by Jewel Allen
“Come in,” Alejandro said.
The door swung open into semi-darkness. Alejandro Diaz sat in a chair by the window. Isa could see his profile as he watched something outside. And then he rose, once again reminding her of his height. How he had bent over her on the road, after the accident. That overwhelming masculinity.
His presence dominated the room. He was king of this castle and he asserted his role.
He stood and made his way around the table He had taken off his sunglasses, revealing dark eyes that challenged her with his stare. The gaze was intense, probing.
Her mind went blank, searching for something to say.
“Isabella Drake,” he said, like a panther to its prey, offering a hand.
“Alejandro Diaz.” She placed hers in his. “It’s nice to meet you...properly.”
Her pulse leaped at his touch. When he didn’t let go right away, she couldn’t remember what she had come here for.
Ah, yes, the book.
She willed herself to focus and pulled out of his grasp.
“My deep apologies,” he said, “for the accident.”
His sincere tone—at least what sounded like a sincere tone—disarmed her. Caught her flat-footed. She had been prepared to lambast him for not apologizing at the accident scene, but now she had no reason to.
“Please,” he gestured. “Have a seat.”
“I’ve been emailing you,” she said, sitting in a chair.
“Hounding me.”
She bristled. “I have been nothing but polite.”
“Oh? You’ve been threatening my agent for the last few months.”
“Reminding you of your contract...”
“You’re a bully and you know it.”
Isa gripped the arm of her chair tightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He shoved a sheaf of papers under her nose. She glared at him but began to read, her stomach plummeting as she read each sheet. Each email was signed by Isa.
Threats, bullying, harassment.
Isa trembled with anger. This was Elvira’s handiwork.
When she finally could speak, her tone turned conciliatory. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t send those emails.”
“But you signed them.”
“Yes, that’s how the emails sounded, but I never sent them to you directly. My...my assistant did.”
His jaw tightened. “She works for you.”
“I know. I understand. That’s why I’m apologizing, and that’s why I’m taking responsibility for this.”
He sat on the desk looked out the window again. “You can imagine perhaps why I have not been responsive.”
“I think I understand.”
“You think?”
“Well, it doesn’t explain why my assistant had to hound you. You’ve not fulfilled your part of your bargain.”
“I am not bound to give you anything.”
She sucked in her breath. “That is so wrong. Of course you are bound by it. Our lawyers—”
“Are nincompoops.”
In his Spanish accent, the word almost seemed comical. But Isa found his words hardly funny.
She gritted her teeth. “You agreed to a two-million dollar contract in exchange for a manuscript that is long overdue.”
“My lawyers re-drafted the contract after the first iteration and I have a no-complete clause, allowing me to back out without giving up the money. So long as I have extenuating circumstances.”
Her blood pressure rose. Was he kidding? “And what, may I ask, are those extenuating circumstances?”
She expected him to say writer’s block or his horoscope for the day.
He was quiet for a long moment. “I’m going blind.”
His words permeated the air between them. Isa could hear a clock ticking nearby. “Pardon me? Did you say you’re going...blind?”
He nodded, then glanced over with that distracted-looking stare. The one he had while they stood on the road.
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. Why would anyone joke like that? I have Eales disease. It’s just a matter of time before all my vision is gone.”
The disease sounded familiar. One of the teachers in her school had it. She walked around without a cane and held on to others’ shoulders to navigate.
“I’m sorry.” She paused. “Wait. But you were driving on the highway.”
“I wasn’t. My car was.”
“Your car.” She folded her arms over her chest.
“My Bugatti is self-driving.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m trying really hard to understand. I hope I’m not being insensitive. Why should it matter with the book that you’re going blind? In fact...” She caught herself and stayed quiet.
“In fact what?”
Honesty was the best policy. “Your readers might be more sympathetic with you if you include this in your book.”
He pushed off the desk and walked right up to her. She had to crane her neck to look up. When she did, she shrank back at the expression of rage on his face.
He bent over and put his face right up to hers. “What,” he growled, “like some monster on parade?”
“Blindness doesn’t make you a monster,” she said, even as her heart raced at his coiled anger.
“Tell that to my novia who left me when she realized her cash cow might dry up. Or my father who didn’t even acknowledge my condition. And tell that to me every single day of my life since, when darkness shrouds everything and my identity is gone.”
“Your identity?”
His Adam’s Apple bobbed up and down. “If I am not an artist, then what am I?”
The anguish in his voice squeezed at her heart. Instinctively, she didn’t offer her sympathy. She didn’t think he would appreciate it. For one crazy moment, she thought about reaching up and touching his beard.
Instead, she said, “I can imagine what you’re going through...”
“Oh?” His breath warmed her cheek. “Tell me what it’s like to be a blind publisher.”
“Must you make me out to be a monster too?” She turned her head to the side, willing herself not to cry.
He straightened, his face impassive. “Forgive me for not being more sympathetic. I...I have nothing more to give.” His voice sounded hollow. Empty.
“I wasn’t trying to gain your sympathy.”
He held up a hand. “Just stop and leave. If you’ve come for the money, it’s gone. I gave it to charity.”
“I don’t care about the money,” she said. “I need you to write this book.”
“For the almighty dollar, I suppose,” he sneered.
“No.” She swallowed painfully. “So my imprint doesn’t go under.” She wanted to say more, about how her career was on the line, but he shook his head.
“Sorry.” He turned his back to her. “You know your way out.”
She stood there staring at his back. Willing him to take responsibility for his actions.
“I’m not leaving,” she said evenly.
“Then I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”
“I am not moving from this chair. You’ll have to carry me down the stairs. I’m very heavy.”
He spoke into his watch. Within moments, Horatio came in.
“Horatio, please remove this woman from my office.”
Isa gripped the settee arm. “He’ll have to carry me and the chair.”
Horatio looked from her to his master. He moved closer to her, as though he was trying to corner a rat. She wanted to do nothing more than to karate chop him so he would leave her alone.
But she really wasn’t the violent type.
“Fine.” She stood up. “I can get myself out.”
Again, that glimmer of a smile appeared on Alejandro’s face. With his dark beard, he looked like a villain in a Mafia movie. She marched out with the little dignity she had left.
“Is he always like that?” she asked Horatio in the hallway.
He coc
ked his head. “Sorry. I do not speak English.”
Even as he did so. At the door, too. Yeah, right.
She wanted to wring someone’s neck. Preferably Alejandro Diaz’s.
Until she remembered about his blindness. How would that be like, for an artist of his stature, to lose his sight?
Probably pretty terrible.
She followed Horatio down the stairs, each step bringing her closer to an ignominious future. She hated to make this about herself, but she saw her career slip away from her, with Elvira making the news with her latest acquisition. She pictured strained conversations at Sunday dinners, and maybe those would also disappear, because after this, she would want to move away and start afresh. In Kansas or Oklahoma, or somewhere she could blend in without the notoriety of having driven a publishing imprint to the ground.
As they emerged outside and walked a little ways to the cab Horatio had called for her, Isa froze in mid-step. She turned and saw Alejandro Diaz standing by the window. She wondered now if he was telling the truth or merely giving her a line and she had fallen for it. She deserved the truth.
She ran back inside. Through the rotunda and up the stairs to his office.
She burst in, panting. “Are you truly blind?”
His expression darkened. “Is this some sort of joke?”
“You were watching me out your window.”
“I was listening for your car to leave.”
She glanced at the open window and heard a little rush of the breeze.
“Sorry.” She pushed her unruly hair away from her face. “I’m sorry.”
Behind her, there were footsteps and loud voices. Max’s.
“I’m leaving,” she said.
Alejandro’s expression remained impassive.
“I just want to say something, before I go...”
Max entered the room and grabbed her arm. “Are you okay, sir?” he asked his boss.
Alejandro nodded. “I am.”
“Ma’am, let’s go...” Max pulled at her gently but firmly. She was sure if she didn’t cooperate, he wouldn’t hesitate to karate chop her.
“How did you get past Max?” Alejandro asked.
Isa glanced at Alejandro’s security guy. He closed and then opened his mouth. Embarrassed, most likely. And more than a little angry that she had made him look bad.
She turned to Alejandro. “I hitched a ride on the bumper of the repair van that came in to your estate.”
Alejandro’s expression lightened. Dare she say, he was almost smiling. “Clever.”
“Come on,” Max said.
Isa let Max escort her down the stairs. He could, as big as his hands and biceps were, break her into two like a stick.
“That was not cool,” Max said under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” Isa said. “I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
Max shook his head. “If I were you ma’am, I would keep quiet.”
“Okay.”
“Max.”
Isa startled. Above them, along the railing of the balcony, Alejandro Diaz stood.
“Yes, sir.” Max’s grip on her was relentless.
“I want to talk to her for two minutes. Stay close, would you?”
“Of course, sir.” Max gave her a warning glance as though to say, don’t do anything funny. “Up in your office?”
“No. I’ll come down. It’ll be just a few minutes.”
Chapter Five
Alejandro made it to the lower level and tried to scan the room for some sign of her.
“I’m here,” she spoke out.
He approached the direction of her voice. “Are you here, Max?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Miss Isabella Drake.”
She spoke. “Yes?”
He heard the uncertainty in her voice. He’d been hard on her. But she deserved it, breaking and entering into his estate, though he really admired her tenaciousness.
“After I was diagnosed,” he said, “I burned all my paintings.”
“Why?” Anguish threaded through her voice.
“I was insane, I suppose.”
“What a waste.”
“I burned them all.” He repeated, remembering the scene...Horatio asking if he should have a fire extinguisher handy. In the end they didn’t need it. The art went up in flames in a matter of minutes, spitting out smoke and the acrid smell of burning oil.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
His mouth twisted. “I’m not. I was burning my past.”
“Well, it shouldn’t matter, for your book. It was merely for your words.”
“I thought there was an option of adding photos.”
“There was. But the book itself doesn’t hinge on it. Besides, your art has been highly photographed around the world.”
“Aren’t you worried that I am...” he searched for a word. “...unhinged?”
“You’re a billionaire. I guess you are entitled to your eccentricities.”
He smiled. “Why, thank you. If I work with you, and it’s a big if, don’t you go dancing up and down yet, I wanted to warn you that I have fits of rage over my...condition.”
“I’m well aware of that.”
Aware.
The word taunted him. He suddenly realized how close they stood to each other. He could smell her perfume, a light fruity smell that seemed an odd choice for a publisher, a woman of power.
You would think, if she were afraid of him, she would step back. But no, she stood her ground. Like some heroine in a story.
“You’re a brave woman,” he said.
“Just desperate.” There was a smile in her voice.
“You want this book to further your career.”
She didn’t answer for a long moment. “If I don’t get your book, the imprint I am over will fold. It will ruin my career. And put several other people out of work.”
In his extremely hazy eyesight, he could make out the gray outline of strong features. Bold lipstick.
“Are you Hispanic?” he asked.
“Me? No, why?”
“Your name. Isabella...”
“Oh. It was just a name my mother liked. My father didn’t care, so she had her way.”
“What do you look like?”
She was quiet, then, “I have shoulder-length dark brown hair that has reddish glints in the sun, a strong jaw, and dark brown eyes.”
He imagined touching her face, his fingertips trailing her features and over the delicate skin by her jaw and neck. Someday, perhaps.
He cleared his throat. “You asked why I burned my paintings.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to be reminded of what I used to have.”
“Your vision, you mean?”
He paused. “Yes.”
“You would break a contract because you want to wallow in self-pity?”
A flash of anger whipped through him. “You have no idea. How dare you even sum up what I have been going through in the past three months!”
“Being as I’ve seen you deal with other crises before, like totaling a car on the highway, I have some idea.”
His hand sought and found her wrist. “And what does that mean, Miss Drake?”
“It means that when the going gets rough, you escape like some jackrabbit.”
The thought of him, Alejandro Diaz, escaping like a rabbit, of all things, drew his ire. “I was not escaping.”
“So you’re blind, big deal.”
“Going blind.” He bit out the words.
“Even better. You can get around. Why should that stop you from living?” Her arm shook. “Do you know how much I fought for your book?”
He winced with distaste. “Oh come on, don’t be so dramatic—”
“I did,” she said softly. “I spent countless days—weeks—preparing my presentation so that our company would take a chance on you.”
“And why,” he said, clipping his words, “did you do that for me, a complete stranger?”
&
nbsp; He continued to hold her arm, but his fingers loosened.
“I thought I knew you.”
He didn’t answer and waited for her to explain.
“I have been following you for...forever. I first saw your art when I was in college, six years ago. It was a traveling exhibit, and it had come to the museum on my campus. I had never seen your art before. I had never heard of you before. But something—the art they’d included in the flier, the one of the bullfighter, caught my eye.”
“I remember that.”
Her voice increased in volume and strength. “And then I went to the exhibit.”
She paused, leaving him curious. “Well?” he said. “What did you think?”
“I...I can’t remember.”
Something in her voice, that hesitation, embarrassment, made him grip her arm tighter. “You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
“So, what did you think of my art?”
“Are you so vain you’ll force me to tell you?”
“Who wouldn’t want to know a beautiful woman’s assessment of his art?”
Beautiful.
The flirtatious word had slipped out of nowhere. He could, he supposed, sense that she was made of sterner stuff. And yes, an inner beauty of sorts. Her scent, her personality, her stubbornness... all added up.
“I suppose, I should take that as a genuine compliment, coming from a blind person,” she retorted.
He let her wrist go. “You don’t have to tell me. I don’t care what you think.”
“Fine, I will.” She took a deep breath.
Silence stretched for a long moment.
“Your art was raw and powerful. I wondered about the artist behind it. I fell in love with your art. And maybe...even with you.”
The admission swirled around them like a secret.
“That was terribly unprofessional,” she said. “I apologize.”
“But honest.”
She stepped back, her body warmth no longer discernible.
“I’ve said more than enough.” Her voice was formal and cool. “I will leave you now.”
“I will think about it. The book,” he clarified.
She emitted a tiny gasp. “You will?”
He nodded.
“All right.” She sounded subdued. Wasn’t she happy about this? Wasn’t this what she came for? “Thank you.”
