draperies and carved wooden screens, potted palms in the corners. Turkish divans and ottomans overflowed with large, soft cushions. The atmosphere of luxury and sensuality enclosed them like a seductive embrace.
Ryan looked at Isadora to see how she was taking it all in. She was biting her nails, he saw with a heated rush of annoyance. He put his hand on hers. “You have such a sweet mouth, Isadora,” he whispered. “I can think of a much better purpose for it than nail biting.”
She slapped his hands away. “I wish you wouldn’t speak to me in such a suggestive manner.”
“Why not?”
“It’s…improper. No, it’s worse than that. It’s insincere.”
“How so?”
“I say so.”
“And you would know.” He cupped her blushing cheek in the palm of his hand, lightly rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip, marveling at how soft it was, remembering how it had tasted when he’d kissed her. “You are no expert on men, Isadora. And you’re especially no expert on me.”
She jerked away, blinking fast as if on the verge of tears. “Captain Calhoun, I am not well suited to teasing.”
The stark, honest hurt in her expression bothered him. Although she had no idea about the depths of his interest in her, she was right about one thing. Unless he could offer her something more than flirtation, he should keep his distance. Except that the flirtation was so damned fun.
“After yesterday, I thought our friendship had progressed to a toleration of teasing.”
“Yesterday was…yesterday.” Isadora made a turn around the room, gingerly exploring the rich surroundings. “It’s not much like Boston, is it?”
“Do you disapprove?”
“Heavens, no. It all looks so wonderfully comfortable. Quite decadent.”
“And decadence meets with your approval?”
“Senhor Calhoun! Senhorita Peabody!” Ferraro bustled into the room. He wore an elegant coat and trousers made of fine black fabric with a red sash around his middle. “Welcome to our home!”
At his side stood a plump, smiling woman in a flowing pale dress. “May I present my wife, Amalia.” Though she was well past middle age and clearly no raving beauty, Doña Amalia’s dark eyes shone with affection for her husband and welcome for her guests. Her affable look drew Ryan in, and he found himself warming to her instantly.
“Welcome to Rio,” she said, holding out both hands to Isadora.
Maurício cocked his head to one side. “You are looking very formal, senhorita.” He winked. “And the two of you—are you affianced?”
“Absolutely not!” she burst out.
Ryan was offended by her vehemence.
“An idle question,” Maurício said. “Come now. We will cure that with some food and wine!”
The four of them went in to a supper of melon and shellfish, sherried mushrooms, a salad of fruit and greens, beefsteak and stewed vegetables and goiabada made of guavas and sugar. An array of wines and cordials accompanied each course.
“I have heard much of Boston,” Amalia said, sprinkling shredded manioc root on her husband’s salad. “Your native city is a great center of learning, yes?”
“Indeed it is,” Isadora replied. “People from Boston place a high premium on education.”
“And scholarship has always been important in your family?”
“Oh, yes. Though never quite so important as…” She caught herself, flushed and looked down at her plate. “As other things,” she finished vaguely.
Ryan had an idea that those “other things” had to do with being witty and entertaining at parties, snagging the proper husband and resembling a silver-gilt ornament on a rich man’s arm. He took a deep drink of wine, scowling into his goblet.
“How did you enjoy your sightseeing yesterday, senhorita?” Ferraro asked.
“I found it all quite stunning. Your city is so incredibly rich in things to see and do.”
“Then you must do it all,” Amalia insisted.
“I wish I could, but that would take a lifetime.” She glanced at Ryan. “We have only a short time here, isn’t that so, Captain?”
“Sadly, yes,” Ryan said.
“I wish I could spend longer,” Isadora said.
The Ferraros beamed. “That is Rio. Though your home might be elsewhere, Rio takes your heart, always.” They joined hands, and Ryan found the gesture oddly touching, for it was so open and unconscious.
What would it be like, he wondered, to have that? To have someone you could reach out and touch, knowing she’d always be there? To have someone who knew without asking how you liked your salad?
An old yearning tugged at him, a wish he’d had for many years. It was a simple wish, really. He wanted to share his life with someone the way the Ferraros shared theirs. In his travels, he’d seen wonders beyond imagining, he’d faced moments of danger and triumph, but it all added up to nothing because there was no one to tell about it, no one to listen to his hopes and fears and dreams.
Ryan set down his empty goblet. Damn. He’d had too much wine.
“You must miss the familiarity of your home,” Amalia said, motioning for a servant to refill Ryan’s cup.
“Not too much.” Isadora ducked her head guiltily. “I mean no disloyalty, but my life in Boston was quite settled and predictable. I imagine I could be away for years and find everything unchanged upon my return.”
Amalia laughed. “Surely your friends and family would not want to be deprived of you for too long.”
A blush misted Isadora’s cheeks. “How very flattering to think there are those who would miss me.”
“Of course there would be. Perhaps even a special gentleman—”
“Dear heaven, no,” Isadora said, almost in a panic. Her hand went to her bosom as if her heart were trying to pound its way out of the cage.
Senhor Ferraro laughed with delight. “When a lady protests so vehemently, it is always because of a special gentleman.”
Isadora shut her eyes and smiled ruefully. “I am so unforgivably predictable.”
Their hosts shared a knowing look.
Ryan slammed back his wine. Chad Easterbrook again. What did she see in that vacant-headed epiphyte?
With their cheery conversation and their pride in Rio, the Ferraros eventually put Isadora at her ease. At the end of the meal, Ferraro got Ryan’s attention. “We must go outside for our cigars. Amalia will not abide the odor in the house.” He bent and kissed his
