The Red Bikini

by Lauren Christopher

  It was a smile she was used to presenting, and a role she was familiar with playing—she’d done it often enough with Roy’s colleagues at the hospital. This event, in fact, was almost identical to those she’d attended with Roy: same wine, same conversations, same appreciation for the arts, same philanthropic goals, same pasted smiles. She’d done it for years. She’d thought she was doing it for him. But for what? To have Roy leave her for someone else?

  Of course, there were a few key differences with tonight’s scenario: Here, she was with a man who sent goose bumps down the backs of her legs when he touched her or glanced down at her with those navy eyes. And whose low voice could make the tendrils of hair stand up on the back of her neck. But the end result, she kept reminding herself, was the same as when she played the roles for Roy: He would be done with her once the evening was over.

  “Hello.” Fin’s soft baritone rolled over her shoulder. And again, she ran her hands over her arms.

  “What are we looking at?” The painting drew his attention.

  Mr. Turner launched into a repeat of the story he’d just told Giselle. “This is one of William Wendt’s springtime pictures. . . .”

  Pretending she was listening, Giselle stood as close to Fin as she could and imagined what his arms would feel like wrapped around her. She knew she shouldn’t be indulging in foolish fantasies, but it was just for one night—and he didn’t seem to notice. She hadn’t allowed herself feelings of yearning in so long—yearning for anything. She deserved one night of flirtation, didn’t she? One night to be without worry, without responsibility, to simply enjoy the rapid heartbeat that this exquisitely molded man inspired every time he slid his eyes toward her. She took a sip of wine and stared at his tanned wrists, coming out from sharp white cuffs, and let herself imagine his fingers tracing a line down her stomach . . .

  “Yes, she is,” he said, glancing down at her.

  Giselle’s neck snapped up. She tried to find her place in the conversation.

  “And pretty, too,” said Mr. Turner.

  She glanced back and forth and wished she’d been listening to the first comment Fin had agreed with, but they both swiveled to view a Guy Rose painting. Fin reached for her elbow.

  “Excuse us, Mr. Turner—we’re going to find Mr. Makua. I haven’t said hello yet.”

  “Of course.” He directed a nod toward Giselle. “I hope you’ll come back. You can tell me more about that exhibit you saw in Indiana.”

  “Pipes,” she said.

  “Pipes!” Turner said, letting out a sharp laugh. “Can’t wait to hear it.”

  Fin steered them down a glass-sided catwalk to the other side of the mezzanine and gave her a warm glance. “You know art?”

  “A little.”

  “You keep impressing me.”

  She let her heartbeat escalate over that comment—her new permission—but that was as far as things were going to go this evening. Fun flirtation. And that was it. Fin was out of her league.

  “So what is your last name?” he whispered.

  “Some fiancé you turned out to be.”

  “I know. I can’t even get the basics right. Did you go back to McCabe?”

  “No, I kept Underwood.”

  Fin nodded; then irritation crawled across his features. He moved his hand away from her back as they approached the next crowd, and she felt a brief sadness.

  “I need to introduce you to a few more people,” he said curtly, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “Most importantly to Mr. Makua, the company owner. You up for this?”

  “Of course. That’s why I came.”

  He nodded again.

  Giselle was glad she reminded herself.

  • • •

  Mr. Makua stood at one end of the gallery, surrounded by too many people, as far as Fin was concerned. He was a small man, leaning against a twisted wooden cane, flanked by two enormous Samoans ready to take his elbow at the slightest indication of wavering.

  Makua still made Fin’s palms sweat—if ever a man held his career in his hands, it was him. He’d met Mr. Makua about three times—had been “presented” to him, really—and his contract had been renewed two days later in each case. Fin didn’t know what Mr. Makua wanted in a company spokesman, but he figured, until recently, he’d been it. Or maybe Mr. Makua just kept him around because he’d known his father—the two had been competitors in the ’80s, although back then the industry was not the cutthroat, multibillion-dollar one it was now.

  Fin followed Fox’s advice and pressed Giselle forward. A photographer from the newspaper, wearing a badly fitting tux, swung into view. Fin thought he’d remembered him. J.J. or something. He aimed his camera. “Hey, Hensen!”

  Fin pulled Giselle to his side and averted his black eye. The flash went off.

  He kept moving Giselle toward Makua, but a sudden, strange wave of guilt swept over him as she half stepped in front of him. An image in a book he’d seen as a child flashed through his mind—a volcano, with a God of Thunder seated in a chair, and a virgin being sacrificed.

  A waiter swung by with a tray of merlots, and—as soon as J.J. left—Fin grabbed two. He handed one to Giselle and took a deep gulp of his. The guilt didn’t dissolve in his throat in the slightest.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed, over her shoulder. He watched her lips pucker into that sexy “ooo” from “you.”

  He settled into the crowd and tried to pull himself together, stopped thinking about the virgin sacrifice, forced himself up to speed on what the conversation was about. A restaurant, apparently . . . the restaurant up the hill in the art-festival grounds.

  “Mr. Hensen,” Mr. Makua called in a thin, creaking voice.

  Everyone turned.

  “Nice to see you, son. How’s your father?” His heavy Hawaiian accent was raspy.

  “He’s fine, sir. Still in Bali. Still surfing every day.”

  Mr. Makua grinned. “Good to hear. I see you’ve had a run-in with a board.”

  Fin didn’t correct him.

  “We’re talking about Canyon Terrace,” Mr. Makua said. “Have you been?”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  “I was just telling the others how good the food is.” He leaned on his cane, and one of the Samoans guided him by the elbow toward a chair at the side of the exhibit. Mr. Makua had been in a terrible surf accident in the late ’80s—similar to Jennifer’s, actually, where he’d been thrown against some rocks. He’d survived his. But his legs had broken in so many places they’d never been the same.

  He sunk into the chair placed for him while the crowd pressed closer. A sheen of sweat trickled along the back of Fin’s neck. He was a sellout and a liar for doing what he was about to do, but he guided Giselle into Makua’s line of vision.

  “Mr. Makua, I’d like you to meet my date this evening, Giselle . . . McCabe.” He somehow couldn’t get her married name out of his mouth.

  Makua nodded gently. He turned to set his cane to the side.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss McCabe. I noticed you and Mr. Turner enjoying the Impressionists earlier.”

  “I studied the French Impressionist period a little back in college.”

  Fin twisted his neck toward her. She had? She hadn’t mentioned that part.

  “I love how the paintings showcase the passing of time through light,” she continued in her soft voice. “Mr. Turner mentioned that the Southern California painters used a lot more light than the Northern California artists did.”

  Makua nodded. “You’ll have to come see my collection some time, in Oahu.”

  The comment was laden with a question about the years folding ahead—Fin couldn’t tell whether Makua was referencing Fin’s future with Mahina, or Giselle’s future with Fin.

  “We’d like that,” Giselle said.

  “Have you and Mr. Hensen been t
o the art festival this year?”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “It’s breathtaking. I should invite you.”

  Fin took a long swig of wine. He was an ass. She seemed like her normal self when she was talking about art, but being forced into lies seemed to deflate her about an inch. A baker? What was he thinking? Saddled to him? Nightmare. He’d given her a wrong name, a false life, different clothes, and a different career. . . . Doing what her ex had done—making her into what he wanted her to be. He remembered the way her ex had kept her stifled behind that door. . . .

  Stepping backward into the crowd, he tugged her elbow. He had to get her the hell out of here. And out of his fucked-up life. “It was nice to see you again, Mr. Makua,” he mumbled.

  His chest felt like it was going to explode. He saw a tray going by, and slid his half-empty glass onto it and reached for Giselle’s waist.

  She looked at him with surprise, bumping against him. “Fin?” she whispered. Her voice was filled with so much concern for him—so much of the Boo Boo Buddy, let’s-fix-Fin-up voice—he wanted to let out some kind of war yell.

  He pressed her forward, steering her through the crowd, toward a dark corner he could see at the end of the mezzanine. He deposited her into the stillness and gripped the rail behind her to take a deep breath.

  “Fin?” she whispered again. “What’s wrong? Should I not have said we’d like to see the art in his home? I didn’t mean we would necessarily see it in the—”

  “Giselle.”

  The harshness of his voice caused her eyelashes to lift toward him.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.” He met her eyes, trying to eliminate the worry.

  She looked doubtful, her hands lifted toward her collarbone as he crushed her toward the back corner. Another stab of guilt went through him, and he backed off, stepping away to let her unfold.

  “I just—” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have brought you.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not.”

  He needed to get out of here. He needed to get her out of here, and keep her from his deranged behavior. He was an asshole. And he needed to handle this on his own. He needed to present his honest self to Mr. Makua, present his right side to the camera, and let Mahina and the public take him for what he was. And if they didn’t? Well, then he’d have to deal with that in the next phase. He was tired of selling out, tired of apologizing for who he was. And he certainly wasn’t going to make this crumbling, vulnerable woman do the same.

  “I need to get you home.”

  Her beauty-queen brows furrowed in the center, giving her a delicate look of confusion. “If you . . . if you must, of course. Whatever you need . . .”

  He took her elbow and began hustling her down the mezzanine.

  • • •

  Giselle worked hard to keep up with Fin as he swept her down an open-sided spiral staircase back into the main gallery.

  “Let’s get your things,” he said, angling her toward the concierge. His voice sounded strangled and contrite.

  As she skipped over her steps across the bright orange light in the glass-walled lobby, she was sad the evening would be over, but she understood. He needed to get far away from here, now that the main goal was done. He probably just wanted this business deal, and this night with her, over.

  As the concierge desk came within view, a female voice called out from behind them like a lasso.

  “Fin!”

  He squeezed his eyes shut and slowed.

  A slender, dark-haired woman with an edgy bob approached from behind. She had long, storklike legs and wore a pantsuit of brown and gold, with shimmering silk that gave the suit a feminine elegance. She seemed to be about Giselle’s age, yet held her chin just a little higher in a certain badge of worldliness.

  “Giselle, right?” she asked, extending her hand. “Tamara Fox.”

  Her hand was long and cool to the touch. “I’m so pleased to finally meet the woman to steal Fin’s heart,” she said.

  Fin smiled wanly. “We were just leaving, Tamara.”

  “You’re not staying for dinner?”

  “I, uh—I’m going to take Giselle to dinner on the way home.”

  “Please don’t go.” Tamara grabbed the fabric at Fin’s wrist. “You’re the youngest people here. Or, well, Caleb’s here, I think, but he’s an idiot.”

  “We need to get going. I’ve got to get Giselle home.”

  “I can imagine,” Tamara said with a ribald grin. “A more delicious offer waiting?” She winked at Giselle, who felt her face flush.

  Fin’s shoulders relaxed and he laughed. He didn’t seem to find Tamara embarrassing at all. “Tell Fox I said good night, and I need to talk to him. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  “You can tell him yourself.” She threw her chin toward a point behind him.

  Fin turned to catch Fox’s masculine slap on the shoulder. “Hey, I need you to meet someone,” Fox said, dragging him away.

  Giselle straightened and prepared to make small talk with Tamara.

  “I’ve heard all about you tonight.” Tamara flashed a beautiful smile. She wore a sophisticated shade of copper-colored lipstick.

  Giselle wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she simply glanced back toward Fin, catching sight of him through a set of glass panes, shaking hands with a small cluster of suits.

  “You are so cute together,” Tamara whispered. She grabbed Giselle’s arm and strolled with her toward another set of sculptures. “Fin has been bringing a parade of women to these events for years, but they usually can’t string four sentences together, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen the same one twice. And I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

  Giselle tried to conceal her smirk. Where, oh where might she put her Oscar?

  “Do you like art?” Tamara went on, turning toward a three-dimensional stone piece that sat as the centerpiece in the small room they’d entered. It was a riot of blues and greens made of copper and iron. “Mr. Makua is really into art. That’s why he loves to come to Laguna.”

  “He and I talked about the Impressionists upstairs.”

  “Oh, he must’ve loved that. You should see his place in Hawaii. Whenever he comes here, he wants to see all of our exhibits. And you’re a pastry chef, I heard?”

  “I make cookies.” Giselle tried to swallow.

  “Terrific—you’ll have to tell me about starting a business sometime. So how did you and Fin meet?”

  Giselle tried to remember the story she and Fin had concocted. She told it the way it really happened, with Rabbit introducing them, but shorting at the fact that Fin asked her on the first “date” to play Donna Reed. Instead, she said he’d asked her to an art exhibit. She mentioned that they brought Coco, then waved her hand as if that were a whole other story. “Enough of us—tell me about you and Mr. Fox. How did you two meet?”

  Tamara paused, as if hanging on to something from Giselle’s story and finding a problem with it, but then she dismissed it, seemingly happy to talk about her husband. “Oh, everyone just calls him ‘Fox’—first and last, one and the same. We met at a farmers’ market. We were both there to buy sunflowers.” She took Giselle’s arm again and resumed their stroll toward one of the long windows that looked out over Laguna. The evening lights stretched out for miles until they suddenly stopped, falling off into the black abyss of the ocean.

  As Tamara glanced through the paned balcony doors where her husband and Fin gathered with a growing group, the adoration in her eyes was unmistakable. But it slowly melted into a strange sadness.

  “He works too much now, though,” she said. “The surf industry has turned into a crazy business.”

  Giselle encouraged Tamara to tell her more, but Tamara changed the subject and asked about Coco. Tamara and Fox had a little girl in kinde
rgarten also, named Toni, so they discussed art programs in schools, and then talked about the new modified schedules that were starting in California.

  “Giselle.” Fin’s voice came over her shoulder.

  His hand went straight to her lower back. She wasn’t sure whether it was the touch, or his voice, or the wine, or his breath on her ear, but she knew her hyperawareness must have been transparent because she met Tamara’s amused eyes, staring at her over the rim of her wineglass.

  “There’s a slight detail,” Fin murmured. His eyes begged her for something, then mingled with apology. “It seems Mr. Makua wants us to attend a dinner with him tomorrow night.” She couldn’t tell whether he was imperceptibly shaking his head, or begging her to say yes.

  “That’s . . . fine.”

  “It’s mandatory.” Fox slapped Fin’s back jovially. “You must be Giselle.” Fox held out his hand. He looked slightly older than Tamara—maybe forty—and had a head of short-trimmed, prematurely silver hair. He was impossibly handsome, with a lean face and chiseled chin. He reminded Giselle of a presidential candidate. “It’s great to meet you. Fin’s told me a lot about you.”

  Fin frowned at him, and Giselle felt a flush up through her cheeks. Clearly that was a lie.

  “This dinner tomorrow is just for fun—no business,” Fox said. “But it’s good for business.” He looked pointedly at Fin. “Mr. Makua wants you to try Canyon Terrace and wants you two to see the art. Tamara and I will see you there. Let’s meet at the wine garden at six. Tamara, we need to say hi to Munton.” He nodded at Giselle and steered Tamara away, but not before she could wave to Giselle and call, “See you,” over her shoulder.

  Fin turned to face Giselle across the empty space Fox and Tamara’s personalities had vacated. He muttered a curse word under his breath, followed by a quick apology.

  “It’s okay,” Giselle said. “I don’t want to ruin anything for your deal, but I’m not sure I can go tomorrow night. I have a . . . Well, Lia is setting me up. On a blind date.”

  Fin frowned. “Lia set you up with someone?”

  Giselle nodded.

  “Who?”

  “Um . . . I keep forgetting his name. . . . Dan? Mansomething?”