The Disobedient Virgin

“But—but I don’t want to…” Catarina heard the mounting panic in her voice and took a deep breath. So far she was certain she’d managed to keep from showing how terrified she was. It was all the protection she had. “I don’t see why you’re taking me to the United States. If I have to find a—a suitable Brazilian husband, this is the place to do it.”

“I’m taking you there because it’s where I live,” he said brusquely. “My home is there. My office. I have people who depend on me.”

“And I,” she said, lifting her chin, “have nothing and no one. Is that what you’re saying, senhor?”

“Yes. No. Damn it, Catarina—”

“It is not proper for a man to use such language in front of a woman.” Tears burned her eyes. You will not cry, she told herself, and lifted her chin a notch. “Neither is it proper for a man to address a woman so intimately.”

“Great. Just great! Is that how you’re going to handle things? Each time we get to an impasse you’re going to toss some ridiculous nineteenth-century rule of etiquette in my face?”

“Etiquette is the glue that holds society together.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Jake strode toward her, his eyes snapping with anger. “Stop quoting Mother Elisabete to me. Maybe I haven’t made this clear. You’re done with that school, done with its antiquated notions. This time next week you’ll be living in New York, wearing clothes that don’t look as if they were sewn together by a—a band of monkeys, meeting people—”

“I made my clothes myself,” she said, and the tears she’d tried to control began streaming down her cheeks.

“Catarina. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you, but—”

“I hated that class,” she sobbed. “I hate sewing!”

Hell, Jake thought unhappily. He put his arm around her.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she said, her tears coming faster and harder. “I never cry.”

Maybe not, but right now she was weeping as if her heart were going to break. Clumsily, Jake drew her closer, put his other arm around her and patted her on the back.

“And I won’t be meeting people. I’ll be meeting men so you can find me a proper Brazilian husband. Do you know what that means, senhor?”

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Jake didn’t know what anything meant. Not with Catarina in his arms. He’d meant his gesture to be kind. Brotherly. Avuncular. Yet somehow she was pressed against him, her body warm and supple against his.

Her face was buried against his shoulder; her hair brushed his nose. She smelled of soap and shampoo and sorrow, and he was the cause of it. Her unhappiness was all his fault.

“A proper Brazilian husband,” she sobbed, “will be a man who believes he owns me.”

“Hush,” Jake said softly, sweeping his hand up, then down her spine.

“That’s how it is here. Men are kings!”

“I won’t choose someone like that.”

“You’ll choose the first man who meets the criteria of the will!” She drew back in his arms and stared up at him through tear-washed eyes. “You said it yourself. You have only two months to marry me off.”

“Catarina—”

“I don’t understand how you can do this! What can you possibly gain that’s so important?”

Jake had no answer. What could he say that wouldn’t reveal more about himself than he’d ever revealed to another person? Could he say I have two half-brothers somewhere in this world but I don’t know who they are? Could he admit he’d been sired by a man who had the morals of a tomcat?

And why should he have to explain himself to this woman? No matter how you looked at it, none of this was his doing.

Jake took a deep breath, let go of her and stepped back.

“It’s late,” he said flatly, “and we have a long day tomorrow.”