Angel took offense at that. Her edges were smooth as silk, thank you very much! Besides, this wasn’t her first Basel. It was her second. Her first visit to the art show dated back to when she qualified for a student discount, but still.
“Go and grab a drink at the lounge before the night gets going and the A-listers show up.”
According to Paloma, there was Europe and the rest of the world, A-listers and ordinary people who weren’t worth her time. But for all of her poise and polish, Paloma came undone when any B-lister wandered into their gallery.
She had almost made it to the exhibitors’ lounge when it struck her: one of those highly anticipated A-listers could very well be Alessandro. She’d sort of ruled that out, since he’d had his art home delivered and all. But he was in town for Art Basel and this was the premier event. Why wouldn’t he swing by with his colorful friends?
Angel dashed over to the bar for that drink she now sorely needed. The bartender gave her a choice of red, white or rosé. She picked the latter—strong enough to mend her nerves, but too light to mess with her head. Despite everything, Angel had to perform tonight. She had a job to do, a boss to impress and a commission to earn. The extra earnings would go a long way to help her relocate back home to Orlando.
Whenever Angel got to this point of her loosely strung plan, she felt a strange pang in her chest. Why was she having second thoughts about moving? Miami was an expensive city and with such stiff competition, she’d likely never get ahead here. She wouldn’t miss the gallery. She would, however, miss Miami and its thriving art scene. Only this city wasn’t her home and had never been her dream until Chris sold her on it. For that reason, and that reason only, she wanted a fresh start. She needed one.
A man approached the bar and, of the choices of red, white and rosé, opted for Patrón. There was nothing earth-shattering about that except for the man’s deep, rich voice. Angel shivered. It couldn’t be. She risked a sideways glance and found herself staring into a pair of dark eyes set in a face so ruggedly handsome it made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
“Hello, Angel.”
She died.
The last time she’d seen him looking this good, he was lording over her from a billboard, sporting a Rolex and a smile, while she stewed in traffic on I-95. Last night, at home in damp swim shorts and a crumpled shirt, he was amiable and approachable. She’d come close to forgetting his celebrity status so many times. Tonight, in what looked like a Tom Ford charcoal gray suit, clean-shaven, clear-eyed, he was killing her. Since she was hyperventilating, she had no choice but to accept that she was fangirling...hard. So much so that when the bartender placed her glass before her, she promptly knocked it over.
“Dammit!”
Alessandro closed the gap between them. “Are you okay?”
Her primary concern was for her dress. It was a Cushnie classic, rented from a designer clothing website. As she frantically brushed away the few drops that had splashed onto the silk-draped bodice, she spit out a jumble of words. “Yes. Sure. I’m fine. Yup.”
Oh, joy! One look into his eyes and she’d suffered a mini-stroke. She might as well admit it: Paloma was right. She was a nervous wreck, shakier than a Chihuahua, not quite ready for primetime, golden highlights and all.
He handed her a cocktail napkin. “Here you go.”
She wanted to thank him; instead, she reprimanded him. “What are you doing here?”
A slow smile crept to his lips. “Drowning my sorrows in tequila.”
She doubted that very much. “The VIP lounge is down that way.”
“Can’t I hang out here?” he asked, lips twitching with that smile. “I promise I won’t cause trouble.”
Angel stared at him. She’d kissed those lips. She’d done more than that, but that was as far back as her mind would safely take her. “Obviously, I can’t chase you away.”
“True,” he said. “But you could always run. Again.”
“I didn’t run...” Angel’s voice sounded foreign to her own ears, so she thought it best to shut up.
The bartender who’d been minding his own business until now rushed forward. “Mr. Cardenas! You are welcome here, sir!”
Alessandro brought a finger to his lips. “Keep it quiet. I’m flying under the radar.”
Now that was a waste of time. A star-studded international art fair was not the place to go incognito. Besides, any radar sweeping the area tonight would gravitate to him. Who was he wearing? What was he buying? Who was he taking home? Et cetera.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome,” Angel said, mainly to appease the bartender. “Just wanted to point out that there’s a full bar in the VIP.”
He didn’t have to settle for red, white or rosé when the exclusive collectors’ lounge was top shelf only.
The bartender wouldn’t hear it. “Never mind that. We can get you anything you want. Patrón Platinum, of course. We have an excellent limited edition—”
“Silver is fine,” Alessandro said. “On ice.” Then he turned to Angel. “What were you drinking?”
“The young lady was enjoying a rosé,” the bartender replied on her behalf.
“Not sure she got a chance to enjoy it.”
The mess on the counter was wiped away and a fresh glass, poured from a far superior bottle, was set before her. The drinks were free. Alessandro slipped a fifty-dollar bill across the counter and the grateful bartender took the tip—and the hint—and backed away.
“Missed you this morning,” he said. “Missed me?”
Angel let out a shaky breath. Why did she like him so much? “Listen, I didn’t run out on you. I was late for work and...you were sleeping and... I didn’t want to wake you and...that’s all.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Two women sporting matching silver bobs and chatting excitedly approached the bar.
“I do want to highlight the pieces from our new artist,” one said. “That should be our focus. What do you think?”
The other woman stared blankly. “I, uh... Sandro?”
Ah! Poor thing! She’d gone brain dead. Angel knew the signs.
He said hello and the women swooned. Angel took Alessandro by the elbow and steered him to a cocktail table.
“How did you find me?” she asked. She thought she might bump into him before the end of the night, but this felt targeted.
“I’m here to meet friends,” he said. “I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up at the wrong bar—and there you were.”
He hadn’t been looking for her, after all. Her “check ego” dashboard light flashed red. “I’m glad we ran into each other. I meant to apologize for the way I left.”
It was a big fat lie, necessary only to salvage her pride. If he could act cool and collected, so could she.
He picked up his glass and gave the ice a rattle. “Whatever you say.”
Angel watched him over the rim of her glass. He hadn’t bought a word she’d said. “Okay. I left the way I did because I didn’t want to drag things out,” she said. “I know the rules.”
“What rules?” he asked. “There are none.”
It was highly possible that in Alessandro Cardenas’s happy-go-lucky world there were no preset rules. He did as he pleased.
“The rules of the one-night stand,” she explained.
He sipped his tequila slowly. “I’m trying to remember the last time I had one of those. It’s been a while. Generally, my lovers want to keep me around.”
Angel went very still, his words painting visions in her mind. His lovers were braver souls than she’d ever be. Although she hated the cowardly way she’d ducked out this morning, she did not regret much else. This was not a game she could play, not anymore. She was happiest and most secure when in a stable relationship, which meant she tended to keep random boyfriends long past the
ir expiration dates. It also meant that she tended to choose partners with an eye for long-term compatibility. That simply wasn’t the case here. Even so, she couldn’t let him score this point.
“My lovers have never complained,” she said.
This was true. If there were a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval on keeping a lover happy, even if just temporarily, she would have earned it. And so would he. He’d left her blissed out. Which raised the question: Had she seriously cheated herself out of early morning sex for the sake of keeping her emotions neat and tidy?
He leaned close and whispered, “I believe it, Angel.”
With him so close, she yearned to touch his face, to feel the smooth skin that was rugged the night before. She wanted him to kiss her neck again, to turn back time and relive it all, to have him take her home.
“Alessandro, I have to go...” she said plaintively. “I’ve got to get back to work before I get in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“The kind you get into when your boss gives you a five-minute break and you hang out at the bar with your ex-lover for about a half hour!”
“I’m your ex?” he said, indignant. “After just one night?”
Angel dropped her hands onto the tabletop in despair and almost knocked her glass over again. Good thing it was empty. “It is what it is. Now I have to go.”
Alessandro drained his glass then stood up straight and tugged at the cuffs of his shirt. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I got you in trouble. I’m getting you out of it.”
She started to back away. “How?”
“I have my ways.”
“Are you nuts? My boss can’t know!” she protested, on the edge of panic.
The wicked grin came out to play. “Know about what, Angel?”
She glared at him. Was it too late to ask him to stop calling her by her nickname? Angeline was her grandmother’s name and her world wouldn’t stop spinning if he called her that.
“I can be discrete,” he said. “Can you?”
Angel pinched the bridge of her nose. Which god had she angered to deserve this?
“Do you want my help or not?” he said.
She looked him in the eye, prepared to turn him down. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for an answer. The gesture caused his unbuttoned shirt collar to split and reveal the dip in his brown throat. She faltered. Why lie? She wanted it oh so very much.
Seven
Paloma was darting around their booth like a goldfish in a bag of water. When Angel approached, she snapped. “Where were you?” Then she got a glimpse of her companion and went pale everywhere except her cheeks that remained orgasm pink, courtesy of NARS Cosmetics.
“Look who I ran into,” Angel said innocently.
“Sorry if I’ve kept Angeline away too long,” Alessandro said. “I’ve been to this circus so many times, you’d think I’d know my way around. She was a big help.”
Paloma rushed forward. “The convention center is a madhouse maze. Good thing Angel is resourceful.”
Angel sighed with relief. No one short of an A-lister could have saved her from Paloma’s wrath.
“I’m Paloma Gentry. How may I help you?”
Alessandro’s response was polite but firm. “I’m with Angeline. Thank you.”
Paloma looked as if she had to gulp for air. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Paloma went to her minidesk, set up like a throne in a corner of their viewing room. If a side-eye could kill, Angel would have had a gash across her throat.
She turned to Alessandro. “Thanks for using your influence to aid and assist the underprivileged.”
“You’re welcome, Angeline,” he said. “I do what I can.”
She had to stop flip-flopping on this, but she wished he’d quit calling her Angeline. He was doing it deliberately, to put distance between them, and all of a sudden she didn’t like it.
“Alright,” he said. “I think you’re in the clear.
Show me what you’ve got.”
A personal challenge lurked in his words, and she took it up. Angel looked around and picked a piece at random. Their collection was a little mix of everything, curated to draw in the social media crowd. Their featured pieces made for good Instagram content, but there were some hidden gems as well.
Angel led him straight to the crowd pleasers: neon text art with catchy phrases. “Here we have YOLO, by a young local artist.” She pointed to the bold yellow letters with the poise of Vanna White.
Alessandro was nodding, as if YOLO were gospel. “I’ve got that tattooed somewhere.”
She stifled a laugh. “No, you don’t.”
He slid her a glance. “How would you know?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Now she was turning orgasm pink. “I can’t get into it right now.”
“Want to get into it later?”
His gaze stayed on her, holding her in place—otherwise, she would have gone to pieces. “I’m working.”
He pointed to the large yellow letters. “You only live once, Angel. What time do you get off work?”
“This thing ends at midnight,” she said, before she could think better of it. She did not want to encourage him. “Let’s continue.”
Angel hurried along with the tour. She showed him an acrylic on canvas painting of a lemon and a lime, titled Lemon Lime, a collage of a bull dog, titled Bruce, and a flashing neon sign with the words: Sorry. It’s Me, Not You.
He paused at that one. “The last time I used that excuse it didn’t go so well.”
“Bad breakup?” she asked.
“Is there any other kind?”
For once, Angel didn’t spiral backward into a whirlpool of her tragic memories. Instead, she flipped through a mental catalogue of the gorgeous actresses and models that Alessandro had been photographed with over the years. Something inside her shrank. Under ordinary circumstances her self-esteem was rock solid, but nothing was ordinary about this.
“May I ask you a question?” she said.
“You can ask me anything.”
Paloma chose that moment to return with champagne. “Mr. Cardenas, for you!”
Only a flicker of his lashes betrayed any trace of impatience, and Angel was sure Paloma had missed it. He accepted the flute of Veuve Clicquot, thanked her and dispatched her with a nod. He did not drink from the glass, but he used it to point at her. “You were saying.”
Angel took a breath. She was just going to come out with it, before Paloma swung back around with an offering of pigs in a blanket or whatever. Who knew when they would speak again? “Please, don’t get me wrong.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“What do you want with me? There are so many more...fascinating women here.”
Alessandro studied her a while before turning his attention to a glass sculpture of a dolphin. “You know what I was doing six years ago?”
“I don’t.”
“Serving drinks to fascinating women.”
“You were a bartender?” Could he mix a decent margarita? Not too sour. Not too sweet?
“I was a bartender and a waiter and everything you can think of,” he said. “These fascinating women were not interested in struggling waiters/actors.”
“You’re not struggling anymore.” Angel felt the need to point this out in case he hadn’t gotten the memo. Maybe his accountant had failed to inform him, but his net worth was up there.
He ran a thumb along the smooth curved lines of the sculpture. She wished he wouldn’t touch the art, particularly because it reminded her of the way he had touched her.
“Here’s something that might interest you.” She led him to the opposing wall, where a series of black-and-white photographs, titled Devastation, were on display. The serie
s featured photos of Haiti after the 2010 earthquake, Bahamas after Hurricane Dorian, and Puerto Rico after the island was hit last summer by both varieties of natural disasters. “These photographs cut to the heart of the climate crisis by laying bare the consequences.”
Alessandro studied each print. “I’m interested.”
“Oh? You have the option of acquiring the complete series or just one or two pieces. It’s up to you.”
“The series is not complete,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Where is Cuba after Hurricane Irma?”
He was Cuban. The missing photograph must be jarring to him. “Arranging last-minute travel to Cuba is difficult, particularly after a disaster.”
“Difficult, not impossible.”
Wonderful! She’d managed to insult her ex-lover with her activist art.
“I’ll take it,” he said, surprising her. “The whole thing.”
“Don’t you want to know how much it costs?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Each original photograph is nine thousand dollars.”
“Sold.”
The words she uttered next made no sense. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Why not?” he said.
She looked around to make sure Paloma wasn’t within earshot. “If you’re doing this to help me, you’ve done enough. Just look at this crowd.”
Their little viewing room was drawing people in and the object of their curiosity wasn’t the art. Angel had noticed a few well-heeled attendees angling camera phones, sneaking photographs. So much for the 1 percent living above the fray!
“What makes you think I don’t want it?”
His tone made her question what exactly he was talking about.
“I only meant, you don’t have to pretend.”
“Pretend to want the things I want.”
They were in their own private bubble now. The growing crowd fading to nothing.
“You should be sure...” She hesitated. “Before mistakes are made. It’s a substantial investment.”
What Happens In Miami... Page 5
