What Happens In Miami... Page 12

  She stuck her head out the door. “We can order pizza if you’re hungry.”

  Her voice died when she saw what he was up to. This time she didn’t panic or try to steer his attention away from the painting. She stepped out of the bedroom, her feet and her legs bare. All he could think was that she’d denied him the pleasure of peeling off her jeans.

  She stood behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to the space between his shoulders. “I was ten when I painted that.”

  “Only ten?”

  “Yup. My dad is from a coastal town named Saint-Marc. This is a copy of a postcard that I found tucked in one of his books.”

  “Have you ever been to Haiti?”

  “Never,” she said. “My grandfather on my mom’s side is a political exile. Back in the sixties he was a little too vocal about the dictator. One night, he was arrested, but put on a plane to the Bahamas. He got off easy because his family was well connected.”

  Sandro guessed the ending. “He swore never to go back and forbade his children from ever returning.”

  “So you know how it goes.”

  “Oh, I know. Sounds very familiar.”

  Sandro perched himself at the edge of the desk. He gathered the hem of her silky top into a fist and drew her to him. “We’re both connected to an island home through pretty pictures.”

  “It’s sad when you put it that way.”

  “It’s sad any way you put it.”

  She leaned into his chest and kissed his neck. The slightest touch sent rings of heat through him. “Is it tough to turn the charm on and off like that. Wherever we went people wanted a piece of you.”

  “It’s what I signed up for. Was it tough on you?” He was already thinking long-term. Would this be a problem in the future?

  “No. I always have the best time with you.”

  He tugged at the ties of her top and the flimsy thing fell to her waist. Her breath came quick and shallow, raising her chest, offering up her lace-clad breasts and then quickly withdrawing the offer, over and over again. Beside him on the desk was the glass of ice water. He reached for it and swiped it against a budding nipple. Angel shuddered and arched back. He caught her by the waist and drew her back to him.

  “I’ve changed my mind.” He treated the other nipple to the same torture. “I’m going to be bad.”

  She disentangled herself from him and stumbled back, brown skin prickled with goose bumps, wavy hair loose, liquid brown eyes blazing.

  She slipped her thumbs underneath the waist of her panties and with a dip of the hips, lowered them to her ankles. She kicked them aside and fixed her gaze on him. Those haunting eyes urged him to be whoever he needed to be, good or bad, so long as he kept his word.

  Angel led him to the couch. In the back of his mind, doubts were piling up. The trip to the gallery had opened up her world. This last conversation had revealed facts that he should not ignore, and yet he planned to. When he held her trembling body and sank inside her, he was thoroughly convinced that it was worth it.

  I made copies.

  I worked hard to re-create them.

  Almost obsessively.

  This is a copy.

  Oh, my angel...

  Sixteen

  Myles sat in the quiet kitchen with his coffee mug and his recipe cards, jotting down edits to the day’s menu. Sandro sat across from him at the stainless steel counter, coffee cup in hand, brooding. At this hour of the day Diablo was empty and calm. It was Myles’s favorite part of the day. The guy fed off peace and quiet. Too bad for him it was Sandro’s favorite time to visit. He’d stopped by after dropping Angel off at the gallery. As per usual, Myles brewed him a cup of coffee, spread butter on fresh baked bread, and left Sandro to eat in silence. Today was different only because the silence had gone prickly.

  “If you don’t tell me what’s bothering you, I’m going to kick you out.”

  Sandro did not respond. He focused on ripping a chunk of bread to pieces, then the pieces to pieces.

  “Is it that girl?” Myles asked.

  Sandro wiped his hands of the crumbs with more force than the task required. “Yes.”

  “I like her,” Myles said. “You two got a nice vibe, but you just met her. Shouldn’t you chill a bit?”

  “It’s not a cake, man. You don’t just pull it out of the oven and set it aside to chill.”

  Myles ran a hand through his hair and tightened the elastic that held his mane together. “You know what? You’re right. I don’t know crap about relationships. I’m staying out of it.”

  “No, you’re in,” Sandro said. “I’ve got to talk to someone.”

  “Then talk.”

  Myles tapped the butter knife on the counter to edge him on. Sandro took a breath and dove in. He told his old friend about JD’s paintings, the sudden appearance of fakes on the market and Angel’s infinitely small role. “I don’t think she has anything to do with it.”

  “You don’t know,” Myles said. “You don’t know either way. Not enough time has passed. This girl is a stranger.”

  “She’s not.”

  “She is,” Myles insisted. “Having said that, what does your gut tell you?”

  “That she has nothing to do with this.”

  “Then why haven’t you told her any of this? You’re here, telling me this shit, and you should be telling her.”

  Sandro was still salty for having been thrown out of his brother’s tire shop. “You’re my best friend,” he said. “Who else am I going to talk to?”

  Myles held up his hands in the universal sign of hold your fire! “I was just trying to make a point, not cast doubt on the state of our union. It’s strong, man.”

  Sandro curved forward and pressed his forehead to the cool stainless steel countertop. “You think I should tell her.”

  Myles gathered his recipe cards in a stack and whacked him over the head with it. “There’s nothing else you can do.”

  Sandro swatted his hand away. “Got any of those chocolate pastries I like?”

  His friend got up from the stool. “It’s called pain chocolat. Expand your vocabulary.”

  Myles had spent two years in Paris studying culinary arts and returned a snob. “Whatever. Just warm it up.”

  “I want you to consider something,” Myles said when he returned with the warm pastry. “Miami is a cesspool of corruption. They’ve got this angle on you. Some unknown Cuban artist linked to a big Hollywood star. That’s gold. They start a whisper campaign. Suddenly everybody wants a Valero original. They get some guy holed up in a warehouse cranking these things out. What do you think you can do about it?”

  “So what are you saying? I should do nothing? Just give up?”

  “Never give up, man. But you may be playing whack-a-mole. Don’t you got a couple more Oscars to win?”

  “I could just go public with it,” Sandro said. “Let people know that they’re buying fakes.”

  “That’s a PSA some people might appreciate,” Myles said. “You could pull JD’s pieces out of storage and show them what the originals look like.”

  Every sign was pointing in this direction. “Like a gallery show.”

  Myles yawned. “Those things are so fucking boring. You’re an artist. Can’t you think of something more creative?”

  Sandro nodded. Note to self: Think of something more creative.

  “Now... about Angel.”

  Sandro piped up. “Yes?”

  “Can’t really help you there, but do you really think she’s the one holed up in a warehouse pumping out these paintings? Yes or no?”

  “No,” Sandro said without hesitation.

  “There’s your answer.”

  Sandro folded his arms. That was his answer. Deep inside he knew that he could trust her. They’d exchanged vows, promising to keep e
ach other’s secrets and tell each other the things that mattered. He had to hold on to that.

  “You’ve got to tell her, man,” Myles said. “Otherwise, it’s not fair to her.”

  Sandro stuffed his mouth with chocolate pastry and chewed. His quiet and wise friend was right, as always. “Gracias, hermano.”

  “Anytime.”

  “So, how’s your mom?”

  Myles shrugged. “She’s got those back aches, you know.”

  Sandro nodded. He knew that Myles was a good son, a good friend, a good uncle to his nephew, a good cook and a good-looking guy. “Tell me something. Why are you still single?”

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Sandro finished his pastry in two bites and wiped his mouth. Now that he’d sorted things out, he was famished. “What do I got to do to get a croqueta around here?”

  Angel was dying at work. Alessandro had dropped her off at the gallery and would return later to take her with him to Fisher Island. In the meantime, she had nothing to do but sell postcards, T-shirts and trinkets to tourists. It was a slow day at the gallery. The desire to buy art dissipated just as soon as the Basel big tents came down. And she was fine with it. She could not focus on anything except tonight, tomorrow and the day after that. She and Alessandro would be alone for two delicious days. It might change her.

  Angel was falling for him, dropping through the clouds and too blissed out to worry about the landing. She could not help but compare this affair with long-term relationships that had not felt this good, this comfortable. It had nothing to do with his celebrity status or star power. She was drawn by his vivacious spirit and generous heart. She loved the way he flirted, all his pet names for her and the jokes they shared. She loved the way he made love to her, the way he freed her so that she could make love to him without inhibitions. All this was going to end soon. She wasn’t prepared. There was no way to prepare for a fatal crash.

  During her lunch break, Angel looked both ways before crossing Lincoln Road to grab her usual chicken Caesar wrap and iced coffee. She found a bench in the shade. People-watching was her favorite pastime and the open-air mall was ideal for this. She watched the crowds of stylish shoppers and visitors from all over the world. When she was done eating, she took out her phone and sketched the lively scene on a drawing app.

  Her phone buzzed in her hand with a FaceTime request. It was her mother. Her mother! Angel repressed the urge to chuck her phone into the trash. She tapped the button and her mother’s broad, brown face filled the screen. Likely calling from work. Her hair was brushed neatly in a bun. She wore her usual diamond stud earrings and wine-colored lipstick to elevate her physician’s white coat. Her mother had kind eyes and a broad mouth that was always quick to smile. Angel favored her father, though. He had the glamour of a sixties era crooner with wavy, slicked back hair and a trim moustache.

  “Bonjour, ma fille!”

  “Bonjour, Mom.”

  “Ah! You remember your mother. Praise God!”

  “Don’t start. You knew I’d be busy this week.”

  “Busy with what you call work, yes, I knew that. But you managed to find the time to run all over town with a movie star. Imagine my surprise!”

  Oh...shit!

  “It’s not what it looks like, Mom. Entertaining celebrities is part of my job.”

  “Then get a new job.”

  Not this again.

  “Mother, I’m a thirty-year-old woman,” Angel said. “My job is my business.”

  It irked Angel that as she made this impassioned declaration, she sounded as peevish as a thirteen-year-old. Her behavior wasn’t much better. She was lying and hiding just like when she was a teen. Angel lived her life under the dome of her parents’ disapproval. Immigrants with a strict code of conduct, they’d expected their daughters to focus on their education. No parties. No proms. No dating. No boyfriends or boys as friends. In order to get around their parents’ rules, and to enjoy their high school years, she and Bernadette had resorted to flat-out devious behavior, sneaking around and covering their tracks.

  Alessandro had asked why she’d given up on her dreams so quickly. She’d given herself a full decade, her twenties, to achieve success. When he shared the stories of his waiter/actor days, Angel felt a pang of envy. He’d had the freedom to fail over and over again until he got it right. He didn’t have exacting parents to account to. No one faulted him for the sacrifices that he was willing to make in pursuit of his dreams. Things were different for Angel.

  Often her mother had bemoaned Angel’s so-called lack of ambition. Once, at Thanksgiving, she’d decried the poor return on her parental investment. “All that we’ve done for you girls, private schools, tutors, extracurricular activities, and not one of you followed in our footsteps. Bernadette, you could have been a pediatrician.” Bernadette was a nurse practitioner, which was okay, just not good enough. Say nothing about Angel’s so-called “career in the arts.”

  Angel’s definition of success was grafted onto her parents’ standards. Following one’s bliss was not part of the equation. At thirty she needed something to show for herself: a stable source of income, a home, a husband, a few kids on the way. As of today, she had none of those things and, frankly, didn’t care. After work, she was sailing off with her movie star lover to a secluded island for a nonstop sexfest. That was the plan, and she could hardly wait. Her mother would just have to deal.

  “You know what, Mom?” she said. “I’m not paid to entertain celebrities. I don’t know why I said that. Alessandro is my boyfriend.”

  As soon as those words flew out she had wanted to recall them. He wasn’t her boyfriend—no matter how good it sounded.

  Thankfully, her mother didn’t seem to buy it. “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay. So maybe he’s not—”

  “Angeline, those people don’t have girlfriends or wives. Those people only want one thing—a good time. They don’t care who they hurt or use.”

  Those words ran through her like a freight train. Alessandro certainly loved a good time. He didn’t use women, though. He cleverly offered them the opportunity to use him. This way, he could walk away feeling as if he’d done a public service. You didn’t even say thank you. Angel had known the rules from the jump. She’d signed on the dotted line.

  “Mom, you don’t have to worry about me.”

  Her mother took a sip from a Styrofoam cup. “Okay.”

  Angel was all too familiar with that clipped tone. “My lunch break is over. I have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  “Love you.”

  Her mother let out weary sigh. “Love is what’s killing you, Angeline.”

  Seventeen

  Dawn left behind nothing but pristine light. Angel shielded her eyes with a hand, but otherwise she was perfectly comfortable aboard the same boat that had transported her to paradise that first time around.

  Their trip had been delayed another night. The night manager had failed to relieve Angel and she had had no choice but to pull a double shift at the gallery. She’d been too tired, too frustrated with her job, too emotionally drained from her argument with her mother and too eager to collapse into bed with Alessandro to consider packing a bag. Alessandro had picked up dinner at Diablo and they’d spent another night at her place, finally setting off at dawn. They were rewarded with a fresh sky and crystalline bay all to themselves.

  This time the golf cart was waiting at the dock and Alessandro took the wheel. At Villa Paraiso, they bypassed security and rode straight up to the penthouse without having to check in with anyone. In the elevator, he dropped her bag and kissed her until they’d arrived at the penthouse.

  “This is your home for the next forty-eight hours,” he said.

  “I think I’ll like it here.”

  He gave her a tour, starting from a stark white kitchen that he planned to renovate someday, a viewing
room with projector and screen, the main sitting area where they’d first met, a home office and a guest bedroom down the hall from the master suite. “This is where my niece stays when she visits.”

  “Will she be coming by?” Angel asked, nervous at the prospect of meeting this niece who meant so much to him.

  “I’m not expecting her. She’s made herself scarce these last days.”

  He shut the door to the guest bedroom and leaned on it. She’d caught his grim expression. “Family drama?” she asked.

  “Family BS, more like it,” he mumbled. “But don’t worry. I won’t burden you.”

  Angel understood all too well. She was still trying to tunnel her way out of the pile of BS her mother had dumped on her yesterday afternoon. Love is what’s killing you.

  “Family is a blessing and a curse,” she said.

  They looked at each other and let the silence tell the story and fill in the gaps. There was no need to get into that now.

  “I envy your friendships, though,” she said. “Your friends are cool.”

  “My friends are pretty damn great,” he said. “And they like you.”

  She waved the comment away. “They hardly know me.”

  “Trust me on this—they like you,” he said. “We all like you. Hell, even Maritza.”

  His housekeeper? She couldn’t possibly!

  “You’re mistaken,” Angel said. “I was a hot mess the last time I ran into Maritza.”

  “She didn’t mention it,” he said. “She said you were nice and polite.”

  Angel looked down to the oak wood floor, hoping to conceal a silly little grin. “Well, that’s nice.”

  “Hey,” he said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  “No!” Animated by an irrational impulse, Angel rushed to silence him with a hand pressed to his lips. “No propositions! No revenge plots! No offers for rebound sex! You like me and that’s enough. I like being liked.”

  He pried her hand away. “That’s not what I was getting at. I only meant to tell you that I’ve given Maritza a few days off because I wanted to be alone with you. Absolute isolation. But not having Maritza means not having Maritza. I don’t know how to turn on our stove. So there’s the issue of meals. We have options. There are several restaurants on the island. We can check those out or order in.”