A dark shadow briefly marred the perfect features as she rose from the chaise and finally reached for the robe. Rather than putting it on, however, she very carefully folded the garment, the tip of her tongue peeking just beyond straight white teeth as she lined up the seams, even taking care that each cuff was precisely folded back the same amount on each side. Just as carefully, she laid it across the back of the chaise, a mocking banner as she sauntered toward a paneled door at the far end of the room. Peering back around the edge of the doorway she tossed out, “Take care of it, Jack,” before the door closed on a charming, melodic giggle that was no doubt a potent weapon in an already loaded arsenal.
Jack turned, our gazes meeting—his weary and imploring, the sudden shadows that had appeared beneath his eyes throwing the normally muted green in them into stark relief.
You see now, what I meant?
I could only begin to imagine what might be reflected in my eyes if the clenched fists I took care to hide behind my back were any indication.
I had a job here, I reminded myself. To ghostwrite an accurate, sympathetic autobiography of a woman who was a member of one of this country’s most celebrated families. A woman who, according to every article I’d read, every note I’d been given, every photograph I’d seen of her socializing with the rich, the famous, and the very well-connected, put her in a rarified class. She was for all intents and purposes, American royalty.
And I hated her.
Fifteen
“So what now, Natalia?”
We were seated on the patio of the Colony Shores Inn, a Malibu landmark situated well off the highway on a picture-postcard bluff overlooking the ocean. Cozy, understated, and undeniably private, it was ideal for everything from high-powered business meetings to discreet affairs to, in our case, discussing the foibles of eccentric, flighty relatives. I had to imagine, however, that convenience rather than privacy had been the driving force behind Jack’s choice. Given that it was a mere five-minute drive from Ava’s and according to Jack, served the best margaritas north of the border.
He hadn’t lied.
“You’re asking me?”
A short laugh escaped as he set his empty glass down and waved for another. “Why not? I’m at a loss.”
“What would you like me to say?”
He slouched against the curved wicker back of his chair, shoulders sloped in exhaustion. “What I would like you to say is ‘Jack, this is ridiculous, let’s just get drunk and forget the whole thing.’”
“Tempting, but not precisely what I was thinking.” Tequila and something about this man and all I’d learned this afternoon demanded honesty. “Although I can’t deny part of me desperately wants to get on the first plane back to New York.”
“And the other part?”
No answer needed, really. We both knew what the other option was. Regardless, I answered. I wanted to make certain there would be no misconceptions or misunderstandings. “The other part demands that I stay and see this through. Despite every reservation I have, and believe me, there are many.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.” He grimaced as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Although I can’t imagine why you’d stay.”
“Because I made a promise.”
“One you’re being paid for.”
Seagulls shrieked as they circled and swooped low over the beach, searching for scraps. I strained to see them in the rapidly fading light, brief flashes of white against the oncoming dark.
The silence was finally broken by the metallic snick of a lighter followed by a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I can’t ever seem to say the right thing around you.”
My gaze drifted upwards, picking out the emerging stars, marveling at the fact that they were the same ones he’d shown me through the telescopes at the Observatory. Was it possible it had only been earlier today? Right now, it seemed a lifetime ago and as distant as every other good memory I possessed. “Do you see this as just another form of whoring?”
He went so still only the glowing tip of his cigarette showed movement. “If it is, then I have to cast myself as a pimp, given my role in facilitating this.”
I glanced down toward the beach. Unable to see the waves, I concentrated on the sound—the smooth, soothing rush intermittently broken as the water crashed against the rocks. “I don’t think of you as a pimp.”
Again, that stillness from Jack—more sensed than seen, since I was resolutely keeping my gaze focused toward the beach, imagining the cool waves washing over my heated skin.
“And I certainly don’t think of you as a whore.”
Just then, our waiter arrived, bearing Jack’s drink and asking if we cared for anything to eat. While unintentional, it served to provide a necessary respite—a further break in the tension that allowed us to revert to some semblance of normality.
After asking my tolerance for spicy food as well as permission to choose for both of us, Jack placed an order, adding yet another piece to the enigma that was this man. The fresh tortilla chips and spicy queso blanco were the epitome of humble, but as I well knew both from the foods of my childhood and my years eating Remy’s creations, humble did not automatically equate to lack of quality.
“Good, isn’t it?”
I nodded, puffing quick breaths around the growing heat. I fanned my face, silently cursing that I’d just finished my margarita.
“This is the kind of food that feeds the soul,” he added, reaching across the small table to hold his drink to my lips. “Helps me think.”
Placing my hand over his to steady the glass, I took a grateful sip, studying him yet again over the rim. Imagine—someone like Jack appreciating the visceral connection between simple foods and comfort. The very antithesis of his type. Of that bitch currently lounging in the spectacular house perched on the cliff.
Reverse snobbery? From you? Really?
My conscience administered its chide in a gentle tone. As much as I’d accused him of not knowing anything about me, it was beyond presumptuous for me to make similar assumptions based on what little I knew of him.
“You’re very good at masking what you’re thinking. But not the action. I can practically see the wheels turning.” He drew the glass back, taking a sip, the tip of his tongue emerging to lick salt crystals from his lower lip. “So, what are you thinking?”
The tequila burned warm through my veins. “That I don’t like her much.”
“Some days, neither do I,” he said with a laugh that prompted a relieved sigh from me. “But she’s my cousin and I love the sweet, adventurous girl I grew up with. The one I hope someday makes a reappearance. And I owe it to her to stick with her.”
Owed her? How curious. But judging by the shuttered expression on his face, not an avenue for questioning. Just a statement of fact. I toyed with the stem of the fresh salt-rimmed glass the waiter placed before me along with the tapas platter of vegetables, cold cuts, and chilled shrimp Jack had ordered for us to share.
“Are you sure you don’t want to run?”
“No.”
“No, you’re not sure or no, you’re not going to run?”
“I’m … not sure?” Despite the indecision and slight hint of panic, I found myself laughing along with him, enjoying the wordplay and repartee.
He propped his forearms on the table, leaning forward slightly. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why aren’t you running?”
I’d asked myself the same thing. More than once, actually. Now, perhaps with an assist from tequila, I found the answer came rather easily. “Because I’m curious.”
“About?”
“What could make a life so interesting it would be worth writing about by the age of thirty.” I ran my thumb along the rim of the glass, salt crystals rasping pleasantly against my skin. “Maybe … I’m even a bit curious to see what my life might have been.”
His sharp intake of breath had me glancing up to meet his gaze. “Even if your family st
ill had their fortune, I suspect your life would be very different from Ava’s.”
“Are WASPs and Cubans that very different?”
He snorted and reached for a fresh cigarette. “More like Ava’s that different.”
“Hence the need for an autobiography?”
He picked a stray tobacco flake from the tip of his tongue before blowing out a thin stream of smoke. “I suppose.”
“You don’t sound entirely certain.”
“I know the general public tends to be curious—” he inclined his head acknowledging my own term, “—about families like ours. About secrets and scandals both real and imagined. But Ava couldn’t care less about the family or the public’s interest in it. If she even imagined for a moment that could potentially be a driving force in generating interest in this book, she’d drop the idea like the proverbial hot potato.”
“So why haven’t you mentioned it as a possibility?”
He snorted. “You’re assuming I could get her to believe that.” Selecting a fork, he began picking at the food on the platter between us. “But I couldn’t. Her ego just won’t accept it.”
Skewering a fat shrimp with my fork, I took care to keep my gaze focused squarely down as I squeezed fresh lime over the shellfish.
“What ?”
I shouldn’t have bothered. And the tequila struck again, accented with a healthy note of pique.
“Why do you put up with it? That …” That craziness, I almost blurted. “That … willfulness,” I settled on. “Honestly, if she was Cuban—”
“But she’s not.” The statement was mild and all the more definitive for it. I’d forgotten. For a fleeting moment, I’d forgotten who he was.
“Of course. My apologies.” I set the half-eaten shrimp down and reached again for my glass. Even though more alcohol was probably not the wisest idea.
“Not good to be drinking quite that much on an empty stomach.” Clearly he was in agreement, even if his reasoning had a somewhat different basis. I silently watched as he transferred avocado and ham to my small plate. In the midst of adding another pair of shrimp, he casually asked, “What would have happened to her if she was Cuban?”
I toyed with my fork, finally spearing a bite of avocado. “She would have been turned over her father’s knee and spanked until she couldn’t walk, and if that didn’t work, sent off to a convent until she’d learned her lesson or was of marriageable age. Then, at least, she’d be her husband’s problem.”
“Hm.” I glanced up to find the edges of his mouth quirking. “Pity we’re not Catholic. The convent idea doesn’t sound half bad. Although I’m not sure there’s a convent that could hold Ava.”
“She’s never met a Dominican sister.”
“If only we’d known.” The quirking developed into a fleeting grin, there and gone. “God knows, nothing else, including the husbands, ever worked.” A shadow passed across his face, eerily similar to the one that had darkened his cousin’s face earlier. Ironically, showing for the first time, a clear familial resemblance.
After eating quietly for a while he asked, “So were you ever spanked until you couldn’t walk?”
I glanced up. “Once. And believe me, it was enough.”
“What was your crime?”
“Nico and I liberated a tank full of lobsters from the kitchens of the Yacht Club. Dropped them back into the ocean. What we didn’t know was that they’d been imported from Spain and were worth several hundred dollars.”
“Oh hell. Well, at least you had company in your discomfort.”
“Not really. I was the only one who received a spanking.”
Jack’s mildly outraged “What?” drew a smile, even as the memory of the punishment had me shifting in my seat.
“Nico was a boy.” I shrugged as I pushed at the discarded shrimp tails on my plate with a finger. “The escapade dismissed as typical boyish hijinks. I, on the other hand, was punished for blindly following on what was clearly a bad idea. I should have known better.”
“Did you?”
I nodded. “I had tried to talk Nico out of it, but he swore if we were caught, he’d take the blame and any punishment. And oh, how he tried, arguing that since it had been his idea, he should be the one spanked, but to no avail. If anything, everyone was so proud, saying what a good family leader he would be with a bit more guidance in making better choices. In the end, he insisted that at the very least, he wanted to be there when I received my punishment. Pobrecito,” I murmured, drifting further into the memory, recalling how he’d held my hand, his fingers convulsing with each crack of the belt against my skin, openly crying even though it might well have finally earned him his own spanking had my father told his. Which he hadn’t. Nico told me much later, Papi had taken him aside and praised him for his strength of character. Said he knew he could trust him with me.
“I think that’s when I knew for sure.” My voice sounded slow and distant to my own ears, muffled by the past. “About us.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight. He was eleven.”
The clinking of china as the waiter reappeared and began clearing the table swept away the fog of memory and brought a heated rush to my cheeks over all I’d revealed. No more tequila, I silently swore. Ever. Clearly, it and I did not mix well.
Thankfully, Jack let the matter lie and instead, turned to outlining a new plan for our project over fragrant coffee and crispy cinnamon wafer cookies.
“It’s too far for you to remain in Beverly Hills. Commuting out here could easily eat up half the day, and when you take into consideration that Ava doesn’t exactly keep banker’s hours—forget it. There are suites here at the Inn, so I’ll see if they’re available.” Pausing from scribbling on the notepad he’d requested, he asked, “Do you drive?”
I recalled the pistachio green Thunderbird convertible that had been my sixteenth birthday present. Halcyon days spent driving to the beach and along the Malecon, reveling in the sun bathing my skin, the wind blowing through my hair as Elvis jousted with Orquesta Aragón and Tito Puente for dominance on the radio. Sweet, joyous freedom. Left behind, of course, like everything else.
“I used to.”
“Good enough. We’ll see about a car for you and get you back in practice. When you feel comfortable, you can drive yourself, but until then, I’ll drive.”
His brows drew together as he continued writing, occasionally muttering to himself as I seemed to fade into insignificance, which was ridiculous, really. This all had to do with me. In a manner of speaking.
“Jack?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“So you’re … planning on staying, then? Indefinitely?” A fact I had begun gathering from the glimpses of his lists that I’d been inadvertently privy to as he ripped the sheets off the pad and set them aside. Notes regarding communicating with the New York office and having files sent to him. I resolutely kept my gaze away from the sheets, a bit afraid of what else I might read.
“I think it’s best, yes. At least until I’m reassured that things are going to go smoothly and she’s going to behave.” One eyebrow rose. “I hope that’s all right.”
Cursing the tongue that was running amok after so many years of restraint, I busied myself with pouring more coffee from the colorful stoneware coffeepot that had been left on the table. Jack had every right to be here. Clearly, his presence was needed. It had nothing to do with his estimation of my abilities. In the wake of this afternoon’s myriad revelations, it was the one thing of which I was now certain.
“Of course it’s all right. You have every reason to be concerned and to want to see the project successfully underway. I apologize. I don’t know what got into me.”
His hand grasped mine, stilling my agitated stirring. “Natalia.” He waited for me to look up and meet his gaze. The friendly, undeniably concerned gaze of the man I’d first met, all those weeks ago. “I just want to make sure she doesn’t leave you in the lurch or worse yet, pull you unsuspecting into th
e middle of some ridiculous stunt. But if you would rather I leave, I will. Or at the very least remain in Beverly Hills—stay at a remove.”
He removed his hand, the evening breeze cool on my skin.
“It is better if you stay.” Calmer now, I poured him more coffee. “Here. Not in Beverly Hills.”
“I know it’s better if I stay. That’s not in question.” He held my gaze. “But do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
He smiled faintly as he added sugar to his cup. “Good,” he said quietly. “We’ll make our arrangements and then we can get started.”
Much later, I lay in bed, listening to the welcome lullaby of the waves through the open windows of my new suite, wondering—when had this become “we?”
More importantly, when had “we” become not only fine, but welcome?
Sixteen
I studied the huge bronze door, focusing on its inset stained-glass window with the scrolled bars sternly protecting it, trying to shake off the prison-like image it evoked. My fingers curled around the edges of the leather portfolio with which Greg had gifted me on my departure from New York. Elegantly embossed with my initials, it was easily the loveliest thing I’d been given in a very long time.
“Relax. It’ll be fine and if it’s not, remember, you can walk away. I won’t hold it against you. No one will.”
“Stop saying that.” My grip tightened in response to the dampness growing beneath my palms. “I already told you I won’t.” Oddly, every bit of his insecurity over this only strengthened my desire to succeed.
“Natalia, it’s not you—you know tha—”
“Good morning.”
Our heads turned in tandem to the suddenly open door where Ava posed against the doorjamb, impeccably turned out in a white beach casual caftan, large white teardrop hoops swinging from her ears, matching bangles at her wrists, and makeup dewy-fresh and as flawless as though for a photo shoot. In that uncomfortable moment in which our gazes met, I felt hideously lacking, fully aware of how conservative and no doubt dowdy I must have appeared to her, in my blue A-line sheath with the bracelet-length sleeves and flat bow at the empire waist, makeup limited to powder, mascara, and a subtle pink lipstick, no jewelry beyond a simple Lady Bulova and small pearl studs. But as her narrow-eyed assessment traveled from my low-heeled dark pumps to the simple French twist into which I’d pinned my hair, I stiffened. She was the socialite and model, not I. My wardrobe, conservative and boring though it may have been, was more than appropriate for someone in my position.
Between Here and Gone Page 18
