Unconditionally Mine Page 12

  Sofia had inherited their grandmother’s house in lower Biscayne. Back then, the neighborhood was gritty, seedy, but ripe for gentrification. Now dubbed the Upper East Side, previously neglected properties had morphed over time into trendy showrooms, storefronts and yoga studios. And today, when Sofia looked out of her ground-level office window, there were no iron bars to mask the view. She had made very few changes to the typical Florida bungalow. Black-and-white striped awnings punched up the plain facade. The pink neon sign hanging above the door read POP MIAMI.

  Miguel plopped onto the seat facing her desk, in no apparent hurry to leave.

  “When are the folks coming back?” he asked.

  Sofia sorted through a pile of mail. “Sunday the twenty-fifth. You’re picking them up at the airport, right?”

  He nodded, and looked around her office. It wasn’t the spectacular suite that Jon enjoyed in his glass tower but it was, in its way, very stylish. She’d paired an antique mahogany desk with a modern upholstered chair. The walls were crammed with black-and-white photos of her team hard at work at various events. The view from her window wasn’t as serene as the bay. The lively and ever-changing Biscayne Boulevard was interesting, all the same.

  “Are you camping out in your office?” Miguel asked.

  “No,” she replied nervously. “I’m staying with a friend. How’s Little Red Fish, by the way?”

  “I forgot to feed it on Tuesday, but it’s fine.”

  “Miguel!”

  She expected her little fish to be alive when she got back, whenever that was. She’d bought it at a pet shop across the street the week she’d moved in with her brother, lonely for companionship. It reminded her of a fish she’d won at the fair back in grade school.

  “I don’t have pets for a reason,” Miguel said.

  “Just feed it. That’s all I ask.”

  “Just give me your address, that’s all I ask,” he said.

  “What? Why?” Last Sofia had checked, she was a grown woman.

  “In case you turn up in the trunk of some psycho’s car. Someone ought to know where you are, Sofia.”

  Put that way, he had a point. Not that Jon was a murderous psycho, but a girl could have other reasons for firing a flare gun. Like heartbreak. She grabbed a pen and jotted the address on a sticky note. By now, she knew it by heart.

  Miguel folded the note into his wallet. “One last thing.”

  Sofia knew instinctively what that one last thing would be.

  “Have you heard from Franco?” he asked.

  “We don’t keep in touch,” she said tightly.

  “I know things aren’t great between you two, but you can’t just drop him. You know?”

  “I don’t know.” Sofia set aside the pile of mail that hadn’t required sorting in the first place. “And I believe he dropped me first.”

  “Who cares?” Miguel asked. “Water under the bridge. He’s in real trouble now.”

  “I care. Plus, he’s got good lawyers.”

  “Last I spoke to him, he sounded kind of confused.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure his attorney will set him straight.”

  Sofia got up and ushered Miguel toward the door, thanking him for the eleventh time for dropping off her stuff. It was quitting time, and her evening did not include worrying about whether Franco understood his legal defense strategy.

  “He didn’t do it, Sofia,” Miguel said, one foot out the door. “He’s not a crook.”

  Sofia let out a long haggard breath. “I know. That’s why I helped with the lawyer. And I trust he’ll be cleared, but I can’t hold his hand through it. Okay?”

  Miguel nodded but left looking unconvinced.

  * * *

  Sofia locked up her office and took the causeway to Miami Beach, her new commute already familiar. She let herself in with her key and headed straight to the bedroom. For the sake of spontaneity and fun, she did what she’d been convinced she’d never do. She stripped down to her lace panties, posed and took a selfie.

  Chapter 17

  For the first time in his professional career, Jon wished the day away. He was bored, and it wasn’t for lack of work. One of his clients had been accused of bribing Brazilian politicians to secure local contracts. Another was facing investment fraud charges. Jon was preparing for trial, but advising his client to settle. This was the juicy part. And yet, he was restless in his meetings. When he checked his phone, it wasn’t for message updates but to keep his eye on the clock, wondering when Sofia would make it home.

  Home.

  At five on the dot, he shut off his computer, ready to bolt, when Stephanie called asking for a quick meeting.

  “I’ve got some updates on the Francisco Ramirez case,” she said. “It’s been a busy day and there’ve been some developments.”

  He offered her a seat. “Let’s hear it.”

  “So it would appear, on top of everything else, the company omitted a source of income,” Stephanie said.

  Jon swore under his breath.

  “It seems to me his associate was running a shadow business from the dealership. We’re talking about used auto parts.”

  It boiled down to this: Franco’s partner, Steven Pike, sold after-market car parts. He mostly insisted on cash payments, but a few clients had paid by check and reported the expense in their tax returns.

  “Not only did he omit a source of income,” Stephanie said, “there’s evidence he collected and pocketed over twenty grand in sales taxes over the years.”

  “I’m supposed to believe Ramirez had nothing to do with this.”

  “Honestly, Ramirez was a partner in name only. He was brought in as the company’s young and hip spokesperson, but was encouraged to leave the accounting to Steve Pike.”

  “That’s all good, but they’ll go for conspiracy.”

  “I know,” Stephanie said.

  “Make sure he’s turned over every bank account, every piggy bank. If he’s stashed cash in his mattress—”

  “I’ll find it myself,” Stephanie said.

  “That’s what I want to hear,” Jon said.

  She was the newest member of the economic crime division that he and another partner headed. He knew she was eager to prove herself, but he appreciated her zeal...and her patience with him. “Thanks, Stephanie.”

  “You got it.”

  Jon grabbed his keys and patted his pockets for his wallet.

  “Aren’t you going to Terry’s retirement party?” Stephanie asked. “It’s starting now.”

  Terry was the mail clerk and a sweetheart. If Jon skipped the party, she’d be offended. He figured he’d stop by for a minute on his way out. But when he got to the conference room, the senior partner was mid-speech. Jon took a seat in the back of the room. He went to silence his phone when a text message from Sofia popped up. He tapped on it.

  Holy mother...

  The phone’s display framed a woman’s bare body. Her face had been partially cropped from the shot, but he didn’t need to see her face to recognize his Sofia. The deep tan skin paled where her bathing suit had hid her from him. Her breasts were full and the nipples a deep rich brown. He traced the slope of her waistline and the curve of her hips. Her navel shaped like a cherry, and between her thighs was a bit of red lace.

  Jon pocketed his phone and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  He couldn’t leave now. He couldn’t get up from his seat.

  * * *

  The house was quiet. Her heels were in the foyer and her tailored jacket draped over a dining table chair. Jon tossed his jacket over hers and tensed at the sound of her voice from upstairs.

  “You’re home early,” she said.

  She was sitting on the top of the stairs just as she had been in the picture, hair piled on the top of her head, breasts round and heavy, golden
-brown legs crossed at the ankles.

  Jon was going to die.

  He cleared his throat. “I had an incentive.”

  She pulled a pin from her hair and let the rough curls tumble to her shoulders. He stood at the foot of the stairs in quiet admiration of the woman he loved. Thousands of pieces snapped together—every coincidental encounter, every decision he’d made since meeting her—giving him a complete picture of his future and her role in it. She colored his world. He never wanted to be without her. But this wasn’t the time for heartfelt confessions.

  Jon charged the stairs. Sofia hopped onto her bare feet and raced to the bedroom. He caught her easily, scooped her up and dropped her onto their bed. She cried out when he bit down on her panties and tugged.

  One way or the other, the bit of red lace was coming off.

  * * *

  Midnight. Jon threw open the closet door and noticed straight away extra dresses hanging on one side and new shoes on the storage shelf. To put things mildly, he was ecstatic. He stepped out to question Sofia. She was in bed, fresh from a shower, and watching him closely. Under her loose white T-shirt—his loose white T-shirt—her chest rose and fell with the roll of a breath. Was it possible that the woman who’d sent him a sexy selfie in the middle of the workday was worried a couple of dresses in his closet was too bold a move?

  “Come on,” he said. “You’ve got more than two pairs of shoes and a handful of dresses.”

  “That’s plenty for now,” she said.

  “If you say so.”

  He went into the closet for a pair of sweatpants. When he came out, she hadn’t moved.

  “It’s not like I’m moving in,” she said.

  He approached the bed and rested a knee on the corner. “But for convenience’s sake, maybe consider bringing in a few more things you need. It’s a big closet. You’re not crowding me.”

  She hesitated. “There’s something.”

  Jon tied the drawstring at the waist of his pants. “Yes?”

  “A fish,” she said. “My brother isn’t feeding it. I’d take it to the office but I’m not always there.”

  “What kind of fish?” he asked.

  “Betta. A fighter.”

  He liked the sound of that. “What color?”

  “Red,” she said curtly.

  “Just one fish?” he asked. “Not an aquarium full?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Forget I said anything.”

  Jon would not forget. This was too good to let go. “What kind of pet is a fish?” he asked.

  “The kind that doesn’t need to be walked or fixed or trained or anything!” she cried, exasperated.

  “Did you win him at a county fair?” he asked.

  “Jon!” She grabbed a pillow and tossed it at him. “I swear to God, I’m sorry I said anything.”

  He caught the pillow and tossed it onto the floor. “Bring the fish. What’s his name? Or is it a she?”

  “It’s an it. I don’t know what it is. I think it’s pretty.”

  “Like I think you’re pretty?” he asked.

  “I bet that works with some women,” she said.

  “I bet that works with you, too.”

  She was blushing prettily. He fell onto the bed and rested his head on her lap.

  “Listen,” he said. “Bring the fish, a few more clothes and a couple of more shoes, and we’ve got a deal.”

  She ran a finger down the length of his nose. “I don’t want to bicker about this.”

  “Who’s bickering?” he asked. “This is a negotiation.”

  “Okay then,” she said. “All I want is to bring one fish into the house and not have it be weird.”

  “We’re past weird, and this isn’t about the fish.”

  “What’s it about?” she asked quietly.

  Jon reached under her T-shirt and dragged his knuckles along the arch of her back. “You being comfortable here. That’s what it’s about.”

  She looked doubtful, and Jon wasn’t sure he’d gotten through to her. But the next day when he got home from work, there was a fish bowl on the kitchen counter and a small suitcase in the foyer.

  He joined Sofia on the living room couch. Her computer was open on her lap.

  “It’s male,” he said. “The male betta has longer fins. And yes, it’s pretty.”

  She folded the laptop shut, a little smile tugging at her lips. “You’ve done your research.”

  “Wikipedia is a hell of a tool.” He stripped off his jacket and dropped it on the coffee table. “Fun fact—males and females are kept apart until breeding time.”

  “They can’t live together,” she said.

  “They’d kill each other,” he said.

  She nodded knowingly and set the laptop aside.

  Jon slipped a hand between her legs. “Thank God we’re not fish.”

  Chapter 18

  Sofia wrapped up a conference call with Nick and Leila. The Star Island open house was scheduled for Saturday. Five modern art galleries had signed up to show their most provocative sculptures. The night would end with a silent auction. Nick said he was concerned the artwork would steal the guests’ attention away from the house. Sofia proposed to work with a consultant and display only pieces that would enhance the house’s architecture rather than compete with it. When he still expressed doubts, Sofia thought it best to move the discussion away from art.

  “Think of it like this,” Sofia said. “If we can lure in fifty social media stars with the promise of interesting content, the free publicity they’ll generate will be worth it. Star Island will be trending overnight.”

  “I trust you, Sofia,” Nick said.

  “When have I ever let you down?” Sofia asked.

  After Nick got off the call, Sofia and Leila chatted for a while. Then Leila abruptly asked if Sofia would rather rent or own.

  “What do you mean?” Sofia asked.

  “How long do you plan to live with Miguel?” Leila pressed.

  Sofia had moved in with Franco straight out of college—and had soon regretted it. She should’ve lived alone for a while. And now, she was playing house with Jon.

  Sofia confessed. “I’m not living with Miguel. I am, but I’m not.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re still at Jon’s,” Leila said.

  “I’m still at Jon’s.”

  “Holy crap!” Sofia heard Leila drop the phone and call out, presumably to Nick. “She’s living with Jon! You were right!”

  Sofia didn’t catch Nick’s muffled response, but Leila laughed before picking up the phone again.

  “I hate the both of you,” Sofia said drily. “Some things are private!”

  “Don’t worry. Nick is discreet. And by the way,” Leila whispered now, “I still think he’s keeping something from me. He’s acting shadier than ever. Last night, I went through his desk looking for stamps. The man turned three shades of red. I had to walk away.”

  “Have you tried talking to him?” Sofia asked. That would seem like the obvious thing to do.

  “Yes, and he said there’s nothing going on.”

  Sofia picked up a pink stress-relief ball with her company’s logo and rolled it between her palms. “Maybe there’s nothing going on, Leila.”

  “Yeah, like there’s nothing between you and your new live-in boyfriend.”

  “Jon’s not my boyfriend,” Sofia said. “He’s just a guy I’m having fun with for the time being.”

  “Just a guy? Is that what we’re going with?” Leila said. “Okay. Got it.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  As soon as she got off the phone with Leila, it rang again. She answered and Jon’s raspy voice filled her ear.

  “I miss you,” he said.

  “That’s not possible!” She laughed. “We were up half the
night talking.”

  “Now I want to stay up doing something else,” he said. “You should feel me right now.”

  “Jon...” Sofia squeezed the stress ball until her knuckles turned white.

  “Do you miss me?” he asked.

  “I do now.”

  “I left so early this morning, I didn’t get to see you dressed,” he said. “What are you wearing?”

  “Not that old line,” she teased.

  She got up from her desk and walked over to her office door to lock it. No way did she want anyone barging in.

  “I’ll guess. One of those tight skirts?”

  Her back to the door, Sofia nodded her response.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Wiggle your skirt up over your thighs.”

  “Oh, my God, Jon,” she whispered.

  “Is that too much to ask, Sofia?”

  He said her name quietly. She heard the dark promise in his voice, the one that he fulfilled each and every time. Already her fingers were grabbing at the thick cotton of her skirt and dragging the hem up and along her thighs to her hips.

  He asked what she was wearing underneath. “Satin or lace?”

  “Lace.” Her fingers traced the intricate pattern.

  “I should’ve known,” he said. “Black or red?”

  “Blue.”

  “Blue like the sky or the bay?”

  Sofia imagined him at his office window, trying to match the color of her delicates to the view before him, and it drove her crazy. Heat poured between her legs.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Jon!” She couldn’t have been more shaken if someone had dowsed her with ice water. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got a meeting.”

  “Don’t you dare hang up this phone!”

  She heard him laugh. “Sofia, I’m at work.”

  “I’m at work!” she yelled.

  How dare he call her, whip her into this state and hang up? She swore she’d never take his calls again.

  “Meet me for lunch,” he said. “Twelve-thirty.”