The Beautiful Ones (Arabesque)

by Byrd, Adrianne

  “What?” He had only caught the last word of her sentence.

  “No blocking.” She wrapped a sarong around her waist. “You and Marcel have a habit of chasing off guys who want to talk to me.”

  “Guys we know who are only after one thing.”

  “On this trip, I might just want one thing, too.” She winked.

  Solomon frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Ophelia locked her lips and pulled out her favorite pair of sandals.

  “That settles it. I’m sticking with you.”

  “You’re more than welcome to come,” she said, checking her appearance in the closet mirror. “But I don’t need a babysitter.” Their gazes locked. “Catch my drift?”

  He didn’t trust himself to speak as he watched her sashay toward the door, but he followed as if in a trance.

  It was one continuous party as the day morphed into night. Between bar hopping and tequila body shots, Solomon discovered it was a full-time job peeling men off his beautiful best friend.

  Somehow they’d caught up to Marcel and his legion of women—not to say that Solomon didn’t have his own choice of hotties, it was just none of them were Ophelia.

  “Hey, man.” Marcel draped an arm around his good buddy and shouted above the music. “Frank and them are talking about taking a booze cruise to Isla de las Mujeres. You want to tag along?”

  “What the hell is a booze cruise?”

  “Just what it sounds like—a boat with a lot of liquor. You game?”

  Solomon glanced over his shoulder at Ophelia and her dance partner. He stepped forward, ready to fight if the guy didn’t back off a couple of inches.

  “Hey, hey.” Marcel laid a restraining hand against Solomon’s shoulders. “Let her have her fun.”

  Solomon’s gaze swung in his direction and indicated with a slight nod for him to check their girl out.

  A camera crew from something called Girls Gone Wild was headed in her direction.

  Marcel blinked and headed toward her as well. “All right. We’ll take her with us.”

  Minutes later, the three friends boarded a crowded yacht where the dancing and partying only intensified.

  “You look like a great lay,” a girl murmured against Solomon’s ear.

  “Excuse me?” He turned toward a stunning blonde.

  “I said you look like a great lay.” She danced her way closer. “I’ve never been with a black guy before.”

  Surely, Solomon misunderstood her. “Come again?”

  “I just might.” She winked and wiggled her assless rump against him.

  Very carefully, Solomon detached himself from his crazy dance partner and tried his luck with a group of ebony babes doin’ da butt.

  Now he was having fun. After a while, Solomon’s Ophelia radar kicked in and he glanced up to see her perched over a rail.

  Was she sick?

  He remembered Ophelia’s low tolerance for alcohol, but he’d seen her drink like a fish for the better part of the day and night. Concerned about alcohol poisoning, Solomon moved away from his nest of delectable women and headed toward Ophelia.

  She wavered from side to side and occasionally dipped farther over the rail.

  “Ophelia,” he shouted, but he could barely hear himself over the loud music. He shouted again, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Marcel turn to see what was happening.

  Ophelia held her head up, briefly, and then pitched forward and went over the railing.

  “Ophelia!” Solomon and Marcel shouted in unison.

  Solomon reached the spot where she had last stood and immediately climbed the rail and dove into the water without any thought to his own safety.

  The ice-cold water was a shock to his system, but his arms and hands were already wading through the water in search of Ophelia.

  He found her within seconds, and kicked his way up to the surface. As it turned out, their party boat had already docked at Isla de las Mujeres, and they were no more than a few yards from land.

  “Ooh, look what my merman gave me,” Ophelia cooed.

  Solomon glanced at her and the small seashells she held up.

  “What?” he panted.

  “My merman. I’m a mermaid, and my merman just gave me these beautiful shells.”

  Oh, yeah, she was wasted.

  Solomon swam them to shore, where a small crowd applauded his heroics and handed him another drink.

  “Marcel, did I show you what my merman gave me?” Ophelia asked, slumping against him.

  Marcel laughed as he caught her, and Solomon just rolled his eyes.

  It was hours before the three friends returned to the hotel room. Marcel was barely standing, and Solomon was left to carry a knocked-out Ophelia into the room. He prayed the whole week wasn’t going to be like this. He had a sneaking suspicion that, indeed, it would. There were two beds in the room, and one cot. Of course, if Ophelia’s parents ever found out about their sleeping arrangements, there would undoubtedly be hell to pay. Marcel was supposed to take the cot, but he wasn’t in the room a full minute before he’d passed out on one of the beds.

  Sighing, Solomon carried Ophelia to the last available bed. As he laid her down, a faint whisper fell from her lips. “Te quiero.”

  He tensed and then stared at her sleeping form. “What did you say?” He waited for what seemed like forever, and just when he thought that she had fallen asleep, her eyes fluttered open.

  A lazy smile eased across her lips as she lifted her hand and gently caressed the side of his face. “You always take such good care of me,” she whispered.

  “I do what I can.” He kissed her hand. “You better get some sleep.”

  Her smile widened briefly and then her eyelids slowly lowered. “Te quiero.”

  Solomon leaned forward and brushed a paternal kiss against her forehead. “Yeah, I love you, too.”

  Chapter 12

  “No one can say that you don’t have balls,” Selma snickered as she eased into the passenger seat of Solomon’s black Hummer. “Why in the hell did you tell the man his fiancée kept murmuring she loved you in her sleep?”

  “I just said what happened.” Solomon slammed her door shut. He glided to the driver’s side, failing to see what was the big deal. When he finally opened his door, he caught the last few notes of Selma’s amused laughter.

  “I thought the man was going to come out of his seat and choke the living daylights out of you,” she admitted.

  “It wasn’t that serious.” He started the vehicle.

  “Uh-uh. And the Pope isn’t Catholic.”

  Solomon shook his head and pulled out of the parking garage. In retrospect, the dinner table had gone awfully quiet after his short stroll down memory lane.

  “If Jonas is insecure about me and Ophelia’s relationship, that’s his problem, not mine.”

  “It’ll be your problem if he prohibits Ophelia from seeing you.”

  “What?” Solomon glanced over at her. “He can’t do that. Besides, Ophelia wouldn’t agree to it. We’ve been best friends since—”

  “If nothing, marriage is a list of compromises. Sure, you’re her best friend, but if the love of her life is uncomfortable with you being in the picture, then what do you think she’s going to do?”

  “The love of her life?”

  “She agreed to marry him, didn’t she?”

  Solomon held his tongue.

  “Look, as your friend, I’m just telling you like it is,” Selma continued. “If Marty had a problem with our relationship, I would do what’s in my power to get you two to get along. If that didn’t work, then I’m sorry, but I’d have to cut you loose. Ace trumps king. It’s as simple as that.”

  He hated to admit it, but Selma made sense. However, he had a hard time accepting Jonas as the love of Ophelia’s life. His mind replayed the evening’s events. Ophelia had spent most of the time nestled in Jonas’s arms and grinning cheekily at the man’s boastful stories of big business deals.

 
Money was a big deal to Mr. Hinton. How he made it, how much he saved, and how much he flaunted it. True, Solomon was no pauper, but he was no braggart either.

  “Love of her life, humph.”

  “What did you say?”

  His gaze slid to Selma. He had forgotten she was in the car. “Nothing.”

  Selma shook her head. “Well, I guess it could’ve been worse. The story didn’t end with you two having sex. That would have been a nightmare.”

  Solomon fell silent as he concentrated on the road.

  “You two never had sex together,” Selma asked with suspicion dripping from her tone. “Right?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Solomon?”

  * * *

  Jonas was furious. He wanted to throw or hit something—or rather someone—Solomon. Now more than ever, he was convinced that there was more to Solomon and Ophelia’s relationship than either was letting on.

  Te quiero. He glanced over at his fiancée as she headed toward her separate bedroom. He glared at the fuchsia dress she’d chosen to wear. Solomon always said I looked good in this color.

  “I’m going out for a drive,” he announced.

  “What?” Ophelia faced him and then glanced down at her watch. “But it’s nearly midnight.”

  “I need some air.” He stormed toward the door.

  “Wait. I’ll go with you,” she offered.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” He jerked open the door, but felt her hand land on his shoulder before he cleared the threshold. Closing his eyes, he refused to turn around.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “And you’re wrong.”

  “Am I?” A pathetic rumble of laughter shook his tall frame. “The thing I’m trying to figure out is if you’re lying to me or to yourself.”

  “Solomon is just a friend. He has always been just a friend.”

  “Te quiero.”

  Ophelia sighed. “I was eighteen, drunk—”

  “You love him.”

  “Of course I love him. I love Marcel, too. We’ve known each other for years.”

  Jonas almost wavered, and then forced himself to ask the question most prominent in his mind. “And if you had to choose between me or him?”

  “Is that supposed to be some kind of ultimatum?”

  “And if it was?”

  The instant silence was like a knife through the heart, and after a few long, drawn-out seconds, he jerked his shoulder from her grasp.

  “Jonas,” she called weakly.

  He didn’t turn around.

  * * *

  Ophelia watched him go and slumped wearily against the door’s archway. It was the perfect ending to a horrible night, and it was all Solomon’s fault.

  She huffed out an annoyed breath and went back inside the condominium.

  Benton appeared out of the blue. “Is there anything else I can get you this evening, ma’am?”

  “No.” She smiled. “That will be all for the night. Thank you.”

  Benton bowed and exited as quickly as he’d appeared.

  And just like that she was alone—alone with her thoughts and her roller-coaster emotions. Just what the hell was she doing? Did she even have a clue?

  Two weeks ago she was excited—no, she was ecstatic at Jonas’s spontaneous proposal. And now?

  Ophelia closed her eyes. Maybe she was just upset. Rightfully so, with Jonas bolting without even attempting to resolve the issue like two rational adults. “I’m going for a drive. Humph. He’s not going to keep pulling that stunt.” She stormed toward her bedroom and then slammed the door behind her.

  The loud bang at least gave her some small measure of satisfaction—so she did it again.

  She sucked in a deep breath and then did something she hadn’t done in years: she started crying. Why, exactly, she wasn’t sure. However, once the dam broke, there was no stopping it.

  Blurry eyed, she headed toward the bathroom and snatched sheets of Kleenex out of a small, pink box in a sad attempt to dry her tears, but they kept coming—pouring, actually.

  “Damn him,” she finally mumbled and then added, “Damn them both.”

  Peeling out of her clothes, she submerged herself beneath a stream of steaming hot water until her tears abated. However, her emotions continued to go all over the map.

  Shutting off the shower, Ophelia grabbed the nearest towel. Instead of drying off, she wrapped the plush towel around her wet body and slinked off to her bedroom. Vaguely, she wondered if Jonas had returned, but she didn’t go check.

  She refused to be forced to choose between him and Solomon.

  But what if you have to?

  Ophelia closed her eyes and lay across the bed. This was her and Jonas’s first disagreement, she realized. They shouldn’t go to bed angry. Hadn’t her mother taught her that advice on marriage?

  You’re not married yet.

  She sighed and reached for one of the bed pillows. It was a lousy substitute for comfort, but the other option, calling her best friend, was out of the question as well.

  She heard a slam and sat up in bed.

  Jonas had returned home.

  Seconds stretched into minutes while Ophelia strained to listen for his footsteps. When she finally heard them in the hallway, she drew and held her breath.

  Should she go to him, wait for him, or ignore him?

  Problem was, she wanted to do all those things as well as scream at him, hit him, and break off their engagement. Her heart squeezed. Where had that last thought come from?

  The footsteps grew louder.

  She needed to make a decision, but she couldn’t. She was rooted to the edge of the bed, while her heart hammered against her rib cage.

  The footsteps stopped at her door. Any second he would knock, and she would have to reach a decision.

  While waiting for his soft rap, her lungs threatened to explode. Yet, she refused to release the air locked in them.

  The silence was deafening, the wait excruciating. But the knock never came. Instead, she listened as he walked away.

  The instant stab of disappointment surprised her, as well as the wave of fresh tears. Ophelia fell back against the bed, submerged in misery and confusion. Another door slammed at the other end of the hall, and silent tears slowly leaked from her eyes.

  She had made her decision.

  * * *

  Solomon groaned at the sound of a ringing phone. He couldn’t imagine who was calling—he peeked at the glowing red numbers on his clock—at three in the morning. Briefly, he wavered between answering and ignoring the damn thing, but finally decided to pick up.

  “This better be important,” he growled with his eyelids at half-mast.

  “Sol?” came Ophelia’s unmistakable voice.

  He was instantly alert. His ears became attuned to her sniffles and upset tone. “What’s wrong, Ophelia?”

  When she didn’t readily answer, Solomon’s mind rushed through a long list of things her jerk of a fiancé could’ve done. His temper escalated as he jumped out of bed and headed toward his closet.

  “I’m coming over,” he declared.

  “No,” she croaked. “I don’t need you to come over.” More sniffles.

  His footsteps slowed while his hand tightened on the receiver. “Then tell me what’s wrong?”

  He listened to her draw a long, shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  His shoulders relaxed as he sighed in relief. She wasn’t going to marry this dude after all. “It’s okay. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to.”

  “I wish that were true,” she answered shakily. “But Sol…I can’t see you anymore.”

  Solomon froze, unable to comprehend what he’d just heard.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to do this if I’m going to make this work with Jonas. And I do want to make this work.”

  “Ophelia—”

  “Please, Sol. Try to understand. He’s important to me.”

  “More important
than I am?” he thundered into the receiver. “You can just throw everything we’ve been through together out the window—just like that?”