by Aimee Carson
“I don’t believe that.”
“You’re going to take my ex-wife’s version of the truth over mine?”
“When it corresponds with my own version of the truth?” she said. “Yes.”
“And what is your version of the truth?”
He wouldn’t like what she had to say this time either, but she said it anyway. If any hope remained for the two of them, no matter how tiny, it had to come through a ruthless look at his past. An honest look. “That you hold back from the people in your life. From me. From your brother. And at one time from your wife. You may have married Bianca, but you never tried to make it work.”
He returned to the wall and propped a shoulder against the glass, sarcasm oozing from his voice. “Is that what you think?”
“That’s what I think.”
“At least I have a life. Friends.”
Alyssa ignored the jab. “Friends that don’t require much from you.”
His eyebrows reached for the roof. “Now you’re attacking my loyalty to Nick?”
She shook her head in frustration. “I didn’t say you weren’t loyal. You are. But Nick doesn’t make any demands on you. An aren’t-we-good-buddies friendship allows you the freedom to give what you want, when you want, and nothing more.” The conclusions she’d reached as he’d treated her so callously came tumbling out, her fingers crushing her glass. “You want a lover for your bed, an easygoing friend, but you don’t want anything that resembles a deep relationship because—”
“I tried commitment once,” he said with a scowl. “And I hated it.”
“You didn’t try. It was just a ring on your finger and a legal paper filed in your office. And you don’t want commitment because it’s all about Paulo. You want to choose when, what, and how much, if any, you’ll share, and—”
“You know what?” he said, cutting her off again as he pushed away from the glass wall. “I didn’t sign on for this.” He thrust an agitated hand through his hair. “And I have no intention of competing with your idea of the perfect boyfriend. I didn’t want to compete with my wife’s idea of a perfect husband, and I sure as hell got tired of competing for the role of perfect son.”
“Don’t you get it?” She shot off the couch and crossed the floor to stand in front of him, her tumbler clutched in her hand. “That’s what the Samba is all about. You’re still competing with Marcos.” Why was he so blind to the truth? Why couldn’t he see it? “But now it’s just a pitiful competition for the attentions of a ghost.” Surely somewhere, buried beneath all that anger, there must be pain. Dying to get him to let her in—just a little crevice that might lead to more—she reached out to touch his arm as she tried to steady her drawling voice. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to let that go, Paulo.” Her voice dropped low. “Because you can’t win the approval of a dead man.”
He pulled his arm from her hand and turned to face the glass. She was left looking at a familiar image. His back. Devastated, she stood still, feeling empty, drained and defeated.
He’d made her laugh, teased her and flirted shamelessly. But he’d also treated her with great tenderness. That proved he was capable of caring, didn’t it? Or maybe she was just hoping that was true. Her heart, already bleeding, bled a little more. “Is this really who you want to be?” she croaked hoarsely. “Someone so cold?”
His voice was devoid of emotion. “Are you done?”
She closed her eyes against the pressure of hot tears.
My God, I’m being dismissed.
Paulo stared down at the dance floor for a full minute, filled with the distant thump of music. From her silence behind him, Paulo knew Alyssa was shocked, but she finally replied.
“Not quite done,” she said, her voice shaking and thick. “Take your own advice. Let it go, already. Go see your brother. Accept the money from your father. Because the only one you’re makin’ suffer is yourself.”
Paulo felt it all caving in on him again.
Then he heard the sound of the door opening, music spilling loudly into the room and then growing muffled with a click of the latch as it closed.
Alyssa was gone.
Anger bowled into him, returning with such a ferocious impact he had to move. He speared his fingers through his hair and turned to pace the floor. He’d been made the fool again.
Played.
He’d taken off for a few days to get his head on straight, and Alyssa had snuck off behind his back and gotten chummy with his ex-wife.
The turbulent emotion grew exponentially with every step. And he was glad he had stuck to his guns about the commitment. Because as he had stood at the bar, listening to her sabotage any hope of continuing their casual relationship, he’d been tempted to reconsider. And then came her announcement that she’d gone to see Bianca, was planning their wedding anniversary, and it had felt like a shotgun blast to the chest, knocking him back with a furious hit.
Footsteps ringing against the wood floor, he reached the wall and turned to keep going. He had been systematically stabbed in the back by every member of his family. His father. His brother. Even his wife. No way was he lining up for more.
He stopped pacing and braced an arm against the window, his mouth working, tightening his grip on the raging emotion.
There was no changing what had happened between them: Alyssa seeking out Bianca and choosing her version over his. Him striking back with his words.
Paulo balled his hand into a fist against the glass and stared, unseeing, down at the dance floor. He still couldn’t believe what she’d done. Then again, it had taken him months to recover from Bianca’s actions, too. His only solace this time was that the press wasn’t involved.
Somehow the consolation didn’t help one bit.
Paulo cut through the water, stretching his arms further, pumping his legs harder. His muscles screamed to take a rest. But each time he reached the end of his pool he flipped and kept going, his mind furiously at work.
Over a week had passed since the disaster at the club. And in that time Alyssa had been working from her apartment, while he spent every night at home, punishing himself in the water, both with hard exercise and by replaying their finale in his head.
He had yet to find a safe haven.
They had shared too much at the office. The track offered no relief. And his place was full of memories he’d be struggling to forget until the dawn of the next millennium. Everywhere he went he swore he smelled her perfume. In his living room. In his bedroom. Even on his bike.
There was no escape.
And every time the elusive lilac scent hit him, her absence made him ache, and he got angry all over again. But eventually that began to fade, and he couldn’t even decide who he was mad at anymore. Alyssa, for hurting him? Or himself, for letting it happen? Finally he was left with nothing but this huge gaping hole. A void. And the silence no longer allowed him to ignore the word she’d used to describe him. The word that echoed relentlessly in his mind, even as he tried to push it away.
Cold.
If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she was talking about his father. The word described Ricardo Domingues to a T. Distant. Aloof. Paulo had never been able to figure out what made the man tick. Growing up, the only approved topic of conversation had been Domingues International. And while Marcos and his dad discussed business, Paulo had always felt left out. So he’d done what most kids would have done—sought the affections of his old man any way he could. But nothing had worked. When Paulo finished college, he joined him at the office, hoping he would finally be able to live up to the standard set by Marcos and earn his father’s approval.
Pathetic. Pathetic and stupid.
Paulo reached the edge of the pool, executed a forward roll and pushed off, the hard kick of his legs propelled by his anger.
When he’d walked away from his father’s business, he’d thought he was done. Was free of his family. He’d been proud of rising above the Domingues family trait of being defined by success. He scowled, water sleek
ing past his body, Alyssa’s words ringing in his ears.
It had never occurred to him he was making the same mistake. That he was still letting his father influence him.
And this time it was his own damn fault.
Pain seared his thighs, enveloped his shoulders, but still he kept going. The repetitive slap of his arms and legs against the water was satisfying. And if Alyssa was right about his sorry excuse for a life, what else was she right about?
Something slapped the top of Paulo’s head, and he stopped swimming. His T-shirt floated in the water, and he looked up to see Nick holding two beers in his left hand.
“Dude, as official best friend,” Nick said as he approached, lit by pool lights, “I have to inform you that there is such a thing as too much exercise.”
Paulo swam for the side and placed his elbows on the ledge, his chest heaving from exertion. “If you really cared about my health you’d be handing me a bottle of water, not a beer.”
Nick shot him a mock shocked look. “They sell water in bottles?”
Despite his foul mood, Paulo let out a scoff of reluctant amusement.
Nick took a seat, dangling his legs in the pool, and handed Paulo his beer. They sat in silence as the water bucked and swayed from the aftermath of Paulo’s strokes, pool lights flickering off the tile.
“I got an invitation to your brother’s anniversary party.” His friend paused, and the sound of lapping water filled the air. “It’s this weekend.”
Paulo set his bottle down with a clink. “I know when their anniversary is. I got an invitation, too.” Raking a hand through his wet hair, he looked at Nick. “What is it you’re really trying to say?”
It was the first time Paulo had seen his friend struck mute. But it didn’t take long for Nick to recover.
“Okay…since you asked.” Nick waved his hand to encompass the pool. “Is this your big plan? To hide out like a little girl because Alyssa said something you didn’t want to hear?” He looked at him seriously. “Avoid her like you avoid your brother? Cuz I gotta tell you, bro. If it is—” he shook his head skeptically “—your plan reeks.”
Paulo exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Nothing like the brutal honesty of an old friend. He picked up his beer and took a sip, the dark brew cooling his throat as he watched the pool light shimmy in the palm trees beyond the deck.
“What did Alyssa say to you, anyway?” Nick said.
“The abridged version?” Paulo gripped the hard glass in his hand and turned to look out into the dark beyond the trees. “That I’m an ass.”
Nick chuckled. “Always knew she was a perceptive woman.”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That she is.”
“So what’s your next step?”
Paulo hesitated. He had spent hours pondering that question, and one thought refused to quit tailing him. No matter how hard he tried to shake it.
He wanted Alyssa. He wanted her in his life. But he couldn’t make that happen without letting go of the last stronghold he’d been defending. Because the thought of taking a risk again always made his chest squeeze tight, constricting his lungs.
Scaring the hell out of him.
He shoved a hand through his hair and considered his choices. The tasks before him seemed insurmountable.
Alyssa’s final words came back to him, and it seemed as good a place to start as any. “First, I’m going to go see my brother about the trust.”
Located in downtown Miami, Domingues International headquarters dwarfed the surrounding buildings in both luxury and height, blocking the fierce noontime sun. Paulo parked in the circular drive and passed through the revolving glass door lined with gold paint.
Every muscle in Paulo’s body grew heavy with memories as he rode the elevator to the suite that encompassed the top floor. His dad’s old office.
Now it was his brother’s.
Paulo exited the elevator and paused in a small alcove to look out the window, jamming his hands in his pockets. The view was one he would remember until the day he died. After every frustrating meeting with his father, Paulo would come to this spot, wondering if it was time to leave the company. Struggling between the need to stay and the desire to strike out on his own.
“What are you doing here?”
He turned and saw Marcos standing five feet away, wearing an impeccable suit and nothing short of a scowl on his face.
Hands planted on his hips, his brother said, “Did you come to give me more grief?”
Paulo supposed he deserved the terse greeting and unhappy expression. For a long time his own behavior had been fueled by anger. Anger was easier to handle, more familiar. Had become an old friend. And old friends were hard to say goodbye to.
“No, Marcos,” Paulo finally said with resolve. “I’m done giving you grief. I only came to sign the trust papers.” Another eternity passed as they stared at each other, and then, with no more than a curt nod, Marcos turned toward his office.
Paulo followed him into the spacious suite with its modern look that consisted of chrome, glass, sparse furniture and a bird’s eye view of downtown. Marcos pulled a document from his desk and handed it to him. The thick legal file was heavy, and Paulo stared at it blankly.
The last legacy of his father.
He hadn’t expected to do more than give a cursory signature to the papers and then leave the bloody building. There was nothing for him here. Certainly nothing worth reminiscing with his brother about. But when he saw his dad’s familiar signature Paulo was hit with the irrepressible need to make sense of his father’s actions—although he expected it was probably too late. The only man with the answers had been buried long ago.
Paulo tossed the file onto the glass top of Marcos’s desk. “What did Dad expect to accomplish with this?” With a heavy sigh, he took a seat opposite his brother and flipped through the document, searching for the first line needing his signature. “That five years after his death he could make up for snubbing me in his will?”
“I never knew why Dad did anything that he did.” Marcos sat in his leather chair across from Paulo. “And I was as surprised as you were when he left the entire company to me.”
A harsh laugh rose from Paulo’s throat as he wrestled with chronic, debilitating memories. “I don’t know why. No matter how hard I worked, I could never compare to you.” Not in school. Or later in college. And certainly not in the business—though he’d near killed himself trying. Jaw clenched, he reached for one of the pens perched in a silver cup, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “Every time I accomplished something Dad would call me into his office—not to compliment me, but to compare my work to yours.” Eyes fixed on the papers, he flipped through the document, not bothering to read as he scrawled his name in the marked spots. “And he made it plain that mine was never up to par.”
“He did the same thing to me about you.”
Shock reverberated through his body, and Paulo froze in the middle of his last signature, staggered by the news. Words failed him as he slowly looked up at his brother.
Marcos settled back in his seat, his stern face growing reflective. “Remember when I purchased the Hawthorne line of hotels? Dad had talked about the deal for two years, and I worked night and day to push the acquisition through. When I finally did…” He let out a forced breath, rubbing his chin. “The only thing he said to me was how the new boutique line you were proposing had more potential for growth.”
Pen clutched in his hand, the world as Paulo knew it took a decided tilt in a different direction, and then began to rotate in reverse. “You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was,” his brother said, his expression harsh.
Struggling to reconcile the news with his memories, Paulo finished signing and closed the file, wishing that closing this chapter of his life could be accomplished as easily. As he tapped his pen on the desk, he gazed out over downtown Miami. “Why would he pit us against each other? It doesn’t make sense.”
Marcos said dryly, “Probably be
cause he was a complete bastard.” The lines bracketing his mouth grew deeper. “But that could be my resentment talking.” He met Paulo’s gaze with a level one of his own. “Bianca would say it was to push us to achieve more. To train us for the cutthroat world of business.”
“You’ve discussed this with Bianca?”
“Of course I have. She’s my wife.”
The moment stretched tight, the tension so taut he could have bounced a quarter to the moon off the surface. All the things he’d wanted to say when his brother ran off with Bianca ran through his mind. The muscles in his jaw worked as he grappled for an appropriate response.
But he couldn’t find one.
After a long pause, his brother spared him the effort. “She didn’t leave you because of the money, Paulo,” Marcos said, his voice low. And, though Paulo’s first instinct was to reject the words, there was no lack of sincerity in his brother’s tone. “The reason she left was because she was afraid.”
Paulo cocked a disbelieving brow. “Afraid?”
“Yes,” Marcos went on, his face set. “When her parents died she was barely out of high school, and she turned to Dad for support. She relied on him for everything.”
Paulo shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “I know. Dad adored her.”
“She adored him in return,” Marcos said. “And when he had his stroke she was frightened. That was when she turned to me.” With his pause, his eyes turned dark. “She had no one else to lean on. Because, even though she was married to you when Dad got sick—” he shot Paulo a hard look “—she was still very much alone.”
Paulo slowly leaned back in his chair. Try as he might, other than a few cursory comments, Paulo couldn’t remember discussing his father’s illness with Bianca.
Not once.
But he remembered growing uncomfortable as she’d grown weepy during her attempts.
A wave of guilt slowly washed through him, and he tossed the pen to the desk with a grunt of self-disgust. He was the one to start asking the questions, but apparently there was no guarantee he would like the answers. It was time to own up to his role in the sordid mess that had been his marriage.
