CHAPTER TWO
“Careful!”
Atlas’ voice, along with his annoyance, floated up and in from the open balcony doors. Ofélia stepped away from emptying her bag’s contents into the empty dressing cabinet one of the female workers showed her.
She stepped out on the warm, sandstone and clutched the railing, eyes finding her fiancé easily amongst the four other men out there.
Fiancé.
She’d worried she wouldn’t be able to get used to the idea, yet it had stuck pretty quickly.
Fake fiancé.
That second thought calmed her throbbing heart. Just an inch. Long enough to think clearly and remember why she’d agreed to Atlas Neville’s crazy contract.
Jesús Espinosa, you owe me big one, estupid kid.
Atlas disappeared, a suitcase in both hands, following the lead of the house servants into the rustic villa, their home for the next three business days.
Mr. Montero’s guest house was a lavish affair. At first Ofélia thought this red clay roof and white stone building the main dwelling, only to be corrected by señor Montero’s driver.
She closed her eyes and tipped her head to the sky, the sun bathing her in warmth rivalling the heat coming from inside…especially as it redirected to the man behind her.
“Ofélia, can you come here?”
Opening her eyes she reluctantly left the picturesque scene before her.
The emerald valleys lived up to the name of the village, Valle de Santos. Ofélia could imagine angels and all manners of saints frolicking there; it was the closest thing to a patch of paraíso if there ever was on Earth.
Inside there was another kind of paradise, waiting, watching, and beckoning her closer with an impatient wave.
Granted Ofélia accepted her attraction to Atlas, she continued to be unprepared by how deep it’s sunk into her blood.
Dressed for the weather today, Atlas’ bright red chinos and polo shirt did nothing to take away from the power he wore like a suit, a second skin.
His hair, the wildest part of him yet, was more untamed in the early evening’s humidity. But it was his eyes, those hazel, green-flecked orbs that appeared to glow in the darker hush of the bedroom that drew her near, sought out her soul and heart and made them dance to an imaginary marichino beat.
Suitcases set aside at the foot of the bed, he stepped closer, bringing Ofélia to a rigid stand. His steps faltered shy of her, lips turning ever slightly down. She wished she could unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. This was a situation that called a cease-fire, lest they did something they’d regret.
Which Ofélia really meant something she would regret.
Not that that fear of future regret stopped her from enjoying the moment: It could have just been the two of them in the brief instance of calm. She was, of course, aware of the voices of the men working hard outside, but Atlas’ being near commanded all her attention.
And when he tilted his head to the side and scooped off the sunglasses perched over his head, roamed her figure with his gaze, she let the world fall away.
“Y-Yes?”
He tossed his expensive-looking shades on the bed, both hands taking a stab at taming his wild strip of hair. Atlas paused, eyes taking that eerie, unblinking position.
“W-What?” she dropped the hand she’d lifted from her face once she checked that the burgers they’d enjoyed on the drive over wasn’t smeared over her face.
“You do have a dress somewhere in that bag, don’t you?”
He was referring to her duffel, the bag that’d carried all her things on this adventure, first to meet his brother in San Diego, and then to travel back into Mexico’s most western state.
“No.” She replied according to what she suspected he wanted. Some fancy, expensive evening wear for their night out. Señor Montero and the Oriol newlyweds, invited them to dinner at the latter’s city home.
Ofélia packed with the weather in mind. That meant tee-shirts, tanks, and shorts. She had one sundress on the way into San Diego – an off-white eyelet dress, the closest thing to bridal wear for a sham of a wedding.
She showed Atlas.
His head tilted, he dragged his gaze up and down, and had Ofélia not been holding the dress in front of her, she’d suspect that she was on display.
“It’s pretty.” He nodded.
The first compliment! That was a pleasant departure.
“At least as presentable as my fiancée should look.” Atlas muttered, turning towards the other door in the room save for the exit.
Having entered the building first, at Atlas’ suggestion or order – it depended on how she looked at it, Ofélia had explored earlier and discovered it to be a beautiful bathroom, complete with a claw foot tub of bronze and a fountain-like sink, the spot-faucet framed by tiny metal cherubs.
Like the rest of the building, it told of the Monteros’ wealth.
To think she only had access to this paradise with their ugly lie. She lowered her hands and the dress sagged in front of her.
“Is this right?” she asked, voice wobbling at the end. Thoughts of her family plagued her; Jesús, her party-girl little sister, Catrine and their recovering madré who was still on the doctor’s watch-list. She was doing this for them, or so she thought. What would her mother really think?
Maia Maria Espinosa rarely minced her words. A Santera, she ingrained that truth and honesty were human virtues smiled on by the heavens. Ofélia had her reservations about her family’s long-standing Santería business. As a child she just downright hated that her late grandmother and her mother could practice all that superstition, sell it for money and then face the ire from neighbors who called them ‘witches’.
It took time, many, many years in fact, but Ofélia arrived at a space of admiration for her abuela and mother. She’d even come to adopt the same courage to facing the long-standing rumors surrounding their family, especially the nasty one that recently claimed her mother deserved the cancer eating away at her stomach.
At least we could say we have our honesty and integrity.
Well, the honesty was wavering lately. No one knew her real reason for going abroad. Not her sister and definitely not her mother. To the both of them, Ofélia mentioned visiting Jesús at his college dorm.
Atlas had been raised differently, obviously.
Filling the door frame, a towel around his neck, he said, “Don’t look at me like that.”
Ofélia tittered, her face heating, hugging the dress to her chest. “Like what?”
He gave her a dead stare. “Like. That.” Each word stressed separately, to punctuate his meaning. He knew exactly what she’d been thinking, and all from her simple questioning at the morality of their actions.
Atlas Neville was clever.
And he was also returning to the bathroom, the door opened halfway to continue their conversation. Apparently it wouldn’t do to give her his complete attention. Not when they had the dinner with the Monteros hovering over them.
“It’s not like you’re doing anything weird that you haven’t already.” Atlas’ voice floated from the bathroom. He couldn’t see her flapping mouth to his blunt remark and a good thing to as he’d likely make fun of her for being embarrassed when Ofélia had no right to the emotion.
“If you’re worried about that, then there’s no need. I have the key in my safe keeping,” he re-entered, pulling the towel he’d been using to dry his hair off his head onto the bed beside his sunglasses. Dropping one of the fancy suitcases onto the bed, he worked free the latches and sipper and spoke as he rooted and compiled an outfit over the mattress.
“As per our agreement, you’ll have the key once we’re done here.”
Done here.
Why did that have such a final, foreboding ring to it?
Because it should, she chided and happy one of them had the sense to say it.
“So?” he gave her an appraising look, pausing in collecting his outfit, implication clear. Atlas was letting her have at the washroom first, freshen up and change for their drive and their hosts.
Ofélia paused on the bathroom’s threshold, hand clutching the door frame, glance tossed over her shoulder. “You will help find my brother?”
Not a statement, but a question from the doubt swirling around her mind, forcing her to hesitate.
Atlas gave her his full attention, long, musician-like fingers stilling over the buttons of his stripped grey-pink dress shirt. He stared, his expression unreadable.
“Is that what you want? My assurance, because I gave it to before the drive, before you decided to sign up for this.”
“Well, I like to hear it again.” Or else I’m going to turn around, pack my bag, and leave for good.
Atlas watched her for what felt like hours, in actuality another few seconds before he nodded.
“I will help you find your brother.” He went back to finishing off his buttons, adding, “Prometo. That means ‘I promise’, right?”
His accented Spanish made her smile. That smile faltered when he added, “And in turn you’ll be my mail-order bride-to-be.” Ofélia garnered a look at their closed bedroom door, hoping none of the staff were eavesdropping on their guests.
“And since we’re on this topic: Whatever deal you had with my brother is none of my business, but seeing as he doesn’t seem to want to continue his bargain, and seeing as you already owe me for retrieving the spare key, I’d like for you to continue playing your role.” Atlas remarked coolly. Always coolly.
He clipped gold cuff links over each wrist, straightening out his shirt before taking a seat and slipping his equally fancy shoes on. “The better you act the loving fiancée, the more I’ll be willing to help. It’s entirely in your hands, Ofélia.”
Then pulling up his collar and half-turning to lift up a salmon pink bowtie, he worked on completing his evening look. Even though there had to be at least a few hours until sunset and didn’t seem like the most comfortable wear given the summer heat.
Since everything he said made perfect sense, Ofélia pushed her worries and her infatuation to the back of her mind. She dressed to Atlas’ satisfaction.
“You were quick,” he looked her over, lips pursed, giving Ofélia unmonitored access to studying him too.
Finishing his look with a silver satin-y vest, Atlas was going to be a hard man to stand beside tonight. Picking her jaw up off the floor when he bobbed his head once, approval smoothing his features, he gestured to the door.
Ofélia believed she’d felt self-conscious walking out of the bathroom for Atlas’ review. It doubled as she moved ahead of him, leading them to down the short flight of stairs of the one-and-half story bungalow-inspired villa.
Her flats, the only other pair of shoes she’d brought and much more conservative than her sneaker platforms, slapped the polished mosaic flooring. Had she not been keeping up the pretense of Atlas’ fiancée, Ofélia would admire the floor work more closely – she had a weakness for art, passed on by her mother who incorporated it into her Santería ritual services for clientele.
She could see herself doing something foolish like crouch down and run her hands over the intricate designs, the story unfolding under their feet, a silent, colorful puzzle she’d like to explore more.
It reminded her of a certain someone. Atlas was a puzzle in and of himself. He wasn’t like his brother at all. Thomas had come off being a playboy jerk; taking one look at her, he’d basically told her that he’d pay if she promised to board a plane headed home and never darken his doorstep again.
Like she wanted to do that!
She hadn’t the money to travel, let alone afford a hotel to stay in San Diego while she searched for her brother, filed missing reports with his school and the city authorities. Not when all of their savings from her family’s Santeria business had gone to her mother’s expensive medical bills.
Atlas, despite his lies, was kinder. A little detached, but there was an actual heart beating somewhere under his impressive suits.
So Ofélia would have stopped and tried to solve the floor puzzle, like the man.
But said man was behind her, making his presence known by the answering click of his polished dress shoes and then, more intimately, at the grazing of his hand over the small of her back.
“Sweetheart,” Atlas held the door for her, waiting until she was seated, legs angled to the driver’s side before closing her in with the scents of sun-warmed sandalwood and leather.
He’d brought his own car rather than take a rental. And why not?
One thing Ofélia was learning quickly was Atlas put as much – if not more, on his outward appearance. Naturally so as a businessman, and she couldn’t fault him for it, yet her intuition said there was another story to it all.
For now, she’d admire her surroundings and allow herself to enjoy the anticipation of the night.
“Ready?” he checked in with her, hand steadying over the gear shift.
“Sí,” Ofélia nodded shyly, pleased Atlas asked her for an opinion.
The car’s interior was as sleek and dark as its owner, and like the drive, Atlas played the perfect gentleman, his smooth talk inciting a war within her: She shouldn’t trust that white-toothed smile, or the mesmerizing glint in his eyes from the glow of the sunset over the car’s dash.
Ofélia prepped for the blow out, for that mask of his to slip off and his colder, business-like exterior to shine through, but it never did.
In the little more than an hour drive Atlas kept up the one-sided conversation, Ofélia pitching in when he left her no choices with questions, which had been rare. He talked about a past visit to the Monteros. She’d missed how long ago he said it was. The wistful quality to his reminiscence suggested it had been a long gap between that visit and this one.
She wanted to ask more, catch him on what she was starting to trust was a secreted part of the carefully, put-together Atlas he presented to the world. Recognized it from her own fake smiles and laughter in the face of her mom’s tired worry, and her younger, blissfully ignorant Jesús and Catrine.
When Ofélia had the right wording, she noted their position in the heart of the city of Ensenada, where Agata Montero and husband Gustavo Oriol lived. She pushed her awe to the backseat, opening her mouth and snapping it shut on his name.
“Yes?” he answered after parking sharply along a curb, a towering apartment on her side.
“Nothing,” Ofélia squeaked, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. What if he laughed cruelly at her concern? She couldn’t stand that right before entering the lion’s den as his false fiancée.
Even early, they were eagerly expected.
“Come in, come in,” señor Montero flagged them in, his slippers flapping in his hurried leading from the entrance.
Gustavo, Agata’s husband, met them at the entrance of the den. He shook Atlas’ hand and kissed hers as his father-in-law had. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Neville and señorita Ofélia.”
“Thank you,” they replied in unison.
Atlas pulled her down along with him, his arm falling over the back of the couch, above her shoulders. Ofélia silenced the need to squirm. Inside a storm brewed, and she could only be glad the men ignored her in lieu of their business discussion.
The lady of the house came out not too long after, signalling the end of Ofélia’s quiet peace. Perfumed and pretty in a smart, flowing skirt-and-blouse number, Agata drew the attention back to their guests as easily as she stole it away in the first place.
“Señorita Ofélia.” Agata’s hug proved as warm as it had in San Diego.
The other woman pulled back and included Atlas in her smile. “You two look beautiful. My heart is so happy. I am – how do you say it? – thrilled for you to be with us.”
By her side, Ofélia thought Atlas squirmed.
That couldn’t be right. A surreptitious glance said as much, but she couldn’t shake what she had felt.
“Dinner should almost be ready. I just now checked with the cook,” Agata lilted in her Spanish-English. Ofélia already guessed the Oriols were rich. Like her father, señor Montero, and the beautiful guest house she was sharing with Atlas now.
By all means her family, the Espinosas, had lived well, but Ofélia faced her share of threats from her landlord and electricity company for missed bills. Alone she carried the burden. And it weighed tremendously, expressing itself in the strangest way.
Sometimes as hot, heavy pressure at the back of her neck and sometimes above her shoulder blades, and other times the weight was a cold finger dancing over her spine.
Atlas’ hand, searching and squeezing hers, brought her from her head.
“Sorry, we’ve arrived earlier.” Atlas was saying, cut off by Mr. Montero’s clucking.
“Nonsense! You are our guests – our wonderful guests, and your arrival only makes us happy.”
Atlas smiled, none of it reaching his eyes. He was tense, all right. Her thigh accidently brushed his leg and he flexed his fingers, the jolt going unnoticed by everyone but her.
Ofélia knew he had to be as relieved as her when, as Agata said, the family chef rang a dinner bell. Agata led them to the dining room, enclosed off in the adjacent area across the hall. Closed on their entry, the sliding oak doors were now open, revealing the room inside.
Along the long, dark wood table, six of the eight places were set. Mr. Montero took the head of the table, Gustavo and Agata sat together on one side directly opposite where Atlas and Ofélia were supposed to sit.
The sixth placemat remained empty. Ofélia didn’t think it was right to ask who else they could be expecting.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking Atlas’ cue on pulling out her chair. Having seated her, he slipped in beside her, his minty aftershave and spiced cologne filling her nose, coating her tongue so the first bite of her garlic bread appetizer fell flat over her taste buds.
If this kept up, Ofélia wouldn’t be able to hold out on this charade.
Her taste never came back. Unfortunate as everything looked delicious even though her nose and tongue betrayed her. She blamed Atlas, but herself more; he hadn’t exactly forced her
How had he put it?
It’s entirely in your hands, Ofélia. His words echoed in her mind, a knell of hostile remainder of the choices she’d made that lead her to be sitting across from these sweet, kind people.
Dessert couldn’t have disappeared quicker, and Ofélia particularly leapt out of her chair in her hurry to follow the party back to the den, champagne glasses in hand.
Atlas barely touched his coupe of white wine, citing the drive home as excuse. Really he looked like he hated the stuff – then again who was Ofélia to know what Atlas Neville hated or not? She’d known him for, qué, two days and going on a third.
He had let her stay with him for an extra day to walk her through his, their game plan. Ofélia slept in the guest, more comfortable than her actual bed at home she hadn’t wanted to trade the plush queen for her single, old and worn mattress in Aguascalientes.
A knock at the door distracted Agata from her recent line of questioning; Ofélia had given her half the attention she would normally.
Do you mean if you were Atlas’ fiancée?
While their hostess went to answer, Ofélia sunk back into the smooth leather cushions in relief. If she had to grin stupidly through one more answer about Atlas and their fake relationship, she’d crack.
Catching Atlas’ gaze, she smiled weakly, hopefully to let him know she was reaching the tether of her patience. He nodded; mouth a thin, grave line but eyes alit with…humor?
He thought this funny? En serio – really?
Agata’s return snapped Ofélia’s staring and the irritation at Atlas’ odd sense of humor completely dissipated to shock. Standing up, like Atlas, señor Montero and Gustavo, she moved closer to confirm their latest party’s identity.
“Aarón?”