The Disobedient Virgin

“Something with chicken.”

“Yes, but what? It’s definitely not the awful stuff we got at school.”

“Then why not call it that?” Jake said sarcastically as he turned to face her. “You know. Not The Awful Stuff We—” His jaw dropped. “A better question is, what is that?”

Cat glanced down at herself. She was wearing sweats. Well, that was what she called them. The truth was, the pants and shirt hadn’t come out quite as intended—partly because she’d cut and sewn them on the sly, and partly because sewing, as she’d already admitted, was not her strongest skill.

“It’s a sweatsuit,” she said, with a lift of the chin that warned Jake to leave the topic alone. “Not up to New York standards, perhaps, but I like it.”

Jake stared at her for a long minute. She’d showered. Her damp and glossy curls hung loose around her face, emphasizing its oval delicacy. The sweats were a bad joke and hung on her with room to spare. Still, he could see the thrust of her breasts beneath the cotton fabric, the roundness of her hips, the long length of her legs. Those bare toes that had turned him on before peeped out beneath the badly turned cuffs.

He wanted to laugh

at the picture she made but he couldn’t. Not when she also looked so sweet and vulnerable.

And incredibly, astoundingly sexy.

He swung away, rose from the stool and went to the cupboard. He took out dishes and napkins, rummaged in the drawer for forks and knives and spoons.

“Here,” he said brusquely, thrusting the stuff at Catarina. “Set the table.”

“Do you mean, set the counter?”

“Yes. Right. That’s what I meant.”

“Because there’s a difference, you know, between the proper way to set a breakfast bar and a table. For the one, these paper napkins are fine, but for the other—”

“Just set the damned thing,” Jake said through his teeth.

“You don’t have to use—”

“Obscenities. You’re wrong. I do. And if you don’t stop correcting me you’ll hear some that’ll singe your ears.”

Catarina lifted her eyebrows but kept silent as she laid out the china, flatware and napkins. She needed to get her guardian in a better mood. Babbling silly lessons learned at school wasn’t the way to do it, but she was nervous.

Yesterday she’d spent her first night ever in a hotel. Now she was about to spend her first night in a man’s apartment.

And to present that man with a plan.

She had to find a way to take back control of her life.

Take it back? She’d never had control in the first place. The school, the sisters, Mother Elisabete, her uncle and his attorney and now Jake Ramirez…They ruled her existence.

Now she was supposed to let that long line of regulators hand her off to a man who’d rule her, too?

Not without a fight.

The first glimmer of hope had come to her as she’d showered, washing her hair with a shampoo she’d found in the guest bathroom that smelled like vanilla and felt like silk. By the time she’d moved on to drying off, she’d had the start of a plan.

She’d opened bottles and tubes, taken deep sniffs, selected one that reminded her of roses. And, as she’d rubbed it into her skin, she had suddenly known exactly how to gain her freedom.

Actually, Jake was responsible—first talking about the differences between his culture and that of Brazil…

Then taking her in his arms and kissing her.

Those kisses had—they’d aroused her. But they’d aroused him, too. She’d felt his—felt his erection press against her belly.

Catarina swallowed dryly.