NADINE GONZALEZ is a lawyer and a romance novelist. Kirkus Reviews has described her work as ‘sleek and entertaining...[with] vibrant settings, appealing characters, and a sexy and nuanced love story.’ Nadine lives in Miami with her husband and their son. For more information visit her website, nadine-gonzalez.com
Also by Nadine Gonzalez
Miami Famous
Scandal in the VIP Suite
Exclusively Yours
Unconditionally Mine
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.
What Happens in Miami...
Nadine Gonzalez
www.millsandboon.co.uk
ISBN: 978-0-008-91122-5
WHAT HAPPENS IN MIAMI...
© 2021 Nadine Seide
Published in Great Britain 2021
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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Text to speech
To my editor, Errin Toma, thanks for coaxing the best
possible story out of me. There would be no Miami
Famous series without your vision. I am looking
forward to our future projects.
Special thanks to my agent, Jessica Alvarez.
I am thrilled to join your team.
To my sister, Martine, thanks for your friendship and
your love. To my lively family, particularly those on the
group chat, thanks for sharing the highs and the lows.
As always, this novel is dedicated to Ariel and
Nathaniel. Without your love, none of this matters.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Epilogue
About the Publisher
Prologue
BASELICIOUS
The prodigal son returns! Alessandro Cardenas (“Sandro” for his stans) was spotted at MIA late last night. The Academy Award winner and avid art collector is back in the Magic City for Art Basel Miami Beach. The weekend-long affair is a mix of glamour, culture and drunken good times that can only happen in Miami. Get ready! A-list celebrities will descend on our city to feast like royalty and party like beasts. Unlike the others, however, Cardenas may actually give a damn about art. The actor will donate a painting from his private collection to raise funds for Caribbean islands devastated by last summer’s hurricanes. The international art fair starts tomorrow evening with a star-studded, invitation-only event. The rest of us will have to pay full price. Hopefully, we won’t have to wait too long for another Cardenas sighting. We expect to run into the hottie at his favorite after-hours club, TENTEN, sometime between 4–6 a.m. #SandroFever
—@Sunshine&Wine_IG
One
Angel wasn’t in the habit of taking impromptu midweek boat rides, not anymore anyway, unless there was the promise of a major payoff, like a free night’s stay on Grand Bahamas Island. And yet here she was on a Wednesday evening, on the deck of a speedboat, slicing through the bay, hair, scarf and the skirt of her dress flapping in the wind as sunset poured out its colors.
She was on her way to Fisher Island, a private residential enclave for the ridiculously rich. The barrier island off the coast of Miami Beach was accessible only by boat or aircraft. Anything the select few residents could ever want or need was ferried or flown in. For the residents, this was part of the appeal. For the random mainlander dispatched at the end of a long workday to deliver goods and services, it was an inconvenience, a pain, an encroachment on personal time, a—
Ouch!
The boat skipped on the choppy waves, tossing Angel on her side. The helmsman shouted for her to take a seat. She sat on the banquette and gripped the rail. You’re lucky to be here, she reminded herself. This “plum” assignment had fallen on her lap due to a series of unfortunate events. Earlier today, Justine Carr, the art gallery’s sales director, was dashing across Lincoln Road for a quick cup of coffee when a Mini Cooper hit her. Her injuries were not life threatening: a broken ankle and a bruised ego. The ensuing turmoil, however, was like nothing Angel had ever seen. It was Art Basel week, all-hands-on-deck week, no-time-to-mess-around-and-get-run-over-by-a-car week. After some quick reassignments, Angel, the newest member of Gallery Six, was tasked with picking up some of the slack.
The boat slowed and pulled up to a marina crowded with various yachts and the like. A man rushed forward to assist her. Angel handed him her metal briefcase instead. Then she slipped off her Louboutin mules and leaped off the boat unassisted. She was, after all, a lifelong Floridian.
A golf cart ride later, Angel arrived at Villa Paraiso, a bay-front compound that could have been copy/pasted from the hills of Capri. They drove through the gates and along a palm tree–lined path. After a brief interaction with the property’s chief of security, she was allowed entrance into the main building. An elevator took her up to the pentho
use on the tenth floor.
A housekeeper greeted her at the door, asked for her name and led her into a large living room. “Please wait here,” she said.
Catching her breath, Angel took in the panoramic views of the bay she had just crossed and the skyline of the city she had left behind, all of it spread out under an orange-vanilla swirl sky.
Paradise, she mused. Only a quick jaunt across the bay. Who knew?
She placed the case with the painting on a console table and checked her appearance in the mirror hanging above it. She was a disheveled mess. The midi-length linen dress was wrinkled. Her hair... Oh, God, my hair! As she raked her fingers through her tangled chestnut-colored waves, she was forced to admit the boat ride had done some good. She was radiant! Her tawny brown skin glowed and her light eyes shone clear and bright. Fresh air was a hell of a boon.
She ought to get out more often.
There was plenty she ought to be doing more often: dating, sexting, socializing, jogging, maybe even scuba diving. All this focus on her career wasn’t healthy. After, she promised herself. After...
Music, laughter and the smell of something delicious drifted in from somewhere. Was the client hosting a party? If he were, she wished he’d hurry up. The sooner they wrapped up this deal, the sooner she could get back to her life. So what if it involved eating crackers out of the box while waiting for the next installment of My Ex Is Getting Along Just Fine Without Me to upload on YouTube? That was her business.
She had expected a quick, discrete exchange in a home office setting. To her understanding, this was the standard practice with most collectors. Then again, this client was anything but standard.
To Angel’s supreme irritation, her heartbeat ticked up with anticipation. Meeting with a buyer, no matter how rich, handsome and famous, should not provoke a flurry of butterflies. What next? Was she going to ask the man for an autograph? She was not going to make it in this business with that mindset. This was her new career path. Dealing with the rich and famous was part of her job now. She could not afford to fail.
Last Tax Day, after her ex had moved out, Angel had come to the conclusion that her lifestyle could not be sustained on a starving artist’s income. She had to face facts: her dream was dead and the time to mourn had passed. But if she could not sell her own art, what was stopping her from selling the work of other artists? Within weeks she’d landed a job at a prestigious Miami Beach gallery and earned enough to save up for Phase 2 of her plan. She wouldn’t earn a commission on tonight’s transaction, but she’d earn bonus points with her boss if she concluded the sale.
Angel checked her phone for the time. Only five minutes had passed. She had to chill out—famous people kept regular people waiting all the time.
Her trained eye zeroed in on the artwork. The space was, at its core, a gallery showcasing the homeowner’s eclectic pieces, all periods and trends colliding. She went over to a pair of framed paintings on a far wall. One was of a red apple hanging from a tree branch. The other was of a woman sleeping in a garden. She was naked if you looked past the strategically placed fig leaf. Angel was trying to decipher the artist’s signature when she heard the blunt sound of bare feet on tile. She glanced over her shoulder.
There he was, standing motionless by the sliding glass doors that opened onto a terrace. Whatever remained of the day’s sunlight spilled onto his broad, bare shoulders. He was practically naked—if you looked past the damp swim trunks, which wasn’t hard to do.
Tight and trim, he had the body of a lifelong swimmer. And it seemed to Angel that he had just emerged from the sea. His chest and limbs, sculpted and defined, glistened with water. His wavy black hair, cut close to the scalp, glistened. His bronze skin, touched by sunlight, glistened. With all that glistening sparkle, it was disquieting to meet his blank expression. His handsome face was impassive. From brow line to jawline, broad nose to full mouth, he gave nothing away. Was he perplexed to find her here? He’d been expecting Justine. Had anyone warned him?
But a sheepish grin quelled her fears.
“Sorry, I was expecting...” He paused to slip on a rumpled white shirt. “They said your name was Ángel and I figured...”
He figured she was a man. Common mistake. She’d gone to school with at least three guys named Ángel. To set the record straight, she stepped forward and introduced herself properly, business card and all. “Angeline Louis, sales associate with Gallery Six,” she said. “Angel, for short.”
He took the card and ran his thumb over the gallery’s embossed logo. Under his breath, he repeated her name. “Angel.” Why that moved her, she couldn’t say. Then he introduced himself. “Alessandro Cardenas.”
She would have liked to say: I know who you are. But that wasn’t technically true. She knew his name, age and ethnicity: Alessandro D. Cardenas, thirty-two, Cuban American. She’d seen most of his movies, including Shadows Need Light, the indie film for which he’d won an Independent Spirit Award, a Golden Globe, and an Oscar for best supporting actor. She was familiar with the brands he promoted, his political leanings, and she could name a few of his famous exes. He was a sex symbol, a social media star and a darling of the critics, in that order. And, it seemed, he was a serious art collector. That was a lot to know about someone you’d never met. More than she knew about her next-door neighbor.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cardenas.”
“Don’t,” he said. “Sandro...for short. Never Alé. When I was a kid, I had a cat by that name. She strayed, but she’ll always be the one.”
That didn’t sound right. “A kid named Alessandro had a cat named Alé?”
“Short for Alley Cat. But I was ten, and a little narcissist.”
“What’s changed since you were ten?” Angel asked. She doubted that he’d grown out of his narcissistic tendencies.
He dropped her card on a low marble coffee table. “For one thing, I’m not little anymore.”
Amen to that!
Despite her best efforts, her gaze swept down the length of his sculpted body. It was a shame that he’d covered up on her account. His shirt was as rumpled as her dress. However, the white cotton beautifully highlighted the sun-kissed patina of his skin.
Okay! Stop!
Not five minutes ago, she’d been nervous to meet him. Now they were chatting freely as if hanging out at a poolside bar. There must be a happy medium where she was more polished and professional, and he less naked and wet.
Angel took a moment to stitch her frayed wits together. But he wasted no time snipping the thread. He looked her dead in the eye. “Temptation.”
“I’m sorry. What?” Had she wandered onto the set of a nineties Calvin Klein ad?
“The diptych.” He pointed to the paintings that she’d been studying. “The first is Eve in her garden, the second is the apple hanging out of reach.”
“Temptation,” she repeated.
You didn’t need a degree in biblical studies to catch the symbolism, but a few functioning brain cells would help. She should wrap this up before she made a fool of herself. She went to the console table and retrieved the metal case. “As you requested, I have here—”
“Have you eaten?”
“Excuse me?”
“We just came back from the pool and were about to have dinner. Would you like to join us?”
Just the mention of dinner provoked a rumble in her tummy. Whatever was on the grill smelled divine. Even so, she had a job to do. That meant no ogling the client, no chitchatting with him and definitely no joining his friends for dinner. Those were the rules. Right?
“Sorry. I have a boat to catch.”
“We can take you back at any time—unless you need to get home. In that case, I won’t keep you.”
Tomorrow was Art Basel’s grand opening. The day promised to be long and grueling. She had to help with the final touches on the gallery’s viewing room i
n advance of the star-studded VIP event. Angel had intended to spend the rest of her night accessorizing the outfit she’d selected. Then she was going to repeat the process with a backup outfit.
“I shouldn’t,” she said.
“Oh, you should,” he said. “The chef from Diablo is at the grill recreating his bar menu classics. You won’t want to miss out.”
The metal handle of the case with the painting almost slipped from her hand. Had she heard him correctly? Myles V. Paquin, known as MVP, was a Miami culinary sensation and a master of fusion cuisine. His restaurant in the Design District, Diablo, was a hot spot. It wasn’t Michelin star-rated or anything, but it was the place for brunch and dinner. She had wanted to celebrate her thirtieth birthday at the restaurant this year but no luck. Not one seat was available.
“You came all this way,” he said. “At least let me feed you.”
Angel swallowed the last bits of her resolve. Not only was she staying for dinner, if he kept this up, she might eat out of his hands.
Two
Angel was in paradise.
Chef MVP fussed over kebabs on a massive grill. Grammy winner DJ Jordan regaled the table with tales of drunken nights in Ibiza. Fashion models Jenny Xi and Rose Rachid, an exceptionally attractive couple, shared recipes and real estate investment tips. Alessandro (she refused to call him Sandro) played the role of the solicitous host. He was the life pulse of the party, readily sampling Myles’s spicy grilled corn, laughing at Jordan’s corny jokes, and asking Rose follow-up questions. At some point he passed Jenny the name and number of his real estate agent. As he juggled those tasks, he kept Angel’s wineglass full and encouraged her to sample every dish. All of this took place on a terrace that stretched out beneath the stars.
During dessert, he pulled up a chair next to hers. His bathing suit was dry and the buttons of his shirt had been left undone. Relaxed and happy, he looked centerfold ready.
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