“Oh,” she said, embarrassed at her gross overreaction to what amounted to a what-would-you-like-for-dinner-type question. “Let’s order in. Definitely. Absolute isolation. I like the sound of that.”
“And Angel?”
“Yes?”
“I like you, very, very much.”
Angel went to him and took his hand. She liked being liked in general, but this was special.
“I should have said that the first night instead of inventing bullshit reasons for you to stay. All that talk about rebound sex was just...”
“What?” she asked in a whisper.
“A way to...”
“Get me naked?”
He laughed and pressed his forehead to hers. “Get you to stay.”
That first night, she would have played any game he’d wanted just for the chance to be with him, get to know him, touch him, taste him. “I like you, too,” she said. “Much more than I thought possible.”
He burrowed his face in her neck. “What does that mean?”
Angel slid her hands under his shirt. “What does it matter now?”
“It matters if this is going to last beyond these few days.”
Needing to focus, Angel stopped her wanton exploration of his skin. “You mean us?”
“Who else?”
Angel let out a breath. Now was the time to say the things that mattered. “At first it was just a game, a little fun. Not anymore.”
He kissed her slowly and for such a long time, she melted into him. “My angel...” he whispered against her lips. “This was never a game.”
“There still have to be rules.”
He pulled away from her. “You and your rules!”
“They work!”
He grabbed her wrist and kissed her open palm. “Can’t we just enjoy this?”
“That sounds like YOLO!”
“Not YOLO, I promise.” He laughed. “I know how much you hate it.”
“I should have bought that piece just to remind you.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “You don’t have to do that. I remember everything about you. What you love. What you like. What you hate.”
Well...she hated uncertainty. At the risk of sounding needy and clingy, Angel asked the question burning inside her. “What happens when you leave in a few days?”
“Weeks,” he corrected. “I can stay through the holidays.”
“Oh?” In the greater scheme of things it didn’t move the dial much, but it bought them time. A new fragile leaf of hope sprouted inside her.
“Eventually, I’ll be leaving for New Zealand. When the shoot wraps, there’s no reason why I couldn’t return here instead of LA.”
“Or I could visit you in California,” she proposed, so eager to meet him halfway it killed her. The need to keep him in her life bordered desperation, and wasn’t that what her mother had tried to warn her against?
“If you do,” he said, “I’ll make each day beautiful for you. I promise.”
A shiver ran through her. In no time, he had her out of her clothes. He made love to her, her back against the wall, her legs coiled around his waist. And before she knew it, Angel was saying yes to something that she did not fully grasp.
Sandro watched her sleep. A part of him worried that if he did not keep watch, she would run away again. Yesterday had been a sun-filled dream. They’d spent the entire day poolside. After a swim they shared a lounge chair. Stretched out on their backs, fingers linked, he told her about his father who’d been married when he’d met his mother and how his grandfather had stepped in to raise him when both his parents had shrugged off the responsibility. It turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to him. He grew up in a house with no rules and plenty of freedom to experiment and try on new hats. It allowed him to thrive as an artist. His grandfather, as moody and temperamental as he’d been, was Sandro’s whole world as a child. His parents had all but abandoned him. Which brought him to a truth he hadn’t yet fully acknowledged.
“People ask me to promote my grandfather’s work and I can’t do that without exposing my parents for who they were,” he said. “As it is, nobody cares about my childhood. There’s no way to introduce JD without the whole mess with my parents spilling out.”
Beyond the biography his publicist had crafted, which stated that he was “born and raised in Miami,” there wasn’t much information about him out there. Nobody cared about his early life. They only wanted to know whom he was sleeping with at any given time.
She rested a hand on his chest, strengthening their connection through touch. “Where’s your mother today?”
“In Pembroke Pines, married, with two grown kids,” he said. “I’m the mistake she’s left in her past. Although she did write when I landed my first major role.”
By contrast, Angel’s upbringing was exceptionally strict and proper. It seemed to Sandro that her mother was a little too involved in her affairs. Both her parents were physicians and they had done their best to stifle her creativity. They considered her MFA degree a waste of time and money. They disapproved of her “bohemian” lifestyle. He guessed that she’d given up on her art in large part because of familial pressure. When he tried to get her to admit it, she sat up on her knees and begged him to change the subject.
He obliged by bringing up Gallery Six. Understandably, she didn’t want to talk about work. He dropped that topic, too. He couldn’t avoid it for too long. He had to tell her that the painting she’d sold him was a fake; he owed her that much. He remembered how she’d reacted when he’d withheld his grandfather’s identity. How much worse was this?
The news would affect her in more ways than one. She’d have to come to terms with the fact that her employer was dealing fakes, either knowingly or unknowingly. Angel would have some choices to make. Would she ignore the facts and keep her job? Would she confront Paloma and potentially lose her job? He wasn’t comfortable with either option. For sure, he’d like her less if she didn’t take this seriously. And yet, he didn’t want her to lose her job because of him.
There was a lot to consider. He couldn’t just spring the news on her. After the week she’d had, it would be cruel to dump it on her now. She needed this reprieve. He needed this time with her, untainted and untouched by the outside world.
Last night, they’d ordered gourmet pizza, ate dinner at the kitchen island, silenced their phones and went to bed fairly early. She stirred beside him now.
He rolled over to her, drew her into a spoon. His palm found the curve of her breast. Their breathing synched. A moment later, she lifted her head off the pillow and her whole body went stiff.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Fine was code for I’m freaking out. He knew that much.
“Want to run away again?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” She set her head back down but did not relax.
“Something is bothering you.” He kissed her neck and her shoulder muscles knotted up. “You’re tense.”
She turned around in his arms and faced him, the tips of their noses touching. “This feels good.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It feels too good.”
“No such thing as too good, Angel,” he murmured sleepily.
She broke away from him and sat up, drawing the sheets over her chest, which was completely unnecessary. It was still dark; he could make out only the lines of her body.
“This feels too good for what it is,” she said. “Does that make sense?”
So early in the morning, nothing made sense. “What time is it?”
“Six. I always wake up at six.”
“Always?” he asked, groggy.
“Always.”
“Well, not today. Come to me.” He reached for her and pu
lled her deeper into their cocoon, drawing the heavy blanket around them. It didn’t solve the real problem. She was still tense. He kissed her forehead and smoothed back her hair. “You’re afraid of getting hurt again. Is that it?”
“Of course I am!” she exclaimed. “What about you? I could hurt you. Or don’t you think that’s possible?”
It was not only possible; it was highly probable. What was she going to do when he left? Sit around and wait? “Angel, you could tear me to shreds, and I’d take it,” he said. “Notice I’m not the one who wants to bolt.”
She closed her eyes. The flutter of her lashes tickled his chin. “Sorry. I like to panic first thing in the morning.”
Maybe it was time that he made his wants clear. “I want to take the risk,” he said. “I want to be the man in your life, and in your bed. I want to wake up beside you whenever I can. And I want to be good to you.”
“Good?” she said. “In what way?”
“In any way you’ll let me, my angel.”
He couldn’t bulldoze his way into her life, particularly because he was not in a position to promise the usual things: Friday nights at the movies, Saturday night dinner dates and Sunday picnics at the park—or whatever it was people in love were doing these days.
Love. Was that what this was?
She crawled on top of him, sat up and pinned him down between her thighs, pushing away sheets, dismantling the cocoon. In the glow of the thin rays of light sneaking into the room, she was magnificent. Waves of hair framed her face. The smooth lines of her body silhouetted against the light.
“Do you panic every morning?”
“Like clockwork.”
“Damn.”
“It’ll pass,” she said. “Physical activity helps.”
Well...he was her chew toy.
“Have at it,” he said.
Their gazes held and she bent forward to kiss him. Before their lips touched, she whispered that she wanted to be good to him, too.
GOLDEN GLOBES NOMINATIONS
Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role in a Series, Limited Series or Motion Picture Made for Television
Brad Baxter, The Hit Job
Alessandro Cardenas, Black Market
Zach Harris, The Agency
Nicholas Jones, Good Vibes Only
Robert West, Moving Target
Eighteen
No matter what, Angel could not snuff out a looming sense of doom. It was ridiculous. Everything was perfect. Swimming all day, talking all afternoon, a glass of wine at sunset, sketching by the pool while her lover studied lines, gourmet pizza for dinner delivered to their door—Angel had never had a more perfect day. Waking up beside Alessandro was a gift tailor-made for her. And yet she could not relax. The tension just wouldn’t ease up. I want to enjoy this. Why can’t I?
She blamed her mother. She’d poisoned her mind.
Or was it Chris?
And if no one was to blame, then what was wrong with her? Couldn’t she be happy for a while?
They’d made love in the early morning and fallen back asleep. The house was peaceful, but her thoughts raged. Then it happened: the equivalent of a five-star alarm.
Alessandro’s mobile phone started buzzing and chiming like a vengeful bumblebee, so much so it spun off the nightstand landing onto the wood floor with a thud. Somewhere in the distance a landline telephone started ringing nonstop. Angel shot upright, heart pounding. “What is it? What’s going on?”
Alessandro, unruffled as always, rolled over and scooped his phone off the floor. He tapped the screen and scrolled through his messages and alerts. A lazy grin spread across his face. “Holy shit! I got a Golden Globe nom.”
Was that all? Angel fell back against the pillows, relief rushing through her. She’d nearly had a stroke, there! She shoved her dark thoughts to the back of her mind and offered him a bright smile. “Congratulations! That’s exciting!”
“Thanks.” He chucked the phone and pounced on her. He was most handsome in the morning, scruffy and disheveled. She did not take this for granted. “Be my date, babe.”
“For what?”
“The Globes.”
Wow! It wasn’t the prospect of walking the red carpet that excited her. Actually, she might turn that down. The award shows typically aired in February. Alessandro was making plans for several months out. That realization set off pinwheels of joy.
“I have a ball gown in the back of my closet,” she said. “It’ll do.”
“No...” His hands explored her naked body under the sheets. “I like you in those light silky dresses.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes...” He kissed her neck and the rough skin of his cheek scraped the tender skin just below her ear. “The ones with the thin straps... It drives me crazy.”
“Will you wear a blue suit?” she asked. “Like the blue Tom Ford you wore to the Emmys?”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “That was Armani, but sure, whatever you like.”
“May I choose the tie?”
“May I tie you to the bed post with it afterward?”
“Or maybe I’ll tie you.”
“I knew it.” He dipped his head and kissed the hollow of her neck. “You’re no angel, and I love it.”
Angel broke out in laughter. The dark clouds that crowded her mind quickly dissipated.
“Come on!” he said, pulling away. “Let’s celebrate.”
“With champagne?”
“Overrated,” he replied. “With coffee.”
She slipped on a T-shirt. He pulled on a pair of board shorts. They puttered barefoot down the hall to the bright, immaculate kitchen. Angel wandered over to the picture window. She stretched and did a few rounds of sun salutations while Alessandro proceeded to brew coffee. Essentially he shoved a pod into a fancy machine. Nevertheless, she still felt like the most cared for and pampered woman in the world.
“What got you nominated?” she asked, gliding from downward dog to upward dog. The aroma of coffee filled the kitchen.
“Black Market, the FastFlix miniseries.”
“Oh, no! I haven’t seen it!”
He pulled a milk frother from a drawer. “What?”
“Sorry! I don’t have that streaming app!”
She wasn’t the least sorry. Angel had no intention of signing up for another streaming service. Enough was enough!
He held up the frother. “My ego is as fragile as you’d expect, and I hate to say it—I’m hurt.”
“Awww!” She rushed over to hug him. “I love your work. You know that.”
He leaned into her. “Go on. Stroke my ego.”
“Sure,” Angel said, pushing him away. “But first, coffee.”
He retrieved a glass bottle of milk from the refrigerator. “Myles taught me how to make a decent cappuccino.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have.”
“One cappuccino coming up.”
She watched as he methodically poured frothy milk into two coffee mugs and handed her one. Then he stepped out of the kitchen to return his agent’s calls. Angel searched around for a television remote and switched on the flat screen mounted on the wall in the breakfast nook. She took her coffee to the marble-top table and flipped through the channels. The local TV networks might replay the award nominations, if only to celebrate their local boy. Channel 3, Channel 6, Channel 7, Channel 10...and wait... A headline grabbed her attention.
Days after Art Basel, allegations of fraud rattle the art market.
The news anchor, a young man who’d risen in visibility thanks to his coverage of the last hurricane, promised more details after the commercial break. Angel sipped her coffee, which was delicious, and waited. Which gallery had messed up this time? Art dealers never learned. Greed was at the rotting core of the art market; that was the unva
rnished truth. It filtered every transaction with suspicion. Just last year, one of the oldest, most prestigious galleries in North America had to shut down when it was caught peddling a fake Rothko. Angel had absolutely no sympathy for...
“FBI raids Miami Beach art gallery, a Lincoln Road staple for over two decades...
“Gallery Six, named after the six daughters of Florida billionaire Lawrence Saxton, was raided early today. The feds seized computers and records. At the heart of the scandal is Paloma Gentry aka Paula Claire Gentry, arrested at dawn under allegations of money laundering. Ms. Gentry joined the gallery in 2012.”
Nineteen
“What did I tell you?” Leslie said. “That award is as good as yours!”
“Calm down. It’s an honor to be nominated.”
“That’s BS and you know it!” Leslie scoffed. “Plus the field is weak. I like your chances.”
“Whether you win or not, we should capitalize on the pre-award show craze.” This was Cameron, Sandro’s publicist. Leslie had conferenced her into the call. The women worked as a tag team. “I’d like you to post a candid photo or a short video, maybe a TikTok, of your reaction to the news. You know the drill.”
“I know the drill.”
“I’ll line up interviews and keep you posted,” she said. “You may want to consider coming home now.”
Sandro’s mood fell flat. “Is that necessary?”
“Uh, yeah!” Cameron said. “We’ll want you to do the late-night talk show circuit and maybe even The Talk or The View. It might be a good idea to start with the New York circuit since you’re on the East Coast.”
“Don’t sign me up for anything yet. Give me a couple of days.”
“First you didn’t want time off and now you’re begging for more time?” Leslie intervened. “You’re no better than my kids.”
What Happens In Miami... Page 13