“It’s good work and I have plans for it.”
“In that case, I’ll ring you up.”
“Angel,” he said, stopping her before she could turn away. “You fascinate me. And I don’t think this is a mistake.”
Stunned, Angel picked a distant point to stare at. Unfortunately, the point was part of a gigantic mobile and now her whole world was spinning.
“I get that you don’t want things to get messy, and I can’t promise you that they won’t. Given the chance, wouldn’t you want to make a mess with me?”
Paloma, proving that she could be counted on to kill anyone’s joy, returned, this time with an offer. “By any chance, Mr. Cardenas, are you interested in acquiring any more of your grandfather’s artwork? We were delighted that Angel was able to finalize the sale in Justine’s absence. But Justine is just a phone call away.”
Excuse me? What? His grandfather?
Paloma likely did not miss Angel’s confounded expression, nor did she miss the opportunity to school Angel in front of a client. “Juan David Valero is Mr. Cardenas’s grandfather.”
“I see.” Why was she only learning this now? Why hadn’t Justine given her the heads-up? Or Paloma included that nugget in the prepared statement she had texted her? And for the love of God, why hadn’t Alessandro told her?
“If you are interested, just let me know. We don’t come across a Valero too often—that’s safe to say. Still, Justine could make some inquiries. Are you interested?”
“I am.” Alessandro handed her a card. The way she beamed at it, you would have thought he had handed her the winning Powerball numbers. “If you find anything, get back to me.”
“Sandro! Finally! There you are!”
Angel turned in time to catch the green-eyed brunette elbowing her way through the crowd. Wearing Chanel from head to toe, she looked...rich. Her face was expertly painted with shadows and highlights accentuating her delicate features.
“Gigi,” Alessandro said with zero enthusiasm. “You’ve found me.”
Gigi pulled out her phone and placed a call, canceling a search party. “I got him. Meet you at the entrance in five.”
“You make it sound like I’m a fugitive,” Alessandro said.
“We had to split up to look for you,” she said reproachfully. “You weren’t answering your phone.”
“Sorry. It’s off.”
“You’re not buying more art, are you?”
“I am.”
“You are?” This was news to Paloma.
“Yes,” Angel said, her voice shaky. “Mr. Cardenas is interested in Devastation.”
“What’s that?” Gigi asked.
“A photography series,” Paloma informed her.
“Oh, good. So long as it’s not that stupid banana taped to the wall.” She tapped Alessandro’s arm in a chummy way. “Have you seen it?”
“Nope,” Alessandro said. “You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”
Everyone laughed except for Angel. She did not find him funny, not when he’d withheld information that was pertinent to her job. It explained so much. His blatant disinterest. His insistence that he was “familiar” with the painting. He could have expounded on that.
He was looking at her, his expression contrite. “Angeline, should we finalize the sale?”
“No need!” Paloma chimed. “We have your information and we can handle things on our end. I will send you an electronic invoice. Once settled, we’ll have the photographs shipped to your home address.”
“That was painless!” Gigi exclaimed. “Now let’s get out of here before you buy anything else. We’re late for dinner.”
Alessandro rested his eyes on Angel, his gaze soft.
She pasted a smile on her face. “Thanks for your business, Mr. Cardenas! Always a pleasure.”
She couldn’t help but torture him a little. Unfortunately, she’d drawn the attention of his friend. She focused on Angel as if seeing her for the first time. Then her lips curled up in the faintest smile. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Georgina.”
Fascinating women... “I’m Angeline.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “I’m Sandro’s friend. We’re just friends. We go way back.”
Alessandro looked up and away. “I think she got your point.”
“Just making sure,” she said. “Now I hate to do this, but we really have to go. We’ve got reservations. Friends are waiting.”
Alessandro sought her eyes as if to communicate a quiet apology. Angel stiffened and looked down at her hands. Then Gigi tugged at his arm and led him away, all the while cooing, “I approve! She’s beautiful!”
Paloma rushed off to finalize the sale. If she’d picked up on anything, she didn’t seem to care. Only Angel stood bolted in place. She watched Alessandro go and didn’t turn away until he vanished into the crowd, until he was lost to her.
Eight
The six of them were seated in a private dining room at a round table beneath a massive chandelier. The lights were dim enough to hide Sandro’s discomfort. His friends were roasting him tonight.
“I caught the vibe between them within a nanosecond,” Gigi said. “And he was so shy around her. It was adorable!”
Sandro had never been shy a day of his life. But by the time Gigi had come around, he’d been actively avoiding Angel’s gaze. The revelation about his grandfather had not gone over well.
“We met her last night,” Jenny Xi said. “It was riveting to watch.”
“They were on fire,” Jordan said.
“I liked her,” Rose said. “Why didn’t she join us?”
“She’s working tonight,” Sandro said.
“Ah! La pauvre!” Rose lamented.
“Pobrecita!” Rolando Ramirez echoed in Spanish. He was the front man of a local band that had just picked up its first Latin Grammy. Sandro, Jordan and Rolando had attended the same high school for the performing arts and, by all accounts, were doing pretty well.
“Don’t feel sorry for her,” Gigi said. “Apparently, she’s very good at her job. She sold Romeo here a series of photographs at ten grand a pop.”
“Nine grand,” Sandro corrected. “And it’s for the cause. I’ll be auctioning them off tomorrow.”
“That’s so good of you!” Gigi cried. “Tell me again. Why aren’t we a couple?”
“Back off,” Jenny Xi said sternly. “I’m Team Angeline.”
“So am I,” Rose said. “Absolument.”
“Me, too!” Rolando said. “And I’ve never met the woman. But I’m married and I want you guys to catch up.”
“Sorry to disappoint you all, but she wants nothing to do with me.”
“A woman turned you down?” Jenny looked doubtful. “Hard to believe.”
“I promise you it’s happened before,” Sandro said, putting a playful spin on a painful subject. “Gigi, will you have me?”
“No, thanks. I’m Team Angeline, too.” She raised her wineglass. “And I’m all for raising money at auction. For the cause!”
“For the cause!” they cheered.
Gigi’s father was a famous baseball star, but he’d made his fortune off the diamond by investing in Florida real estate. Her mother had organized tomorrow’s fundraising auction. It was a ploy to draw attention to her newly renovated Miami Beach hotel. Sandro didn’t mind playing along for a good cause. His contribution was a mere drop of rain in the ocean. The press made a fuss about it when, really, he was doing the bare minimum. This was the only part of fame that truly bothered him. Acclaim, adulation, loss of privacy—all things he’d prepared himself for. This was the life he’d wanted and he had zero qualms about it. But when they put him on a pedestal like some kind of benevolent god, he made sure to set the record straight. A flawed man, he’d let people down, broken hearts, and was known to hold a grudge. He wanted th
e public to celebrate his work, not to conflate him with the heroes he portrayed.
He’d complained once to Gigi and she put it all in perspective. “In five to seven years’ time, when you’re teetering on forty, no one will give a damn what you do. So hang in there, buddy. This too shall pass.”
She was right. Only well-respected veteran actors got the opportunity to age in the business, snapping up the few good roles available. Sandro wanted a long career and to work in the industry for as many years as he’d waited tables and mixed drinks until 2:00 a.m. These were the years and he had to make them count. That left little time for relationships. He wasn’t even thinking about marriage. Oddly, that thought brought him back to Angeline.
She had a sensitive heart, which she could not hide—not from him, anyway. Her emotions pooled in her eyes. For that reason, guilt and regret churned in his gut all evening. Sandro hadn’t missed her hurt expression when the gallery manager brought up his grandfather. At the time he could not pause to explain, not with the manager dangling red meat before him. She could find him more paintings. Wasn’t that interesting? And then Gigi had arrived.
“It’s bad luck not to toast,” Rose scolded him.
Sandro looked around the table. His friends were holding up their cocktail glasses, all waiting on him. So he raised his glass to the cause. When Gigi went on to discuss their plans for the rest of the night, Sandro tuned her out.
He had to get to Angel. He owed her an apology.
His angel was blond tonight, a detail that he had somehow missed earlier. Standing in the light of the streetlamps, newly added golden strands shimmered down the length of her wavy hair. The December night air had a bite to it. She tightened the belt of her white trench coat. All around her, people were chatting and laughing. She looked serious, brows drawn as she studied her phone. Was she still receiving alerts on her ex? It was her prerogative. Rebound sex wasn’t magic. So why the pang of jealousy? When she looked up from her phone, she looked lost and, frankly, sad. Whoever had caused her to feel that way could die a slow and painful death.
If only he didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that he was the one to blame.
He got out of his borrowed car and leaned against the door. He was double-parked and blocking the flow of traffic. The only reason the crossing guard wasn’t having a fit was because the Bentley was a beauty. The guard might not know who Sandro was, but he knew that he was someone. Sandro had always hated guys who pulled stunts like this, and yet here he was.
The event had wrapped up a while ago, but chaos outside the convention center had not died down. Angeline stood apart from the crowd, staring straight ahead. She had a way of folding within herself. Earlier, when he’d spotted her at the bar, she’d had that same unsearchable look on her face.
Then suddenly her gaze sharpened with recognition.
“Alessandro!”
She shouted his name, drawing the attention of a few people. He didn’t care. He was transfixed with the woman making her way toward him, her eyes brilliant with anger and her hair, caught in the night breeze, flapping around her face.
“What are you doing out here blocking traffic?”
She was so practical. It was adorable. “I was hoping for a chance to speak with you.”
Going by her body language alone, he expected her to say, “Get lost. I never want to see you again.” Instead she said, “My Uber canceled, I need a ride home.”
Sandro held open the car door. “Get in before they tow me away.” She glared at him again before climbing into the back seat. He got behind the wheel just in time to hear her sigh with relief. In the rearview mirror, he watched as she got settled.
“Did you have a good night?” he asked.
She fastened her seatbelt with a snap. “I had a long night.”
“Where do you live?”
“Key Biscayne.”
“That far?”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s a long commute for you. That’s all I meant to say.” He put the car in gear. “Do you have a car?”
“I do,” she said. “It’s been leaking oil and I don’t have time to get it repaired this week.”
He could offer to have it repaired or he could offer to drive her around this week. He was tossing around these options in his head when she leaned forward and proceeded to give him instructions. “Make a right at the light and head to West 41st Street.”
“If I needed directions, Siri, I would have asked.”
She let out an exasperated gasp, implying that he was behaving like a typical man.
“Before I worked my way up to bartending, I delivered takeout,” he explained. “I know this area like the back of my hand.”
“Okay, fine,” she said. “But every other week a road closes and the map changes.”
Good point.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” she added.
“What?”
“Spinning the tale of your humble roots,” she replied. “It’s as if you want to prove that you’re an ordinary guy, all the while driving a car that costs more than a house. It’s jarring.”
Another good point. Although, he hadn’t been aware that that was what he was doing. He wanted her to like him, to trust him. Was that wrong?
“This car belongs to Georgina’s mother,” he said.
“Relatable,” she said. “Last week I borrowed my neighbor’s scooter so I could run an errand.”
Traffic was crawling at a snail’s pace, which explained why her ride might’ve canceled. As they sat in the dark, motionless car, silence took over. He chanced a glance at the rearview mirror and their eyes met.
“Hi, Angel.”
She did not blink. “You lied to me.”
“I withheld information,” he said. “That’s not the same.”
“You let me make a fool of myself, rattling on about your grandfather’s nostalgia.” She turned to the window with a huff. “You must have thought I was an idiot.”
Humiliation rang through her voice. A half-assed apology wasn’t going to cut it.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She did not respond. Sandro stared at her until the blare of car horns jolted him into action. The light had long turned green and the drivers behind him were impatient. He focused on his driving, checking on her from time to time. Her body language was not encouraging. She sat with her arms folded across her chest, the collar of her light trench coat—her only nod to winter—drawn close to her throat. He waited until they were cruising on the highway before he spoke again.
“Why do you think you never heard that Juan David Valero was my grandfather?”
“Because I’m a novice who didn’t prepare?”
“Because I’ve kept it hidden for the most part.”
She leaned forward and gripped his headrest. “Then how did Paloma know? I’m sure Justine knew!”
He had no clue. And yet Paloma’s sudden expertise on all things JD was suspicious. “My grandfather, the great painter, died penniless. But he left me his greatest treasure.”
“His art?” She was still gripping his headrest, but her voice was less harsh.
“That’s right.”
She fell back against the seat. “Oh... I thought...”
“You thought what?”
“Nothing.”
She was not getting away with that. He’d shared something personal. She could reciprocate a little. “Tell me.”
“I thought you didn’t care about art.”
“What made you think that?” he said.
“Last night you barely looked at the painting.”
“Now you know why,” Sandro said. “I was familiar with it, just like I said. And you could’ve given me the benefit of the doubt. I traveled across the country for an art show.”
“That means nothing.”
Yet another fair point. The city was crawling with celebrities, none of which were even remotely interested in art. Most would spend their days on the beach and nights at the clubs. But most people knew where he stood.
“Angel, I come from a long line of artists, going back generations. They were not famous and they didn’t win awards. They were dedicated and serious.” Before she could say anything, he added, “That’s not another anecdote to make me relatable. It’s the truth of who I am.”
She did not say much the rest of the way. Gradually, the tension drained from the car. He felt comfortable with her. It had been this way since, well, yesterday.
“Head onto Rickenbacker, then a left on Galen Drive.”
Sandro followed her directions without objection, sailing over the bridge that arched over the dark bay. Was he disappointed that the long drive had turned out to be not all that long? Yeah, particularly because he was certain Angel would not invite him up.
She lived in a rental community named Coral Rock. She used a clicker to raise the gate arm and pointed to the nearest available parking spot in the large flat lot. As expected, she thanked him for the ride and reached for the car door handle.
“Angel...”
She silenced him. “It’s pointless, Alessandro. You and I...we orbit around different suns.”
“Why is that a problem?” he asked, arguing even though he knew that letting her go was the best thing to do.
She reached forward again. This time, she lightly raked her fingertips through his hair. Sandro shivered at her touch. He took hold of her hand and brought the palm to his lips. Her rose-scented perfume filled his nostrils.
“I’m glad you came by,” she said. “Not because I needed a ride, although that helped. But I needed to make sense of what happened tonight. Thank you.”
She gently freed her hands from his and slipped out of the car.
The five-story building was pistachio green. The apartment doors opened onto a breezeway corridor. Sandro watched as she climbed the stairs leading to the top floors and waited until a light came on in a third-floor apartment. It’s over. Then he pulled out of the parking lot and drove into the night.
What Happens In Miami... Page 6