Old resentments pooled in his gut. The hair on the top of his head baked in the sun. Perspiration pooled above his lips. He’d come to believe it was the only reason Trish dated him. His family had money and good standing in the community, which made him the perfect prize when it came to husbands. Trouble was, he didn’t want to be a prized possession. He wanted to be loved by someone real.
Once more, he swept the street for sight of her. Today, one way or another, he would make some progress with Sydney because she felt real. She didn’t know how much money he had. She didn’t know how many lovers. She only knew he had a son, an ex-wife, a cad of a friend—and she was still interested. Clay smiled to himself. If she was still hanging around with all that “baggage” then he figured he was good to go. His pulse skipped as he did a double take.
What the...? No—it couldn’t be.
Chapter Seventeen
A stunned smile pulled at Clay’s lips. Well I’ll be damned... Dressed in white tank top and jeans, Sydney took the corner with a slow acceleration of her motorcycle. Headed toward him, here brown hair shone sleek against her head, pulled back as it usually was and she sporting the same sunglasses from her volleyball game commandeered the bike with skill and proficiency. He chuckled. The woman never ceased to surprise.
Slowing to a stop in front of him, she dropped a black-booted foot to the pavement and held the handlebars at a slight angle. She smiled, allowed him to take in the sight of her, then nearly purred the words as she took in the sight of him. “You’re right on time.”
Pleasure coursed through him and he let out a slow whistle, his gaze sliding forward and back of her motorcycle. Shiny chrome handlebars and dual mufflers took center stage, punctuated by gleaming black tires and leather seat. The body was painted the color of turquoise and without a cloud in the sky literally sparkled beneath her. Unfamiliar with bikes, he had to admit it was a gorgeous piece of machinery. For a girl. He pulled the sunglasses from his eyes. “I don’t know anything about bikes, but that one’s sweet.”
Pleased, she replied, “Thanks. It’s a Harley Davidson Screaming Eagle.”
“Nice.”
“Ready for lunch?”
He glanced around them. “Am I walking?”
“Now what kind of tour guide would I be if I didn’t offer you a ride?” she asked demurely, save for the sharp challenge in her voice.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
He spied the slope of black seat mounted on the rear fender. “You want me to ride on the back?”
She slid her eyes to the seat behind her and scooted forward. “Where else?”
He paused, scanned the bike forward and back and ego tugged at him. “You sure you don't want me to drive?”
“What—afraid someone might see you riding bitch?”
Whoa... Talk about peeling off the gloves and tossing them to the curb—she didn’t pull any punches, did she? But he liked it. With a step forward, he regained position. “Sorry,” he said and moved hands to his hips. “Term doesn’t fit.”
She smiled. “Now that’s the problem with macho lingo. Not a one-size-fits-all kinda proposition.” She zapped him with a fiery gaze. “Offer stands.”
Clay glanced around the sidewalk, the street and considered it. “Hm. Beautiful day, beautiful woman…” And he liked the sound of the word proposition. Reminded him what this lunch was all about.
Sydney smiled large and bright. “Sounds to me like an offer you can’t refuse.”
Clay enjoyed the way she was toying with him, but pretended to hesitate. “What happened to the last guy that did this?”
“Don't know. You’ll be the first.”
Lingering on her, he second-guessed himself. She sure seemed awful keen on the idea. Was there something she knew that he didn’t? He swiped her bike with another glance. “Sure you can handle it?”
“Why don’t you hop on and find out, tough guy.”
Clay was a lot of things, but afraid of a challenge he was not. He walked over, swung his leg up and over and slid on behind her, grateful for the fact he was wearing jeans and sneakers. Muffler burns could be ugly. Tentatively, he placed his hands to her hips and smiled. This was working out in his favor already! He leaned over her shoulder and was treated to a fresh drift of perfume—the floral scent that had surprised him after their first lunch—and noted the fine hairs on her exposed neck were sun-bleached to a golden blonde. “Where do you want me to hold on?”
“Wherever feels comfortable.”
He laughed. “For which one of us?”
Sydney slipped him a smile. “Just don’t fall off, okay? How about we leave it at that?”
Clay laughed softly and slid his shades back in place. Not hardly, but he’d take it as a start. Sydney revved the engine to life and slowly pushed her foot from the ground as the bike eased forward. “Where we going?”
“Hungry?”
He breathed in the scent of her again and leaned close, his chin inches from her. “For you, yes.”
“Food,” she said back to him, the engine competing with the conversation as they picked up speed.
“Sure,” he said loudly, “you bet I’m hungry. This is your town. You make the call.” Clay pulled her long thick ponytail between them, enjoying the silky smooth feel of her hair, careless to the strands blowing free, tickling the skin on his face. He liked the feel of her body, her hair. He liked the powerful vibration of the bike rumbling beneath them, too, the heavy muffler amplifying his pleasure.
Opting to stay off the highway, Sydney paralleled the main highway for a bit. “Well when you’re in Miami,” she said, “do as the natives do. How about we swing through Little Havana for some local flavor?”
Clay secured his grip around her firm waist and replied, “I’m game.”
Sydney turned, pulled out of the university grounds and took a left onto a road called Granada, she took it slow as they rode through the residential area, all of the homes seemed built with Spanish influence. Where South Carolina’s history was rich with French and African tradition, the French Quarter being one of his hometown’s most famous examples, it seemed the Spaniards had conquered the entire state of Florida. Most all of the homes had barrel-tile roofs, nearly every other one red, many accompanied by an array of arched doorways and windows, ironwork embellishments and stone trim. Enormous trees lined the road, enshrouding the estate homes in privacy, much of them filled with bright orange blooms, others laden with heavy root systems that fell from branches to the ground. It looked to be a wealthy neighborhood. A brief glimpse of a golf course on the other side served to underscore the observation.
“This is Coral Gables,” she told him, playing conscientious tour guide.
“It’s nice.” Definitely expensive, if the Bentley driving past them was any clue. “Do you live near here?”
Sydney laughed, the sound carried away with the wind. “Not hardly. I’m over in South Miami.”
“Is that far from here?”
“About ten minutes. It’s the other side of the University of Miami.”
“Hm,” he murmured, distracted by the sight of an impressive peach-colored building. “That’s a nice place.” He pointed to the large building off to their left. Spanish in architecture like the others, this one was huge boasting a center spire that stood imperiously over the cluster of its surrounding buildings. Trimmings were painted in cream and of course it was housed under the same red tile roof.
Sydney glanced in the direction and said, “That’s the Biltmore Hotel. It’s a landmark around these parts.”
“It is?” he asked, mostly to himself. His parents were staying there, but it looked different from this angle. And it easily earned landmark status. Inside the ceilings were barrel-vaulted and hand-painted with marble columns throughout. The floors were travertine and in his opinion, the hotel resembled an Italian palazzo. He’d perused some of the historical photographs and they told quite a story. Built back in the 1920’s it ho
sted quite the guest list until being converted to a hospital during World War II. The University of Miami even used it as their medical school for a while. Clay recalled it had been renovated years ago, but had a rough time of it until some development group entered the picture and assumed ownership. Apparently they knew what they were doing because the company dumped a pile of money into not only the hotel and pool, but the golf course and spa. According to his parents, those were two key ingredients to an exceptional hotel stay.
Passing a roundabout, Sydney pointed to an old looking Mediterranean-style building. “That’s the Venetian Pool,” she said, slowing so he could peek through the iron-gate.
Sure enough, there was an enormous pool on the other side. But the water looked awfully green to him. “You sure that’s a pool?”
She chuckled. “Oh, yes. A famous one at that.”
“You swim in there?”
“Used to when I was a kid. It was a big deal to say I could swim from one side to the other.”
He smiled. Now she sounded like Q. He said the same thing first time he set foot in an Olympic-sized swimming pool.
“It’s built from a coral rock quarry and fed by a spring. Very cool, too, with waterfalls and cave-like grottos. It’s changed a lot over the years but it’s still a pretty neat place to go.” She turned her head toward him and said, “You should bring your family here. I bet Q would love it.”
Clay liked that she thought of Q thought of family outings. Family was important. “Maybe I will,” he said, holding onto the last glimpse of the pool and buildings inside. He turned back to face forward. Or maybe we will.
When they turned onto the next busy road, buildings quickly turned commercial and screamed money. But the fancy retail brand names said it all. Within minutes the landscape dramatically changed. No longer were buildings defined by peach and pink stone and red-tile but instead turned square and cement and sparsely dotted with palm trees—everything labeled in Spanish. Signs, ads, it was like he was entering another country. “Where are we?”
“Welcome to Little Havana,” she said, her voice carrying that “I-know-what-you’re-thinking” ring.
But he understood what she meant. You couldn’t miss the change it was so drastic. The further they drove, the more it felt as if this section of town had been plucked right off the streets of Cuba, or some other Third World country. Old men rode bicycles along the busy road. Cars were no longer luxury models, but short bed trucks and minicars that looked right at home with the single story buildings pressed to the street’s edge. Clay shook his head. It was amazing. While the previous neighborhoods felt Old World and elegant, this area of town felt hot and humid and “junky,” like everything had been crammed in without much forethought.
“We’re almost there,” she said, as though she sensed he was getting antsy.
At the moment, he was content riding behind her, her body snug between his thighs, the wind blowing through his hair. But later? He hoped to get closer. A lot closer. That kiss the other night only left him wanting for more and more he planned to get—of her lips, her body... Clay slid his hands down to rest along her lower waist, admiring the curve as it angled up to her broad shoulders. While taking advantage of the opportunity to feel what he could, he made certain to keep his hold light. Scaring her off now would not serve him well.
As she slowed, Clay caught sight of a few old men sitting in a parking lot, their rickety old lawn chairs circled around a card table with what looked to be a small black AM/FM radio. Was this what they did for entertainment? Locked onto the odd image, his head swiveled as they passed, his body dipping with the bike as it rolled into an adjacent lot. With a cursory glance to the apartment building behind them, air conditioner units jutting out from windows, paint peeling off the walls, he realized that may indeed be all they had.
Sydney put a foot to the ground and said, “This place has the best croquetas and coffee.
“What are those?” he asked, and wondered where they were eating. The only store in sight was a discount dollar type. He swung his leg over the back end of the bike and she dismounted behind him, kicking the metal stand into place.
“Fried rolls of minced ham. You can get chicken, too, but I prefer the ham.”
“Where do we get them?”
She indicated with a flick of her eyes. “Right there.”
From that makeshift trailer of a restaurant? But Clay wasn’t about to voice the same. She was the tour guide here, not him. If this is where she said they were eating, this is where they were eating. Turning the handlebars to one side, she pulled the hair band from her ponytail and combed her fingers through the lengths of brown. Hanging long and loose around her shoulders, it brought out the woman in her. Made him want to reach over and run his fingers through it, too. He gave a couple quick yanks to his Polo jersey to release the stick of humidity and mumbled, “Uh, I’ll have what you’re having.”
“Do you like coffee?”
Careful not to be overheard by a couple of old women squatted down on a cement bench near the food truck—a pair that looked like they’d been there for some time—he replied, “It’s okay.” Certainly not his choice of beverage on a hot, sunny day, but whatever. He was the guest here. Sydney wanted to drink coffee, they were drinking coffee.
“Well I’ll warn you ahead of time. This stuff is potent and not for the faint of heart.”
He stopped short. “Are you calling me a sissy?”
She tossed him a half-smile and headed for the dilapidated, white trailer. “Friendly word of advice, that’s all.”
Clay watched her rear as she walked and felt a twinge in his loins. Damn, but that thing was fine. Catching up to her, he commented, “I’ve never seen a woman fill a pair of jeans better than you. The way your body pours into denim is incredible.”
“That would be great—if I were pudding.”
He grinned. “You don’t take compliments well, do you?”
Ignoring his question, she eyed him. “Coffee or not?”
“I’ll have one just to prove I can, how about that? Add a water too, will you?” Now that they stopped, Clay realized there was no breeze to speak of and his shirt was beginning to stick.
A large Cuban man leaned to the window. “¿Qué deseas ordenar?
Sydney removed her black sunglasses and placed them on top of her head. “Sopa de frijoles negros, dos croquetas de jamón y dos café cubanos, por favor.” With a sideways glance to Clay she added, “Y agua para mi amigo.”
The man looked at Clay and smiled, as though Sydney had just cracked a joke. “Por supuesto.”
Sydney turned to Clay with a look that was as much sass as it was sexy. Seemed someone was enjoying herself—which he liked to see. It made him want to kiss her in the worst way. Lean forward, slide his arms around her waist and place a long wet kiss on that mouth of hers. But a kiss was only the beginning of what he wanted to do to her. He wanted to cozy up to that muscular body and feel the firmness of her thighs, her biceps, her ultra-flat stomach. He summoned visions of her from that first day on the beach and could recall with clarity and detail how she looked, how she moved. He pulled the shirt from his chest and gave it a few quick tugs. He was beginning to sweat.
“Aquí,” the man said from the window.
Sydney took two cardboard containers filled with golden-fried mini logs from his hands and handed one to Clay. “Be careful, they’re hot.”
“Good. I like it hot.”
She shook her head and asked point blank. “Do you ever stop?”
“Never.” Clay chuckled. Not until he got what he wanted.
Two miniature cups of coffee came out the window next, followed by a larger Styrofoam cup and two plastic spoons. “Para compartír con tú amigo.”
Sydney smiled and replied, “Gracias.”
Clay tucked his shades into the open collar of his shirt and pulled the wallet from his back pocket. “How much?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this one.”
&nb
sp; “Where I come from, a man pays for his woman. How much?”
Sydney paused, and held him in her gaze for a moment. “Where I come from, a woman pays her own way. Besides, you took care of the first lunch. This one’s on me.”
Squinting against the glare of sunlight, Clay was about to protest, but decided against it. Something told him that if he pushed, she’d push right back. “Fine.” He shoved the wallet back into his jeans. “Thank you.”
Sydney paid the bill and the two of them walked over to a white cement table, a rickety umbrella jutting up from its center. Sydney sat on one half-moon bench while he took the one opposite her. Pulling a paper napkin from the black metal dispenser box on the table, he settled in for a taste of Little Havana. “So what did that guy say?”
“That you should try the beans.” Sydney flipped open the lid from the soup container and handed him one of the plastic sporks.
“He said all that, did he?”
“Yep. The stuff is to die for,” she said, then took the first bite for herself. Moving her head from side to side, she groaned in pleasure and slowly chewed.
God, he liked the way she ate; intense, indulgent, as though she were savoring every morsel. He grunted under his breath. He’d have to remember that little feat later and use it to his benefit. Clay reached his spoon over for a taste and brought the steaming lumpy black liquid to an inch below his nostrils and sniffed. “Not bad.” Smoky, he detected a salty garlic scent. He slid the spoonful into his mouth, moved it back and forth over his tongue and decided, not bad. A bit chalky, but tasty. “Pretty good.” Definitely heavy on the garlic and onion and no good for the breath.
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