The Disobedient Virgin

Maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe her birthday would arrive and she’d walk out the gates a free woman. No more men dictating the terms of her existence, no more Mother Elisabete forcing adherence to the rigid code of an earlier century. Above all else, no more impossible stipulation that she marry a suitable Brazilian husband within two months.

Footsteps were coming down the hall. Catarina shut the window, climbed into bed and pulled the blanket to her chin before she realized she hadn’t said her prayers.

She said them now. One prayer, anyway. A prayer to St. Teresa, her name saint, that her hopes for tomorrow might be realized.

She knew she ought to be satisfied with that, but Catarina’s genes weren’t one hundred percent Latin. Her mother had been a Boston-bred O’Brien. The nuns had done their best to make her forget that, but they hadn’t succeeded.

It was the O’Brien in Catarina that added an earthy pledge to the prayer.

A suitable Brazilian husband? No way. She didn’t plan on marrying anyone, let alone a horrible old man, which was what she knew those words meant.

Not even God would demand such a sacrifice.

Jake had never been to Rio before.

He’d read about it, knew that it was big, brassy and filled with contrasts, and, from the reactions of his fellow passengers in the American Airlines first-class cabin, he knew the approach over water had to be spectacular. But a glimpse of Sugar Loaf Mountain, another of waves breaking against the sand at Copacabana beach, and he lost interest.

He had a four o’clock appointment with Javier Estes. That was all he cared about. He’d get the names of his half-brothers—assuming Enrique’s will hadn’t been a lie—and head home.

Stepping out of the terminal was a shock. New York had been shivering in anticipation of an impending snowstorm. Here, the temperature had to be at least ninety. The sun was so bright it was damned near blinding.

Jake took a taxi to his hotel, showered, changed clothes, downed two minuscule cups of thick, sweet Brazilian coffee in hopes the combination of caffeine and sugar would reverse the effects of the flight, and headed out the door. He could hardly wait to tell

Estes what he could do with his dead client’s insane demands.

Estes’s secretary ushered him right into the attorney’s office. Some of the wind went out of Jake’s sails when he saw the man’s age. It was hard to take an aggressive approach to somebody who looked old enough to be your grandfather. Worse, Estes began the discussion by saying he assumed Jake was angry and he could well understand the reason.

“I tried to convince him not to make such demands,” Estes said, with a shake of his head, “but I am afraid your father was a very stubborn man.”

“He wasn’t my father,” Jake said stiffly. “Not in any meaningful sense of the word.”

Estes raised an eyebrow. “Some would say he was your father in the only meaningful sense of the word.” He held up a hand before Jake could speak. “Let me be sure you understand what he has left to you. One third of a very considerable estate, and—”

“I don’t want his money.”

“And,” Estes continued, “some information of a personal nature.”

“The names of my half-brothers.” Jake nodded. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”

“Then, I must ask you, Senhor Ramirez, are you prepared to meet the terms of the will?”

Jake sat back in his chair. “If you mean am I prepared to dance to a dead man’s tune, the answer is no.”

“I feared you would say that, senhor. Well, in that case, our meeting is at an end.” Estes began to get to his feet. “I wish you a pleasant flight home, and—”

“I haven’t come all this distance to turn tail and go home, Senhor Estes.”

“But you just said—”

“I want that information. I’ll take you to court to get it.”

“The document is unbreakable.” Estes smiled. “I know that because I wrote it myself.”

“Does the name José Marin mean anything to you?”

“Of course. He is a fine lawyer.”