by Phoebe Conn
She entered the taxi and pulled the door closed before Alejandro could respond. “Please turn at the corner. I only live a few blocks away, but we can take the long way.” She didn’t know what type of car Alejandro owned, but no one followed. She’d definitely call him, although she was torn about what to say. He’d soon expect to learn her last name and where she lived. She couldn’t blame him if he felt he’d been tricked. But if she hadn’t been hiding her identity, they’d never have met, and it was so nice to escape the tedious fame that brought out all the paparazzi leeches. Maybe a trip to Mallorca would be all she’d need to find a way to set everything right.
Fatima let herself into Ana’s condo on Monday morning. She went into the kitchen, set down her shopping bag and tied on her apron. “Are you here, Ana?”
Ana met her with the kittens in hand. “Good morning. Do you like cats?”
Fatima took a step back. “Not really, but it looks as though they’re already here.” She was old enough to be Ana’s mother and behaved more like a favorite aunt than an employee.
Ana put the kittens down, and they raced away. “I put their cat box and food and water in the guest bathroom. I’ll shut them in there so they won’t be in your way. If I can catch them.”
Fatima heated water for tea and opened the refrigerator to store the fresh fruits and vegetables she’d bought that morning. “That’s a good idea. The vacuum cleaner will probably terrify them.”
Ana tightened the belt on her robe and leaned back against the counter. “How was your vacation?”
“It was good. Bruno is happy as long as he can fish, but my sister and her family always have problems, and I can’t help them when they ignore my advice. We stayed only a couple of days with them, thank goodness. It was a good trip though. I found some new ways to prepare fish.”
Ana had always found Fatima’s advice valuable, even if her own sister didn’t. “I could use some advice too.” She told her about the presents that kept arriving. “I can’t imagine who it is.”
“Sounds as though someone’s fallen in love with you.” Fatima took a new sponge from the drawer and wet it to wipe the tile counters.
“It would be nice if it were someone I’d met, rather than someone who’s fixated on a cologne ad from a billboard.”
“You meet people all the time. Maybe you quickly forgot him, and he’s too shy to sign his name.” She rinsed the sponge. “I don’t see a single stray crumb. Didn’t you cook anything for yourself while I was away?”
“Some soup, I think. I ate out and bought salads to bring home. Now I need to catch the cats and get dressed.”
“Just leave them for now. They aren’t causing any trouble yet.”
“Not yet,” Ana echoed. She needed a lot more advice on what she should do with Alejandro, but she hated to admit how much trouble she’d gotten herself into on her own.
Paul Perez had been Ana’s agent for several years, and while he worked diligently to guide her career, she was often a step ahead of him, and his usual impish smile was absent that day. “You should have told me about Ignacio Belmonte’s interest in you before the contract arrived in the mail.”
She smoothed her short skirt over her knees. “I doubt anything will come of it.”
“Well, I don’t. Belmonte seems sincere. Do you realize what starring in an Almodóvar film would do for your career?”
“It’s a small part with only a few lines, and Belmonte plans to hide who I am, so how’s that going to help me?”
Paul left his desk to walk to the window flooding his handsomely furnished office with morning light. At five-seven, he had to look up at Ana, but he took care never to stand beside her. He was slim with curly dark brown hair, wide-set hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. He was always attractively dressed, today in a well-tailored gray suit. People understood he was serious when he spoke, but Ana continually caused him unnecessary stress.
“The part could lead to something more, another film, or a lucrative endorsement contract. You need to look past the present at what might come next. We’re always building, Ana. You must remember that.”
“Yes, Paul, always building, I understand. I’m doing the Galen Salazar’s shoot on Mallorca this week. His last show won a lot of praise, and his new fashions should be equally good.”
“That’s just it!” Paul emphasized. “You can’t rest on merely being ‘equally good’. You must always be better than your last shoot. Acting brings a whole new dimension to your career. We should have pursued this ourselves. Please sign the contract, and I’ll return a copy to Belmonte and keep yours here in our files.”
He sat down and pushed the contract toward her. “You’re twenty-four with maybe another ten years to model. What do you plan to do then, marry and have triplets?”
Ana signed the contract and handed it to him. “I never think about getting married, but I’ll survive, Paul. You needn’t worry about me.”
“I’ll worry anyway. Your affair with Miguel Aragon did wonders for your career.”
Sickened he would put Miguel and her career in the same breath, Ana stood and took a step toward the door. “I was already well-known when I dated Miguel. He’s dead, and I’ll not date another matador simply for the publicity. I’ll concentrate on Galen Salazar’s work for the time being and nothing more.”
“Enjoy Mallorca,” he responded through clenched teeth.
That afternoon, a package arrived for Ana in the mail. It contained a pair of black velvet heels adorned with gold lace and braid. Sexy and feminine, they were some of the most beautiful shoes she’d ever seen. The designer’s name, Lucien Lamoreaux, was on the box, but she’d never heard of him. They fit perfectly, and she walked up and down her marble tiled entryway. “What do you think, Fatima?”
“If you ever attend a coronation, those will be the heels to wear.”
Fatima was always diplomatic with her opinions, but Ana already loved the shoes. There was no return address on the package and no letter inside. “These can’t be from Lamoreaux, or he’d have included a note saying he hoped I’d love his shoes and wear them often.”
“They must be from your shy boyfriend,” Fatima mused aloud.
“At least it isn’t anything alive, but I need to do something about this now.” She sat down still wearing the gorgeous heels and called Javier Cazares. “Libby Gunderson gave me your name. I understand you’ve done some work for Santos Aragon.”
His raspy voice was hushed as though he didn’t wish to be overheard. “I never discuss my clients, Miss Santillan. How may I help you?”
“I hope this doesn’t sound too absurd, but someone’s been sending me gifts—bouquets of roses, potted plants, chocolates, kittens, now designer shoes. I don’t know who it is, but it has to stop.”
“You’ve absolutely no idea who it might be?”
“No. There are no gift cards with anything.” She told him about the chauffeur. “He didn’t visit the same florist twice, but I do have one florist’s card.”
“Do you have security cameras where you live?”
“Yes, we do.” She gave him her address. “I’m going downstairs, Fatima. Maybe I should put the kittens in the bathroom so they won’t get out when I leave or come back.”
“I’ll do it. Just give me a minute.”
Ana changed into flats and left before the kittens could notice the open door. “Henry, I need to see the security footage when the chauffeur dropped off the roses. Can you access it?”
“Week before last, wasn’t it?”
“I should have kept better track of this, but yes, it started then.” They watched it several times, but the chauffeur’s hat and rose bouquets hid his face.
Javier Cazares soon arrived. He was a slender man who wore his gray hair slicked back. His gold-rimmed glasses and serious manner gave him a philosophy professor’s intense gaze. He stood with them at the security desk to view the images.
“You have exterior cameras. Let’s see those too,” the d
etective asked.
Henry found them. “There he is, exiting the limo.”
Ana didn’t see anything to help them. “The car in front of him blocks the plates.”
“Unfortunate. Let’s see the following day,” Cazares urged.
This time the chauffeur walked into the camera’s view, but the limo was parked down the block. “Do you think he’s gotten more cautious?” Ana asked.
“Probably, although I can’t be certain. You did have the name of one florist?”
Ana had brought the tag downstairs. “Do you suppose they have security cameras?”
“I’ll call them and ask. Let’s look at the other deliveries.”
Henry scanned the camera footage, but commercial delivery trucks had brought the potted plants and chocolates. A man driving a van with kittens painted on the side had delivered the kittens. Ana murmured softly, “Gatitos Bonitos. Maybe the owner remembers who bought them.”
They went upstairs to her apartment to make the calls. Ana opened the door carefully, but Fatima had shut the kittens in the bathroom as planned. She offered coffee, but Cazares refused politely.
He chose the floral wing chair and opened his notebook. “I never rush anyone. Often people know more than they realize.” He called the florist, but there were no security cameras there. The friendly owner remembered the white roses and speaking to Ana, but could barely recall the chauffeur who’d made the purchase.
“Don’t be discouraged,” the detective offered when he ended the call. “The man who raised the kittens will have paid more attention.” He found the number for Gatitos Bonitos and made notes as he interviewed the owner, a Mr. Güerra. He smiled as he ended the call.
“Mr. Güerra recalls the man vividly because he took his time deciding which kittens to choose. He was around six feet, had wavy dark hair with gray-blue eyes. Güerra thought he was in his late thirties, or early forties. He was dressed in a suit that looked expensive. Güerra operates his business from his home and has no security cameras. Does the description sound like anyone you know?”
“It would fit half a dozen advertising executives, but they couldn’t keep a secret if they tried, let alone send me gifts anonymously. Does he remind you of anyone, Fatima?”
She stood in the kitchen doorway. “No one I recall. Where could he have bought the beautiful shoes?”
Ana opened her laptop and did a search for Lucien Lamoreaux. His website featured his beautiful high heels, and the store that handled them exclusively in Spain was there in Barcelona. There was no photo of him, however.
“If the shoes are sold only through a single store, the clerks will undoubtedly recall the man who made the purchase. May I take the shoes with me?” Cazares asked.
“Yes, do. May I go along?”
The detective closed his notebook and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “You’ve received flattering gifts, but it’s possible the sender’s motives aren’t benign. I can’t allow you to walk into a situation that could prove dangerous.”
Fatima gasped. “Should Ana hire a bodyguard?”
“No, not yet. Let me see what I discover. You’re well-known. He could simply have a crush on you and mean you no harm. I’ll speak to you later in the day.”
Ana felt worse after he’d left than she had before she’d called him. Unable to simply sit, she called a couple of the advertising firms she worked with regularly, but neither had done any commercial work for Lucien Lamoreaux. Paul Perez wasn’t familiar with the name either.
“Shoes are an odd thing to send a woman,” the agent said. “It has a Cinderella feel to it, but maybe he has a foot fetish and hopes to see you wearing the heels.”
“Then he’d plan to watch me,” Ana replied. “Thank you for that unwelcome thought. I’ll talk to you next week when I come home from Mallorca.”
“Yes, do. I’m sorry if I was short with you this morning, but you have such tremendous potential, and you mustn’t waste a speck of it.”
“Thank you.” She ended the call and walked into the kitchen to speak to Fatima. “I should have talked to Mr. Güerra when Mr. Cazares had him on the phone. Maybe he’ll take back the kittens.”
“Let’s leave them in the bathroom while you eat lunch. You can decide what to do with them later. I made your favorite salad, and the oranges are especially good. I’ll get more at the market before I come in tomorrow.”
Ana had forgotten to tell her she’d be out of town for several days. “It’s on my calendar. Please check it to make certain you’ve made a note of everything, but that’s the only new job that wasn’t already listed.”
“I’ll do that right now.”
Javier Cazares returned in the afternoon. “The clerks at the Lamoreaux shop hadn’t seen these shoes. They exclaimed over them but thought they must be from the holiday collection that wouldn’t reach the shop until fall. I picked up one of their brochures. Mr. Lamoreaux is on the front. Does he look familiar?”
Ana took the brochures. Lamoreaux was a dark-haired man with a sprinkling of gray and striking blue eyes. He stood in front of his Barcelona shop, and his dark suit fit his trim build perfectly. “I don’t know him, but he does fit Mr. Güerra’s description.” Although the cat fancier hadn’t mentioned how handsome Lamoreaux was.
“I thought so too, so I went to see Güerra. Lamoreaux is the man who chose the kittens for you, and he paid with cash.”
Fatima came forward to look at the brochure. “Why didn’t he just ask Ana to model his shoes?”
“This may not be about shoes,” Cazares warned. “His real interest may be Ana herself.”
“Fine.” Ana sighed. “What do you suggest?”
“Don’t wear the shoes,” the detective advised. “I’ll locate Mr. Lamoreaux, and we’ll decide how to approach him then.”
“I’ll ask my agent to represent me,” Ana replied. “If he’s looking for a model, fine. If he wants something personal, Paul will set him straight.”
“Do you frequently receive unwanted gifts?” Cazares asked.
“Yes, she does,” Fatima answered.
“It isn’t all that frequent,” Ana argued. “Gifts usually go to my agent’s office. I don’t post my home address anywhere.”
“But Lamoreaux found it,” Cazares emphasized.
Ana sat back on the sofa. “I’ve never heard of him, so he must have begun designing shoes recently. Perhaps he believes his approach was a polite way to introduce himself.”
“It helps to be positive,” the detective agreed.
“But it isn’t often wise,” Fatima countered.
Ana feared Fatima was right.
Chapter Four
Wednesday afternoon, Ana flew to Mallorca with Galen Salazar. The designer was always in a rush, and his long, sandy hair continually blew into his face, while his dark drooping eyebrows made him appear perpetually morose even when he laughed. Ana knew the other two models. Valeria had flaming red hair and alabaster skin that gave her an ethereal glow, while Lourdes had a Gypsy’s dark beauty. Along with the crew who’d work the shoot, there were seven of them altogether.
Galen had made arrangements to shoot in the Palau de l’Almudaina in Palma. The Moorish palace was the perfect backdrop for his fashions, but they had to begin early Thursday morning to be finished before the museum opened to tourists. After they’d checked into the Hotel Feliz, Leticia, who handled Galen’s fashions, immediately set to work steaming them to perfection.
Valeria went for a nap to the room she’d share with Lourdes, while Lourdes was insulted she hadn’t been given her own room and headed for the bar. “Will you keep an eye on her?” Galen asked.
Ana grabbed her carry-on bag. “Sorry, I’m dropping this in my room and going out for a walk. You’re not paying for my time until tomorrow.”
At five-eight, he was used to looking up at his models, but he shook his head sadly. “You always behave in a professional manner, but if my clothes didn’t look so good on Lourdes, I’d never hire her again. I’ll h
ave to watch her myself. We’ll all meet later for dinner.”
“I’ll see you then.” Ana shared a room with Mimi, a makeup artist devoted to Galen who never caused anyone a particle of worry. Ana left her carry-on bag on the bed by the windows, pulled on her hat and dark glasses and went out to find a tourist shop with postcards so she could mail one to Alejandro and her mother and stepfather. She also looked forward to taking some photos of her own.
She walked down Avinguda D’Antoni Maura, found postcards, and entered a café for tea and an ensaimada, a delicious local pastry spiral sprinkled with powdered sugar. She shuffled through the half-dozen cards she’d bought, looking for the perfect one for Alejandro. She’d made a mental note of his address when they’d entered his building on Sunday and wrote it on a photo card of the Moorish palace where they’d be shooting tomorrow. Her message was a simple one about the beauty of the island. It probably wouldn’t reach him before she got home, but she’d send it anyway.
She couldn’t confide any worries to her mother because the dear woman would simply remind her of how hard they’d worked to give her such a lucrative career. As Ana saw it, she’d been the one who’d done the work. She wrote only that she was on Mallorca for a fashion shoot. It was a blessing her mother was so happy with Andre, and Ana was thankful for it every day.
Still hungry, she bought an orange and peeled it slowly. When she noticed a couple staring at her, she nodded. The woman came to her table. “You look so much like Ana Santillan, you ought to be modeling too.”
“Thank you. That’s very flattering.” She wondered how long it would take Alejandro to recognize her. Men noticed the sexy models on billboards even if they never saw a fashion magazine, but she didn’t want to push her luck any further. It would be easier to call him tonight and tell him who she was while she didn’t have to face him, but it would also up the risk he’d quit seeing her before they really got to know each other.