The Disobedient Virgin

He sat up and stared blindly at the sitting room wall.

Someday he’d have to look up the guy who’d given him and his roommates a quick course in meditation his first year at college.

Hey, Bill, he’d say, thanks for saving my butt one night in Rio.

And to think he’d almost laughed aside the offer, then fallen in with everybody else because the guy had sworn it was the reason he’d scored a bunch of As first semester.

Jake had come up with a mixed bag of grades, but tonight—tonight, without those half-forgotten mental exercises, his pulse-rate would have quadrupled and he’d have come off the bed at the speed of sound, tumbled Catarina beneath him, stripped off her clothes and buried himself deep inside her.

And that would only have been the start.

Jake shot to his feet, went to the minibar, took out a doll-sized bottle of brandy and drank down the contents.

He was in trouble. Deep trouble. His only out was to get back to New York, find a husband for Catarina as fast as he could, then wave goodbye as she turned into another man’s problem.

Another man’s pleasure.

A muscle knotted in his jaw.

“Damn you, Enrique,” Jake muttered. He went back to the minibar, took out another toy bottle of brandy and drained it dry.

Then he lay down on a sofa that was too short, too narrow, too much like the rack in a dungeon he deserved, and did his best to get some sleep.

Catarina awakened to the sound of rain.

Remarkable, she thought drowsily, that it would rain in Rio this time of year.

Her eyes flew open. But not half as remarkable as the fact that she’d spent the night in bed with a man.

She shot up against the pillows before she realized she was alone. No Jake, just an empty space beside her. The only reminder of the night was the brightly colored length of silk he’d used to bind her to him. It lay draped over the headboard like an exotic snake.

That…and the memory of how she’d touched him while he slept. But why waste time thinking about those moments? A little temporary insanity after the day she’d endured was understandable.

What she did have to think about was escape. Jake could not take her to the States. She would not permit it.

Where was he, anyway? Probably on the other side of the closed door, waiting for her in the sitting room.

Her dress and leather satchel were on a chair. Courtesy of her captor, no doubt. Catarina grabbed both, went into the bathroom, locked the door and got fresh undergarments and her toothbrush from the satchel.

Moments later, she stepped back into the room.

She was still alone, but she knew better than to hope that Jake was gone. She knew precious little about him, but she’d have bet her life he wasn’t a man to walk away from something he saw as his responsibility—though how she’d become that was beyond her.

Okay. Catarina took a deep breath. He was waiting in the next room—unless she’d gotten lucky. Maybe he was in the second bedroom. Maybe he’d stepped out. Gone down for breakfast, to get a newspaper, to do whatever a man like him did in the morning.

Maybe now was her chance to get away.

If she could slip out of the suite, make it to the lobby, then to the front doors…Yes, but how? Jake had spread a story that she was a crazy woman. A quick look in the mirror assured her that his story was believable.

She was an unholy mess.

She wouldn’t have thought her dress, which was functional if not pretty, could look any worse than the day she’d put in the final stitches. It did. The dress was a mass of wrinkles.

And her hair looked like a demented bird’s idea of a nest. She was an awful sight. Compared to the women Jake Ramirez normally slept with, she was probably…

Heat rose in her face.

She hadn’t slept with him, she’d slept beside him. Anyway, why did she give a damn about the women he knew? They probably fought over the right to get his attention. Well, she had his attention and she wished to heaven she didn’t—and if she stood around here much longer she’d be the victim of his attention all over again.