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“If you’re thinking of turning this into a ménage à trois, forget about it, hotshot!”
“A ménage à…” Jake glowered at Samantha. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Samantha got to her feet. “Do us both a favor. Go home to your little Brazilian. It’s obviously where you really want to be.”
She strode past him toward the door. Jake pulled several bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table, then hurried after her. On the sidewalk, he caught her arm and turned her toward him.
“Just for the record, Catarina isn’t my lover,” he said quietly. “You know I’d never have asked you out tonight if she were.”
The anger faded from Sam’s eyes. “I know. It’s just…She’s a lucky girl, your housemate.”
“Damn it, she’s not—”
A taxi swooped to the curb. Sam broke free, ran to it and got in. Jake had just enough time to go after her and hand the driver a bill before the cab swung into traffic. He watched until it turned the corner. Then he took his cell phone from his pocket, started to punch in his driver’s number, but changed his mind.
A cold drizzle was coming down. He turned up his coat collar, dug his hands into his pockets and started walking slowly uptown.
Enough was enough.
Sam had it wrong. He owed her an apology for not being tuned in tonight, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t wanted to be with her.
He hadn’t been fixated on Cat, or that flash of pain in her eyes when he’d told her he was going out. He hadn’t spent the evening wondering what she was doing, if she was thinking about him…
Hell.
He’d done this all wrong. Catarina Mendes didn’t belong in his home. Tomorrow he’d move her out. Arrange for her to live in a hotel. Contact an agency and hire a companion to keep her company.
Tonight—tonight, he thought, his pace quickening, he’d have a serious talk with her. The Embassy party was only a few days away. She and he had to make some plans. Plans that made sense.
His job was to find her a suitable Brazilian husband. He’d do his best to find one. He’d do better than that. He’d find at least two candidates. She could pick the one she preferred. Then he could put this nonsense behind him, contact Enrique’s attorney and tell him he’d sure as hell better tell him who his brothers were.
That, only that, was what mattered.
By the time Jake reached his apartment building he was almost smiling.
What was it the poet had said about the best-laid plans?
Jake tossed his keys on the marble-topped table near the door and found himself in the center of a tornado. He could hear voices upstairs, the sound of things hitting the floor, and there was an open empty shoebox lying in the foyer that looked like a coffin for some small alien being.
“Anna?”
No reply. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
“Cat?”
Nothing. Adrenaline buzzed through his veins. He dropped his coat on a chair and took the steps two at a time.
“Cat!” he roared. “Cat—”
Anna popped out of the guest suite, wringing her hands.
“Oh, Ramirez, thank goodness!”
“What’s happened? Where’s Catarina? Is she—?”
Slam! Anna spun toward the bedroom; Jake shoved her behind him and bolted through the door to face the unknown.
To face…
