What Happens In Miami... Page 7

  Nine

  “Angel! What’s the matter? Why are you hyperventilating?”

  Angel was jogging along the bridge when her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Justine Carr. No matter the circumstances, she managed to spike every encounter with a bit of drama. Angel adjusted her earbuds. “I’m fine, Justine. Out for an early run, that’s all.”

  After a fitful night, Angel had given up on sleep. She swapped her pajama shorts for running shorts and took off into the dawn. One of the perks of living in Key Biscayne was the scenic path over the bridge to the sandy beach that doubled as the neighborhood’s dog park. A run had a way of clearing her head, something she desperately needed. He was haunting her. Last night she’d done the sensible thing and ended their affair—and even that was too strong of a word. It was a hookup gone awry, and not for the reasons she’d allowed him to believe.

  He had been less than forthcoming about his grandfather, but she sort of understood why and had accepted his apology. What she could not get over, however, was her own treacherous heart. Standing on the curb last night, despairing that her ride had canceled due to overwhelming traffic, she’d looked up, seen him and instantly felt safe. He was here, and he’d take care of her.

  What fresh batch of nonsense was that?

  He was not the hero in her melodrama. She had no business feeling warm and gooey inside, no business hearing a choir of angels when he said something as simple as “Hi.”

  She had to get herself together and fast before she hopped onto the first ferry back to Fisher Island.

  “Wish I could go for walks,” Justine said wistfully.

  Angel had forgotten that she was on a call. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like an idiot, but I’ll survive.”

  “Anything I can do for you?”

  “You can attend tonight’s event at The High Tide.”

  “Why do I have to go?” she whined. Great, she was a whiner now.

  “Because I can’t!”

  “Why can’t Paloma go? She’s the manager.”

  “Paloma is pulling long shifts at the convention center. Then she’s meeting with a private client. Besides, we need someone who’ll stand out. Paloma is pretty much useless after ten p.m., or haven’t you noticed?”

  “I haven’t, to be honest.”

  Justine let out a heavy sigh. Originally from Monroe County, she had the pronounced drawl of a kid who grew up in the Lower Keys. “This is Basel, the big time, and we all have to do our part. Paloma is running the show. I’m processing the orders from home. It’s your job to go to the parties and represent us. We can’t be absent from the scene. We expect you to take photos for our social media accounts. If you’re smart, you’ll make some contacts.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.”

  “Quit moaning!” Justine said. “If I were your age and had your legs, I’d have the city at my feet. Don’t forget to stop by the gallery to pick up the invitation, along with your commission.”

  “Commission for what?”

  “The Cardenas deal,” Justine replied. “You know what? I don’t think fresh air is doing you much good.”

  It scandalized Angel that she should earn a commission for all the things that she had done. She might have to pass on that.

  “Justine, did you know...”

  “Know what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  Angel ended the call. She walked along the bridge, stopping at the halfway point to watch the boats crisscrossing the bay. Even though she’d wanted answers, discussing Alessandro’s private business seemed wrong. It didn’t matter what Paloma and Justine knew or when they knew it. He was not comfortable with anyone knowing about his grandfather. If Angel owed him anything, it was discretion.

  Sandro arrived at the Lincoln Road gallery shortly past seven. At this early hour, the open-air mall was deserted, except for a few joggers. The designer shops and restaurants were all closed, and so was Gallery Six. Paloma Gentry greeted him at the door.

  “Thank you for accommodating me,” Sandro said. He could not swing by during regular hours without drawing too much attention. Lincoln Road was nothing but a backdrop for people watching. He had to get out before the sidewalk traffic picked up and he was spotted, photographed, hounded. And lately, if he patronized a business, even if just to pick up a pack of gum or beer, it was perceived as an endorsement. Since he would rather not endorse Gallery Six, discretion was in order. He could have sent a proxy, but he felt as if he owed it to his grandfather to handle this himself.

  “It’s no trouble,” she said. “I live above the gallery.”

  She locked the glass door behind him.

  Gallery Six was smaller than he had imagined. They’d made the most of the viewing space—paintings cluttered the walls and the floor was dotted with sculptures and art objects displayed on pedestals. At the register was the usual assortment of postcards and Miami Beach souvenirs. He found himself wondering where Angeline Louis fit into all this.

  Paloma invited him to her office and offered him coffee or tea. He wasn’t going to make a social call out of this. “No, thank you.”

  “Very well.” She opened what looked like a filing cabinet and pulled out a small painting, no bigger than an iPad. His grandfather liked to paint on a large scale. This seemingly endless parade of miniatures was grating on him.

  “This is La Playa.”

  Alessandro took the canvas from Paloma. It was, as its name suggested, a rendering of a beach in thick swirls of oil paint. The sky was a hazy blue gray, and in the foreground the waves thinned and spread onto pale blond sand. Seagulls, a lone palm tree and a little boy taking a nap, completed the composition. It was a signature Juan David Valero piece.

  Although his grandfather never regretted fleeing Communist Cuba, he spent his entire adult life longing for the idyllic settings of his childhood. But something was off about this painting. The small size was only part of it. It didn’t move him like his grandfather’s other paintings never failed to do. It didn’t bring back his grandfather’s voice, his paint-stained hands or the smell of turpentine that clung to his clothes. That wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It was part of the bond that they’d shared and, he knew now, his father and half brother had envied.

  “You say my grandfather painted this, but I’ve never seen it, or even sketches of it.”

  “That’s not unusual. It dates back to before you were born.”

  “Where did you get it from?” he asked.

  “A private collector who prefers to remain anonymous.”

  Paloma backed away from him and went to stand behind her desk. Her auburn hair was the color of autumn and she wore it in a tight bun at the base of her neck. Her eyes were a watery blue.

  “That’s convenient.”

  “Selling off art is like pawning the family jewels. It’s unseemly and you wouldn’t want your friends to know. Our clients can count on our discretion.” She flashed a toothy, shark-like grin. “Trust me. It’s best for everyone involved. I can answer any questions you may have. You have concerns about the provenance of this piece?”

  “I do.”

  “Alright.” Paloma let out the weary sigh of the expert having to explain basics to the novice. “We work with industry experts. Every piece comes with a certificate of authenticity.”

  The certificate was BS, and she knew it. A painting wasn’t a designer purse.

  “Is the seller in financial trouble?” Sandro asked. He was just fishing around here. Paloma was a stone-cold professional. There was no getting water from rock.

  “Why does it matter? Are you worried the seller didn’t value your grandfather’s work?”

  No one would value his grandfather’s work as much as he did. His interest had to do with his aversion to being duped. But he’d gone far enough with this. He wished he could walk out and leave the painting
on her desk, but he couldn’t do it. Fake or not, La Playa belonged to him.

  “How much?”

  She looked him dead in the eye. “Thirty-five thousand.”

  Sandro didn’t flinch. “Ring me up.”

  The High Tide was high glamour. Angel opted for a slinky LBD, a little blue dress. The dress was basically a variation of the pink one she’d worn the night before; only this one was a thrift shop find. She finished off the look with a swipe of red lipstick and heels. Faking confidence was an art form.

  In the elevator taking her to the hotel’s rooftop deck, Angel mapped out a strategy. She decided to ignore Justine’s advice. What was the point of networking? She didn’t know anyone, and no one gave a damn about her. She’d snap photos for the gallery’s social media accounts, maybe even a livestream, and then she’d call it a night.

  When the elevator doors slid open, she stepped into a wondrous world. Angel followed the other guests through a forest of papier-mâché palm trees, past a waterfall cascading into a white marble basin and around the pool-turned–dance floor until she found the bar. After quickly perusing the cocktail menu, she ordered a lychee martini. While she waited, she cast a look around at the moveable feast of ridiculously attractive people, not the least of which was the bartender. She recognized actors, models and opera singers. She spotted Julian and Nina Knight of Knight Films, a Miami power couple, holding court by the fountain. When her phone buzzed in her purse, Angel was grateful to have a genuine reason to stare at her phone—anything to keep from gawking.

  Justine had sent her a text message:

  BIG NEWS! AC is auctioning off Devastation tonight. Make sure you take photos so we can remind everyone where he got it!!!

  AC? It took a minute for her brain to make the connection, but once it did, Angel shoved her phone in her purse as if it were radioactive. The part of her that had chosen to wear the dress, the sexy heels and the Fenty by Rihanna red lipstick had known there was a chance he’d be here tonight. It was one thing to suspect. It was another thing to receive written confirmation.

  The bartender placed a decadent cocktail before her. “Here you go, gorgeous.”

  Bless his heart. She tipped him well.

  Angel scanned the crowd. If she had eyes on him, she could stay out of his way. She’d hide behind a papier-mâché palm tree if need be. Then she’d take the photos and tiptoe out before he ever knew she was here. That was the plan.

  “ANGELINE! Guys, look who’s here!”

  Angel closed her eyes and kissed her plan goodbye. Suddenly, she was pulled into a group hug with Jenny Xi, Rose Rachid and Georgina Garcia, air kisses all around.

  “What are you doing here alone, ma chérie?” Rose asked. “Where is Alessandro?”

  “I’m working tonight,” Angel said, setting the record straight while trying to sound as cool as these women looked.

  “You’re always working!” Georgina said disapprovingly.

  The woman was wearing this season’s Dior pantsuit. Maybe, for her, work was voluntary rather than a mandatory activity.

  “Put your Blackberry away,” Jenny said. “Your squad is here!”

  “What are you drinking?” Rose asked. “It looks delicious.”

  “A lychee martini.”

  “And that’s what I’m having,” Jenny said. She took Rose’s hand. “We’ll be at the bar.”

  Angel was left alone with Georgina in Dior, who was now demanding Angel call her “Gigi.”

  “Okay, Gigi,” Angel said tentatively. “Where’s Jordan tonight?”

  “He’s playing a set at The Zoo,” she said. “We’ll meet up with him later. But forget Jordan. I want to talk about Alessandro.”

  And I don’t. Wasn’t the whole point of small talk to avoid hot-button topics?

  “He’s here, you know. I’ll give him a call, if you like.”

  “Don’t bother!” Angel practically shouted the words. “I’m here for work. Remember?”

  Gigi tossed a lock of caramel brown hair over her shoulder. Angel had never seen anyone so impeccably groomed, not up close anyway. Whoever did her highlights was a skilled artist.

  “About Alessandro,” she said. “He and I have some history.”

  Angel’s throat tightened in the way it had when she’d watched Gigi and Alessandro walk away together last night. Soon, she’d be gasping for air.

  “I was into him, and he didn’t feel the same,” Gigi said. “That’s our history. The end.”

  That could mean any number of things. When had she figured out he wasn’t into her? Had they been dating awhile?

  “He starred in one of the first movies I produced.”

  “Downward Spiral.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “It’s one of my favorite films.”

  Gigi seemed genuinely pleased. “Thank you! It’s a classic immigrant story. That’s why I found it so compelling.”

  “Alessandro is great in it.”

  “He’s great in everything,” Gigi said matter-of-factly. “He’s very serious about his career. Our working relationship was important to him. So I asked myself, was it worth it to muddy those waters? The answer was no, and I don’t regret it. We’re the best of friends and we have a great working relationship. I’m very lucky.”

  Lucky didn’t scratch the surface. She was fortunate, privileged and clearly had the sort of upbringing that gave her the confidence to just speak her mind without fear of blowback.

  “There’s something else,” she said.

  Angel didn’t want to know anything else, but that wasn’t going to stop Gigi.

  “He never looked at me the way he looked at you,” she said.

  “You’re wrong,” Angel said with a nervous hiccup of a laugh. “He didn’t look at me in any particular way. A lot was going on last night and—”

  “I’m not wrong,” Gigi said flatly.

  Angel took a long sip of her martini to hide her burning cheeks. Rose and Jenny returned with an extra cocktail for Gigi.

  “The bartender is so hot, I almost climbed over the bar,” Jenny said.

  “She’s not joking,” Rose said. “I had to hold her back and remind her of our burning love.”

  Gigi tossed her head back and laughed. “Should we find out when he gets off work?”

  A hush ran through the party crowd as musicians walked on the stage at the far end of the deck. After a quick sound test, the guitarist approached a microphone.

  “That’s Rolando!” Jenny whispered to Angel. The name didn’t ring any bells...until it did. Rolando y Mafioso had had the hit song of the summer.

  In a smooth baritone, Rolando said, “Ladies and gentlemen, beautiful people, give it up for my brother in the struggle, Alessandro Cardenas.”

  Alessandro joined the band on stage to thunderous applause. He held up a glass half-filled with amber liquor and ice, and saluted the audience.

  The drummer got things going. “One! Two! One! Two! Three! Four!”

  The band launched into a Buena Vista Social Club staple. Alessandro swayed with the tempo for a while. He approached the microphone, opened his mouth, and started to sing. His voice was raw honey.

  Angel felt sure she was going to die.

  “Oh, yeah,” Gigi said. “Give him a fifth of rum and that happens.”

  Fingers curled around the stem of her glass, Angel tuned out everyone who was not Alessandro. Wearing black, like the rest of the band, his shirt was fitted and neatly tucked into his trousers, and yet he’d somehow neglected to fasten most of the buttons. He looked delicious. A golden spotlight added shimmer to his bronze skin. Eyes closed, brows drawn, he sang and seduced his audience. The tempo picked up suddenly and one of the backup singers took off on a reggaeton tangent to the delight of the crowd. Then a trumpeter stepped forward for a solo that wrecked Angel’s heart. All t
he while Sandro stood to the side, grooving in a world of his own. She focused on the way he moved, and remembered how they’d moved together. She’d done everything to squeeze that memory into a small space and lock it away. Now she wondered why she had ever wanted to.

  Gigi approached again. “I never looked at him the way you do, so maybe that was my mistake.”

  Angel swiveled around to confront her, only to find Gigi, Jenny and Rose smiling at her without malice. They were harmless. She was ready to drop the act. Besides, Alessandro had returned to the microphone and let out a low, plaintive sound. His voice was smooth, but it also had grit. It wrapped around her, tugging her to him. Angel handed Gigi her cocktail glass. She moved toward the stage, angling her way through the crowd and leaving her newly acquired squad behind. She was vaguely aware of shouts and high fives. She heard Gigi pronounce triumphantly: “My job is done!” But nothing could tamper with the immediacy of Alessandro’s voice.

  Angel crossed the covered pool and with each step she had the sensation of walking on water. The instant he spotted her, his onyx eyes turned glossy. With the very next step she was walking on air.

  The way he looked at her!

  When she reached the stage, Alessandro neared the edge and hunched low. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbows. All she’d have to do was reach out to feel his warm skin. How she’d held back from doing so was anyone’s guess. He sang the last lyrics of the song just for her. The full meaning of the Spanish words escaped her, but she understood the longing they conveyed.

  Life may have given Gigi the option to muddy the proverbial waters—Angel had no choice. She was neck deep in mud, and drowning fast.

  Ten

  Tonight, his angel was a devil in a blue dress.

  Once the music died, Sandro tossed his microphone to Rolando and leaped off the stage. This impromptu jam session had taken him back to their high school days and he’d enjoyed it. The payoff, however, was greater than he could have ever hoped. If he believed in miracles, this would count as one. He was sure he’d blown it with Angel. He’d been pouring out his heartache on stage when she cut through the crowd. It was like a scene from a goddamn movie.