The French porcelain clock in the upstairs hall struck six. Drinks at eight, wasn’t that what he’d said? Drinks at eight, dinner at nine. She was to bathe, dress in something long and feminine, come down to greet his guests and behave like the perfect wife. At evening’s end, he would permit her to sleep in his bed. And someday soon, he was certain, she’d crawl to him on her belly, begging to be petted like a favored house cat.
“In your dreams, senhor,” she said coldly.
His suite of rooms was at the other end of the house. Her heart was pounding by the time she reached the door. She raised her hand to knock, but she didn’t. If she was to share his space, she would not come to him like a supplicant. She took a deep breath, hoped the butterflies in her stomach wouldn’t turn into a swarm, and opened the door.
She stood in the entrance to a sitting room. And it was empty.
Carin shut the door and sagged back against it. Bravado could only carry you just so far, and hers had vanished. Her knees seemed to be made of rubber as she surveyed the emperor’s lair. Breathe in, she told herself as she walked towards a doorway that she knew would lead to the bedroom. Breathe out. And whatever you do, don’t look at the bed…But how could she avoid looking at it? It would probably be covered in black satin, it would fill the center of the room, there’d be mirrors in the ceiling above it…
She laughed.
It was just a bed.
Oversize, yes, but that was all. No mirrors, no black satin, just a handsome four-poster covered with a white duvet and heaped with pillows. The bed faced a wall of glass that looked out on an enclosed terrace lush with potted plants and shrubs.
There was a mirrored wall to her left. There was a wall just like it in one of the Baron guest rooms; she knew the mirrors would hide a dressing room that led to a bathroom and shower. Yes, there was the latch.
Carin slid the doors open. Rafe’s clothes hung neatly in an alcove on the left…and there were her things, hanging on the opposite side.
The butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings and rose in a whirling cluster. There was a disturbing intimacy to seeing her clothing and his, together. She knew it was dumb to feel that way. Dressing rooms were dressing rooms, nothing more…
Except, this dressing room was Rafe’s. And he was her husband.
Carin slid the door shut. “Stop it,” she said under her breath. Bluebeard had been somebody’s husband, too. Being a “husband” didn’t make a man a good guy. Rafe certainly wasn’t. He was a cold-hearted dictator, who thought he owned her.
Well, he didn’t.
He could never own her, no matter what he believed.
She took a steadying breath and opened the mirrored door again. Rafe’s cool, commanding voice rang in her head. Bathe, he’d said, as if she wouldn’t have known enough to do that unless he ordered it. Put on perfume. Wear something long and feminine.
Long and feminine, indeed.
He was going to put her on display tonight, for his friends. She knew what sort of woman they’d expect, at least, she could take a pretty good guess. Dona Alvares would be a credit to her husband’s good taste. She’d be perfectly groomed, elegantly gowned and coiffed, docile and well-behaved. Her every smile would make it clear that her only purpose in life was to please her master.
Rafe’s wife would be a cat, she thought, with a taut smile, just as he’d suggested. A creature who lived to be stroked and petted, and to spend its nights in its master’s bed.
Carin slapped her hands on her hips. “Cats have claws, senhor,” she said, as if Rafe were standing in front of her. “You seem to have forgotten that.”
A cat with claws would not follow orders. Long and feminine, indeed, she thought grimly, as she ran her eye over the garments hanging before her. No, not the black silk. Not the red one, either. Impatiently, she pawed through her dresses. Any one of them would have suited her would-be master, but that was all the more reason they wouldn’t suit her…What was this? She’d never owned anything like this soft rose silk, or this slender bit of silver…
Carin’s breath caught.
These were the things Rafe had bought for her. She’d forgotten that he’d done that, or maybe it was more honest to say she’d studiously ignored it. The first couple of weeks after he’d brought her to Rio de Ouro, boxes and packages had arrived with stunning regularity, all of them bearing her name, but as soon as she’d realized what they’d contained, she’d stopped opening them.
“I don’t want anything my husband buys me,” she’d told Elena. “Give the stuff away. Burn it. Do whatever you like, do you understand?”
It was obvious Elena hadn’t done that. Instead, she’d tucked his gifts here, in Rafe’s dressing room. Now, for the first time, Carin saw all the things he’d bought for her.
They were beautiful. Soft silks. Iridescent satins. Butter-soft cashmeres.
She touched her hand to the rose gown, then to the shimmering column of silver. The colors, the cuts, were perfect. She’d have selected them herself, if she’d been Cinderella with a fortune at her disposal. The silver gown, especially.
How terrible would it be just to look?
She slid the gown from its hanger, held it against her body, looked into the mirror and sighed with pleasure. Oh, it was exquisite, simple and low-cut, with thin straps and a long, narrow skirt.
Carin put one hand into her hair, swept it high on top of her head. Yes, she’d do it just like that, with a couple of strands tumbling loose around her cheeks and maybe at the nape of her neck.
Her eyelids drooped. She imagined leaving the bedroom, going slowly downstairs, to Rafe. His eyes would darken when he saw her; he’d hold out his hand and she’d take it, entwine her fingers with his.
“Querida,” he’d say, not mockingly but with tightly-controlled passion, and she’d smile and lift her face for his kiss, and as the kiss deepened he’d lift her into his arms and carry her back up the stairs, here, to his room, to his bed…
“No!”
The word burst from her throat. She tossed the silver gown on the floor, pushed all the rest of the clothes Rafe had bought her aside…
And found what she would wear tonight.
The lime-green nightmare she was supposed to have worn for Frank and Iris’s wedding.
She waited to feel something, anything, a stab of pain or a rush of anger, but she felt nothing. It was as if all of that had happened to someone else, not to her.
Iris had sent her that note, asking her to pass the gown on. She hadn’t. She remembered standing in her bedroom, reading the note, then looking at the gown.
“I bought it,” she’d said grimly. “I paid for it. And I’m going to have the pleasure of shredding it into a million pieces of shiny polyester…”
But she’d forgotten all about it and now, here it was, packed by Marta or whoever had come in to empty her apartment and send her clothing to her, the stereotypical bridesmaid’s dress that people joked about.
Actually, it was worse than that. It was, plain and simple, a horror. Not her color, not her style. It was the ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever owned.
She took the gown from its hanger, held it against her body and looked into the mirror. The color was hideous, made even worse by gold ruffles at the neck and hem, and by the unhealthy shine of the fabric. There were dyed-to-match shoes, too, clumsy things with stubby heels and long, pointed toes.
Iris had loved it. She’d dragged her into the Beautiful Brides shop at the mall, gushing about the perfect dresses she’d found for her attendants.
“Isn’t this stunning?” she’d said, and Carin had finally said well, well, it certainly was unusual…
“Unusual” was the word.
What had Rafe commanded? Long and feminine. That’s what he wanted, so he could exhibit his conquest properly.
She smiled. The gown was long, and Iris had thought it was feminine.
“Don’t ask for something unless you’re sure you know what it is you’re going to get,
senhor,” Carin said softly.
She laid the gown on the bed, put the shoes on the carpet, locked the door and began to prepare for her debut as Dona Alvares.
For a man who was all ego, it was going to be a very long night.
* * *
At seven, Carin stepped from the shower. The tub had been tempting but what was the sense of taking a bath in something so big and beautiful if you didn’t dump in some beads of bath oil? And she wasn’t going to do that.
She wasn’t readying herself for a party, she thought coldly, she was readying herself for revenge.
She wrapped herself in an oversize towel, padded, barefoot, through ankle-deep carpeting to the bedroom…and turned rigid with shock, at the sound of someone at the door. Heart pounding, clutching the towel, she swung towards it. The knob was turning but that was all it was doing. The lock held.
“Carin?”
Rafe. Of course. How had she managed to forget that he’d expect to shower and dress, too? Her heart went into overdrive.
“Yes?” she said, hoping she sounded cool and unconcerned.
“Unlock the door.”
No “please.” No “would you kindly.” Just words spoken as a command. She straightened her shoulders, pushed her wet hair back from her face and glared at the door.
“No.”