The Alvares Bride. Sandra Marton

long day spent in her Wall Street office. Someone with whom to share the Sunday paper.

      As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one who’d changed her mind. Frank had, too. Actually, it was pretty funny. He’d decided he wanted to get married, all right. Just not to her.

      Carin swallowed hard.

      She had to stop thinking about that. About him. About whatever it was she lacked that he’d found in Iris.

      What she needed was something to eat. She hadn’t touched food in hours, except for that lobster thingy. And there was a marvelous buffet laid out in the house. Clams, oysters, lobster salad; prime ribs, poached salmon and quail.

      What was on the menu at Frank’s wedding? She made a face. Snake’s belly, most likely, to suit the groom.

      What was that? A prickle, on the back of her neck again. Uh-oh. He’d followed her, the Brazilian Bozo. She didn’t have to look; who else would it be? She wouldn’t even give him the satisfaction of turning around. Let Senhor Wonderful try his charms on some female who was interested in playing those games.

      Frank had been above game-playing. That was what she’d thought, anyway. It was what she’d initially liked about him.

      They’d met at a fund-raiser, and what a revelation he’d been! At least half a dozen men had come on to her that night, all of them using the oldest pickup lines in the world, everything from “Excuse me, but haven’t we met before?” to “I just had to tell you, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

      Frank had walked straight up to her, offered his hand and his business card and said he’d heard about her from one of his clients.

      “He described you as one of the best investment advisors in New York.”

      Carin had smiled. “Not one,” she’d said. “I am the best.”

      That had been the beginning of their relationship. They saw each other often but she had her life and he had his. That was how they’d both wanted it. Separate existences, no dependency—they’d discussed things honestly and pragmatically. No keys exchanged, no toothbrushes left in either apartment, his or hers.

      Had he left a toothbrush in Iris’s bathroom?

      “Hell,” Carin said, and planted her fists on the teak railing.

      She was thirsty again. Surely, there was a bar out here. Hadn’t Jonas said something about a barbecue on the deck? Was that hickory smoke she smelled, wafting up from the first level? If there was a barbecue, there’d surely be a bar.

      Carin headed for the steps. They were wide and straight; she’d never had trouble with them before but tonight, for some reason, she had to hang on to the railing to keep from tripping over her own feet.

      “A glass of sauvignon blanc, please,” she told the bartender when she found him.

      Actually, her tongue tripped the way her feet had. What she said sounded more like “A grass of so-vee-on brahnk, pease,” and she almost giggled but the bartender gave her a funny look so she looked straight back at him, her brows lifted, her gaze steady. “Well?” she said, and waited.

      At last, he poured the wine and gave the glass to her but her hand was, for some reason, unsteady. The pale gold liquid slopped over the side. She frowned, licked the wine from her hand, drained what remained and held out her glass.

      “Again,” she said.

      The bartender shook his 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