CHAPTER 11
As I gaze at my reflection in the most ornate, and probably expensive, mirror I’ve ever laid eyes on, I give my messy updo one last spritz of hairspray, then focus my attention on my mouth, applying a luscious coat of lip gloss in a dark, dramatic shade called “Beso” (that means kiss in Spanish and hopefully it’s a harbinger of things to come this evening). I’m debating whether or not I need bronzer (I’m already bronzed naturally from the sun, but a little sparkle might be fun) when there’s a soft knock on the door of the powder room followed by a furtively whispered, “Izzy, it’s me.”
Unlocking the door, I stand aside so that Zane can enter.
“What’s the big emergency?” he wonders, referring to the SOS text I just sent him, as he walks into the small, but lavishly decorated room and sets his camera down on the Carrara marble-topped vanity. “You know I’m supposed to be work—Sweet mother of God!” is his stunned exclamation when he turns to face me and gets an eyeful of my party get-up.
“An amazing transformation in just ten minutes, right?” It really was no small feat to go from looking totally nondescript in a uniform of black pants/white shirt, with my hair in a ponytail and no makeup to my current glamorous incarnation. (I got into the party by coming in the back entrance with Zane and pretending to be part of Sully’s “crew.” The security guards didn’t even question my presence because my name was on the approved list thanks to a call I made to the Sandovals’ party planner. Employing my dormant acting skills, I announced that I was Adrian Doscher’s assistant at M*I*A and gave her my name along with Zane’s and Sully’s as being the photography team from the magazine. It was all surprisingly easy.)
“You look gorgeous,” Zane says, still sounding a bit dazed, which is good. I need to blow the mind of every man who sees me at this party.
“Thanks. I got this dress from a guy down in the Design District who does knockoffs. I only paid two hundred bucks for it while the original Saint Laurent that this dress was ‘inspired by,’” I make air quotes, “cost thirty-five hundred. And these shoes,” I kick up one foot to show off my open-toed stilettos with the 4-inch heel and a sexy strap around the ankle, “are Gianvito Rossis that retail for eight hundred, but my friend, Sharisse, got a pair for free when she walked in a show in New York last fall. Unfortunately for her, they were a size seven, and she’s got big boat feet. So, she passed them on to me.”
“They’re a nice pop of color,” Zane observes.
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t pair a black dress with black shoes. That would have been such a snooze! Gianvito Rossi calls this shade ‘avocado,’ but that just makes me think of guac. I prefer electric lime.” I strike a couple of poses while looking down at my feet and marvel not only at how cute the shoes are, but how long and sleek my legs look in them.
“So, why am I here,” Zane asks, “other than to tell you that you’re going to be the hottest woman at this party?”
I stop preening and say, “You’re here because I can’t get the zipper on the back of this dress to go up. I think it’s defective; the designer probably got it in the fifty cent bin at Fabricsworld. Will you see if you can get it to work?” I pivot so that my back is to Zane.
“Woah,” I hear him murmur.
“Woah what? I didn’t tear the dress when I was messing with the zipper, did I?” I twist my head around so that I can see what he’s talking about.
“No. It’s fine. I was woah-ing because the back of this dress is even sexier than the front. These slashed cut-outs . . .”
I can feel him tracing the edge of one of the cut-outs, the tip of his finger trailing along my exposed skin from the bottom of my left shoulder blade down to the right side of my rib cage. I have to suppress a shudder, not because my body is reacting to Z’s touch. Hell no! It’s just cold in here. That’s all. And yes, I know I said I was hot-natured and the A/C doesn’t bother me, but whatever, shut up!
“The architecture of this dress is amazing. With the one-shoulder design and the cut-outs, it’s very editorial. I’d love to photograph you in—”
“Yeah, sure, some other time. Right now I need you to hurry up and get that zipper moving so that I can join the party.”
“All right. Hold on.” Z bends down on one knee so that he can examine the troublesome zipper up-close. “It’s not broken,” he determines. “The fabric’s just caught in the teeth. I think I can pull it loose if I . . .” He tugs on it a few times, all the while his knuckles are brushing up against the small of my back, which is apparently an erogenous zone because all of a sudden I’m feeling like I’ve got an itch that needs to be scratched.
Keep it in your thong, Izzy! Now is not the time to start having dirty thoughts about Zane. Your future husband is probably out at the party right this very minute, noshing on a shrimp cocktail, waiting for you to show up and rock his world.
“Got it!” Zane declares triumphantly, and I feel the zipper slide up my back.
“Great. Thanks.” I distance myself from his tingle-inducing hands as quickly as I can, moving over to the mirror so that I can make some final adjustments to my dress and hair.
It’s not a clean escape, though, because Z follows me, placing his hands on my hips and leaning over my bare shoulder. “You know what I think you need?” he asks, his amber eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
Half a dozen R-rated responses instantly spring to mind, but I wrestle them into submission.
“Some personal space?” I snark albeit somewhat breathlessly.
His mouth twitches up on one side. “No, some earrings. You’ve got naked lobes.” He gently squeezes the fleshy bottom of my right ear between his thumb and forefinger.
Trying to ignore the heat that seems to be seeping from his body into the back of mine, I say, “Thanks for the reminder,” then reach for my makeup bag and unzip one of the compartments inside. “What do you think of these?” I hold up a pair of gold drop earrings with a black background studded in diamonds (okay, cubic zirconias) and a large green stone (peridot, I think) at the bottom. “Topaz made them for me.”
“Very pretty,” he approves.
I slip on the earrings and start packing up all of my paraphernalia so that I can stuff it back in the leather camera bag Z loaned me. “I’m going to hide this under the sink,” I tell him. “Can you take it back out to your car at the end of the night?”
“Sounds like a service that should earn me a tip.” He extends his hand toward me.
“Here’s a tip.” I plop his camera down on his outstretched palm. “Go back out to the party and take your pictures or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing for Sully and pretend like you don’t know me for the rest of the night.”
“Plausible deniability. Got it.”
“Then, go!” I put both hands on his back and push him toward the door.
Placing his hand on the doorknob, he looks back at me and says, “Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck. I’ve got all this.” I run my hand up and down my body.
“Yes, you do,” Zane agrees with a smile before disappearing out the door.
I check the clock on my phone, then tap my foot impatiently while I wait for the requisite few minutes to pass. When I’m sure Z’s had time to get back out to the party, I grab my glittered clutch bag and peek my head out of the powder room. The coast appears to be clear, so I sneak out into the corridor and hurriedly head toward the sounds of party chatter and easy listening Latin music (Buena Vista Social Club if I’m not mistaken).
Although there are people milling around in Casa Sandoval’s ballroom-sized living area, most of the partygoers are congregating in the huge outdoor space, which I am completely wowed by when I exit through the open arched wood doors and see the beautifully manicured vista spread out before me. The stone-tiled terrace leads to a courtyard with a grand, three-tiered fountain in its center and the courtyard splits off in three different directions, the flowering shrub and palm tree-lined path to the left takes its followers to a large pool with a swim-up bar and a row of brightly colored cabanas while the one to the right ends in an open space where tables are filled with food and drink, straight ahead is the expansive deck area overlooking the bay. That’s right, the Sandovals’ estate is a waterfront property, and its location, at the tip of Star Island, the most exclusive neighborhood in South Beach which is populated by celebrities and multi-millionaires, is what a high-end realtor would call “prime.”
Reminding myself not to look too awestruck so that no one will realize I don’t really belong at this swanky soirée, I venture forth, grabbing a glass of champagne from the tray of a server who’s passing by. I spend the next hour flitting from group to group, insinuating myself into people’s conversations, angling for introductions to any remotely attractive man who doesn’t have a wedding ring on. I meet Christian Something or Another who’s the director of analytics at Sandoval Spirits and quite possibly the most boring conversationalist I’ve ever encountered. Who cares how many proof gallons of distilled spirits were produced in the Northern Hemisphere last year?
I only spend ten minutes with Brent What’s-His-Face, the head of some restaurant group in Miami, before I write him off as a lush (knocking back three drinks in that short period of time was a major red flag). Somehow I get drawn into a discussion with two middle-aged couples from out-of-town about where the best place in Miami to have Sunday brunch is. (As far as I’m concerned brunch is for old people and hipsters, so I don’t have an opinion on the subject.) I’m relieved when they finally decide on the champagne brunch at the Biltmore (at ninety dollars a head, that place is way too rich for my blood!), but then the men start weighing the pros and cons of the premier golf courses in the area and I want to scream.
“Oh, I think that’s my friend, Diddy. I really should say, ‘Hi.’ Will you excuse me?”
It’s not a lie. Well, the part about me knowing music mogul Sean Combs is, but I do see a snazzily-dressed man wearing tinted glasses on the far side of the deck that could be him and Diddy does own a house on Star Island, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility that he would be at this gala. Unfortunately, the man in question turns out to be a poser, with none of the charm or swagger of the real Diddy. (At least none that I can ascertain after watching him from a discreet distance for a few minutes. Sigh.)
My stomach is rumbling because it hasn’t been fed since lunchtime and I’m exhausted from all the schmoozing, so I mosey over to the impressive spread of catered food the Sandovals are offering. I grab another glass of champagne and start loading up a plate with as many of the delicious-smelling Cuban appetizers as I can. I’m satisfied with my haul and am about to go find a comfortable spot to sit so that I can enjoy the food when I notice that there’s also a dessert table, and it’s filled with many of my favorites—cinnamon-dusted arroz con leche (rice pudding), pastelitos de guayaba (flaky, multi-layered guava pastries), tres leches cake with dollops of fluffy whipped cream, and . . .
“That’s the biggest flan I’ve ever seen,” a male voice says from behind me.
“It’s magnificent.” I’m practically drooling at the sight of the quivery golden custard with its darkened, sugary topping bathed in what looks to be a pool of rum. And he’s right, the flan is Guinness World Record-sized. It takes up the whole center of the table and could easily feed fifty people.
“Would you like a piece?”
“I would, but I’ve run out of hands.” I’m holding a drink in one (my clutch is wedged up in my armpit where the glitter is probably rubbing off), and a piled-high appetizer plate in the other, which I turn to my side to show—
Sweet mother of God! Zane’s exclamation from earlier is the first thing that pops into my head when I see the other dessert ogler.
How did I miss this guy when I was making the party rounds? He’s Latin, with the requisite dark, wavy hair, bedroom eyes, and a lush set of lips I’d like to spend the rest of the night nibbling on. He’s got presence, too—strong, masculine, charismatic. Clearly, an alpha male (my favorite kind!), but the testosterone he’s oozing from every pore is restrained by class and sophistication. His cologne smells expensive, and his clothes (perfectly tailored gray herringbone suit with a pale blue shirt and matching pocket square) are sharp and stylish. Rowr!
“In that case, I have a proposition,” he tells me with a smile curving the corners of his kissable mouth.
The answer to his proposition, whatever it might be, is, yes, yes, YES!
“Which is?” I lift an inquisitive eyebrow.
“I’ll get some flan and a few of these other sweets, which we can share while getting to know each other better.”
“I like the sound of that.” A lot. After weeks of chasing men, all of whom ended up being disappointments, it’s nice to have the first move made by someone else. And so far, I can’t find a damn thing wrong with this guy. His voice is deep, smooth, and muy sexy, he appears to have very good taste and the money to back it up, he’s not wearing a gold band on his left ring finger, and there are no overbearing mothers lurking around.
He loads up a plate with several desserts, being sure to ask which ones are most appealing to me, then he suggests we find a seat near the water, which I’m all for. He leads me through the crowd to a low stone wall with a wide ledge perfect for sitting down on. From this vantage point, we’re just a few feet away from the deck and we have a wonderful view of the bay, where all the lights from the party, as well as the ones coming from the buildings on the mainland, are reflecting off the dark water, giving it a magical, shimmery look.
“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.