by Lois Greiman
“That she’s always wanted to see New—“
“But she has not! Do you not see? She had not yearned for New Orleans. And this about the lodging…never has she enjoyed staying at inns. They are too…what is the word?”
“Expensive?”
“No. What is it called when…” But she stopped suddenly to suck in a sharp inhalation.
“What is it?”
“Long ago, we traveled with Papa to Salvador. The inn at which we stayed…it was the ugly thing. But in the courtyard, there were many trees. Upon each tree was a dozen orchids.”
“Alright.”
“Sofia said the only thing that made it worth leaving home was the cattleya.”
“Cattleya?”
“Orchids. Lovely orchids.”
She expected him to argue. Or question. Or scoff. But he did not. “Your average Comfort Inn ain’t gonna have real extensive gardens, Lotta.”
She scowled. “What of those…what do you call them…breakfasts with beds?”
“Bed and breakfasts?”
“Sí. They would have gardens, would they not?”
“This ain’t exactly my kettle’a fish. But wouldn’t a bed and breakfast be kinda…. Personal? Don’t the owners live at them B&Bs?”
She nodded, seeing his point. “This devil would wish to take my sister somewhere she would go unnoticed.”
“With good desserts and beautiful gardens.” There might have been a fair amount of skepticism in his voice, but she ignored it.
“Sí.”
“Gotta tell ya, Lotta, in my experience, kidnappers ain’t quite so cordial.”
He was right. Of course, he was. He had nearly died as a captive in her country. But the circumstances were obviously different here. Different, yet the same. “He is most likely wealthy.”
“Then why would he—”
“And wishing to stay at fine establishments.”
“Even though he’s holdin’ a girl against her will.”
“Sí. He is the spoiled one and—“
“Are you hearin’ yourself, Lotta?” he asked. Then shook his head. “No kidnapper is gonna risk exposin’ an abducted person to others. Think it through.”
She sat in silence, wishing she could do just that, but the world had gone mad. “You yet believe I lie.”
His was a face where happiness lived. But worry troubled his brow, tightened his lips. “I don’t know what to believe.”
It hurt her soul to defend her veracity, but for Sofia, she would do just that. “I swear on my mother’s grave that I speak the truth.”
He watched her, cerulean eyes searching, then nodded. “Okay. All right.” He took a deep breath, released it slowly. “Maybe he’s in love with her.”
“What!” She reared back. “What love? He loves her so he has stolen her life?”
“Maybe love ain’t the right word,” he admitted. “Infatuation. Could be he’s obsessed with her.”
“With Sofia?” She snorted. “She is but a child.”
“Children grow up, Lotta. Maybe you’re seein’ her like she was and not how she is,” he suggested, but she shook her head.
“You do not know my sister. She is without interest in the distractions. She is sweet, innocent.”
“Maybe that’s it then.”
“Maybe what is it?”
“Intelligence, sweetness, innocence. They’re all qualities that could appeal to a man.”
What man? She wondered. In her experience, men did not value those assets so much as pouty lips and flirty words. “It makes no difference,” she said, pushing the possibility from her mind. “All that matters is that we find her.”
“I’m afraid we’re gonna need more information to do that. Even if you’re right and she’s in the Miami area, she could be anywhere.” Lifting his phone, he conjured up a digital map and tapped it with a blunt fingertip. “Fort Lauderdale, Hialeah, Key Biscayne, Cooper City. Hell, there’s even a Hollywood and a—“
“What you say?” Her voice was barely a wisp of breathlessness to her own ears.
“I said she could be—“
“What is this Key Biscayne?”
“It’s an island. A—“
“Not the pie.”
“What?”
“The clue of her favorite things! She meant for me to think of the dessert then know the truth. Don’t you see?” she rasped and took his hand in hers. “Sofia is on this Key Biscayne!”
Chapter 12
Feelings sparked through Shep, blasting off like scattershot. Carlotta’s fingers, surprisingly work-roughened, were warm against his. Her sunset eyes bright with hope and deep with worry.
“You have found her,” she whispered.
“It makes sense I…” he began, but in an instant, the obvious problem dawned. “Or maybe she’s on Key Largo or Key West or Windley Key or—”
Her grip loosened on his.
“There’re a whole shitload’a Keys down here.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled. “Hundreds maybe.” He felt her heart splinter and wanted…needed to make her whole, to see her smile.
“But hey, your sister’s a smart cookie, right?”
She said nothing.
“Right?” he asked again and squeezed her hand.
She tried to rally. “Always she figures my stories before the end.”
“What?”
“The mysterious books,” she said vaguely.
“Ya like mystery novels?”
“Sí. But seldom do I guess the outcome before Sofia.”
“So this is like a riddle? A puzzle?”
“¿Qué?”
“The postcard,” he said, excitement zipping through him. “She wrote it for you specifically, ‘cause ya understand her and ya understand mysteries. So all we have to do is think about it like one’a your novels.”
Her gaze clashed with his then shifted rapidly to the note. They read it again, word by word, letter by letter. And under this new light, saw new differences.
“Does she always break her Js off from the other letters?” Shep asked.
She scowled a question.
“Her writin’…it’s crazy perfect, like ya said, each word one long smooth line until the J. Is that normal?”
She leaned in. Her left breast brushed his arm, but he managed to remain conscious. Refrained from drinking her in, from jumping her like an undisciplined hound. Go, Shep.
“There!” she rasped, leaning more firmly against his arm. “Another break. And there. And there.”
He assured himself that she wasn’t attempting to drive him out of his mind. She was right. Her breasts were just plain old body parts. And, hey, they had to be somewhere. Maybe she didn’t realize they were eating their way through his arm, carving a path to less disciplined appendages.
“How could I not notice this?” she rasped. “You are the genius, Linus Shepherd.”
Their eyes met. Their pulses synced.
“Fuck me now,” she whispered and leaned in.
“What?” He sounded foggy, felt the same, but he was already leaning closer. If she wanted him, who was he to argue? Just a man. Just a—
“¿Qué?” she asked, easing back.
“Ahhh…” Reality trickled in with painful slowness. “I… It almost sounded like…” He inched back a little more. “What’d ya say?”
“I say, who is the shmuck now?”
He stared at her lips, trying to decipher her words, but it was as if she spoke a foreign language. As if only his need for her made sense, dragging her into his arms the only viable option. And what the hell was that about? He was Linus Shepherd. Shep. The love-‘em-and-leave-em Okie from Muskogee. Only he wasn’t really from Muskogee. He was from Tuskahoma, a town so small you could spit across it in a windstorm, but that was…
“It is I,” she said, looking jittery and a little bewildered. “I am the shmuck, for I should have noticed the disjointed letters this first thing.”
“Ahh
, well…” He forced a grin. It felt weirder than shit. Like he was trying to smile with someone else’s face. “I guess we should figure out what she’s tryin’ to tell us, huh?”
“Sí,” she said and pulled her gaze from his.
He was cautious now, keeping a careful distance between him and the open flame that was Carlotta Osorio. But he couldn’t hold back for long. In the end, it was her worry that sucked him in. Her need. Or so he told himself. But whatever the truth, they were soon shoulder-to-shoulder, dissecting each sentence, scribbling broken words onto a napkin until they had a jumble of fragmented nonsense.
She leaned back, as broken as the letters. “It makes no sense.”
“Think, Lotta. What’s she tryin’ to say?”
“I do not know this.”
“Intel about the guy who took her? Clues about her location?”
“I do not know, I tell you.” Frustration, shored up for too long, spilled out, shaking her voice, creasing her brow.
“Why would a kidnapper bring her here?” he asked and wondered silently why Carlotta had brought him? If this was all a ploy to drag him into Santiago’s clutches, why this shit heap of subterfuge? Why not say she knew just where Sofia was being held? Why not draw him onto Santiago’s turf and leave him to be slaughtered like a hapless lamb?
“I do not know,” she repeated, voice softer now. “But every year, young women from my country go missing.”
He knew it was true. Colombia was hardly immune to the troubles that plagued most South American countries.
“But, Sofia, she is just a child. Just a…” Her voice quavered and broke.
Their waitress appeared. “Everything okay?”
Carlotta ducked her head. “Sí.”
“Nothin’ a little dessert won’t fix,” Shep lied.
“What’ve you got?”
Options were rattled off.
He glanced at Carlotta, but she seemed beyond caring. “She’ll have the chocolate raspberry torte.”
“And for you, sir?”
He considered for a minute, but what the hell, his hands weren’t shaking yet. “Coffee. Extra cream. A bushel’a sugar.”
When they were alone again, he leaned across the table toward Carlotta. “Alright. Let’s trot back to the beginnin’. A week ago. A month. Nothin’ changed?”
“No. I tell you already. Not the thing.”
“She wasn’t upset or…I don’t know…different in any way?”
“Of course not. Everything was as it should be,” she said, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
Silence settled bumpily between them.
“Except?” Shep asked. He was running on intuition now. Gut feelings and too little sleep.
She shrugged. “Sofia, she has always loved the flowers.”
“So?”
“Some months ago, she tease about switching from becoming the lawyer…about being the botánico instead.”
“She wants to be a botanist?”
“No,” Carlotta assured him. Her polished ebony hair swayed as she shook her head. “Was just a silly thing. A moment’s thought.”
“Maybe it was more than that for her.”
“You do not know her,” she insisted.
“Alright,” he said, letting it slide. “Was there anythin’ else?”
“Perhaps she was some…” She pursed her lips, tossed a hand in frustration. “Some…autocompasión.”
He scowled, unable to translate.
“The other girls at her school…they have much, but we are… We are not poor,” she explained quickly, pride stiff in her tone. “But neither are we the wealthy ones.”
“She wanted somethin’ you couldn’t afford?” he guessed.
“She asked for the…the cirujía de ojo. The fixing of the eyes.”
“Lasix surgery?”
“Sí.”
“Why?”
“Her seeing…it is not good. Never has it been.”
“I mean, why now?”
“Her glasses, they broke, she says.”
He couldn’t help but notice the she says as if Sofia’s word was no longer gospel. As if Carlotta harbored at least a sliver of doubt, whether she admitted it or not. “And what’d you say?”
“The truth, that we could not afford such a thing.”
“Was she mad?”
Her brows quirked into duel question marks. “You think her loco just because she wished for better sight?”
He puzzled over that for a second then, “No. Not crazy. Angry. Mad. That she didn’t get her way.”
“Oh, enojado. No. Of course not. As I told you, Sofia, she is…” She paused to glance up when the waitress delivered her dessert. It was big enough to send a small village spinning into glucose overload. “Gracias.”
“My pleasure,” she said, settling Shep’s coffee onto the table before propping her hands on sizable hips and turning back toward Carlotta. “Anything else I can get you?”
“No. Thank you. This will be enough, plenty.”
“Maybe a little ice cream on that?”
“Nothing,” Carlotta said.
“Well, just let me know if you change your mind,” she said and trundled off, leaving Shep to wonder vaguely if, perhaps, she thought the world would be a better place if women like Carlotta would pack on a few hundred extra pounds.
“She is the fine girl,” Carlotta said.
“What?”
“Sofia. She is the good girl.”
There was a difference between good and sainthood, Shep thought, but said instead, “Taste your cake.”
“She would do no such thing as to dishonor the family name!” she insisted.
“I ain’t arguin’,” he said and nodded at the dessert. It looked rich enough to buy its own island.
For a second, he thought she would refuse, but she lifted a fork, sampled. Her eyebrows rose.
“Good?”
She shrugged but didn’t release the cutlery.
“I understand your sister’s a good girl,” Shep said. “But she’s growin’ up, Lotta. Could be there’s a boy she wanted to impress.”
“She would not risk so much for the fling.”
“I think the surgery’s pretty safe. A buddy’a mine had it done. No problems that I know…” He paused. “That’s not the kind’a risk ya meant.”
She didn’t meet his gaze.
“What risk then?” he asked.
“Money.” She bumped a shrug, sampled another bite. “As I said, we are not the rich ones.”
“Maybe the doctor woulda taken payments or—”
“You are bad as she!” she snapped.
He raised his brows, eying her. “I thought she was good.”
“And now you bend my words.”
He watched her, reading the nuances, dissecting the possibilities. “What was the fight about?”
“Fight? We had no fight. We do not fight. This talk of the hot Colombian temper, is just that. Talk! Sofia is a practical girl. A sensible girl. She know we have asked enough of Señor…” Her rapid-fire words dropped away. She focused on her dessert but didn’t eat.
The truth dawned slowly. “She wanted to ask Santiago for the money.”
She pushed the torte angrily away. “So what if she did?”
“You refused. Why?” he asked.
She said nothing.
“If Santiago is such a godsend, such a saint, why not ask? Lasix surgery seems like a decent request.”
“I did not say he was the saint.”
“Not in so many words.”
She was silent for a second, but her nostrils flared, her lips pursed. “Being poor does not mean I can have no pride.”
No, he thought. Truth be told, he’d never met anyone with more…what was the word…orgullo. “So ya wouldn’t ask a favor? Even for your sister?”
She glanced at him. Guilt chased haughty pride across her features. She shifted her gaze back to her plate, allowing him to study her in the soft, overhead lights. She looked stun
ningly beautiful. Heartbreakingly sad.
“You’re afraid’a him,” he deduced.
She shook her head, straightened her back, but a tear, alone in its curved trajectory, slipped silently down her cheek. He reached for her, but she drew back and swiped it angrily away.
“Do not,” she said. “People, they will stare.”
He forced himself to settle back in his chair, but couldn’t manage to draw his gaze from her mercurial face. “That can’t be new for you.”
She shrugged, noncommittal.
“Ya gotta know you’re beautiful.”
She didn’t bother denying it, but shrugged as if it were only mildly interesting. “Always I have been. Even as a child. Mama she say, ‘Carlotta got the pretty face, but Sofia, she is the smart one.’” She exhaled softly. “Even then I have wished it to be the other way about.”
“You’re kiddin’.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “You think the looks to be more important than the brain?”
He cocked his head. He was no genius, but he wasn’t dumb enough to chance that landmine.
“With the good brain I could have made a better living. I would not have to rely on the señor to pay for my sister’s schooling. I would not have to…”
He waited, breath held, stomach cramped up tight. “Wouldn’ta had to what?”
She shook her head.
He knew what was coming. She would finally admit the truth: she had slept with Santiago, had fucked the old bastard. He knew it. Perhaps he’d known it all along. But he needed to hear it. Needed her to admit it and steeled himself against the fact.
“Just say it, Carlotta,” he ordered.
“You’ll hate me for it.” Her words were very small, barely audible.
“Could be,” he admitted. “But maybe ya owe me the truth anyhow.”
She lifted her gaze to his. Her lashes, as dark and lush as a midnight jungle, sparkled with tears, but there was defiance in her eyes, challenge in the jut of her shoulders, the lift of her breasts.
He tried to fight the attraction, the low, relentless pull of her, but he was a weak man. Always had been. At least where sad, dark-eyed damsels were concerned. Still, he did his best to tamp down the desire that snarled his thoughts, tangled his better judgment.
“I had come…to America…” She tried to hold his gaze, but flitted her eyes away and back…” With the idea that if I must…if it was necessary, I would have the sex with Señor Durrand.”
