The Alvares Bride. Sandra Marton

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. He was thinking about the dream again. And about the woman. Would he never be able to get her out of his head?

      Rafe reached for the phone.

      Might as well move up his departure…but once he had his pilot on the line, he canceled the flight entirely. After that, he telephoned São Paulo, left messages of regret on the answering machine of the man he’d intended to meet and then on Claudia’s. She never stirred until late morning; he still remembered that. There was no reason to think she’d changed, even in the five years since he’d ended their engagement.

      His behavior was out of character, he knew. Not putting aside lunch with Claudia. She’d pout, but it was not a problem. Canceling his meeting—that was different. He had not built his empire of horses, cattle and banks by doing things precipitously, but what was the logic of trying to concentrate on business when his thoughts were not in Brazil but tangled in a dream that made no sense?

      Even if Carin were in trouble, he was the last man in the world she would want beside her.

      Rafe changed into a black T-shirt, faded jeans and the scuffed riding boots he’d owned since he’d come to Rio de Ouro more than a decade before. Perhaps a long ride would clear his head. Down at the stables, he waved off his men, led his horse from its stall and saddled it. He mounted the stallion and touched its flanks lightly with his heels.

      He’d put the Brewster woman out of his thoughts months ago, and with good reason. She’d made it clear that what had happened meant nothing. An hour was all she’d wanted of him…one hour, when he’d stood in for another man.

      Not that he’d wanted more of her. He’d only sought her out in the first place because courtesy demanded it. He’d been a guest at a party he’d had no real wish to attend, and one of his hostess’s daughters—the wife of a friend, in fact, the very friend who’d introduced him to Jonas Baron, and to the Baron stables—had said that she hoped he’d meet her sister.

      The rest of the Barons had hinted at the same thing.

      “Gonna be lots a’ good-lookin’ women at the party,” Jonas had told him, and grinned. “Sounds like a pretty fine weekend to me, Alvares. Spend the day vettin’ that stallion you’re interested in, spend the evenin’ checkin’ out some of Texas’s finest fillies.”

      Marta Baron had smiled as Jonas handed her a sherry. “My husband is right, you know. There’ll be some charming young women at the party. I’m sure they’ll all want to meet you.”

      “How nice,” Rafe had replied, lying politely. Why did women of a certain age seem to view all unmarried males as a challenge? “But I hadn’t planned on staying for the party—”

      “Oh, please do!” Amanda al Rashid took her husband’s arm. “Really, Rafe, it’ll be fun. My sister, Carin, will be flying in from New York. Did I mention that?”

      Warning bells rang in Rafe’s head. He knew that smile, knew that all-too-casual tone of voice.

      “No,” he’d said, even more politely, “you didn’t.”

      “Ah. Well, she is. And I just know you’ll hit it off.”

      “I’m sure we will,” Rafe had replied.

      That had been lie number two. He had no such expectation but then, he’d been down this road before. Many times, in fact. Mothers, aunts, the wives of his business acquaintances…there were moments he could almost believe that every woman on the planet had a daughter, sister or niece she was certain he’d like.

      It went, as the North Americans said, with the territory. He was thirty-four, he was single; he had money and property and, according to the things women said to him in bed, he supposed he had what were known as good looks. The only thing he didn’t have was a wife—but why would he want one?

      Still, he hadn’t wished to insult his host, his hostess, his friend and his friend’s wife, all at the same time. So he’d stayed for the party and gone looking for the woman. A polite hello, followed by an equally polite apology for retiring early, had seemed simple enough.

      Except, it hadn’t worked out that way.

      Rafe reined in the horse and stared blindly into the distance. Instead of finding the woman, he’d found a spitting, hissing, wildcat.

      And he’d taken her to bed.

      He’d had many women in his life. More than his share, some would say, but never one like her.

      The way she had gone into his arms, as if he were the only man she’d ever wanted. The wildness in her kisses. The way her body had hummed with delight under his hands and mouth. Deus, she’d set him on fire. Her climax had made him feel as omnipotent as a god; his, seconds