Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  “You have to take me!” I clutch his hand with desperation.

  “Uh . . .” He glances down at my fingers, which are probably squeezing the feeling out of his hand. “You did hear me say that I’ll be working at this gala, right? It’s not like I received an invite and can bring a plus one. Why are you so hot to go anyway?”

  I release his hand and lean back in my chair, trying to act casual, like I really don’t care one way or the other. “I just thought it might be a good networking opportunity. You know, to connect with people who own businesses that do advertising and might need a spokesperson or model. I’m trying to put out as many feelers as I can right now.”

  If you’re wondering why I just told Zane that big whopper, it’s in his best interest, I assure you. And mine, too. You see, Z has these pesky, little things called morals, and I doubt he’d be down with my plan to ensnare a man with deep pockets, which is why I made the other members of our posse swear to keep their lips zipped on the subject. If Zane thinks he can do something to help further my career, he might be willing to go the extra mile. Conversely, if he finds out what my real motive for wanting to attend this party is, I’ll get a lecture on the evils of marrying for money. It’s actually kind of sweet that he believes in true love and happily ever afters (his parents have been together since high school and are still head over heels thirty-odd years later), but I’d rather not hear any of that romantic garbage right now. I’m a woman on a mission and I have to stay focused!

  “Sorry, I wish I could help, but this is Sully’s gig and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that for him.”

  Clasping my hands together in a prayer pose, I say, “Please, please, please. I can crash a party without calling attention to myself, I promise.”

  “You, not call attention to yourself?” Zane snorts with disbelief. “That’s like saying the sun’s going to take a break from shining, or a gator won’t bite your head off because he’s still full from the turtle he ate earlier. Calling attention to yourself is what you do, Izzy. It’s instinctual.”

  “Mmmmm, you have a point,” I concede. “But still, I have to get into this party. It’s my destiny. I can feel it in my bones. Come on, Z, help a girl out.” I stick out my lower lip, knowing how irresistible I am when I pout, and bat my eyelashes at him.

  “Nice try. The answer’s still no.”

  Since flirt mode is clearly a bust, I switch gears. “Okay, you’re playing hard-to-get. I can respect that. How about you do this little favor for me and I’ll make it worth your while?”

  He levels a suspicious gaze at me. “What are you offering?”

  “I can make it so that Misty breaks up with you tonight, then you can have fun at the party on Saturday without there being any relationship drama hanging over your head.”

  “I’m scared to ask, but how do you propose to do that?”

  “Easy.” I pull out my phone. “Misty doesn’t know that we’re together right now, does she?”

  “No, I just told her I was out with a friend. I wasn’t specific about who that friend was because she gets jealous when she knows I’m alone with you.”

  “Smart girl.” I wink at him, then start typing a text to Misty. ‘OMG, I am freaking out! Is Z with you? I need to talk to him NOW, and he’s not picking up his phone. I told him we should have used a condom!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ I attach a photo and hit SEND.

  “What did you do?” Zane’s now looking panicky in addition to suspicious.

  “Only what was necessary. You’ll see, it’s better this way.”

  “Gimme.” He holds his hand out to me, and I place my iPhone on his outstretched palm.

  His eyes grow increasingly wide as he reads what I wrote. “Jesus, Izzy, this is diabolical. How did you get this selfie of yourself holding a positive pregnancy test?”

  “I was with Pilar when she peed on a stick to see if she was knocked up a few months ago. I took the pic, thinking it would come in handy one day and now it has. You should turn your phone back on. It’s probably blowing up with texts and phone calls from a certain someone.”

  He’s speechless as I take back my phone and stuff it in my purse. “I guess my work here is done, so I’ll say, ‘Toodles, and thanks for the froyo.’”

  Rising from the table, I take a few steps forward so that I’m next to Z’s chair. “We should ride to the party together Saturday night, don’t you think?” I lean down to whisper in his ear, “Pick me up at seven,” then plant a kiss on his cheek and sashay out of Fizee’s, well aware that every guy in the place is watching my booty in these hot pink jeans that fit like a second skin. Enjoy, fellas!

  CHAPTER 11

  As I gaze at my reflection in the most ornate, and probably expensive, mirror I’ve ever laid eyes on, I give my messy updo one last spritz of hairspray, then focus my attention on my mouth, applying a luscious coat of lip gloss in a dark, dramatic shade called “Beso” (that means kiss in Spanish and hopefully it’s a harbinger of things to come this evening). I’m debating whether or not I need bronzer (I’m already bronzed naturally from the sun, but a little sparkle might be fun) when there’s a soft knock on the door of the powder room followed by a furtively whispered, “Izzy, it’s me.”

  Unlocking the door, I stand aside so that Zane can enter.

  “What’s the big emergency?” he wonders, referring to the SOS text I just sent him, as he walks into the small, but lavishly decorated room and sets his camera down on the Carrara marble-topped vanity. “You know I’m supposed to be work—Sweet mother of God!” is his stunned exclamation when he turns to face me and gets an eyeful of my party get-up.

  “An amazing transformation in just ten minutes, right?” It really was no small feat to go from looking totally nondescript in a uniform of black pants/white shirt, with my hair in a ponytail and no makeup to my current glamorous incarnation. (I got into the party by coming in the back entrance with Zane and pretending to be part of Sully’s “crew.” The security guards didn’t even question my presence because my name was on the approved list thanks to a call I made to the Sandovals’ party planner. Employing my dormant acting skills, I announced that I was Adrian Doscher’s assistant at M*I*A and gave her my name along with Zane’s and Sully’s as being the photography team from the magazine. It was all surprisingly easy.)

  “You look gorgeous,” Zane says, still sounding a bit dazed, which is good. I need to blow the mind of every man who sees me at this party.

  “Thanks. I got this dress from a guy down in the Design District who does knockoffs. I only paid two hundred bucks for it while the original Saint Laurent that this dress was ‘inspired by,’” I make air quotes, “cost thirty-five hundred. And these shoes,” I kick up one foot to show off my open-toed stilettos with the 4-inch heel and a sexy strap around the ankle, “are Gianvito Rossis that retail for eight hundred, but my friend, Sharisse, got a pair for free when she walked in a show in New York last fall. Unfortunately for her, they were a size seven, and she’s got big boat feet. So, she passed them on to me.”

  “They’re a nice pop of color,” Zane observes.

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t pair a black dress with black shoes. That would have been such a snooze! Gianvito Rossi calls this shade ‘avocado,’ but that just makes me think of guac. I prefer electric lime.” I strike a couple of poses while looking down at my feet and marvel not only at how cute the shoes are, but how long and sleek my legs look in them.

  “So, why am I here,” Zane asks, “other than to tell you that you’re going to be the hottest woman at this party?”

  I stop preening and say, “You’re here because I can’t get the zipper on the back of this dress to go up. I think it’s defective; the designer probably got it in the fifty cent bin at Fabricsworld. Will you see if you can get it to work?” I pivot so that my back is to Zane.

  “Woah,” I hear him murmur.

  “Woah what? I didn’t tear the dress when I was messing with th
e zipper, did I?” I twist my head around so that I can see what he’s talking about.

  “No. It’s fine. I was woah-ing because the back of this dress is even sexier than the front. These slashed cut-outs . . .”

  I can feel him tracing the edge of one of the cut-outs, the tip of his finger trailing along my exposed skin from the bottom of my left shoulder blade down to the right side of my rib cage. I have to suppress a shudder, not because my body is reacting to Z’s touch. Hell no! It’s just cold in here. That’s all. And yes, I know I said I was hot-natured and the A/C doesn’t bother me, but whatever, shut up!

  “The architecture of this dress is amazing. With the one-shoulder design and the cut-outs, it’s very editorial. I’d love to photograph you in—”

  “Yeah, sure, some other time. Right now I need you to hurry up and get that zipper moving so that I can join the party.”

  “All right. Hold on.” Z bends down on one knee so that he can examine the troublesome zipper up-close. “It’s not broken,” he determines. “The fabric’s just caught in the teeth. I think I can pull it loose if I . . .” He tugs on it a few times, all the while his knuckles are brushing up against the small of my back, which is apparently an erogenous zone because all of a sudden I’m feeling like I’ve got an itch that needs to be scratched.

  Keep it in your thong, Izzy! Now is not the time to start having dirty thoughts about Zane. Your future husband is probably out at the party right this very minute, noshing on a shrimp cocktail, waiting for you to show up and rock his world.

  “Got it!” Zane declares triumphantly, and I feel the zipper slide up my back.

  “Great. Thanks.” I distance myself from his tingle-inducing hands as quickly as I can, moving over to the mirror so that I can make some final adjustments to my dress and hair.

  It’s not a clean escape, though, because Z follows me, placing his hands on my hips and leaning over my bare shoulder. “You know what I think you need?” he asks, his amber eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

  Half a dozen R-rated responses instantly spring to mind, but I wrestle them into submission.

  “Some personal space?” I snark albeit somewhat breathlessly.

  His mouth twitches up on one side. “No, some earrings. You’ve got naked lobes.” He gently squeezes the fleshy bottom of my right ear between his thumb and forefinger.

  Trying to ignore the heat that seems to be seeping from his body into the back of mine, I say, “Thanks for the reminder,” then reach for my makeup bag and unzip one of the compartments inside. “What do you think of these?” I hold up a pair of gold drop earrings with a black background studded in diamonds (okay, cubic zirconias) and a large green stone (peridot, I think) at the bottom. “Topaz made them for me.”

  “Very pretty,” he approves.

  I slip on the earrings and start packing up all of my paraphernalia so that I can stuff it back in the leather camera bag Z loaned me. “I’m going to hide this under the sink,” I tell him. “Can you take it back out to your car at the end of the night?”

  “Sounds like a service that should earn me a tip.” He extends his hand toward me.

  “Here’s a tip.” I plop his camera down on his outstretched palm. “Go back out to the party and take your pictures or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing for Sully and pretend like you don’t know me for the rest of the night.”

  “Plausible deniability. Got it.”

  “Then, go!” I put both hands on his back and push him toward the door.

  Placing his hand on the doorknob, he looks back at me and says, “Good luck.”

  “I don’t need luck. I’ve got all this.” I run my hand up and down my body.

  “Yes, you do,” Zane agrees with a smile before disappearing out the door.

  I check the clock on my phone, then tap my foot impatiently while I wait for the requisite few minutes to pass. When I’m sure Z’s had time to get back out to the party, I grab my glittered clutch bag and peek my head out of the powder room. The coast appears to be clear, so I sneak out into the corridor and hurriedly head toward the sounds of party chatter and easy listening Latin music (Buena Vista Social Club if I’m not mistaken).

  Although there are people milling around in Casa Sandoval’s ballroom-sized living area, most of the partygoers are congregating in the huge outdoor space, which I am completely wowed by when I exit through the open arched wood doors and see the beautifully manicured vista spread out before me. The stone-tiled terrace leads to a courtyard with a grand, three-tiered fountain in its center and the courtyard splits off in three different directions, the flowering shrub and palm tree-lined path to the left takes its followers to a large pool with a swim-up bar and a row of brightly colored cabanas while the one to the right ends in an open space where tables are filled with food and drink, straight ahead is the expansive deck area overlooking the bay. That’s right, the Sandovals’ estate is a waterfront property, and its location, at the tip of Star Island, the most exclusive neighborhood in South Beach which is populated by celebrities and multi-millionaires, is what a high-end realtor would call “prime.”

  Reminding myself not to look too awestruck so that no one will realize I don’t really belong at this swanky soirée, I venture forth, grabbing a glass of champagne from the tray of a server who’s passing by. I spend the next hour flitting from group to group, insinuating myself into people’s conversations, angling for introductions to any remotely attractive man who doesn’t have a wedding ring on. I meet Christian Something or Another who’s the director of analytics at Sandoval Spirits and quite possibly the most boring conversationalist I’ve ever encountered. Who cares how many proof gallons of distilled spirits were produced in the Northern Hemisphere last year?

  I only spend ten minutes with Brent What’s-His-Face, the head of some restaurant group in Miami, before I write him off as a lush (knocking back three drinks in that short period of time was a major red flag). Somehow I get drawn into a discussion with two middle-aged couples from out-of-town about where the best place in Miami to have Sunday brunch is. (As far as I’m concerned brunch is for old people and hipsters, so I don’t have an opinion on the subject.) I’m relieved when they finally decide on the champagne brunch at the Biltmore (at ninety dollars a head, that place is way too rich for my blood!), but then the men start weighing the pros and cons of the premier golf courses in the area and I want to scream.

  “Oh, I think that’s my friend, Diddy. I really should say, ‘Hi.’ Will you excuse me?”

  It’s not a lie. Well, the part about me knowing music mogul Sean Combs is, but I do see a snazzily-dressed man wearing tinted glasses on the far side of the deck that could be him and Diddy does own a house on Star Island, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he would be at this gala. Unfortunately, the man in question turns out to be a poser, with none of the charm or swagger of the real Diddy. (At least none that I can ascertain after watching him from a discreet distance for a few minutes. Sigh.)

  My stomach is rumbling because it hasn’t been fed since lunchtime and I’m exhausted from all the schmoozing, so I mosey over to the impressive spread of catered food the Sandovals are offering. I grab another glass of champagne and start loading up a plate with as many of the delicious-smelling Cuban appetizers as I can. I’m satisfied with my haul and am about to go find a comfortable spot to sit so that I can enjoy the food when I notice that there’s also a dessert table, and it’s filled with many of my favorites—cinnamon-dusted arroz con leche (rice pudding), pastelitos de guayaba (flaky, multi-layered guava pastries), tres leches cake with dollops of fluffy whipped cream, and . . .

  “That’s the biggest flan I’ve ever seen,” a male voice says from behind me.

  “It’s magnificent.” I’m practically drooling at the sight of the quivery golden custard with its darkened, sugary topping bathed in what looks to be a pool of rum. And he’s right, the flan is Guinness World Record-sized. It takes up the whole center of the table and could easily fe
ed fifty people.

  “Would you like a piece?”

  “I would, but I’ve run out of hands.” I’m holding a drink in one (my clutch is wedged up in my armpit where the glitter is probably rubbing off), and a piled-high appetizer plate in the other, which I turn to my side to show—

  Sweet mother of God! Zane’s exclamation from earlier is the first thing that pops into my head when I see the other dessert ogler.

  How did I miss this guy when I was making the party rounds? He’s Latin, with the requisite dark, wavy hair, bedroom eyes, and a lush set of lips I’d like to spend the rest of the night nibbling on. He’s got presence, too—strong, masculine, charismatic. Clearly, an alpha male (my favorite kind!), but the testosterone he’s oozing from every pore is restrained by class and sophistication. His cologne smells expensive, and his clothes (perfectly tailored gray herringbone suit with a pale blue shirt and matching pocket square) are sharp and stylish. Rowr!

  “In that case, I have a proposition,” he tells me with a smile curving the corners of his kissable mouth.

  The answer to his proposition, whatever it might be, is, yes, yes, YES!

  “Which is?” I lift an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “I’ll get some flan and a few of these other sweets, which we can share while getting to know each other better.”

  “I like the sound of that.” A lot. After weeks of chasing men, all of whom ended up being disappointments, it’s nice to have the first move made by someone else. And so far, I can’t find a damn thing wrong with this guy. His voice is deep, smooth, and muy sexy, he appears to have very good taste and the money to back it up, he’s not wearing a gold band on his left ring finger, and there are no overbearing mothers lurking around.

  He loads up a plate with several desserts, being sure to ask which ones are most appealing to me, then he suggests we find a seat near the water, which I’m all for. He leads me through the crowd to a low stone wall with a wide ledge perfect for sitting down on. From this vantage point, we’re just a few feet away from the deck and we have a wonderful view of the bay, where all the lights from the party, as well as the ones coming from the buildings on the mainland, are reflecting off the dark water, giving it a magical, shimmery look.