When in Rio Read Free

and addresses from the concierge. A beautiful young waiter, tall and slender, with eyes only for Jack, which made me feel oddly jealous even though I knew Jack wasn’t gay.
    Jack, poor thing, was stuck in his trousers and polo until he bought some shorts, as he hadn’t brought a change of just-in-case clothes. At least I was able to change into something more suited to wandering the beach town. It only took a few minutes to do so and then we were off down the street the hotel backed up to, the Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana, following the map the concierge had thoughtfully marked for us.
    From the pavement to the horizon, the scene was like something from an exotic postcard, although I was paying less attention to the spectacle of Rio than to the way Jack sort of guided me everywhere with his hand at the small of my back or at my elbow. It was all completely appropriate, taken moment by moment. But in addition to making me swoon at finding out that Jack had such courtly manners, the combined effect of all those appropriate little touches was inappropriately devastating on my susceptible libido.
    Still, the atmosphere was undeniable. Even here, a block off the Avenida Atlantica which fronted the world-famous Copacabana beach, we still caught brief glimpses of the mountains in the distance beyond the buildings. Amid layers of slate gray and green, Sugarloaf reared up starkly from its surroundings, the Christ the Redeemer statue blessing the whole scene from on high. Later in the week we were scheduled to take the cable car tour to the top of Sugarloaf and see the aerial view of it all. I found that prospect much more appealing than all the beach and water activities the Copacabana offered.
    Although I’d suggested we just go our separate ways to shop, Jack wouldn’t hear of it. He stressed the high rate of crime even in the nicer parts of town in broad daylight. A petite, lone female tourist would present far too tempting a target for muggers. I wanted to take offense, but even the small amount of research I’d done about Rio said he was absolutely right. And although feminism was all very good and well, I knew I was hardly in a position to argue. I was lightly built—five foot two—had no formal self-defense training and I didn’t even speak the language. I finally conceded it would be foolish of me to insist and let Jack lead the way. He seemed perfectly comfortable doing so, even without the map.
    In fairly short order I was able to find a cocktail dress that would go with some of my existing shoes. Jack steered me away from the little basic-black number I’d picked first. He pointed out, quite sensibly, that this would most likely be my one-time-only company-paid shopping spree in Rio, and it seemed a shame to waste it on a boring garment I could have easily bought back in Houston.
    The dress I wound up with instead was a deep claret-colored, sleeveless-wrap style, not too heavy for the climate but with enough drape to swirl sleekly over my hips and thighs, ending in a flirt of a ruffle just above the knee. A good dress for dancing, if some madness ever possessed me one day and I decided that dancing was something I wanted to try.
    “You don’t think it’s too…” I frowned at my reflection, fussing with the deep vee of the neckline. For a moment I’d actually forgotten who I was shopping with—not Callie or one of my other girlfriends or my sister, as usual, but my very male boss. Whom I had essentially just asked if I was showing too much cleavage.
    When Jack responded, his voice calm as ever though amused and a little husky, I could feel the blush creeping over my face. Curse my pale skin! Curse the Irish ancestors whose inherited genes made it so easy for anyone to tell when I was embarrassed.
    “I don’t think it’s too…whatever. It looks good. Very nice.”
    I avoided his eyes, looking back into the mirror. Slowly the blush subsided but I knew he’d seen it. I tried acting cool, playing in