Chapter 1

If someone had asked me a week ago, I would have said I would never be seen buying one of those bridal magazines. However, the expert on the subject – my newlywed secretary – told me it was impossible to plan a wedding without resorting to them.

Of course, I had managed to organize my wedding without the help of any of those glossy magazines, but look at the result. A fleeting episode of three months of marriage that marred my thirty-two years of immaculate singleness.

Ironically, it was now up to me, with a little help from my sisters Kathleen and Janaina, to plan the perfect wedding. Two weeks in advance.

No, not mine, it doesn't stop me from making mistakes, but I've been trying my hardest not to repeat this one, so I kind of let go of men.

My youngest sister, Marcela, will be the bride who will march down the aisle. A wedding march she's dreamed of ever since, at the age of five, she threw engaged Barbie into Ken's arms.

Marcela is going to marry Matheus, her soul mate since high school. The obvious thing would be that fifteen years of love and dreams had resulted in something more organized than a last-minute wedding. However, Marcela had a somewhat difficult year in terms of health, and, as Matheus found an unmissable offer for a cruise along the Mexican coast, within a span of thirteen days my younger sister was on her way to have her wedding with which you've always dreamed of.

The only problem was that she was desperately trying to catch up on the college classes and work she'd missed due to her illness, and she didn't have time to organize the wedding.

Marcela needed help, and I loved her. The same can be said for our sisters Kathleen and Janaina, of course, but as usual, I was the one who organized things. To tell you the truth, I liked being in charge. In fact, I preferred to do things myself, to make sure they came out right.

Arrogant, stuck-up, annoying? Because of my overwhelming expectations from my parents and the responsibilities that fell on me at an early age, was there any way I could be any different?

So I, who don't believe in all this veil-and-garland-and-promises-of-everlasting-love talk, was now on the hunt for these frilly magazines to supplement the gigantic wedding-planning bible I'd bought at the bookstore. . As soon as I cleared the Sydney airport checkpoint on Sunday afternoon, I headed straight for the bookstore.

A pile of hardcover books near the entrance caught my eye. The pyramid under construction highlighted Wild, the new book by one of the most popular novelists. The clerk attached “autographed copy” stickers to the covers, which, with their mysterious flames in yellow and red on a black background, gave them a garish touch, drawing attention.

As a sociologist specializing in the study of Brazilian aborigines, I knew Daniel. He had aboriginal ancestry and wrote paranormal mystery stories starring a Brazilian aboriginal policeman.

Although I rarely read fiction, I had already purchased one of his novels. It was surprisingly entertaining, more or less accurate to the real facts and with insightful observations here and there, but only here and there. I thought his work was mostly, and grossly, commercial. This guy should dedicate his writing talents to something more serious.

I certainly didn't intend to read another one of his books.

- Waste of time. Simplistic and superficial.

- Madam? The clerk turned to me.

“I'm sorry.” One of the dangers of spending so much time alone… I had a bad habit of expressing my thoughts. “I didn't mean to say that out loud.

The store employee smiled:

- Do not worry. However, many readers disagree with you. It sure sells really well. In my case, I can't put down your books, I'm up all night, and that's happened more than once.” She blinked. "But he could do it to me in person... He just signed these books and, look, the man is hot."

"I'm sure being a boner is an important criterion for choosing what to read," I replied dryly.

A man who chuckled told me that someone had heard my comment.

The girl looked over my shoulder. Her eyes widened and blush filled her cheeks.

— Oops! I'm sorry.” She lowered her head and concentrated on continuing to place stickers on the books.

I turned around and saw a man who could definitely be called “hot”. His clothes were too simple, worn jeans, a basic T-shirt, but they covered a tall, muscular man. His face and arms were tanned and he obviously didn't care for haircuts. Although I wasn't a fan of long hair, the glossy black waves that went down to almost shoulder length suited him.

He had a strong face and bright, exotic gray eyes that were now appraising me with a touch of humor.

I felt his physical presence differently as a man. And me as a woman. The way I definitely didn't react to a guy. There was something familiar about him, but I was sure I didn't know him. I would have remembered that bizarre feeling...

"Aren't you going to buy a book, then?" he asked provocatively, with a Brazilian accent.

Embarrassed by my reaction, I averted my eyes and muttered,

- Not.

As I turned to leave, I heard him say:

- You do not know what you're missing.

Why did I feel like I was running away from him? I put that thought – and the man – out of my mind as I bought a bottle of water and then headed to the magazine section.

It was very surreal to be combing through bridal magazines.

“Let me tell you the reasons why I hate these things.

Whoops, there I was mumbling out loud again. I continued my speech inside my head. It's a massive industry that manipulates brides into thinking that a more expensive event will bring them a happier marriage. People don't know that...

- Excuse me? Are you going to buy this one? A female voice invaded my thoughts and I realized that a cheerful red-haired young woman was looking at me questioningly.

- What? I looked at the magazine in my hand, with the ubiquitous bride dressed in foamy white. “Oh, I haven't decided yet.

— It is the last copy. So if you're not going to keep it, I would buy it. It's my favorite magazine.

"Then take it," he said, handing her the issue. “They're all the same to me.

“Oh, no, they're not! The girl's tone suggested that I had committed sacrilege.

“This one's for the bride, which is me.

She pointed to another magazine on the shelf, using her left hand and flashing a small diamond.

“This one is for the modern bride, the one next door is more traditional, and that one has the cutest but way too expensive stuff, although some of the ideas could be adapted.” She picked up a copy.

As she became emotional as she flipped through the pages, I studied the covers of each one, thinking how all the magazines seemed to show the same thing. Marcela always left several of these bridal magazines around the house, but it was difficult to say which one was her favorite.

The redhead had chosen three:

“I'm getting married in April, so we have less than a year to organize everything. It is very fun. Is that you?

- I? Oh, it's not me who's getting married, it's my younger sister.

"Oh..." She looked at my ringless left hand. “It must be difficult, but I'm sure your time will come sooner than you think.

“God, I hope not.” The words exploded, and when the girl's smooth forehead creased, I explained, “I like being single. I think each of us ends up finding our path in life, the one that feels right. I found mine.

She was still frowning a little when she raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers, causing the diamond to sparkle once more.

"And I already found mine." Maybe you're right, but it's hard for me to imagine anyone choosing to live alone. For the rest of life.

I don't know, the way she blurted out that sentence sounded more like a life sentence in solitary confinement. For a moment, I remembered the way I felt with Jefferson. Life had been brighter, richer, happier. At our simple wedding ceremony, I was euphoric. Granted, I wasn't wearing the virginal white bridal gown, but the promises I'd made meant something to me. A future, a partnership, a sharing of life, love, work...

A share? Share, is it? Oh yes, Jefferson definitely wanted me to share, but he hadn't returned the favor. No, he lied to me from the start and then cheated on me. The sad truth is, I wasn't the type of woman to inspire a man's love and loyalty.

“Some of us women are just fine on our own,” I replied to the girl.

“And I hope you're very happy.

“Your sister too.

After she was gone, I chose the traditional and modern magazines I had now identified.

It would be good to have both extremes and try to understand the differences between them, if any.

After paying, I stuffed the magazines into my carry-on bag. In addition to the wedding planning book, the suitcase also contained the college exams. Thanks to Marcela's breaking news, I was leaving college a week before the end of the semester.

When I passed through the boarding gate, business class was already boarding. I joined the queue as, as a frequent flyer, I was lucky enough to receive that privilege. On that flight of ten – the first leg of my trip was business class perks would make a huge difference. Decent food, a few glasses of good wine, space to work, a seat where you can actually sleep.

Now, to top it off, the only thing missing would be a seatmate who would put on his headphones and leave me alone.

The plane had two business class sections: one on the upper deck, which was more reserved, and one on the main deck. I was in the main, window seat on one of the two-seater side benches.

Seats in business class were different from those in more basic economy class.

Instead of being linked together with movable arms, these had independent chairs. Kind of like those reclining TV lounge chairs, except they were mounted inside tough shells.

When I got to my row, a dark-haired man was in the aisle seat, stooping to tuck a bag under the front seat, and I couldn't get past him to get to mine. Behind me, people looked impatient, so I said:

- Excuse me. I would like to pass, so as not to hold other people back.

"I'm sorry." He straightened with a quick smile, one of those disarming ones with crinkled gray eyes and white teeth in a dark face framed by very long hair.

The bookstore man.

- You!

This would definitely not be the seatmate I would have chosen, even if it was, as my secretary would have said, a sight for sore eyes.

His lips curved into a smile that I had trouble reading.

"Well, if you're not the discerning reader...

He got up and walked out into the hall to let me through.

I'm not clumsy by nature, but I managed to trip over his feet. Large, well-shaped feet clad in leather sandals.

As I stumbled, the man's right hand grabbed my shoulder and held it.

- Caution.

Caution? How to be careful with the heat of his hand burning my cardigan? My breath caught and I couldn't move. Something – some kind of energy, heat, whatever – was coming out of him. A gentle tingle ran through my entire body, even though the only thing he was holding was my shoulder. There was also a smell that reminded me of country trips: sunlight shining on the eucalyptus, or gum trees. And there was a glint in her eyes that, had I been a more attractive woman, I would have read as sexual interest. However, self-confident and horny guys like him never gave a studious and simple woman like me a second glance.

I managed to unfreeze my muscles and bolted into my seat, briefcase and purse on my lap.

"Want me to put your suitcase upstairs?" he asked, pointing to the luggage compartment.

"No thanks, I'll leave it here with me."

An elderly woman in the hall quickly said:

“You can put our suitcase up there, if you don't mind.

"Leave it to me, Adelia," said the gray-haired man behind her.

"Of course I do." I just want to make this young man show off his muscles.” He winked at my seatmate.

He returned that dazzling smile and hefted the suitcase easily. As he placed the luggage in the compartment, his body stretched in one powerful, graceful movement. His muscles flexed in his arms, and as the left sleeve of his T-shirt rose, I could see the edge of a tattoo—a dragon? – which seemed to curl around his biceps.

The T-shirt molded to strong shoulders, hard pecs. She stepped free of her beltless jeans.

My gaze traced the line of his fly to register that the jeans molded something quite attractive, too.

A sexual shiver shot through me, making me squirm in the plane seat. Damn it.

Rarely did I look at a man in such a sensual way. After all, there weren't many men worth noticing like that.

He said:

“Okay, there you go—to the woman.

Before he could catch me wide-eyed studying him, I started digging through the student papers in my briefcase and pulled out two of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the older couple, a well-adjusted pair, taking seats in the middle row across the aisle.

My colleague from the next seat sat down and his physical presence almost overwhelmed me. My university classmates were intellectuals like me, and I was rarely with someone like the man next to me. He exuded sexuality. Thank heavens for spacious freestanding seats. If I had been huddled next to him in economy class, arms and thighs touching each time someone shifted, I would have ended the trip a mass of quivering hormones.

This sexual awakening was a rare feeling for me. I had always, since my earliest childhood, devoted myself to intellectual matters, disregarding the physical aspects of life – and this was exactly how the opposite sex had seen me. I was looking for a tutor not a lover. It was then that I found Jefferson. He had chosen me over the other young professors and graduate students. He was only my second lover, and with him I learned to like my body. Enjoying sex.

I thought he was a different person, that Jefferson had seen me as Thereza, the woman, not the brain, but I was wrong.

Easier, and safer, to do without the men. The one time I decided to try it again, with an anthropology professor I met at a conference, the sex had been a disaster. Intellectual compatibility hadn't translated into its physical equivalent. Thank heavens my sex drive was low, otherwise I would have been frustrated with just my hand and a dildo to satisfy me.

I wondered what this man next to me must be like in bed. My guess is that he was either incredibly skilled or completely self-absorbed. Not that I intended to find out, this guy was definitely not my type, and I bet I wasn't his type either.

I got hot, both from the fact that the plane was full and from the presence of my seatmate, and I began to struggle to get out of my cardigan.

"Want some help with the blouse?"

- I'm not...

And before I could say “fine,” his hand was there again, on my shoulder, helping me slide my navy blue cardigan down my arms, which I had worn over a tank top. The blouse was rust colored and highlighted the red in my short hair. I might be a simple girl, but not entirely without vanity. I tried to dress in a way that was comfortable, practical, and reasonably attractive. It was no use trying to put on a glamor that could never be mine, I would only look pathetic.

The man took off his coat slowly, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my arm, and once again I shivered all over. His touch felt like a deliberate caress, but of course that had to be my imagination.

I cast a sidelong glance and saw the glint in his eyes that I'd noticed earlier. His gaze slid from my shoulder, landed on my chest, and I noticed that the v-neck of my shirt was being pulled down as the cardigan came off. With my hands trapped inside the sleeves, I had no way to reach the neckline to adjust it.

My skin warmed and I knew my cheeks, as well as my cleavage, were colored to match the russet hue of the tank top. My nipples prickled and the peaks of my breasts hardened. Finally, my arm came free and I hastily pulled up the neckline of my shirt and turned my back to him in order to help myself with the other sleeve. So I could hide my erect nipples. In the meantime, I thought of something casual to say to cover up my discomfort.

I tried to focus on his words instead of the hot fingers taking too long to remove the damn shirt from my other arm.

  I think it's our way of making things a little friendlier.” With a final, seductive stroke, he slid her blouse off her arm. - Ready.

I turned to face him and took the shirt he handed me.

- Thanks.

He paused, eyes gleaming.

Hell, he was thinking about the bookstore clerk's comment about him being "hot," and then my response. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to keep my composure, and said,

“Hottie? This one I never heard.

The corners of the man's mouth twitched.

"That would be short for hot water bottle."

I had to laugh. He had tricked me right.

“It's not something I needed.

- Oh yes? Had something better to warm your bed?

- That is a secret.

My God, what is this? Was I... sort of... flirting?

"Excuse me," a female voice interrupted. I looked away from the glittering gray eyes to see a very attractive brunette stewardess with a wide smile. — Some items to make your trip more enjoyable.

She handed us the bags.

— Mister Daniel, I see you're already settled. And Miss Sara.?

That was the Brazilian way of asking everything from “How are you?” to “Is everything okay?” or “How have you been?”.

“It's okay, thanks.

I was surprised that she addressed us by name. Of course, in business class, the stewardesses had a list of who occupied which seat. Her brow furrowed for an instant.

"You're not traveling together, are you?"

"No," I answered quickly.

The man shot me an amused look.

“Okay then,” the woman said, her face softening and flashing another smile. — The flight is quite long, but I will do my best to make it pleasant.

She was looking directly at my seatmate, leaning into her space as passengers still boarding passed around her, and it made me think that she had placed special emphasis on the word pleasant.

“Very kind of you, Carla,” he said, looking very happy that the fabric of his uniform pants had brushed against his denim-covered knee. And gave him one of those devastating smiles.

So he knew her name too. Of course, I could tell the stewardess was his type.

Well, really, he was any man's type… I connected the dots and concluded that the two of them had been talking – flirting? – before I arrived.

Not that I minded, of course, but I just didn't want to be ignored by flight attendants.

I cleared my throat to remind her I was there.

"Thank you." I paused. — Carla.

She gave me a smile that looked a little pitying. Women like her always made me want to scream uncontrollably. Ridiculous, because I knew perfectly well that academic credentials wouldn't impress her one bit. She would look at my ordinary figure, my ordinary face, my ordinary clothes and know immediately that my attributes could never compete with hers.

"Would you like a glass of champagne?" asked the flight attendant.

I swallowed that silly surge of… Surely it wasn't jealousy, was it?

- Would be great.

That delicious drink would be a good start to a long journey and perhaps help distract me from the man next to me.

"Same for me," said my traveling companion.

"Sure, I'll be right back." Did she flutter her eyelashes at him?

When she went to answer the older couple across the hall, the man turned to me.

"Are you excited about spending ten hours on a plane?" Any ideas how to pass the time? he asked in a suggestive tone.

Great. He was an "enjoy my company" type of guy who would flirt with any female that happened to be around. Even a woman like me.

The urge to play had passed.

“I've got work to do.” I pulled the tray off the arm of my chair and placed the test books on top of it.

"I happen to be too."

Despite her words, he didn't pull any work, just leaned back in his seat, adjusted the footrest, and closed his eyes.

Excellent. He didn't give a shit if I talked to him or not. Alright, here was what I was hoping for: a traveling companion who would leave me alone. Not that I wanted the attention of an arrogant flirt like him, but sometimes it really pissed me off that men ignored me so easily.

I tried adjusting my foot rest, but he wasn't cooperative, so I focused on the first test. I had barely started when my cell phone – no, my cell phone, I had to reacquaint myself with Canadian terms – rang.

I pulled it out of my purse and through the peephole I saw it was my sister Kathleen. There were four of us, a pack of three and one more, that one, the unplanned addition, being Marcela. I was the eldest, the simple genius. Kathleen was a year younger, Miss Social.

“Hi,” I replied quietly, my traveling companion's eyes still closed. — I can't say much, the plane is about to take off — My brain calculated the time. It was five-thirty here, which meant that over there... "Kathleen, isn't it three-thirty in the morning?" Did you just arrive or just wake up? — Certainly, not even a compulsive partygoer like my sister would be on the street until that time.

— I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. Did you get the email I sent a few hours ago? I received no response.

“Must be in the inbox. I downloaded all the emails before leaving. I'll take a look during the flight. So, did you manage to take those days off?

Carla was back with the drinks. I nodded in thanks as she handed me a glass of bubbly champagne. When the flight attendant placed my neighbor's drink on her tray, her eyes snapped open quickly enough.

Kathleen said:

“Do you know how hard it is for me to take unannounced time off? ’ And she started talking about all the people in the hotel who depended on her. My sister was always the life of the party, whether in her social life or at her workplace.

As she spoke, my traveling companion and the stewardess chatted, accompanied by considerable batting of eyelashes on her part. Didn't she have other passengers to attend to? Or did she intend to spend the entire trip flirting with him, as if this man were a divine gift to all mankind?

I interrupted Kathleen's rambling.

“If it's really a problem to take a few days off from work, don't worry about it.

As I said before, I can handle everything.

There was a pause. Then:

“Well, of course, I forgot you've managed a wedding before, and so successfully.

There. I knew my younger sisters were always jealous of me: my brains, the responsibilities my parents gave me, the way I always lived up to their highest expectations. Now that I'd stepped on one of Kathleen's toes, she'd retaliated by stepping on one of mine. My failed marriage.

Had I been alone, I would have snapped at her about her extraordinary ability to pick the wrong guy every time. However, the flirtatious Carla was gone and the man next to me apparently had nothing better to do than sip champagne and listen to my side of the phone conversation. So I said:

- Sorry. It would be great if you could take time off work and help me out. - I took mine calmly took a sip of the drink.

— My God, Thereza, you speak as if it were your project. It's ours, all of us. Yours, mine and Janaina's. That's what we agreed. Let's work together to give Marcela the wedding of her dreams.

I ran a hand through my hair and rubbed my forehead, which throbbed, signaling the onset of a headache.

“Okay, sure.

Evidently, I only wanted the best for my little sister. However, I preferred not to work in a team. Least of all with my sisters, who had never met my standards.

“Besides,” Kathleen went on, “if you'd let me finish, I'd count on getting a few days off. I'll buy the train tickets and then send the timetable by email.

The trip will last four days.

“If you took a plane, you'd be home in less than a day.

“You know I don't fly.

Her voice had a warning edge to it and I could picture her face, her brown eyes narrowed, a vertical crease splitting her forehead. She was probably on the verge of a headache too.

Giving each other headaches was the only thing we had in common.

I sighed. Kathleen was a crazy mix of qualities. She was fluent in two languages, had done very well in school, had a responsible job, lived with dozens of friends and maintained a more active social life than one could imagine. And yet, she had an irrational fear of flying and horrible taste in men.

Not that my conquests with the opposite sex were much better, of course. However, I knew better than to keep trying while she kept herself forever in love with someone new and totally wrong.

Knowing that no amount of logical speech could persuade Kathleen to fly, I asked:

— So, any news from Janaina? I left a couple of messages on her voicemail, but I didn't hear back.

Janaina was the next sister on the stairs, the third of our pack, which was how we called each other before Marcela was born. A year younger than Kathleen, she would be thirty soon.

Janaina had staked her place in the family as the alternative.

"No, and we promised to stay in touch at least once a day."

— You know Janaina, she hates any kind of rules or having to be accountable.

"True, but this is important." Kathleen gave a frustrated sigh. “She must be out in the middle of the desert with those birds.

Janaina, who had never been able to stay in the same job – or with the same man – for more than six months, had followed a surfer boyfriend to Santa Cruz and become involved in peregrine falcon research.

“I'll try to reach her on the plane's phone as soon as we take off. Ah, what's the time zone?

“Three hours less than here, so now it must be like an hour. Saturday night, Sunday morning... I bet when she went clubbing, she left her cell phone off. Or else the battery died and she forgot to charge — We shared a silent moment of understanding. “If you can reach her,” Kathleen said, “have her call me. I'm going to sleep a couple more hours, then I'll be at work organizing things.

"Don't even get me started." My secretary and I have spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours doing the same thing.

“I can't believe we'll all be in the same place together at the same time. It's been a while.

— Christmas of the year before last.

The voice over the loudspeaker told passengers to turn off all electronic devices.

“Kathleen, I have to go. I'll check emails and voicemail.

"Okay, have a good trip."

I turned off the phone and found myself shaking my head. When my sisters and I were little, there was a lot of competition and petty envy. We had each developed distinct personalities and interests, and that took us in different directions. Now, living in four different cities in three countries, we rarely spoke to each other, let alone saw each other. Of course we loved each other, but it was easier to love each other from a distance. It was a little sad, but that was the way the Saras had gone about their lives.

Now, thanks to Marcela, we would get together for the first time in years. The white veil and best wishes for her. The rest of us had a little bit of hell left as we tried to get on pretty—or at least, nice enough—with each other to plan a wedding in less than two weeks.

"This is not the way to start a long journey," said the man beside me.

Daniel smiled at the intriguing woman in the next seat. That sexy professor who was reviewing University of Sydney exams but didn't have a Brazilian accent. The woman whose phone conversation had given him a stressful headache.

The snob who thought her novels were superficial crap.

Not that he disagreed with that opinion, necessarily, but damn! He amused himself by writing that lucrative superficial rubbish! He had the best job in the fucking universe: making up stories, playing with imaginary friends and getting paid well for it.

That teacher intrigued him not just because she was hot, in a subtle, elegant way.

He wondered how she would react when she found out he was the guy whose books he had looked down upon, but Daniel preferred to contain his need to satisfy his curiosity. They had a long flight ahead of them and could turn the trip into something really fun. Thus, he thought that the chances would be greater if that woman knew him before knowing her identity.

"You were shaking your head and letting out one sigh after another," he said. "And without taking your sips."

She looked at the empty glass.

— I see that you do not suffer from this affliction.

Daniel had to admit, a woman with a sharp tongue was quite attractive. The joke was a good start. Maybe she'd soften and think of a friendlier use for that language.

- Drink it. This will lessen your headache.

She frowned.

"I'm not with…" Then she made a face. “Well, maybe the beginning of one.

The stewardess arrived with the bottle of champagne and a big smile.

"I'm sorry, I didn't forget about you," and she filled her glass.

“Great, Carla.” That attractive brunette had said her name and recognized it as soon as Daniel got on the plane.

She arched an eyebrow at the teacher:

"Do you want more, Miss Sara?" Or would you rather I bring you something else?

- It is not alright. I was on the phone.” She held up her dead cell. — Since I hung up, I'm about to enjoy the champagne.

"Enjoy as you please," Carla said, and gave him a wink before moving on.

Yes, Carla had thrown herself at him when he'd come aboard. She made it clear that she was available for more. She and about a hundred women in the two years since her first book hit the bestseller lists and Daniel have become a familiar face on TV talk shows. Not to mention he'd been voted one of the ten sexiest bachelors in the country.

The “sweet, sexy bachelor” image featured prominently in the publicity plan his agent and marketing advisor had developed, a fact that he found amusing at first but soon wore on. This business of women throwing themselves at him had lost its fun. The truth was, things weren't all that flattering when women were elbowing a guy just because he was famous and sexy. Being a celebrity had its downsides.

The truth is that the teacher interested him more than Carla. She looked hot, with an attractive face that wasn't caked with makeup, a lean, shapely body, and breasts that must have been totally natural. Besides, she intrigued him. That woman posed a challenge. While she clearly wasn't immune to the chemistry between them, she sure as hell wasn't throwing herself at him.

Could he win her over before she found out who he was?

Daniel stretched the glass towards her:

"Have a safe trip and don't let the bugs knock you down!"

He would have said "motherfuckers" but he thought that might piss her off.

- Pardon? I turned to look at him and saw a glint in his gray eyes.