

  “So?”

  “So, I think you should reconsider putting Amy on bottles. And that you should stop looking at me as if you’d like to murder me. You’re stressed enough—”

  “I am not stressed.”

  “—stressed enough, without getting ticked off at me.”

  “Ticked off? Do I sound ‘ticked off’?”

  “No,” Amanda said sharply, “actually, you sound like a jerk.” Oh, hell. So much for patience and diplomacy. Amanda lifted her eyes to the ceiling in a silent plea for composure. “Sweetie, I’m sorry. You’re not a jerk. I am, for giving you such a hard time.”

  “No, you’re not,” Carin said, her voice wobbling. “You were right the first time. Come take the baby, will you?”

  Amanda hurried across the room and took Amy in her arms. “That’s my good girl,” she cooed, but the baby was only interested in getting a meal. “Oh, sweetheart, Aunt Ammy can’t help you…”

  “Aunt Ammy?” Carin said, with a little smile.

  Amanda looked up. “Well, I can’t see a baby going around saying ‘Aunt Amanda…’ It’s good to see you smile, Sis.”

  “Yeah.” Carin buttoned her blouse and got to her feet. “Okay,” she said briskly, “let’s go find the kitchen in this place and I’ll get Amy a bottle.”

  “What do you mean, find the kitchen?” Amanda looped her arm through Carin’s. “It’s right where it’s supposed to be, downstairs, tucked in among the trillion other rooms.” She grinned. “Would you believe this place is smaller than Nick’s palace?”

  “Would you believe you’d ever have seen anything bigger than Espada?”

  Amanda smiled as the women traipsed down the stairs. “No. And I’d never have believed I’d end up living in a penthouse—”

  “Don’t forget that palace!”

  Amanda laughed, handed the baby to Carin and set about preparing a bottle. “I’ll never forget it. Nick made certain of that, when he had me locked away in the harem. The crazy things men will do, when they’re in lo…” She bit her lip. “Damn! Sorry about that.”

  “About what?” Carin’s smile was very bright. “I don’t expect people to censor their conversation, just because I left Rafe. Nick did something nuts because he loved you, and he thought you didn’t love him. So? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened, whenever you’re talking to me?”

  “Well, yes. While the wound’s still fresh, anyway.”

  “What wound?” Carin laughed. “Honestly, there is no wound. I told you everything, Amanda. ‘Love’ had nothing to do with my marriage. Rafe married me because of Amy
, and he made it clear what a martyr he was, for having taken me as a wife.”

  “Bastard,” Amanda said, and took Amy from Carin’s arms. “Here you go, sweetie. Aunt Ammy has your supper, all nice and warm.”

  “Don’t call him that,” Carin said sharply.

  “Call him what? A bastard? For goodness’ sake, Carin, I’m only calling it as I see it. The man’s a—”

  “It’s a horrible word.”

  “Well, he’s a horrible—”

  “I never said he was horrible, did I?”

  “If he’s such a saint, why are you going to divorce him?”

  “I never said he was a saint, either. He’s just—he’s a man, that’s all. Rafe is just—”

  “Excuse me. Senhora Carin?”

  Amy’s nanny looked from Carin to Amanda, then back again. “I thought I would take Amy upstairs now, if that is all right with you.”

  Carin nodded. Gently, she took her daughter from Amanda’s arms. The baby had fallen asleep with the nipple from the bottle in her mouth. Carin kissed the top of her head, then carefully handed her to the nanny.

  “She’s been a little fretful.”

  “Sim, senhora.”

  “So, she might wake up. The way she used to, remember?”

  “Sim.”

  “If she does—”

  “If she does,” the nanny said politely, “I will call you at once.”

  Carin sighed. “Thank you, Teresa. Obrigado.”

  Amanda waited until the nanny carried the baby from the kitchen. Then she smiled at Carin.

  “Teresa seems very nice.”

  “Oh, she is.”

  “Capable, too.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Amanda busied herself at the stove. Carin took the cream pitcher from the refrigerator, the sugar from the cupboard. Minutes later, the sisters sat across from each other, sipping their coffee.

  “Good coffee.”

  “My only culinary talent.” Amanda grinned. “The cook is very relaxed about taking her day off. She knows she has nothing to fear from me.”

  “Is she the same cook you had before?”

  “Oh, sure. She’s been with Nick a long time.”

  “Mmm.” Carin drank some more coffee. “I remember those cookies you used to bake, when we were kids.”