How would the night end?
The applause was thick and a small mob pushed toward the stage and gathered around him. Angel was cast aside in the melee. Sandro reached out and took hold of her hand before she slipped away. The band launched into one of their latest hits and his newly acquired fans dispersed. Sandro gently pulled her to him and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Want to dance?”
She nodded and they took off with a whirl, as much as space permitted on the crowded dance floor. His moves were less than smooth. He was nervous and his joints were stiff. Plus the effort he put into holding her at an appropriate distance was going to kill him. But that lasted only until another couple bumped into them, pushing Angel into his arms. He tightened his grip on her waist to steady her and, once he had her in his arms, he could not let go. She pressed her forehead to his chin and her breath fanned his throat. He rocked her slowly until finally, finally, she looked up at him. The heat in those light brown eyes told him that he was not alone in this private torture.
There’s my angel.
He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her off the dance floor. They made their way to the bar. The bartender motioned to him. “One more round, Mr. Cardenas? You too, miss?”
Once Sandro gave him the okay, they got settled at a quiet corner of the bar.
“How did you learn to sing like that?” she asked.
“My grandfather listened to old school boleros on the radio while he painted and smoked and smoked and painted. It’s basically all he did.”
“You have a beautiful voice. Have you considered—”
“No, I’ll keep my day job. Thanks. But I’m available for private functions.”
She laughed, doing away with all the acrimony of the previous twenty-four hours. Or so he ardently hoped. “Can we start over, Angel?”
Their drinks were served promptly. She reached for hers with a shaky hand. She had not been this nervous back when it was just the two of them at his place.
“Am I asking too much?” he said.
She took a sip from of her cocktail and lowered the glass. “No, you’re not. I’d like that, too.”
To seal the deal, he leaned close and kissed her.
When the music died down, the band announced a break for the art auction. She pulled her phone out of her purse. “I have to take photos. That’s part of my official duties for tonight.”
A roster of wealthy people had donated artwork from their private collections. The donors were invited on stage to drum up interest in their offerings. Sandro did not budge. You could not pay him to leave Angel’s side. Good thing he didn’t have to.
She kept her camera trained to the stage and nudged his flank with an elbow. “Shouldn’t you head up there?”
“I sang for them. That should be enough.”
“But I want a photo of you.”
He reached for her phone, reversed the camera to selfie mode, moved close enough to drop his chin on her shoulder, and snapped a photo of the two of them. “There you go.”
She stared at the phone screen a long time. There was no denying they made a handsome couple, Sandro thought. The proof was in her hand.
“I meant for the gallery,” she said, her voice thin. “They would love a photo of you with the art.”
“They’re not going to get it.”
“The first piece is a series of photographs titled, Devastation,” the auctioneer announced. “Here to present it is the artist.”
The photographer was a young woman from the Bahamas. She wore a simple white dress and her hair fell in long box braids down her back. After thanking Sandro for the opportunity to address the influential crowd, she spoke of the importance of recording the devastation caused by climate change. “We cannot afford to bury our heads in the sand. Future generations will judge us for our inaction.”
Bidding began at fifty thousand dollars. A fierce war between three buyers hiked up the price. The collection of photographs sold for one hundred and ten thousand dollars. Angel recorded it all on video, then switched off her phone and rushed to hug him. The hug was cruelly brief.
“Did you arrange for her to be here tonight?” she said.
“I might’ve put in a call.”
“That’s so good of you!” she cried. “This sort of exposure can really help an artist in the long run.”
Sandro’s mood fell. Everyone was in agreement. He could use his celebrity to lift a struggling artist—or reshape the legacy of a dead one.
She rested a hand on his arm. “Are you okay? Did I say something?”
“No, querida. It’s fine.”
And just as quickly, she withdrew her hand.
Angel flinched as if she’d been burned. He’d called her querida. She knew it meant nothing, maybe just another word that he tossed around. But her reaction was over-the-top. She had slept with this man, and yet the unexpected use of an endearment had shot straight to her head.
After the auction, Gigi, Rose and Jenny swarmed them. “Hey, you two! There you are!”
Alessandro let his friends plant kisses on his cheeks and even sample his drink.
“It’s a wrap,” Gigi said. “We’re heading out to meet Jordan at The Zoo. Are you two coming?”
“I can’t,” Angel said. “I have to work in the morning.”
Gigi turned to Alessandro who gave her a pointed look. She smiled. “I didn’t think so. Don’t forget tomorrow’s party at Garage.”
“The club?” Alessandro asked.
“No,” Jenny replied. “An actual parking garage. What will these crazy kids come up with next?”
“It’s not an ordinary garage,” Rose said. “It was designed by Swiss architects.”
“Sounds like fun,” Alessandro said dryly.
“I’m attending that one,” Angel said. “You know, for the gallery.”
Alessandro flashed that grin. “In that case it really does sound like fun and I’ll be there.”
The squad made a grand exit with loud goodbyes and air kisses.
Alessandro turned to her. “Do you need a ride home?”
“I can manage,” Angel said. What she meant was: Take me home. Now!
“No way I’m putting you in an Uber, if you could even find one.”
“Well, there’s no rush. I don’t have to leave right now.” She was acting like an octogenarian, and that wasn’t even fair to the eighty-plus crowd. Some might be out partying right now.
The band resumed. Alessandro suggested they find a quiet corner. They wandered off to a remote seating area tucked beyond the cluster of papier-mâché trees.
“I have to ask,” he said. “Was I any help?”
“What do you mean?”
“With your rebound efforts. Did I help any?”
Angel nearly spit out her second lychee martini.
“The way you left, I wasn’t sure how effective I’d been.”
“You know why I left. Let’s not go there again.”
“You didn’t even say thank you,” he said, indignant.
“As in...thank you for your service?”
“You wouldn’t have to stand on ceremony or anything.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“I’ve been dreaming of you.”
Angel went soft everywhere. Did he know the effect he had on her? His next careless words proved that he didn’t.
“If rebound sex doesn’t work out, there’s always revenge.”
“You’ve been giving this some thought.”
“Have you considered posting that photo of us?”
That quick selfie had astonished her. She and Alessandro looked good together. And not only that, they looked comfortable with each other. A stranger could tell that they were intimate. The fact he’d suggested that she use it as fodder to get back at her stupid ex
saddened her. It revealed something about him. He’d grown accustomed to people using his celebrity to further their own causes in both positive and negative ways.
“Thanks for the offer,” she said. “You should know that I’d never use you like that.”
“What if I want you to?”
Angel set her drink down on a low table and reached for him by the loop of his belt. “Stop.”
She did not want to hear any more talk of rebound tactics or revenge plots.
He took her face in his hands; his eyes were as black as the ocean. “Fine. I’ll stop, but the offer stands.”
“What do you get out of this?” she asked. “Just curious.”
“I get you.”
“You already have me.”
Alessandro crushed her mouth with a kiss. They toppled onto a nearby chaise in a tangle of limbs. He nudged aside the silky ruched bodice of her dress and the lace of her bra. His teeth closed tightly on a nipple. Angel wanted to cry out with pleasure, and then she remembered where they were.
“We can’t do this here!”
Alessandro slowly drew away from her. “But we’re doing this?”
Now she cupped his face. “If the offer still stands.”
He got up and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
It was YOLO all the way home, in a convertible with the top down.
Sandro was driving his own car tonight, a compact Alfa Romeo that suited him far better than the borrowed Bentley. The leather seat cradled Angel and the breeze teased her hair. Sandro took on the curves of the highway, one hand on the wheel and the other on the clutch...or on her knees, or burrowed between them, or traveling up the length of her thigh. Angel couldn’t wait to get home but she never wanted this ride to end.
By the time they’d made it to her place, Angel was drunk with desire. She had thought the last time was the last time. It had been a surreal experience. He was practically a stranger and his touch felt new. How would it be different this time? The man kissing her neck while she fumbled with her keys at her apartment door did not feel like a stranger.
“Need help?”
He meant with her keys, not her mental state.
“Thanks. I can manage.”
She could not manage. He waited patiently for one second for her to get it together. Then he took the key from her, inserted it into the tricky old lock, and deftly turned it until it clicked. Damn it! Why was that hot?
She ushered him into her living room. “Next you’re going to tell me that you worked as a locksmith before hitting it big.”
“A janitor.”
“The tenants must have loved you.”
She switched on a lamp and lit the candle on the dining table for ambiance. Basically, she did not know what to do. Alessandro roamed around, exploring her space in very much the same fashion that she had explored his. If he were looking for signs of her personality, the only ones he’d find were her potted plants and her framed paintings. Although she liked the furniture, every piece a flea market or Craigslist find, it all belonged to Chris. He had no need for it in Australia.
Angel stepped out of her heels and tossed them onto the rug beneath the midcentury coffee table. When he approached one of her paintings, a simple but colorful landscape hanging over her desk, she went for a quick and easy diversion. Her blue dress joined her sandals on the floor. Alessandro must have heard the whisper of silk because he immediately turned to face her.
“Um... Do you want a house tour, a glass of wine or...what?”
There was something uniquely empowering about being on her home turf.
Alessandro turned his back on the painting. “Option 3, if that’s alright.”
“Option 3 it is, but you’re overdressed.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
While he stripped off his clothes, Angel thought it might be best to shut her blinds. She walked over to the window. He grabbed her by the waist, backed her onto the windowsill and stripped her of her lingerie. Alessandro Cardenas was deliciously naked between her thighs. The man was cut from bronze, all hard planes and sharp angles, and every square inch of him taught and tight. To keep him there, she wrapped her legs around his thighs.
He cupped her face and ran the rough pad of his thumb over her lips. “My angel is bad tonight.”
Now, she could admonish him for the simplistic characterization of her sexuality—or she could just be bad.
Angel tightened her legs around him. Fingers woven in her hair, he tugged her head back and kissed her. His hands left her hair and roamed over her body. These were not the hands of a stranger. He knew where and how to touch her, cupping her breasts and teasing her nipples until her back arched and her head slammed against the windowpane.
He slid two fingers inside her. “Did you think about me last night?”
“What?”
“Last night. Did you think about me?”
He was stroking her and her mind was singularly focused on his hands, not his words. “Last night was...last night.”
“Now tell me. Why did you run away?”
The truth spiraled out of her. “I was scared.”
He rubbed his nose to hers. “Scared of me?”
“Scared of this!”
He could do with that information what he liked. She was scared of the pull he had on her. It was pure burning emotion, defying logic or reason, and it made her do the unthinkable.
But Alessandro didn’t seem bothered by this revelation. Or maybe he already knew. He seemed to have her figured out. He kissed her again and again while his fingers explored deeper. Angel arched forward knocking a decorative crystal off the edge of the sill. It dropped on his foot. That didn’t bother him, either. He laughed it off and pulled her to her feet. “Why can’t I ever get you in bed?”
That first night at the penthouse, they’d gotten only as far as the rug on the bedroom floor and crawled into bed afterward where they promptly fell asleep. At least here, at her place, there wasn’t too far to travel to find the nearest bed.
Angel led him to her bedroom. Along the way, he stopped to pluck a foil packet from the pocket of his trousers, which he left strung over an armchair. Good thing he’d planned ahead because she didn’t have condoms in the apartment. She hadn’t needed any for a long, long time.
Her bedroom was dark except for the pale glow of the table lamp in the front room. She poured herself onto her bed, while Alessandro remained standing at the foot. He tore open the foil packet and spoke deliberately. “Yesterday morning, I woke up wanting you. Last night I stayed up fighting the urge to show up at your door. And tonight when I saw you, I knew there was no other possible outcome than this.” He looked her square in the eyes. “So, yeah. It’s scary, Angeline.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Angel closed her eyes as soon as the words leaped out. What had possessed her?
Alessandro went silent a moment. “Don’t use your name?”
“Never mind.” She sat up straight and took the condom packet from his hand and finished the job—the less talking the better. “I’m so ready for you.”
He eased her onto her back and crawled over her. Angel was murmuring nonsensically. “Yes. Yes. Don’t. Yes.” He entered her inch by inch, deliberately, cruelly slow.
“What do you want me to call you?”
Her words turned into whimpers.
“If not Angeline, then what?”
Angel gripped his arms. “Forget it.”
His tactics were more advanced than hers. With a slight shift in position, he sank in deeper inside her, leaving no room for self-possession. “You like it when I call you Angel? Is that it?”
“Call me yours.”
He went still. Angel squeezed her eyes shut again. She was not going to make it through the night.
“My ange
l...” He brushed his parted lips to hers. “And what does my angel want?”
Angel was near delirious with pleasure. “She wants you.”
They’d made love before, but it was in her simple room, her plain bed, that they truly became lovers.
Eleven
“This is the part of the rom-com when you make me pancakes.”
“Even if we had the time, I couldn’t bring that fantasy to life. I’m no cook. Why do you think I value Myles so much?”
“Protein smoothie it is,” she said with a shrug and gave her state of the art blender a whirl.
With the first rays of dawn streaming through Angel’s kitchen window, their day began with coffee, quiet conversation and now protein shakes. She was dressed for work, looking elegant in an emerald green dress. Her hair was brushed into a high ponytail and gold hoops hung at her ears. The color in her cheeks and that coy smile were all his doing, or so he liked to think.
Sandro had yet to put on his pants. After their shower, he was feeling lazy. All he wanted was to fold back into bed with her, but she was focused on heading out the door. Paloma was expecting her at the convention center in an hour. Sandro had offered to drive her to work. She’d accepted with one caveat: he had to drop her off one half block away from the convention center. “I can’t be seen with you.”
When Sandro thought of the lengths people went to in order to be seen with him, this just cracked him up. “You want to hide this?”
Wearing only his boxer briefs, he turned to give her a look at the goods. Her gaze swept over him appreciatively. Those luminous brown eyes got him every time.
“You’re my client,” she said.
“I’m more than that.”
“No one needs to know that.” She poured him a glass of the shake she’d taken such pride in whipping up. “More importantly, Paloma doesn’t need to know that. Now drink up and get dressed.”
“My poor Angel, how can you stand Paloma?”
“I can’t!” she confessed with a horrified laugh. “Which is why I need a new job.”
What Happens In Miami... Page 8
