Under Her Skin

by Lea Santos

  *

  Torien shouldn’t have stared at her like that. Damnit.

  Regret dug at her conscience.

  Hours had passed since Torien had seen none other than Iris Lujan on the terraza, but no matter. It wasn’t nearly long enough for her to have erased the startling image from her mind. Unbelievable. Iris was a lady, not some páginas centrales to be gaped at by la jardinera. Was she a fool? She could not afford to lose this job.

  Jaw clenched, Torien drove the trowel into the night-cooled soil, hoping the extra work would dispel her slamming self-reproach. She focused on gratitude for how good she had it with this job—a fact about which her amigas never failed to remind her. But she had earned this job honestly, and she loved it. She did good work—always. She split her time between the small, shared apartment in town and the gardener’s cabaña here, both of which disgraced the shack of her childhood. The money she earned was more than her father—God rest his soul—had ever been able to bring home, more than Torien’s friends made with their back-breaking, mind-numbing labor. Torien sent a tidy sum to Mamá each month while holding a bit aside for herself and her own dreams for the future. But she’d never be able to reach for her dreams if Señora Moreno fired her.

  ¡Maldita sea! She shouldn’t have stared at Iris.

  Sitting back on her haunches, Torien tilted her face to the iridescent moonlight and recalled the ethereal look of Iris standing there in the sunshine. That famous long black hair Torien had imagined touching, lush curves displayed to perfection in some sort of wispy, swirling white dress.

  Torien knew who she was. How could she not? Iris Lujan was equal to Marilyn Monroe in the eyes of the young men—and many of the young women—from her hometown in México. Iris’s magazine photos and covers had decorated the walls of the small room she shared with her hermanita, Madeira—and the walls of many of their peers as well. Torien had tacked hers up to be admired while she fell asleep.

  Being this close to the woman from those magazine photographs was surreal. Unimaginable. Iris was such…a woman, perfect in all the ways that made Torien thankful, once again, to be a lesbian. Iris had smiled and waved, and a tremor of pure shock unlike anything she’d ever felt before had spiked through Torien. All she could do was stare, although every fiber of her soul had whispered, “Look away! Show respect!” She’d been sweaty and work-worn, in no shape to interact with anyone, much less a woman of Iris’s caliber. She could only hope she had not offended her. Shaking her head, Torien lifted the trowel and again impaled the earth, pulling up a cone of rich soil, which she set aside. She had another flat of bulbs to plant before she could call it a night.

  A prickle at the back of her neck jerked her gaze to the torchlit terraza.

  There she stood—again. Iris.

  Stomach lurching, Torien scrambled to her feet. Iris Lujan leaned against the railing, wearing some shimmery garment in variegated reds that highlighted her famous curves painfully well. Torien could not believe their paths would cross twice in one day. She glanced up at the stars, meaning to thank the brightest one for the good fortune, then she heard it.

  Sniff, sniff.

  Wait a minute— Torien frowned. Was she crying?

  A sharp protective instinct propelled her closer, but she soon remembered herself and moved behind a rose trellis so as not to be seen. Iris was crying. The ridiculous urge to go to her, to console her, overwhelmed Torien. But before she could take a step, a well-dressed hombre rubio sauntered up to her side and held something out to her. The beauty glanced at the man—really just a boy, and none too masculine, if she were honest. Torien turned away.

  Iris’s lover? She’d heard rumors Iris was a lesbian, had seen paparazzi photos of her holding hands with a female musician. Torien had held the notion of Iris Lujan being a lesbian in her mind and heart, but…perhaps it was not true? The blond boy looked the lucky rich type who would date a famous model simply because he felt…entitled.

  Just as well.

  Torien’s family had always told her she dreamed too big, and this idiotic…distraction over Iris underscored the point. Despite Torien’s unexpected physical proximity to her, their lives were, and always would be, worlds apart.

  It was not Torien’s place to comfort Iris Lujan.

  It would never be her place.

  *

  “What are you crying about?” Antoine sneered, in that infuriating, affected, half-British, half-LA club-boy accent. “At least you looked good in the picture, which is all that really counts. Drink this.” He thrust the crystal lowball glass closer, a practiced—probably in the mirror—smirk twisting his well-photographed Greek statue lips. “Top-of-the-line stuff, compliments of our manager.”

  Iris swiped at her eyes and skirted past him, wrapping her arms around her torso. Why’d he have to follow her out to the terrace? Couldn’t he find something shiny and amuse himself for a few minutes so she could have solitude to lick her wounds?

  Swear to God, she could rip Geraline limb from limb for letting Antoine stay here. But who was Iris to say Little Mister Brainless and Pretty couldn’t? It wasn’t her mansion. “I don’t want any Scotch. What I really want,” she added, in her best take-a-hint tone, “is to be left alone.”

  She shivered, still nauseated over the fiasco at the restaurant opening. One of the news reporters had thrust a sleazy tabloid in front of her. The article teaser smack in the center of the first page claimed she’d had a boob job and a nose job, which she paid off with sexual favors. Were they for real?

  Granted, she knew it wasn’t true. Anyone who knew and loved her would recognize trash journalism at its bottom-feeding worst. But it still had to hurt her parents to read such garbage. And what if people did believe it? It just reinforced the false image of her as a vain, empty, brainless model. She groaned, unable to hold it back.

  “Oh, Christ, drama queen. Blow it off.” Antoine drained his glass, then dumped the ice cubes into the glass he’d filled for Iris. His eyes had that glassy, off-focus quality that had caused him problems on more than one assignment. She could only hope he’d pass out. “You know what Geraline says: no publicity is bad publicity.” Antoine flashed an insipid grin.

  She gaped at him, incredulous. Did he have an original thought in his head? “I’m not talking about publicity. This is my life they’re messing with. My integrity.”

  “Same diff.” His disinterested gaze combed her head to foot, then scraped back up, settling squarely in the area of her plunging neckline. “So, tell me, just between friends”—he dipped his chin, eyes fixated—“are those puppies really yours?”

  Her anger revved, and her French-manicured nails cut into her palms. “First of all, Antoine, you and I are not friends—don’t flatter yourself. If we didn’t share management, we wouldn’t even know each other. Secondly, it’s none of your damned business, so kindly fuck off. Lastly—” She caught herself, pressing her lips together to regain her composure. She didn’t need to rip him a new one; she merely wanted to explain that, despite the fact she made her living with her appearance, her body wasn’t public domain.

  Actually—what was she thinking? This was Antoine.

  She didn’t have to explain squat.

  “You know? Let’s leave it at kindly fuck off. I’m going to bed.”

  “Need any company?” He grinned like a kid who’d just found a filthy twenty-dollar bill on the bus station floor and planned to use it for a quickie blow job.

  An unladylike snort escaped before she could hold it back. She’d been without a woman for a while now, but she wasn’t even close to desperate enough to sleep with a man. Or a boy. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “Well, par-doe-nay moi,” he said, as if he’d been doing her a favor by offering to sleep with her. He formed the shape of a “W” with his thumbs and forefingers, mouthing the word “whatever” in true Millennial style.

  Seething, Iris set her jaw and brushed past him, heading as quickly as she could through the house. She wasn’t tired and d
idn’t relish hiding out in her room for the night. But she couldn’t tolerate another moment in Antoine’s presence, and Geraline had left her without options. If experience was any indication, however, Antoine the Annoying would trail her, like a simple cow heading down the slaughter chute, anywhere but to her bedroom.

  As she passed through the massive, arched foyer, she caught a glimpse of the bright moon framed in the leaded glass window that flanked the carved wooden door. Her breath caught. Moonlight bathed the earth in a silvery glow. The night breeze fluttered the sweeping branches of the weeping willow. She released a long, slow breath.

  That’s what she needed. Fresh air and moonlight and distance from the big blond oaf. A quick walk through the gardens would calm her mind. She reached for the doorknob just as Antoine’s voice floated up from some distance behind her.

  “Where you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  His steps quickened on the marble floor. “I thought you were going to bed? Wait! I’ll go with you.”

  “Be right back.” Shooting a glance over her shoulder, she scrambled out the door into the safety of darkness. She clung to the bushes, her eyes trained on the front door. It didn’t open. After about a minute, Iris crept around the estate grounds, careful to cling to the shadows in case Antoine changed his mind and followed her out. No sense taking chances.

  Halfway to the gardens, she removed her sling-back Louboutin stilettos—equal parts gorgeous and impractical—which were slowing her progress, and trashed them behind a shrub. Peering around the corner of the house, she spied the terrace from which she’d just fled. Damn. Antoine had returned there, leaning on the railing. She could hide in the gazebo where he wouldn’t be able to see her, but she had to get to the gazebo first. With the bright moonlight, the crystal-studded bodice of her cocktail dress would cast reflections like a freaking disco ball. She could only hope Antoine was too plastered by now to notice.

  In one mad break, she dashed from the side of the house into the darkest part of the garden and paused, panting. Man, she needed more aerobic exercise. She peeked back to determine whether she’d been seen. Antoine didn’t seem to have noticed. Shoving wayward strands of her hair out of her face, she estimated the distance to the gazebo. One hundred feet, maybe less. With one last check of Antoine, she puffed out her cheeks and launched.

  Conscious of thorns and branches with the potential to grab at her silk chiffon skirt, she hiked the soft material even higher on her thighs. Not that she cared if it got ruined, since the designer had sent it free of charge, and she’d never be able to wear it again anyway. It would always be associated with tabloid hell night, both in her mind and the collective mind of the paparazzi.

  She stealthed her way through the fragrant garden, from flowering tree to expertly shaped bush to blossom-dripping trellis, pausing each time she reached cover to make sure she’d gone undetected. In one final rush, she scurried to the gazebo and sank onto the stairs. Her feet stung from the crushed Caribbean seashell path—one of Geraline’s splurges—but Iris didn’t care. She was alone. Finally.

  Relief came sharply—but so did an unexpected wave of tears. Not the plink-plunk kind, but a shoulder-racking torrent complete with loud sobs she muffled by burying her face in her palms. Where had this come from? The tabloid story bothered her, sure, but these tears seemed to be bubbling up from a deeper place. She shouldn’t be so unhappy.

  To hell with this career.

  The momentary surge of anger empowered her to square her shoulders…but self-doubt just as swiftly rounded them again. As if she had the guts to declare a mutiny on the only career she’d ever known. Ha! What would people think if she turned her back on a lifestyle so many women dreamed of having? Not to mention the fact she had no other skills, zippo training at anything.

  Scared? Damn right, she was scared.

  Her father had always said, entrada de caballo y salida de burro—Dad’s quirky way of reminding her to finish what she started. And he was right—Iris ought to do just that. But just how did a person know for certain when something was finished?

  Iris Lujan, the public figure, was known as brash, bold, and brimming with cutting-edge confidence. Her publicity people pushed the image. So did Geraline. But Iris, the small-town Colorado girl? Whole different story. What would people think if they knew how unsure of herself she often felt? How completely unsettled? How she worried, every day, that there was nothing but emptiness hidden behind the magazine page image? That she truly was nothing more than 110 pounds of horseflesh on the bidding block? What would everyone say if they learned the super-powerful supermodel Iris-L wasn’t certain she even knew herself anymore?

  Chapter Two

  Torien froze when Iris tore through the gardens as if demons nipped at her heels. She seemed oblivious to Torien’s presence, but Torien had definitely seen her. From the shiny, wispy dress that looked like some rare island flower in full bloom, to those endless tanned legs she’d exposed by lifting the flounce of her short skirt even higher, Iris running barefoot through the gardens was a visual Torien would not soon forget. A lovely dark angel in flight…

  But now…she wept. The plaintive, hollow sound pierced straight to Torien’s soul. Had Iris and her novio rubio argued? Why else would she flee to the garden, shoeless and crying? Torien inched closer, wishing she’d taken the time earlier to scrub the mud from her hands and brush her hair. For the second time that day, self-consciousness about her disheveled appearance clutched at Torien. Her heart sank. She straightened her shirt and wiped damp, soil-covered palms along the sides of her jeans. She didn’t know quite how to console this broken ángel, didn’t have the words. But as a self-respecting woman, she simply must try.

  Torien’s throat tightened to bone dry, and all the English she had learned seemed to vanish from her brain—poof. She stayed to the shadows as she approached the gazebo, and stopped when she was close enough to smell the lemon basil she had planted along the edges of the gazebo steps mingling with the spicy tang of Iris’s perfume.

  But still, the proper words didn’t come. Damn.

  Mamá would know how to handle a crying woman. So would her sisters—especially Madeira, whose charming, flirtatious ways could have almost any woman eating straight from her palms within minutes. Torien, however, desperately wished Iris were a wilting plant or a tomato bug—hell, even root rot.

  Those, she could handle. In her sleep. But a crying woman…?

  Torien stood partially behind the trellis of climbing hydrangea and clematis, and warred with herself whether she should remain there, or be an adult and show her face in the open. She did not wish to frighten Iris, nor did she want to intrude.

  Afraid of a woman, Toro? whispered her conscience, wryly. Madeira would love to tease her about that.

  Torien scowled.

  That wasn’t it. She didn’t fear women.

  But this wasn’t just any woman. Iris was famous.

  Despite that, Torien took a deep breath and spoke softly. “Perdóname, señora? ¿Qué haces?”

  Iris gasped and leapt to her feet, pressing a palm to her chest. Her wide eyes took in Torien’s clearly unexpected presence, then her shoulders drooped and her eyelids fluttered shut. When she opened them again, she said, “Torien. You scared me.”

  Torien held out a hand to reassure her. “I only come to see if you are well.”

  “I-I thought I was alone.” Iris sank back on to the steps and smeared tears from her cheeks, looking slightly chagrined. To Torien’s relief, Iris did not order her away.

  She knows my name, Torien realized with a jolt. It both surprised and pleased her. She moistened her lips and moved from behind the trellis to stand beside Iris. The moonlight cast bluish shadows across Iris’s face, accentuating the high cheekbones and proud nose that Torien—and most of the world—knew so well. But, somehow, in person, Iris looked more vulnerable. Less intimidating. Real. “Why do you cry?”

  Iris peered up, seeming to measure the question. “I d-don
’t know,” she whispered, her words trembly and fast. “I mean, I know, but it’s a long story. Antoine’s an idiot, and then that stupid tabloid story. My life just…sucks. It’s hard to explain and would probably bore you half to death anyway or make you think I’m an ungrateful brat, so”—she waved a listless hand—“just don’t worry about it. I’m sorry to have interrupted you.”

  “Please, can you…” The heat of embarrassment seared Torien’s body. She clenched her fists in frustration.

  Iris’s watery, questioning eyes lifted to Torien’s face.

  Torien hated to ask, but if she meant to console Iris, she had no choice. “Can you speak more slowly?” Torien’s mouth twisted to the side and she shrugged. “My English is still…like a child’s, yet I wish to hear your words through the ears of a woman.”

  To Torien’s surprise, a small smile lit Iris’s troubled face. “I’m so sorry. How rude of me. I can use Spanish if you—”

  “No, please. I like the practice. Just…not so fast. You Americans—” Torien made a yapping motion with her hand and smiled ruefully.

  Iris’s eyes warmed, Torien noticed, really seeming to see her. For a split second, every detail that separated Torien’s life from Iris’s seemed to disappear. That she wore thrift store worker’s jeans caked with dried mud while Iris wore a dress so lovely, it must have cost thousands of dollars, didn’t matter. Torien wasn’t simply a poor gardener from México struggling to make her way in a new country. Iris wasn’t simply a famous model straight from the slick magazine pages. They were simply…two women sharing a conversation in the moonlit garden.