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Catarina sat up straight.
Arrival indeed, she thought, and emptied her mind of everything but the one thing that mattered.
Survival.
Rio was big and, even on a rainy day, cheerful.
New York was grey, cold, and as cheerless as a tomb.
Maybe it was the press of traffic. The crowded sidewalks. The tall buildings leaning in. Maybe it was because every other woman she saw—make that every woman she saw—was dressed in black. Chic black, but black nevertheless.
Jake’s apartment was on Fifth Avenue
, across from a huge stretch of green.
“Central Park,” he said, when she all but pasted her nose to the taxi window.
She wanted to ask him why this was called Fifth Avenue
instead of Park, since Park didn’t face anything close to grass and Fifth did. She wanted to ask him, too, where the favelas were located. Surely there were poor people living in this city.
But she didn’t. It was bad enough he’d caught her gawking at the scenery. He thought she was a country mouse. A childish country mouse. Why feed into that if she could avoid it?
His apartment was in a tall building facing the park. Gargoyles peered from the cornices and looked down at the street. The doorman greeted him by name and touched his cap politely at the sight of her. The elevator starter did the same before inserting a key into a slot.
A paneled and carpeted car whisked them up to the top floor.
To the top two floors. Jake’s apartment was a huge duplex with a breathtaking view. He led her down a long hall to a bedroom and connecting bath he said would be hers, and she was happy to see the rooms overlooked the park, too. The trees far below were gaunt and leafless, but she didn’t mind. There was something elegant about them, like monochrome sketches that matched the gray city sky.
Catarina had never seen such luxury or even imagined it. Her parents’ home had been handsome, but this was opulent. It occurred to her that she had no idea how much money it took to live this way—to live any way, for that matter—or how much she had inherited, but now wasn’t the time to ask.
“I suggest you unpack,” Jake said briskly, “and take a nap. Anna’s not here—”
“Anna?”
He nodded. “But she knew we were coming. I phoned this morning. She’ll have prepared something for dinner.”
He had a wife? A mistress? And he’d kissed her? Another thing to learn about men. Though on this subject at least Catarina had already heard. Brazilian men were not known for fidelity.
Apparently, neither were Americans.
“She has no objections to me staying here?”
“Why would she?”
Why, indeed? Jake was the man. The boss. And if it troubled her at all that he belonged to another woman that was just plain stupid. It was only that if he had a wife, that would spoil her plans.
Her guardian, even the Brazilian she’d marry, might not think much of fidelity, but she did.
“No reason,” Catarina said politely. “I just wasn’t aware of your customs.”
“My customs?”
“Your cultural customs. Regarding marriage.”
He stared at her blankly. Then his mouth twitched. “You think Anna’s my wife?”
“Is she your mistress?”
