“Cigarettes?”
Sarah flopped onto the couch and held up Luna like a trophy. “I think he genuinely misses you. And I think he wanted to see Luna.”
“Too bad. He should have thought about that before he slept with all his tango partners in Argentina.”
“Well, in his defense, you didn’t exactly tell him you were pregnant before he left.”
“In my defense, I didn’t exactly realize it until a month after he was gone. And he didn’t exactly tell me he had every intention of sleeping around while he was away.”
Sarah shrugged like it was no big deal. Sarah treated the ideal of monogamy like an expensive car or a fancy house—something completely unobtainable in her own life. “Well, he’s back now and he wants to see you. Maybe you should give him a chance to try? He is your baby daddy.”
“Sperm donor,” Inez corrected her. “And the perfect example of a man who got me too easy. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
Inez pushed down the resentment in her voice. It was hard to acknowledge that her heart had been broken; it was a lot easier to pretend that she was always tough and bitter—even from birth.
“Okay, well…don’t shoot the babysitter. Just pointing out the fact that we’re both examples of girls who grew up without fathers, so…there’s still plenty of time to not screw up Luna’s life.”
“I rather just stay on the pill forever and not get knocked up again.”
Sarah shrugged, like there was no winning the conversation. “Say goodbye to Ma-Ma,” she said, waving Luna’s chubby little hand. “And don’t worry. We’ll only binge on organic ice cream and public television.”
“I’m jealous.” Inez stared at Luna in Sarah’s arms, yearning more than anything to trade places with Sarah rather than leaving Luna in the care of a babysitter—again.
Twenty thousand dollars. Without saying goodbye, Inez forced herself out the door and down the stairwell. When she exited into the courtyard, she spotted the silver Rolls Royce, idling along the curb and strode towards it.
“Do not run away before you’ve said hello.”
His powerful voice startled her. She glanced back at his backlit body, bathed in the mid-afternoon sun. Enzo.
“I’d much rather say goodbye,” she asserted, turning back towards the Rolls Royce. Without warning, his strong hand encircled her wrist before she had a chance to look up into his playboy face and dark, devilish eyes.
“It’s been over a month since I’ve been back. You should forgive me by now.” He lowered his voice, deepening his strong Latin accent. She struggled against his unforgiving grasp and the familiar way he pivoted his pelvis against her own, attempting to greet her with a kiss.
“You went back to Argentina for six months to screw other women. Maybe it’s just a cultural thing—but here in America, that’s pretty hard to forgive and forget.”
“It wasn’t my choice to leave and you know it. They forced me to return because of my visa.”
“But it was your choice to invite every tango partner of yours into your bed.”
He spread his hands open like he had nothing to hide. “It was a year, Inez. You cannot expect me to be a monk.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him. “You could have tried.”
“Impossible,” he said earnestly. “And I did not lie to you about it, not the way you lied to me about our daughter.”
“I never lied,” countered Inez. “I just didn’t bother to inform you that I was pregnant. And just because you told me you were sleeping with other women doesn’t make it honorable.” Her trademark sarcasm seeped into her voice. “Unless you expect a medal for not infecting me with the clap.”
Uncertain, Enzo gazed at her. “I don’t think I understand your meaning?”
Inez sighed with disgust, just to ensure he would understand her meaning. “We were together a year, Enzo. A year. And you act like that meant nothing to you.”
“I thought about you every minute that I was gone.”
“Oh really? While you were fucking them?”
“After,” he admitted, like it was a confession. “Because none of them satisfied me the way your cruel words and passionate heart satisfies me.”
Inez rolled her eyes. “Oh, geez…well, just wait. Because my cruel words haven’t even had a chance to flame out of my mouth yet.”
As if he was enchanted by her passion and hatred, he grabbed her and pulled her against his firm chest.
“I remember the feeling of that fire in your mouth,” he said, drawing her body against his own. “Te echo de menos, Inez.”
Did he really miss her? Inez stared into his bottomless black eyes, softened by his long eyelashes. His scent relaxed her like a favorite memory. He smelled exactly like he always smelled—like an artist. Clove cigarettes scented his black pony tail and olive skin, and the unmistakable aroma of oil paint varnish wafted from colorful smudges on his forearms and baggy white painter’s pants.
“I’m not going to let you go. You’re stubborn and proud and vengeful, exactly like me. You are determined to punish me and I know that. I accept it. But I also know that you miss me. Miss us. Because I can hear it in your voice—in your pain.”
“That’s called sarcasm, Enzo.”
“No,” he edged his lips closer to her ear and clicked his teeth together. “That’s your armor. Your protection. And I’m the only one who has found a way to remove it.” He drew his fingertip down the hollow of her throat, stopping it just before he fingered the crease of her cleavage, as though he expected her to dismiss everything except the sexual tension between them.
“Miss Sanchez?”
Inez turned towards the voice. James, Sven’s driver, had exited the Rolls Royce and opened the passenger door. Now, he beckoned her towards him.
“This is a very expensive car,” Enzo said, scanning the Rolls Royce.
“My new boyfriend owns it,” she informed him, savoring how his smug confidence withered away into confusion and uncertainty. She strode toward James who assisted her into the car before closing the door and sealing her inside like a priceless possession. Buzzing down the tinted window, she gazed out at Enzo.
“You’re seeing someone else?” Jealousy sharpened Enzo’s accent.
“Six months is a long time to wait, Enzo. A girl’s got needs. I’m sure you understand.”
He did understand, but his macho pride wasn’t happy about it. Abruptly, he pulled open the door and pushed himself inside the car. She slid across the leather seats, away from him, but he snagged her by the hand and squeezed it until she betrayed pain.
“You are making a mistake. We have a child together.”
“Yeah, and it would have been such a precious fairy tale if you had gone away and come back, still in love with me and our daughter,” she asserted, flinching only for a moment before twisting out of his clasp. “But since I don’t believe in fairy tales, try not to miss me too much. Unlike you, I won’t be thinking about anyone else while I’m in bed with him.”
Their eyes locked. This time, her meaning was clear to him. Reluctantly, he pulled back out of the car and slammed the door with fury.
Inez rubbed the burn on her wrist and hugged her purse to her chest like it was Luna. She suppressed her urge to cry; she had already shed all her tears months ago, and now, there was nothing left except bitterness and exhaustion. Yes, they had a child together, but she didn’t need a reminder because it was the first thing she thought about when she woke up every morning and the last thing she agonized about when she went to sleep—how on earth was she going to raise Luna by herself? The only thing she thought about more was the fact she had been so dumb, so foolish, so ridiculously naïve to have fallen in love with a man who had conned her into believing that true love existed in the first place.
The driver’s eyes watched Enzo in his rearview mirror before buzzing up the interior tinted window between them. With the rare moment of privacy, Inez sighed with relief and nestled herself comfortably into t
he luxurious leather seats, smooth and creamy like vanilla bean ice cream.
Yes, it was true. Well, sort of. She did have a new billionaire boyfriend. Too bad for her, he was just a fake one and an even bigger asshole than Enzo.
Chapter Four
Sven settled his unpatched eye on his favorite painting in the penthouse—Water Lilies by the nineteenth century impressionist painter, Claude Monet. It was a priceless painting, smuggled out of his grandmother’s estate in Amsterdam when she fled the country during the Nazi invasion and occupation.
He sank lower in his black Bugatti sofa and counted. Eleven, twelve, thirteen… He strained his eyesight onto the canvas. Where was fourteen? There, yes, there…and fifteen? He squinted again to make out the individual water lilies within the cluster of soft green, white, turquoise and pink feathered strokes. Such a cruel irony, he thought, giving up for a moment and dropping his head back against the sofa’s sleek leather. Monet had painted his Water Lilies series at the end of his life while almost completely blind. It was a fleeting attempt to console himself and press on. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen...Yesterday, there had been at least twenty. He had to find at least twenty.
He scanned the lily pad cluster again before succumbing to the demoralizing sensation of defeat. Just last week, he easily had found thirty—thirty distinct water lilies. Now, dread overwhelmed the inner core of his being. Someday soon—sooner than he was prepared to accept—he would attempt to count the water lilies and fail to find even one.
How would he continue to design buildings without his vision? The question terrified him, then filled him with bitter injustice. He was only a man of thirty-eight who had made his first billion by the time he was thirty, and yet nothing could restore the one thing he desired most—his ability to perfectly see the world. Yes, he was a designer and an architect and a businessman. But at the core of his soul, he was an artist who loved seeing the world—all its beauty and all its imperfections. He loved noticing every detail of every event that passed by him and he loved absorbing all the nuances of life through his own keen observation of it.
Not long ago he had been a man determined to leave his mark on the world through the designs of his buildings—buildings that almost defied the laws of gravity and challenged the social standards of decency. But now, as he sloshed his Holland gin around in his tumbler, he felt nothing except the oppressive shadow of despair darkening his soul. He had become a man trapped in a tunnel, reaching out for the flickering light at its end, knowing that if he did not escape, he would be rendered useless and irrelevant to the world once everything fell completely black.
His phone rang. Slightly drunk and despondent, he sat up straighter, glancing around as if he had forgotten where he was. He fumbled to remove his phone from his pocket.
“Yes?”
“Miss Sanchez to see you, sir?”
“Yes,” he confirmed to the doorman. “From this point forward, always send her up.”
Sven rose from the sofa and called into his phone. “Time?”
The robotic voice answered back. “Five fifteen. P. M.”
Five fifteen, he considered with a frown. She was late. Sven paced unevenly around the spacious living room. Tonight’s dinner commenced at eight, and Ebony hadn’t yet sent over their wardrobe. There would barely be enough time for them to dress—much less familiarize themselves more with each other—before he thrust her in front of the most important people in his life.
It all suddenly felt like a grave mistake, a gross miscalculation of judgment by a man who was accustomed to the flawless precision of his own strategic decisions influencing the successful achievements within his life. Despite his attempts to appear otherwise, he knew he was no longer the same Sven van der Meer he had been—ruthless, fearless, uncompromising. Instead, he felt like a thin shadow who was desperate to keep up the facade of being the indomitable version of him.
The front door buzzed.
“Door—open,” he said aloud, his stern voice booming off the sleek marble floor. The front door vibrated ajar and Inez’s blurry figure strode through it.
“You’re late,” he stated, as if it was a fact rather than an accusation.
“It’s not my fault that your driver navigates the slow lane like he’s a cadaver.”
Sven muted his smile as she approached him. It was true. James did often drive in the slow lane like a cadaver.
“It’s a new Rolls. I’m sure he was just being extra careful.”
“Well, next time, let me drive that thing myself and I’ll get back when you want me back.”
“Hopefully, with the car in one piece.”
“Optional.” She shrugged and brushed past him towards the panoramic windows. “Wowzas…that’s some view.” Pressing her nose and forehead against the glass, she peered out across Lake Michigan, tinged pink and orange by the withering rays of twilight.
“It’s a bit of a commute,” he said, yielding to a strange desire to make his lifestyle seem more modest and accessible to her.
“Why? Because your office is downtown?”
“No. Up and down the elevator.”
He heard her snort, amused by him. It was a start.
His gaze lingered on her clothes. Jeans and a wide neck T-shirt, slung to one side. He strained his vision to make out the curve of her exposed bra strap. Orange. Then, he looked down at her feet—sneakers.
She gazed down at the tiny dots along the bike path. “It must be nice to be constantly reminded that we’re all just tiny ants in this cruel, cruel world.”
Normally, he would seize upon a remark like that and belittle it. But there was an edge of sincerity in her voice that made him refrain from provoking her.
“And there it is…The Spire,” she proclaimed, her voice trailing off as she cast her eyes onto the twisting silver spindle of reflective glass and steel, cutting like a spear through the cityscape. “I suppose it says something about you that you can see it directly from your penthouse.”
“Only that it’s the most important building in my career,” he asserted. “I designed it, built it, and financed it from ground zero. Every part of it represents me. It is my most accomplished achievement—as an artist and as a man.”
“Too bad it’s the most hated building in the city.”
He stopped, uncertain whether to be annoyed or charmed. She had that effect on him. It was hard to take himself so seriously when she refused to.
“Can I make you a drink?” he asked, like a peace offering.
“I’m not certain I should be drinking on the job.”
“For both of our sakes, I’m fairly certain you will need to. Wine?”
“French Martini. Vodka, pineapple juice, Chambord. Shaken not stirred.”
He flinched, absorbing the complexity of her order. She was challenging him, obviously. And he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that he enjoyed it.
He turned towards the kitchen, silently counting his steps. Three months ago, when his vision had started to degenerate, he completely re-designed his penthouse to help him navigate with ease. Six steps to the contemporary handwoven floor rug. Six steps across it. One step to the base of the half flight of stairs up to the entertainment bar. Four steps up to its apex.
“So how much help do you need these days?” she asked.
Perhaps he had counted too loudly, or perhaps he was moving too slowly. Like poor James, the cadaver.
“You see that painting with the water lilies?” He pointed across the living room, seeking to divert her attention away from him. “Today, I can only see twenty of the lilies.”
“Um…you mean the Monet painting on the wall?”
“Yes.” He fumbled around the liquor cabinet, searching for his mixer and martini glasses.
“The friggin’ real Monet painting on your wall?”
He stopped to consider her slang. “You mean as opposed to a $9.99 print from art.com or something?”
“Don’t be a jackass. I’m serious.”
> He paused, confused. That time, he hadn’t actually intended to be an ass. Art history major, he thought, feeling through the cabinets for the vodka and the Chambord. Yes, he remembered now. Then, he considered reprimanding her for disrespecting him as her boss; he couldn’t allow her to do that tonight—not during dinner. But truth be known, he rather liked the way she so flippantly called him a jackass.
“It’s an original, I assure you,” he confirmed and let the rest slide.
She crossed her arms and challenged him. “Sotheby’s just auctioned off one of those painting from his Water Lilies series for forty million dollars.”
Sven grimaced. He couldn’t help it. Forty million dollars was an insultingly low sum for a Monet original, especially one of his later works. “Well, then…I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t get rid of it at my garage sale last week.”
“With all of your billionaire friends?” she sniped before releasing an unguarded laugh. Like a mischievous child, he thought, as if the thought of a garage sale put on by a bunch of billionaires was the funniest thing in the world.
“Trying to get rid of all our unwanted Degas ballerinas,” he said, playing along.
“And girlie pastel Renoirs.”
“And boring Pissarro landscapes.”
“And erratic van Gogh self-portraits, especially those imbalanced ones with only one ear.”
He stopped and studied her. Most Americans mispronounced it as “van Go.” But she said it exactly like it was meant to be pronounced—“van Goth.” It was a Dutch name, after all.
“Have you been there?” She nodded to the painting.
“Where?” He questioned her, shaking up her martini. Although he knew exactly what she meant and it surprised him. She was always surprising him.
“Giverny.”
Sven paused with a smirk. He wasn’t used to conversing with women who knew about Monet’s studio sanctuary just outside of Paris. A Northwestern girl who could have gone to Harvard or Yale.
“Of course. Have you?”
“God no, but I’d love to…” her voice trailed off as she pushed closer towards the painting, replacing her scorn for a private moment of indulgence. “So you can only see twenty water lilies?” she finally asked before attempting to count them herself.
Closer Page 4
