The Alvares Bride. Sandra Marton
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Her eyes met his. There was something else there now, not pain, not despair. Indeed, what he saw made his blood throb. He reached out; she stepped back but he clasped her wrists and stopped her. “Why did you do it?” His tone was rough, almost urgent. “Why did you do that to yourself tonight?”
“This was—it was a difficult weekend for me.” She licked her lips. “That’s really why I came to the party. I wasn’t going to, but my sister thought it would be a good idea. Obviously, she was wrong.”
Rafe smiled. “An interesting woman, your sister.”
“What do you mean?”
“She urged me to meet you. She said you were beautiful, and charming, and that I would find you fascinating.”
Carin blushed. “She didn’t!”
“No.” He grinned. “Not exactly, but she certainly made it clear that she thought you and I would be a good match.”
“Oh, isn’t that awful?” Carin rolled her eyes. “Actually, she talked you up, too. She said you were this incredibly handsome, incredibly charming, incredibly everything man. I just had to meet you, she said, because you were—”
“Incredible,” Rafe said, and they both laughed.
“Uh-huh. And I figured, if Mandy thought you such a paragon—”
“—you wanted no part of me.” He was still holding her wrists. Now, he lifted them and brushed his lips across the backs of her hands. “Nor I, of you. It was, how do you say, too much of a buildup.”
“I’m sure she never mentioned I’d be doing my best to get pie-eyed.”
“Pie…? Ah.” He grinned. “No. No, she did not.” Slowly, his smile faded. “Are you going to tell me what this thing was, that happened to you? That made you want to drink yourself into oblivion tonight?”
He watched the swift play of emotions in her face, knew she was considering a dozen different easy answers, and saw the instant when she decided to tell him the truth.
“A man who once meant something to me is…” She hesitated. “He’s getting married tonight.”
“Ah.” Another strand of dark hair slipped across her cheek. Rafe stroked it away from her face again but this time, he let his hand linger against her skin. She was so soft to the touch. So beautiful. What sort of man would want another woman, when he could have her?
“I am sorry you were hurt, querida.”
“Don’t be. Besides, that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have behaved like a fool.”
His hands cupped her face. He tilted it up to his, his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones.
“It is this man you mourn who is the fool, not you.”
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to try and make me feel better, but really—”
“Do you think I would tell you such a thing if I didn’t believe it?” He clasped her shoulders and drew her towards him. “What man would want another woman, if he could have you?”
He bent his head and kissed her, gently at first, the merest brush of his mouth on hers. He told himself he meant this kiss as reassurance but she looked up at him, her lips parted, the pulse pounding, hard, in the hollow of her throat, and he knew he’d been lying to himself.
He’d kissed her because he wanted her taste on his tongue.
“Carin.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her again, more deliberately, and just when he thought he’d misread what he’d seen in her eyes, she moaned and brought her body against his, opened her mouth and kissed him back.
He could feel his heart thundering. He wanted her, wanted her as he could not recall ever wanting a woman before. Some still-logical part of his brain warned him that wanting her so desperately made no sense, that taking her when she was longing for another man could only be an error, but now she was digging her hands into his hair, bringing his head down to hers, seeking his tongue with her own.
Rafe stopped thinking.
He groaned and gathered her close, ran his hand down her back, lifted her into him, tilting her so that she could feel his hardness straining against her. When she moaned and moved against him, he drew back, even though it took every bit of self-control he possessed.
“Look at me, Carin,” he said roughly. “Look at me, and see that I am not the man who lost you.”
“I know that.” She put her hands flat against his chest. “But you are the man I want.”
Rafe swept her into his arms, carried her to the bed. She was like flame, burning with need. She was silk under his hands, under his mouth…
“Senhor Raphael!”
The cry brought him back to reality. He blinked, tore his thoughts from that night and saw his houseman galloping towards him on the back of a lathered mare. His gut clenched. Joao feared horses; the men teased him mercilessly. He never rode, they said, unless disaster was imminent.
Rafe tugged on the reins, rode to meet him. “What is it?”
“A telephone call, senhor, from a woman who gives her name as Amanda Brewster al Rashid. She says it is urgent, that it concerns her sister…”
“Carin,” Rafe whispered.
He spurred his horse, bent low over the outstretched neck, and raced for the house.
CHAPTER THREE
RAFE. Rafe, where are you?
Carin cried out in silence, her voice echoing only inside her head.
This is a dream, she kept telling herself, only a dream. Open your eyes and wake up.
She couldn’t. Her lids felt as if they’d been weighted with lead, her lashes glued to her cheeks. The more she tried, the tighter the dream held her. Still, she fought to leave it. The rational part of her mind warned her that if she were to succumb to the dark, the path she took would lead to nothingness.
Eventually, the darkness began loosening its hold. She floated in a kind of foggy twilight. Voices penetrated the silence, urging her to open her eyes and leave the dream behind.
Wake up, Carin.
Come on, Ms. Brewster. Open your eyes.
Carin, sweetie, please, please, look at me.
She recognized the voices. Her doctor. Her sister. She heard her mother and her stepfather, too, but what were they all doing here? What? she asked herself desperately, and felt herself floating away…but the voices wouldn’t let it happen.
“Carin,” her doctor said, “come on, Carin. It’s time to wake up.”
“Oh, darling,” Marta said, “look at us, please. Can you do that, Carin?”
“Carrie,” Amanda said firmly, “stop this nonsense and open your eyes right now.”
She almost smiled, then. Nobody had called her “Carrie” in years and years.
And then a hand took hers. Warm, strong fingers pressed into her own, entwined with hers.
“Carin,” a voice whispered, close to her ear. “Do you hear me? You must open your eyes now and look at me.”
Rafe? Was he here, holding her hand, sitting beside her and offering her comfort as he had done once before? Of course not. She had been dreaming of him again, just as she had during the past months, and wasn’t that dumb because he’d made it clear he never wanted to see her again.
Not that she wanted to see him. What they’d done—what she’d done—was wrong. Ugly. Shameful. Never mind the excitement of it, the heat of his hands, the ecstasy of feeling him deep inside her…
“Rafe,”