Tango in Paradise

by Donna Kauffman

  “Huh?” was Jack’s less than professional reply. He jerked around to find a group of elderly women, all clad in what could only be described as wedding muumuus, smiling up at him. “Why certainly, ladies.”

  Jack smiled in relief at the diversion, instinctively switching on the easy charm he’d long ago developed as a tool to maintain the crucial mental distance between photojournalist and subject. Smile and the world smiled with you, that was his motto. “The wedding album wouldn’t be complete without a shot of such a lovely group.”

  An hour later, Jack was swearing quietly and quite fluently in several languages, all pretense of patience close to being gone as he waited for someone to track down dear old Aunt Minnie for what would absolutely be the final photo—at least if he had anything to say about it.

  Never, ever again would he let some pushy, raven-haired sprite, with eyes that held way too many secrets, con him into doing something like this. Never mind that the trade was his idea. No payoff was worth this sort of pain-in-the-butt work.

  As he waited for the group in front of him to get organized, he found himself scanning the crowds again. It was then that he noticed April on the receiving end of a hug from Senator Smithson. And hating it, given her pale, tight-lipped expression. All of his journalistic instincts should have gone on red alert, but they were detoured around a sudden intense rush of…

  What, Tango? Protectiveness? Jealousy? Come on, he argued with himself, the man’s old enough to be April’s father. Or a friend of her father’s. Jack’s professional instincts rebounded into instant sharp focus.

  He motioned to Alejandro, who’d come to help after his shift in the dining room ended. Honestly not caring whether Aunt Minnie’s head made it into the photo or not, Jack quickly went over what to push and where to aim, then grabbed a more powerful zoom lens and exchanged lenses on the camera around his neck.

  Jack quickly skirted the small crowd, careful not to jostle any elbows or trays of drinks in his efforts to get a clear view of April and the good Senator before they finished their conversation.

  Senator Smithson was holding her at arm’s length now, as if admiring either April or her dress. Jack had already given his seal of approval to the stunning fuchsia dress. The halter-style top showcased the graceful curve from neck to shoulder, and the full skirt swished just the right amount to make him harden up whenever he caught her walking away from him. He made a quick mental note to pull the shots he’d taken of her this afternoon before giving the proofs to the bride.

  Jack moved in behind the long tables that had been set up to hold the assortment of finger food and the elaborate wedding cake. He trained the lens on April’s face, zoomed in, and brought it into focus. Senator Smithson blocked his view for a second. When he drew back, Jack went completely still—still in the way only someone who’d tiptoed through war zones could do so completely. His instincts hadn’t failed him. Her skin was as bright as her dress.

  Jack responded instantly. He quickly started around the tables. Never taking his eyes off her, he swore silently at the seemingly endless array of food.

  Smiling, Smithson made another remark, apparently unaware of the effect his words had on her. Then Jack saw her sway as if her knees had buckled. That did it. With one hand planted firmly between the tray of quesadillas and the French tortes, Jack vaulted over the table in a graceful leap.

  April felt a callused hand grip her elbow and turned to find Jack smiling at her. He’d materialized out of nowhere. Before she could say anything, he pulled her closer and put a supporting arm gently around her waist, clamping his hand on her hip and extending his right one to Senator Smithson.

  “Lovely wedding, Senator. You must be proud.” Jack pumped the man’s hand exuberantly and anchored her hip more firmly against his thigh.

  Looking nonplussed, the silver-haired gentleman slowly recovered. “Yes, Deb is my only daughter. Don’t believe I caught your name, young man.” His gravelly Texas drawl was as thick as the lenses of his glasses.

  Jack watched closely as the distinguished politician squinted his magnified eyes, damning himself for not thinking clearly enough to realize the Senator might recognize him. His assignments were usually international and rarely involved U.S. politics, but with modern technology the world could be a rather small community.

  “Aren’t you—”

  “The resort photographer? Why, yes. Ms. Morgan hired me personally just to do this wedding.” He dropped Smithson’s hand and lifted the camera dangling from his chest as if to prove his statement.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re doing a fine job.”

  Jack breathed a small sigh of relief as the Senator’s expression once again became that of a proud father.

  “I confess I just bankrolled the shindig,” he went on. “Martha—that’s the wife—she handled all the details.”

  April was still leaning on him, a surprisingly overt show of need for her and one he’d bet his prize Hasselblad she’d regret later. But it was enough to decide him on his course of action.

  April was confused by Jack’s behavior, but she was too busy praying the old man would just go away to worry about it. Another minute and she’d pass out just from the stress of keeping a smile on her face. Jack suddenly loosened his grip and she shifted more heavily against him.

  “That’s right, lean on me, mi cielo,” Jack whispered in her ear as the Senator droned on about his daughter. “Trust me.”

  She stiffened and tried to pull away. “Thanks, but I can han—” Her whispered response was cut off as Jack tightened his hold and shifted his attention back to Smithson.

  “You know, Senator. I don’t believe I got a shot of you and your lovely wife. Martha, is it?” Jack linked his arm through the unwitting politician’s gesturing one, and deftly steered both the older gentleman and April back to the refreshment table before either could protest.

  “As a matter of fact, I think—”

  “Now, let me get Ms. Morgan here a plate,” Jack interrupted the politician smoothly. “I’m sure you know all about workaholics, Senator. Never make the time to eat. If it wasn’t for her staff, Ms. Morgan would just waste away.”

  Jack kept up the nonstop stream of bull and April was too caught off guard to stop him. Besides, after the bomb the Senator had just unwittingly dropped on her, she gladly accepted Jack’s unspoken offer to run interference for a few minutes. Before she knew it, she was seated in a folding lawn chair with a plate of food in one hand and a cup of punch in the other. By the time she balanced everything and looked up to thank Jack for coming to her rescue, he was halfway across the lawn, still towing the Senator in his wake.

  April absentmindedly bit into the cheese-filled tortilla as she watched Jack corral an elegant platinum blonde she recognized as Martha Smithson and proceed to charm her as well. Just how he had known the precise moment April needed him she didn’t know. But she wasn’t foolish enough to think his help came without a price.

  Several times during the ceremony, as well as during the reception, she’d turned to find his intense gaze focused on her. She’d stopped questioning how she always knew it was him. The idea that she was just as intrigued by him as he apparently was with her was just too unsettling to even contemplate.

  She forced her gaze away from his tall, lean figure and back to her plate. It didn’t help. She couldn’t erase the gorgeous picture that was Jack Tango in black tie and tails. So what if the jacket pulled too tightly at his shoulders and the back seam looked as if it would split each time he leaned over to line up a shot? So what if his cummerbund kept slipping down his lean hips, constantly drawing her eyes to the fit of his pleated pants? All men looked good in tuxes.

  It was the fact that she kept picturing Jack Tango out of his that disturbed her.

  And he’d called her mi cielo again. The last time she’d heard that endearment, before meeting Jack, was permanently seared in her brain. Her father had used his pet name for her almost mercilessly while trying to persuade his dau
ghter not to file sexual harassment charges against her boss, Alan Markham. Markham also happened to be an investment partner of her father’s, not to mention a newly announced candidate for the state senate.

  He’d stopped using any pet names long before her case came to trial. Then his reputation had been dragged through the mud right along with hers. The names he’d used after that were far from endearing. Now he didn’t call her anything at all.

  And now, ten years later, she had to come to grips with the fact that Alan Markham, the man she’d unsuccessfully tried to keep out of the senate, the same man who had pulled out all the stops to humiliate and degrade her in front of an entire nation, was about to announce his candidacy for president of the United States.

  Her food lodged in her suddenly constricted throat. She had to get out of here. Placing her half-eaten quesadilla back on her plate, she handed both that and her cup to a passing waiter. Rising, she motioned to Carmen. After making sure everything was under control, she quickly found the newlyweds and said her good-byes, though she doubted they’d even remember later. They’d barely unglued their eyes from one another since the bride had taken her first step down the aisle.

  Ignoring the rush of melancholy that accompanied that thought, she scanned the crowd for the Senator and his wife. It would be less than polite to leave without saying good-bye and personally checking to make sure they weren’t in need of anything else, but she wanted desperately to avoid any farther contact. She finally spied them about ten yards away.

  They seemed preoccupied. Not surprising; Jack was still with them. She ducked her head before he could turn and find her staring at him and quickly left by the side lawn. Her mind was still reeling, and more than anything she needed to get away from everything and everyone to clear her head. Not stopping to wonder who she was avoiding more, the Senator or Jack, she ducked into the cool hallway and hurried toward her office.

  Jack looked up from his conversation with Mrs. Smithson just in time to see April duck into a side door. Damn. He wanted to go after her. Instead he forced himself to take another sip of ice-cold water. He’d have plenty of time to find out what had happened between the Senator and April. He glanced at his watch. Five hours’ worth, according to his calculations.

  He just hoped she didn’t plan on pulling any stunts to get out of fulfilling her part of the bargain. Because, whether she knew it or not, they had just passed the game-playing stage of their relationship.

  In the meantime, he planned to make the most of his conversation with the Senator.

  April turned up the path to bungalow 14, the desire to run in the opposite direction growing stronger with every step she took. She went over again what she planned to say to Jack. She hadn’t seen him, not even a glimpse, since she’d fled from the ceremony two days ago. She’d told herself she was relieved. She hadn’t been kidding about having a packed schedule.

  Most of the wedding party was still residing at the resort, all except for the Senator and his wife, who’d left just after the newlyweds yesterday morning. She’d thought she might see Jack at the festive send-off at the resort heliport. But there’d been no sign of him that morning. Or for the twenty-four hours that had followed.

  As far as she could tell, without questioning anyone too closely, he’d made no effort to contact her at all.

  Until two hours ago, when her concierge, Dom, had casually informed her that Señor Jack had left word at the desk that he’d like to see her at her earliest possible convenience. She’d put off coming by, convincing herself the front desk needed her help in checking in a mad rush of conference attendees. But her staff was well trained and she quickly ran out of things to do. She couldn’t put off her meeting with Jack any longer. And now that the time had come, she actually felt a certain sense of relief.

  She blew at an errant strand of hair the morning wind had dislodged from her French twist and stepped up onto the porch. Funny how isolated the bungalow suddenly seemed. She usually loved the scent of the bougainvillea which draped the stuccoed porch railings of the private bungalows. Now it seemed cloying and inhibitive.

  Forcing an uneven breath in and out of her lungs, she raised her hand to rap on the door, silently praying that she could get Jack to agree to her terms of payment.

  The door eased open at her light knock. She waited for a moment, bracing herself for the instant that she’d face him again. After several seconds that seemed like hours, she realized no one was coming. She leaned in to pull the door shut, surprised he’d leave his door unlocked with all his expensive and cherished equipment inside, and heard the unmistakable sounds of a shower running. Her hand froze in mid-reach as images of Jack, naked in the shower, flashed through her mind in picture-perfect clarity.

  Shaking off the provocative visions of water cascading over his tall, muscular form, she rapidly debated the merits of retreat. But while her mind was busy making a case for going back to work, her body decided to go on in and make itself at home. She pushed the door closed behind her, then changed her mind and left it open an inch or two, hoping that the knowledge of that small margin of escape would give her the strength to see this through without faltering.

  She wandered over to the small couch. The duffel bag was gone, but he’d wasted no time making himself at home. She ran a finger over the yellow T-shirt carelessly tossed over the back of the couch, then around the rim of an empty bottle of beer sitting on the rattan end table. Upon encountering a damp spot on the rim, she snatched her finger away, suddenly realizing the inherent intimacy of her actions.

  She was debating whether or not to call out and announce her presence, when her attention was caught by the open zipper pockets of the small bag she’d carried into this room several days ago. It wasn’t the bag specifically, but the glossy photos that poked out of one of the side pockets that she’d noticed. Telling herself they were probably wedding photos, and that as Jack’s employer for that event she had every right to see them, she slid the glossy prints carefully out of the bag.

  They were upside down, so she turned them around—and found her own eyes staring back at her. Confused, since she was the sole subject of the picture, she quickly sifted through the rest of the dozen or so shots. She was the focus of all of them.

  Embarrassment over being caught unawares was quickly usurped by indignation over his tactics. How dare he! Forcing the red haze from her vision, she went through the stack again, painfully scrutinizing each one, as if trying to emblazon the proof of his duplicity forever in her brain. Like she’d actually forget!

  In one shot, he’d caught her staring off at some distant point, as if deep in thought. There was one of her laughing with the bride and groom. She immediately tucked that one under the stack, ignoring the glowing expression he’d captured forever on film. She stared long and hard at the next one and her hand trembled a bit. She looked so … alone. A heavy weight settled somewhere deep inside her chest as she realized he’d snapped this one the split second before the newlyweds had kissed for the first time.

  Her anger fled, replaced by a pressure squeezing around her heart, the tightness a result of having to confront her inner self, over and over. Each shot revealed, in brilliant color, all of the emotions she’d long ago buried in an effort to heal her soul. Her entire body stiffened as she flipped to the next-to-last photo.

  She knew instantly that she’d been looking directly at Jack when he’d taken this one. Her slightly parted lips, the flush on her cheeks, the intense awareness in her eyes …

  April suddenly slapped the photos back together, almost crumpling them as she shoved them back into the side pocket in her haste to erase the image of how she’d looked at Jack. With hunger. A deep, unabiding hunger.

  Blushing hotly, she whirled away from the bag, only to be confronted with the translucent gaze of Jack’s green eyes.

  Leaning against the bedroom doorway, a white towel wrapped around his hips and beads of water still scattered through the swirl of dark hair on his chest, he assessed
her silently. She couldn’t have said how long she stood there, absorbing his gaze as it slowly traveled over every inch of her, but it felt like somewhere between a heartbeat and a lifetime.

  “Do you like them?” Other than his mouth, he didn’t move even the tiniest muscle.

  Arms crossed around her midsection, neither did she. “Did you honestly think I would? Is that why you took them?”

  “I told you before that anything other than wedding pictures would be for me and me alone. But, yes, I guess I had hoped you’d like them.”

  “I thought I’d made it more than clear that I didn’t want to be the subject of any photographs.”

  “And I thought we had a deal.”

  Up till now his voice had been soft and quiet, but neutral, as if her answers weren’t all that important. But his last statement revealed the tight control he was fighting to maintain, and April took an unconscious step backward.

  “The deal was one hour of my time for one of yours. You said nothing about posing for you.”

  Jack shifted his weight off of the door frame, but didn’t step into the room. “Back to playing word games? Just what sort of payment did you have in mind, April? Is that why you’re here?”

  His gaze traveled slowly over her face, scrutinizing each feature, the sheer intensity of it like a flame caressing her body. His expression was unreadable except for the brilliant incandescence of his eyes, and she couldn’t tell if that was from anger … or desire.

  Suddenly aware of the change in her situation and desperately wanting to escape, April eyed the sunlit sliver of freedom behind her.

  “Leave, if that’s what you truly want. I won’t stop you. But you’re only postponing this conversation.”

  Despite his assurance, she felt trapped, and hated it every bit as much now as she had years ago when Markham had cornered her in his office. She broke off that train of thought and said, “As far as I’m concerned those pictures constitute payment in full. End of conversation.” She whirled to leave but a strong hand imprisoned her wrist with lightning speed. She’d never heard him leave the doorway.