“Mmmmm, this flan is to die for! I think there’s coconut in it.” I didn’t even bother to ask. I just helped myself to a bite from his plate.
“¡Dios mío!” His eyes roll back in his head and an expression of pure bliss washes over his face. “I’ve never tasted anything so creamy! And you’re right, there’s definitely coconut in this.”
Okay, so now I have a good idea of what his orgasm face looks like. A few more bites of this decadent dessert and I might climax myself. It really is that good.
“I didn’t think anyone could make a better flan than my tía, Solana—she owns a bakery in Little Havana, but this,” I slide my fork through the silky custard again, “is taking flan to a whole new level.”
“So, your family is Cuban?”
“For the most part. I’m Cuban-American on my father’s side and Cuban-Chilean on my mother’s. You?”
“Also mostly Cuban, except my abuela on my mother’s side was Dominican.”
I stab a forkful of the mojo sauce-drenched pork on my plate, put it in my mouth, and groan. “You have to try some of this lechón asado. It’s almost as tasty as the flan.” I scoop up another bite and offer my fork to him.
With a twinkle in his eye, he leans forward and takes the food in his mouth. “Mmmm, I concur. That is some very succulent pork with just the right amount of spice.” He wipes away a stray bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth, which interrupts my fantasy of licking it off for him.
Fixing me with a look that could best be described as smoldering, he says, “Now that we’ve moved to the intimate stage of our relationship where we share eating utensils, it seems only proper that I should know your name.”
“You don’t like this whole woman of mystery thing I’ve got going on?” I query with a flirtatious lilt to my voice.
“I do, but that’s trumped by my burning desire to know everything about you.”
“I won’t keep you in suspense then. My name is Izzy.”
“Izzy?” He tilts his head to the side, eyeing me with curiosity. “Is that short for Isobel?”
“No.” I steal some rice pudding off his plate. “Isidora.”
“Isidora . . .” he repeats the name, each syllable rolling off his tongue in a langorously sensuous fashion. I’ve always disliked my full name, thinking it sounded too prissy and old-fashioned, but damn if he wants to keep saying it like that, I will not object. “What a unique and beautiful name. I think it suits you.”
“Thanks. And what should I call you, besides my fellow flan fanatic?”
“Eduardo.”
I pause to imagine myself screaming out that name in a moment of passion . . . Yep, that works. “Nice to meet you, Eduardo.” I raise my champagne glass to toast him.
He lifts his lowball glass, which is filled with a brown liquid I’m assuming is the aged rum Sandoval Spirits is throwing this shindig to promote. “A los nuevos amigos,” he says.
“To new friends.” I touch his glass with my champagne flute and smile.
“Tell me, Isidora . . .” He snakes a shrimp empanada off my plate, swiping it through the picante sauce before removing it. “What brings you to this party tonight? Are you in the alcohol industry?”
“I came with some friends who are in the restaurant business.” If he presses me, I’m prepared to name Pilar’s ex, Victor Liscano, who owns several tapas bars in town. “I’m actually a model.”
“I can see that.” His eyes scan my body from head to toe with obvious appreciation. “You dispel the myth that models don’t eat.”
“Most models do starve themselves, but you can’t keep a Latina away from food and I’m blessed with a high metabolism. My sisters hate me because of it,” I admit, with a smirk.
“Sisters plural? So, you have several?”
“Two, both older than me and married with children.”
“You have not yet been tempted to take the plunge?”
“No, but I’m certainly not opposed to the institution of marriage if the right man were to come along.” I direct a meaningful look at him. “How about you?”
“My career has kept me so busy the last few years that I haven’t had much time for a personal life. I hope to rectify that very soon.”
Dropping my hand to his knee, I give it a squeeze. When he eyes me questioningly, I say, “Just checking to make sure you’re a real person and not some figment of my imagination. You seem almost too good to be true.”
“As do you,” Eduardo says, with an irresistible grin. “Although I don’t think I could have dreamed up a woman with all of your charms.” In what seems like one smooth movement, he sets the half-eaten dessert plate down and scoots closer so that there’s no longer any space separating our bodies. He places his hand on my bare knee and the skin-on-skin contact sends a delicious wave of warmth and pleasure straight up to my girly parts, which are now ready for action. If we weren’t in a public place, I’d encourage him to slide that hand right up my thigh and—
Clink. Clink. Clink. The sound of metal striking glass interrupts our on-the-verge-of-getting-very-friendly moment. Dammit!
“Can everyone gather around please?”
Much to my chagrin, Eduardo has to remove his hand from my leg in order to turn toward the voice, which is coming from a balding, middle-aged Latino with a silver beard who’s standing on a platform positioned in the center of the deck. Partygoers crowd in around the makeshift stage, and my companion stands, offering me a hand up so that we can see (as well as hear) whatever the announcement is. To be honest I really don’t care, I’d rather get back to groping and being groped by Eduardo and see where the night takes us.
I rise to my stiletto-clad feet, grumbling in my head about mood killers and wishing I’d suggested to Eduardo that we bounce and go somewhere private. I’d much rather be alone with him than have to listen to some spiel about a stupid aged rum I haven’t even tried yet. The good news is that he continues to hold my hand even after I’m upright, which means that he wants to keep our physical connection going.
“My wife, Maria, and I would like to thank you all for joining us this evening,” the speaker begins.
CHAPTER 12
Blah, blah, blah, very special celebration, blah, blah, blah, rum that’s been sitting in oak casks for the last thirty years, only fifteen hundred bottles produced, blah blah blah, first time it’s being tasted in this country, has notes of baked pear, maple, spice and— Zzzzzzzzzzzz . . . I’m pretty sure that nodding off in the middle of his speech won’t endear me to the party’s host, so I give my head a little shake and command myself to focus.
“El Clásico is significant not just to Sandoval Spirits, but to the Sandoval family. It was barreled on the day our beloved son was born.” The rum-making clan’s patriarch wraps his arm around his wife (side note: she’s very pretty and looks a decade or so younger than him) and they both beam with pride and happiness. “And in conjunction with the release of this one-of-a-kind rum, our son, who’s been working tirelessly for the last four years as managing director of our Latin America and Caribbean division has returned to us from the Dominican Republic. We are overjoyed to have him back, and it gives me great pleasure to announce that he will now be working side-by-side with me here at Sandoval Spirits’ headquarters, where I have no doubt he will lead our company to even greater heights of success. Please join me in congratulating the new chief operating officer of our company, Eduardo Sandoval.”
Huh? Did he just say ‘Eduardo?’ As in the name of the guy I’ve spent the last thirty minutes getting cozy with. It’s probably just a coincidence. Eduardo is a common enough name, especially in a crowd full of Latinos.
But wait, everyone’s applauding and turning toward us and my Eduardo (if I can classify him as such after our short acquaintance) is looking both delighted and a little embarrassed.
“Mijo, come on up and say a few words.” Sandoval Senior is gesturing at the guy who was just moaning about the delights of flan with me, so there is no mistake. My Edua
rdo is the Eduardo. Heir to the Sandoval fortune—rich, powerful, unattached, and interested in me! This realization almost makes my knees buckle. Keep it together, Izzy. Play it cool.
“Con permiso, mi bonita,” Eduardo murmurs, excusing himself and referring to me as “beauty,” in the same breath. He kisses the back of my hand before dropping it to join his father up on the platform and I’m left feeling a bit swoony, which is a new sensation.
I’m not sure if the lightheadedness is being caused by Eduardo or the thought of how much money he has. Probably fifty-fifty. Okay, forty-sixty because I’m already picturing myself, naked and dripping in diamonds, rolling around on a bed of crisp hundred dollar bills. A handsome, hot-blooded man is nice, but cold, hard cash is the real turn-on.
Taking the microphone from his father, Eduardo addresses the partygoers, “Thank you so much for your support and good wishes. It is an honor for me to take my place on the executive team at Sandoval Spirits and to work alongside this amazing man.” He sweeps a hand toward his father. “He’s been an inspiration and role model my whole life, and I hope to do him proud in my new position with the company. I look forward to the challenges ahead and to continuing the family tradition of hard work and giving back to the Latin community.
And on a personal note, I’d just like to say how thrilled I am to be back home. As much as I enjoyed my time in the Dominican Republic learning the ins and outs of the business, my heart,” he taps his chest, “has always been here in Miami. This is where my friends and family are, and this is where I plan to put down roots and build a life. Hopefully, thirty years from now I’ll be up on a stage just like this one with my wife and children, welcoming the next generation of Sandovals into the company.” The crowd erupts with cheers and more applause, which makes Eduardo smile. He acknowledges their enthusiastic endorsement with a nod of his head before being enveloped in a warm embrace by his parents.
After that, it’s chaos with everyone rushing forward to shake hands and congratulate the newly anointed prince of the rum kingdom. I hang back, figuring I’ll get my chance with Eduardo later when the furor has died down. But it never does and Eduardo continues to be the party’s main attraction for the rest of the night. He’s constantly surrounded by people, and his parents never leave his side.
Someone else who seems to be omnipresent as the evening progresses is a petite redhead who periodically appears at Eduardo’s elbow, whispering who-knows-what in his ear (he has to bend down to hear her every time because she’s such a shrimp). Normally, I’d worry that Strawberry Shortcake was my competition for Eduardo, but I dismiss that concern out of hand as she’s clearly a business associate of some kind, a conclusion I come to based on her body language (she never touches Eduardo when communicating with him, always keeping her hands clasped in front of her) and the conservative way she’s dressed in a navy fit-and-flare-style cocktail dress with a prim bateau neckline that’s partially covered by a princess-length strand of pearls. Pearls—ugh! I’m of the firm belief that pearls should only be worn by brides and grandmothers, but apparently this chick wants to look more mature than she is.
As the night wears on and the party starts to wind down, I begin to lose hope that I’ll get anymore face time with Eduardo. Why didn’t I give him my phone number when I had the chance? I didn’t even tell him my last name. ARGH
My phone dings, and I pull it out of my purse to check the incoming text, which is from Z.
‘I’m wrapping things up here. Will be ready to go in ten. Want to meet me out front?’
I’ve been here for hours and I am officially bored, but I can’t give up on Eduardo just yet.
‘Go on without me. I’ve got other plans. Don’t forget my bag in the powder room!!!!!!!’
‘Yes, your highness.’
I do a quick scan of the outdoor area and see that the number of guests has dwindled considerably and the caterers are breaking down the food tables. There’s no sign of any of the Sandovals, or Hermione. (That’s the name of Harry Potter’s carrot-top girlfriend, right? Maybe it’s Ginny. I don’t know. I only watched one of those dorky movies because my nephews made me.)
I follow the flow of departing partygoers back inside the house and marvel once again at how ridiculously grand everything is. There’s a chandelier in the living room that looks like something out of Phantom of the Opera, and the walls are covered with multiple oversized paintings, some with colorful, abstract designs and others with curvaceous, half-naked women cavorting with sinewy, bare-assed men. They’re all probably famous works of art, but damned if I know whose creations they are, or even what period they’re from. Yeah, I know—my father wasted his money on that art studies degree he sent me to school for.
When I step into the foyer, I see that the Sandovals are positioned by the front doors so that they can bid farewell to each guest with a handshake or a hug on the way out. While I wait my turn in line, a plan starts to formulate in my head . . .
“Isidora.” Eduardo’s mouth stretches into a grin when he sees me. He takes the hand I offer, sandwiching it between both of his. “Thank you for coming. I’m so glad we met and got to enjoy some of that delicious flan together. I wish I’d been able to spend more time with you, but . . .”
“Duty called. I understand. The busy life of a corporate tycoon.”
He chuckles. “I don’t know about the tycoon part just yet. Hopefully, one day.”
The line’s starting to get backed up, and the woman behind me is practically vibrating with impatience.
I toss her a ‘Keep your Spanx on, beeyatch!’ look, then say pleasantly to Eduardo, “I should move along; I don’t want to keep you from your other guests. Could you tell me what the street number of this house is?” I raise my cell phone and act like I’m about to type in his answer.
He frowns. “Why do you need the address here?”
“I’m ordering an Uber.”
The frown deepens, creating a deep furrow between his brows. “What about the friends you came with? Aren’t they giving you a ride home?”
“No, they left a while ago. Victor’s wife wasn’t feeling well.” I’m not even sure Victor is currently married. Last I heard he was working on divorce number three.
“Well, this is unacceptable,” Eduardo declares. “What kind of host would I be if I let a female guest leave my party with a driver she doesn’t know? Please, give me a moment.” He releases my hand and quickly pulls his parents into a huddle.
God love Latin men. They are wonderfully predictable. The machismo that’s embedded in their DNA makes it impossible for them to resist an opportunity to play the hero when they see a woman in need of assistance.
Taking a step back so that the line can move forward without me, I wait for Eduardo. While he’s speaking with his parents, I notice them glancing over at me a couple of times and I do my best to appear sweet and guileless. They must buy it because Eduardo returns with a pleased expression a short time later.
“My parents said they will take care of the remaining goodbyes, so I am free to escort you home.”
“How gallant! But I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble,” he assures me. “I’m staying at a corporate suite at The Mondrian, so I have to drive back into the city anyway.”
He’s living at one of the swankiest hotels in South Beach? I immediately start fantasizing about ordering every meal from room service and getting an in-room Swedish massage from a buff guy named Thor.
“Then, let’s go!”
I smile as he places a hand on the small of my back and leads me out the front doors of the Sandoval estate to what will hopefully be the next, exciting phase of my life.
* * *
“Hello,” a groggy voice answers the phone.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up!” I command in a singsong voice.
Topaz must look at the clock on her phone because she groans and says, “Seven-thirty? Wha
t the hell, Iz? You never get up before noon on Sundays, and there’s no time of day when you ever sound this perky.”
“I’m up because I never made it to bed last night,” I tease.
“So, things went well at the party?”
“You bet they did. I hit the mother lode there!”
“What’s the guy’s name?” she wonders.
“Eduardo Sandoval.”
“Holy smokes!” she squeaks. “Are you kidding me? He’s old, isn’t he? And I thought he was married.”
“That’s the father, dummy. My Eduardo is the son. The handsome, charming, deliciously sexy thirty-year-old, being-groomed-to-take-over-the-lucrative-family-empire son.”
“He’s your Eduardo already?”
“Well, we did spend the night together. No sex, though.”
“That’s the most unbelievable thing you’ve said so far,” Topaz snarks.
“Very funny. Things did get a little hot and heavy on my front porch this morning when he dropped me off, but that’s as far as it went. I’m playing the long game with this relationship, so I have to pace myself.”
Oh, that reminds me, I’d better text Pilar and let her know she might be getting a complaint about her “loose sister” from Mrs. Gilchrist across the street. The old busybody was outside watering her lawn (in a hideous floral muumuu natch) at the crack of dawn and bore witness to my steamy makeout sesh with Eduardo, which included a fair amount of boob and butt-grabbing.
“Oooooo, you used the R-word. That’s a first.”
“I see long-term potential in Eduardo. He’s everything I’ve been looking for in a man, and you know how they say timing is everything? Well, I think I met him at just the right time because he’s been out of the country for the last few years and hasn’t had a chance to hook up with any women here yet. And he seems to be at a place in his life where he’s interested in settling down. He mentioned wanting to have a balance between his work and personal life several times last night.”
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