The Alvares Bride

With that, he marched up to the pool and dumped her straight into it.

She landed on her bottom, legs splayed, up to her hips in water. Showered and sober, he thought with satisfaction, because the nymph was no longer emptying the ewer into the pool, she was emptying it over Carin Brewster’s head.

A hush fell over everything. Even the cascading water seemed to grow silent. Carin’s mouth opened; her lips formed a stunned, “Oh…”

And then she let out a blood-curdling shriek.

What a pity, to ruin such a lovely dress, Rafe thought dispassionately. What there was of it. Black silk, cut low enough to show the ripe curves of her breasts, high enough to show the long length of her legs. Wet, the silk clung lovingly to her body; he saw her nipples peak from the sudden chill of the water.

Beautiful, indeed, but that was all. She was nothing a man in his right mind would want…

Not for a lifetime, no. But she might prove interesting, for a night.

With heart-stopping swiftness, Rafe felt his body respond. It would be a challenge, getting past that hot temper, searching out ways to turn the fury in those dark eyes to passion. He could do it, though. He could tame her in bed, as he had tamed her here.

He imagined stripping off that black dress and the hint of black lace he could see beneath it, letting those long legs close around him as he cupped that lovely face in his hands and tasted that full, soft-looking mouth…

Deus. Was he crazy? Carin Brewster was beautiful but the Baron mansion was, as Jonas had promised, filled with beautiful women who were sweet-tempered, soft-spoken and sober, though he suspected Carin was sober enough, now. The combination of anger, adrenaline and cold water would have ended her alcoholic haze.

Yes, he thought, as he looked down at her, it had. Her shrieks had turned into moans; she was holding her hands to her temples as she tried to struggle to her feet.

Despite himself, he felt a stab of pity. He hesitated, then moved closer, bent down and held out his hand.

“Here,” he said, “take my hand.”

The woman looked at it as if it were a snake with its fangs bared. He supposed he could hardly blame her.

“Do you hear me, senhora? Take my hand and I’ll help you up.”

“I’d sooner stay here all night.”

“Are you determined to go on behaving like a spoiled brat? Let me help you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of helping myself.”

She tried to prove it by scrambling to her feet but she slipped on the wet marble, made a wild grab at the air, and Rafe ended up with her in his arms again.

“Do not do that,” she said furiously. “Just put me—”

“—down,” he said. “Yes, most assuredly, that is what I intend to do.” He set her on her feet, peeled off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. She tried to shrug it off but he lifted her hair free of the collar—the water had ruined the curls that had been swept up high on her head. He drew the lapels together and held the jacket closed.

“I don’t need your jacket. I don’t need anything from you.”

“You are cold.”

“I am wet,” Carin snapped, “and if you try very, very hard, you might just be able to figure out the reason.”

“You were drunk.”

“And?”

“And, now you are not.”

“Wonderful. Is that some special Brazilian method used to deal with hangovers? Didn’t you ever hear of black coffee?”

“I suggested coffee, but you declined it.”

“And so you d-d-decided to take th-things into your own hands.”

He frowned. “Your teeth are chattering.”

“So wou-would yours, if s-someone dropped you in a f-fountain.”

“Come.” He reached for her; she drew back.

“I’m n-not going anyplace w-with you.”

She lifted her chin and glared at him. Rafe thought about arguing, thought better of it, sighed and hoisted her into his arms again.

“Hey!” Her voice rose as he started back through the gardens. “Do you have a d-death w-wish? I told you, my family w-will…”

“They will visit you in the hospital,” he said grimly, “if you don’t behave yourself and get out of those wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

“That I’m soaked to the skin isn’t your pr-problem, dammit, it’s your f-fault!”

“You’re also sober, or haven’t you considered that?”

“I can’t be sober. I mean, assuming I were drunk, which I wasn’t, how could I be sober five minutes later?”

“Cold water. There are times, if one is fortunate, it has that effect.”

“How would you know?”

“A man knows these things.” Especially if he’d ever had one drink too many, trying to prove himself in a backwater bar on the Amazon, Rafe thought, and shuddered. “Put your arms around my neck, please, Senhora Brewster.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Rafe sighed, debated the wisdom of tossing her over his shoulder and, once again, decided against it.

“Is there an entrance to the house that will permit us to avoid the other guests? Unless, of course, you prefer a dramatic entrance. It might be quite effective, considering the exit you made.”

“That’s your story, senhor, but you were the one who made the scene.”

“The bartender might not agree.”

“What bar…” she began to say, and then he heard her catch her breath. He knew it was all coming back to her and that once it had, she would be crushed. “Oh. That bartender.” She cleared her throat. “I—I remember now.”

“Indeed?”