“…a funny joke, yes?”
Carin nodded her head and laughed mechanically. Whatever joke the senhor had told, it couldn’t be half as funny as the one she’d thought of.
Question: How do you know a man is lying? Answer: His lips are moving.
Frank had fed her lies, said he loved her, and now he was in New York, standing at an altar and saying “I do” to another woman.
Enough, Carin thought, and in the middle of the senhor’s next joke, she took his hand, pumped it up and down and said it had been a pleasure, an absolute pleasure. Then she let go of his hand, tried not to let the wounded look in his puppy-dog eyes get to her, and made her way out of the living room, through the massive hall and into the library where a string quartet sawed away in direct opposition to the country fiddler holding court in the dining room.
A white-jacketed waiter was threading his way through the crowd, a tray of glasses balanced on his gloved hand.
“Hey,” she said to the waiter’s back.
It was an inelegant way to draw his attention; she knew her mother would have lifted her eyebrows and told her so, but it worked. The waiter turned towards her and Carin plucked a glass from the tray. This glass was short and squat, filled halfway with an amber liquid and chunks of fruit. She lifted it to her nose, took a sniff, then a sip. “Yuck,” she said, but she swallowed another mouthful, anyway.
Amanda came floating by in her husband’s arms. “Careful,” she sang softly, “or you’ll get blot-to.”
“Thank you for the sisterly advice,” Carin said as her sister sailed off.
Amanda was right. She would get blotto, if she weren’t careful. The only one of the three Brewster sisters who could hold liquor was Sam, and Sam wasn’t here. She was in Ireland, or France, or England. Wherever, whatever, Sam was probably having fun.
Well, she’d be careful. She didn’t want to get drunk. This was, after all, a social event. Not for her, maybe, but for everybody else. For Caitlin, certainly, and for her husband, Tyler Kincaid. She didn’t want to spoil their party. Her sister’s party. Well, not exactly her sister. Catie was her stepsister…Wasn’t she?
Carin drained the last of the amber stuff from the glass and plunked the empty on a table.
The falimial—familial—structure of the Barons, the Brewsters, the Kincaids and now the al Rashids, was complicated. She hiccuped, grinned, and made her way through the library on feet that felt encased in foam rubber.
“Better watch yourself, kid,” she whispered.
If she couldn’t think “familial,” much less say it, it might just be time to slow down the drinking…but not yet.
The hell with it. She was thirsty, and she was an adult. She could drink as much as she wanted.
She hiccuped. Loudly. She giggled, clapped a hand to her mouth and said, “’Scuse me,” to nobody in particular.
Somebody laughed. Not at her, surely. People laughed at parties, that was all. Most people came to parties to laugh. To have a good time. Not everyone came to try and forget what a complete ass they’d been made to look, and to feel.
What she needed right now was some fresh air. A cool breeze on her flushed cheeks. Carin made for the doors that led outside.
The thing of it was, Frank had claimed he didn’t want to get married. Not ever. She’d told him that was fine and it had been, at first, because what was marriage except two people making vows they never intended to keep? Not the man, anyway.
She slid the doors open, stepped out onto the middle level of Espada’s waterfall deck, and drew the soft night air deep into her lungs.
As for sex—how could marriage improve something that wasn’t so terrific to start with? Sex was sex, that was all, not the light-up-the-sky stuff people made it out to be.
Still, after a few months she’d started to think it might not be so bad, getting married. Companionship, at the end of the long day spent in her Wall Street office. Someone with whom to share the Sunday paper.
As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one who’d changed her mind. Frank had, too. Actually, it was pretty funny. He’d decided he wanted to get married, all right. Just not to her.
Carin swallowed hard.
She had to stop thinking about that. About him. About whatever it was she lacked that he’d found in Iris.
What she needed was something to eat. She hadn’t touched food in hours, except for that lobster thingy. And there was a marvelous buffet laid out in the house. Clams, oysters, lobster salad; prime ribs, poached salmon and quail.
What was on the menu at Frank’s wedding? She made a face. Snake’s belly, most likely, to suit the groom.
What was that? A prickle, on the back of her neck again. Uh-oh. He’d followed her, the Brazilian Bozo. She didn’t have to look; who else would it be? She wouldn’t even give him the satisfaction of turning around. Let Senhor Wonderful try his charms on some female who was interested in playing those games.
Frank had been above game-playing. That was what she’d thought, anyway. It was what she’d initially liked about him.
They’d met at a fund-raiser, and what a revelation he’d been! At least half a dozen men had come on to her that night, all of them using the oldest pickup lines in the world, everything from “Excuse me, but haven’t we met before?” to “I just had to tell you, you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”
Frank had walked straight up to her, offered his hand and his business card and said he’d heard about her from one of his clients.
“He described you as one of the best investment advisors in New York.”
Carin had smiled. “Not one,” she’d said. “I am the best.”
That had been the beginning of their relationship. They saw each other often but she had her life and he had his. That was how they’d both wanted it. Separate existences, no dependency—they’d discussed things honestly and pragmatically. No keys exchanged, no toothbrushes left in either apartment, his or hers.
Had he left a toothbrush in Iris’s bathroom?
“Hell,” Carin said, and planted her fists on the teak railing.
She was thirsty again. Surely, there was a bar out here. Hadn’t Jonas said something about a barbecue on the deck? Was that hickory smoke she smelled, wafting up from the first level? If there was a barbecue, there’d surely be a bar.
Carin headed for the steps. They were wide and straight; she’d never had trouble with them before but tonight, for some reason, she had to hang on to the railing to keep from tripping over her own feet.
“A glass of sauvignon blanc, please,” she told the bartender when she found him.
Actually, her tongue tripped the way her feet had. What she said sounded more like “A grass of so-vee-on brahnk, pease,” and she almost giggled but the bartender gave her a funny look so she looked straight back at him, her brows lifted, her gaze steady. “Well?” she said, and waited.
At last, he poured the wine and gave the glass to her but her hand was, for some reason, unsteady. The pale gold liquid slopped over the side. She frowned, licked the wine from her hand, drained what remained and held out her glass.
“Again,” she said.
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Red, then, if you’re out of the white.” She smiled, to make it clear she really wasn’t particular. He didn’t smile back.
“I really am sorry, ma’am, but I believe you’ve had enough.”
Carin’s eyes narrowed. She leaned forward; the simple action made her woozy but why wouldn’t it? This was summer in Texas, even if this was hill country, and the night was warm.
“What do you mean, you think I’ve had enough? This is a bar, isn’t it? You’re a bartender. You’re here to pour drinks for people, not to be the sobrie—sobree—not be the ‘too much to drink’ police.”
“I’ll be happy to get you some coffee.”
He spoke softly but everyone around them had fallen silent and his words seemed to echo on the night air. Carin flushed.
r /> “Are you saying you think I’m drunk?”
“No, ma’am. But—”
“Then, pour me a drink.”
“Ma’am.” The bartender leaned towards her. “How about that coffee?”
“Do you know who I am?” Carin heard herself say. She winced mentally, but her mouth seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “Do you know—”
“He knows. And if you do not shut that lovely mouth, so will everyone else.”
The voice came from just over her shoulder. It was masculine, low-pitched, and lightly accented. The Latin Lover, Carin thought, and turned around.
“I suppose you think this is your big chance,” she said, or started to say, but she didn’t finish the sentence.
In spite of the accent, this wasn’t the man. This was someone she hadn’t seen before. Tipsy or not—and hell, yes, okay, she was, maybe, a little bit potted—she’d have remembered him.