CHAPTER 19

Checking the time on my phone, I see that I’ve been soaking up the hot Caribbean sun while reading People en Español for over an hour, which means it’s time for a flip over and possibly a nap because there’s not much else to do when you’re lying on your stomach. I set down my phone and pick up the hollowed out coconut that’s holding my coco loco, which is a very popular drink here in the Dominican Republic. It’s pretty darn tasty, too, as it includes several types of alcohol along with lime juice and coconut milk. I take a sip of the icy cold beverage through a straw, then bite off a chunk of the pineapple wedge perched on the edge of the coconut. Yum!

After putting my drink down, I grab my Hawaiian Tropic dark tanning oil (I’ve used two bottles of the stuff since I got here!) and squirt some into my palm. I rub the oil into the skin being exposed by my barely there bikini on my front side, then do the same (as best I can) to my back.

“You missed a spot.”

Glancing up, I see a Latin Adonis in a pair of red swim briefs that leave very little to the imagination standing at the foot of my lounge chair. I slide my oversized Gucci sunglasses down my nose and let my eyes sweep up from his impressive bulge to his ripped torso and broad shoulders, one of which is covered in some sort of tribal tattoo (Rowr!). Oh, and his face isn’t bad either, although it doesn’t really matter. When a guy has a body this bangin’, an uggo face isn’t a deal-breaker. You can just close your eyes and picture Channing Tatum when he’s doing you.

“Did I?” I twist around to look at my back.

“Sí, between your shoulder blades.” He points to that area, and I notice he has very large, very capable-looking hands. “It’s a hard-to-reach spot. I could take care of that for you if you like.”

Oh, I’m sure I’d like it very much and for a second, I indulge myself in the fantasy of this hunk oiling up my naked flesh with firm, massaging strokes. If only . . . sigh.

“Thanks, but my boyfriend will be down in a sec. So, I’ll have him do it.”

I thought I was letting him down easy (I smiled and everything!), but Señor Paquete Grande (Mr. Big Package)’s face falls and I can empathize. You’re not the only one who’s disappointed, fella!

For real. This whole monogamy thing sucks. And my faithfulness has been continuously tested since Eduardo and I got here. It seems like everywhere I go I’m being hit on by some swarthy stud who looks like he could medal in the Mattress Mambo Olympics. And rejecting these guys is becoming increasingly difficult when my man hasn’t been giving mi chocha the attention it deserves.

“Okay, well, nice meeting you,” the beefcake says dejectedly, then walks over to the edge of the pool and dives in, which I guess is the next best thing to a cold shower.

Poor guy. I can’t blame him for getting his hopes (as well as a certain part of his anatomy) up by the sight of me in this bikini. In my not so humble opinion, I’ve never looked hotter. The bright yellow color of the bikini is the perfect complement to my dark hair and sun-bronzed skin, and the design of the suit, with its teeny tiny bottom and halter-style top that has a large cutout right in the center where my ample cleavage is displayed in a most provocative and enticing way (the girls are practically begging to be motorboated!), is so flattering that anyone would think it was custom-made for me.

Adjusting my lounge chair so that the top of it is lying flat, I roll over onto my stomach, then fold my hands beneath my head so that I can rest my cheek on them. I shut my eyes and will myself to doze off, but it’s no good. All I’ve done for the last eight days is rest and relax, so I’m not tired. What I am is bored. I’ve bought thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes, gotten just about every spa treatment the resort has to offer, and spent hours on end by this pool, but it’s not much fun when you’re doing all those things by yourself. I knew going in that this was a business trip for Eduardo, but I didn’t realize he was going to leave me on my own eighteen hours a day.

It’s not like we have any quality time when he comes back to our suite either. He’s always on the phone, talking or texting with Gillian because of all the legalities involved in what’s going on at work, and he’s so exhausted he can barely keep his eyes open. We’re staying at this gorgeous beachfront resort in Boca Chica, but we’re not getting to enjoy any of its amenities together—no intimate dinners, no couple’s massages, no moonlit walks on the beach, and we’re certainly not making any use of the plush king-size bed with its 1000-thread count sheets or even the private hot tub. We have not had sex once since we left Miami over a week ago! I tried on the plane ride down, suggesting saucily that we join the mile-high club (I’ve been a member for over a decade, but Eduardo didn’t need to know that!) and he just gave me a disapproving look and said we were on the company plane so that wouldn’t be appropriate (as if none of the other Sandoval execs have ever gotten their freak on while in the air), then went back to reading some report.

He’s stressed and he’s busy. I get it, but I still can’t help but feel neglected and also kind of pissed. Why did he invite me to come down here with him if he was just going to ignore me? Did he really expect me to entertain myself twenty-four/seven? And why did his previously healthy sex drive cease to exist when we left the States? Wait, did we fly over the Bermuda Triangle? Maybe that causes weird sexual side effects, like the triangle’s magnetic field saps a man’s desire or something.

I lift myself up onto my elbows and reach for my phone, then do a Google search for the flight path from Miami to Santo Domingo. Damn! It doesn’t intersect with the Bermuda Triangle, so there goes that theory.

What about voodoo, or vodou as it’s called in the Dominican Republic? On my various shopping excursions into Santo Domingo and Boca Chica, I’ve seen street vendors selling tarot cards, herbal remedies, protective amulets, ritual oils, even love potions. (I was tempted to purchase one of the latter, but decided my own personal mojo is stronger than anything magical would be.) Could the exec Eduardo fired in the Santo Domingo office (this guy’s screw-ups were why Eduardo had to race down here) have been vengeful enough to get himself an ex-boss voodoo doll? If so, he might be sticking pins in faux Eduardo’s crotch right now! I immediately start researching how to counteract a voodoo hex and that’s when I receive a FaceTime call from Zane. I haven’t spoken with him or anyone from home since we got to the Caribbean, so it’ll be nice to catch up.

“Hola!”

“Woah!” Zane’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head. “Are you on Cleavage-Cam?”

I realize that the angle I’m holding my phone at is giving him an eyeful of my tetas, which are being squished together and pushed up because of the way I’ve got myself propped up.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities with my bodacious rack.”

“I wasn’t complaining; I was just a bit startled. Those boobs of yours should come with a warning label. If I had a heart condition, it would have been all over for me.” He smirks. “So, what’s up? Are you enjoying your getaway?”

“It’s been a blast!” I hope my enthusiasm doesn’t sound as forced as it feels. “We’re staying at this incredible resort called ‘Island Bliss,’ which is five-star luxury all the way. Check this out . . .” I sit up and turn my phone around so that I can pan from one end of the pool area to the other.

“A swim-up bar. Nice!” he exclaims.

“And the cocktails are amazing.” I pick up my coco loco and take a noisy slurp through the straw to illustrate my point. “I’ve been waited on hand and foot here, the food is to-die-for, and there’s so much cool stuff to do!” Okay, I’m starting to sound like one of those full-of-crap travel brochures.

“Uh huh.” He doesn’t seem entirely convinced. “Glad you’re having fun. We miss you here, though. Any idea when you’ll be coming home?”

“Not sure. Eduardo’s business is taking a little longer than he thought it would, but I can’t say that I’m in any hurry to leave this life of leisure and pampering behind. This afternoon I’m signed up for the three-and-a-half hour Chocolate Dreams package at the spa—a sugar scrub followed by a body wrap and massage, all done with products made from fresh cacao.”

“So, you’ll smell like a double fudge brownie when you’re done.”

“I’ll taste like a double fudge brownie too, and Eduardo loves sweets, so . . .,” I trail off, leaving the rest to his imagination.

I only hope that this chocolate-flavored seduction plan of mine resuscitates Eduardo’s flagging libido when he gets back to the hotel tonight. To be cute, I thought I’d leave a trail of Hershey’s Kisses from the door of the suite to the bed where he’ll find me draped across the duvet in all my naked, irresistible glory, and of course I’ll have several cans of whipped cream at the ready since nothing goes better with chocolate.

With a roll of his eyes, Zane says, “I don’t really need to hear about your sex life.”

“Let’s talk about you then. What’s happening? Anything new and exciting to report?”

“Maybe. I went to dinner at Sybil’s last night.”

My stomach drops. ¡Ay, mierda! I’ve been so consumed with this trip and my relationship with Eduardo for the past week that I’d forgotten all about that bleached blonde cougar being on the prowl for some fresh man meat. I hope she hasn’t sunk her teeth into Z while I’ve been gone. I should have warned him against her predatory ways before I left town. Friendship fail, Izzy!

“Was her husband there?”

“No, I think he was away on business. He seems to travel a lot.”

Which makes it easy for his wife to stray!

“And why did Sybil invite you over?” To offer him an indecent proposal, I’d be willing to bet.

“She wanted to talk about my career, what my plans are moving forward, what she can do to help. She really likes my work and was pleased with how well it was received at the show.”

I think it’s his body, not his work, she likes, and what she wants to “help” him with is climbing on top of her.

“It’s great she recognizes and appreciates your talent, but why do you think she singled you out of all the artists who participated in that exhibit?”

Come on, Z, you’re smart! If you’ll give it some thought, you’ll see that this lady is not on the up-and-up and her interest in you goes beyond the professional. Girlfriend is working an angle, and I’m sure of this because it takes a manipulator to know a manipulator. I can only hope that in fifteen years, I won’t be as desperate and obvious as she is.

“That’s what Sybil does. She sponsors a new artist every year, features their work at her gallery, introduces them to the right people in the art world, gets them press.”

“Uh huh, let me guess, all of these pets of hers are young, male, and good-looking.” And she gets unrestricted boning rights to each of them as long as they’re under her wing.

“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Zane says stiffly.

“My bad. I shouldn’t have implied anything; I should have just come right out and said what was painfully clear to me the night of your show—Sybil Lyndon is warm for your form, and she’s auditioning you for the role of her next boy toy.”

“And you’re basing this on the three minutes of time you spent exchanging small talk with her at a party?” Zane lifts a brow questioningly.

“Three minutes in which she did everything but pee on you to mark her territory.”

“Sybil has a strong, commanding presence and she likes to get her way . . . sound familiar?” He directs a pointed look at me. “But that doesn’t mean her heart isn’t in the right place. She’s already been so kind and generous with me. She even offered me her guest house to live and work in.”

“How convenient for her! She won’t even have to leave her property when she wants a booty call.”

Z frowns at me. “You’re wrong about Sybil. She expects nothing in return for her largesse; she says that nurturing artistic talent is its own reward.”

“You’re not seriously considering taking her up on her guest house offer, are you?”

He shrugs. “It’s something to think about. I’m surprised you’re not all for it since you not-so-lovingly refer to my current residence as ‘the crap shack.’”

“It really is awful. I mean, I know you like the location, but . . .” I stick my tongue out in disgust. “Still, the crap shack is preferable to you getting stuck in the black widow’s web.”

“She’s not a widow.”

“Not yet, but I looked up Sybil’s husband online after meeting her and he’s like a hundred. So, he could keel over at any time. Or she could smother him with a pillow while he’s sleeping and no one would question his death since he’s so damn old. El homicidio perfecto.”

Zane shakes his head in disbelief. “The poor bastard who marries you had better sleep with one eye open.”

He’s not wrong, but still . . . rude! My phone chimes with a reminder. “Ooooo, Z, I gotta bolt. My beauty team awaits me at the spa.”

“Yeah, my lunch break is almost over, and Esteban’s got an afternoon shoot I need to prep. So, I’d better get to it.”

“Will you do me a favor?” I inquire before he can end the call.

“Need me to water your plants?”

“Nah, I’m sure they’re already dead. What I need is for you to proceed with caution where Sybil is concerned. And for the love of Dios, do not move anywhere near her. That would just be asking for trouble.”

“I’ll take it under advisement. Let me know when you’re back in Miami.”

“Will do. ¡Adiós!”

I disconnect the call and start tossing all my stuff into my straw tote bag.

“Señorita Alvarez . . .”

“Sí?” I raise my eyes to see my favorite poolside server, Alonso, bearing a silver tray with another coco loco on it.

“This drink is from an admirer who hopes you will accept it with his compliments.”

Free alcohol? Don’t mind if I do!

“Happy to, but I’ll have to take it to-go as I’m on my way to a spa appointment.”

Rising to my feet, I slip my cover-up over my head, which doesn’t really cover up much of anything since it’s a crochet tunic in the same vibrant color as my bikini with a fair amount of peekaboo action going on, then slide my feet into a pair of tan leather sandals.

“Gracias, Alonso.” I relieve him of the coconut and suck up enough of the icy cold cocktail to give me momentary brain freeze. When I’ve recovered, I lean into him and say, “Who sent this drink?”

He inclines his head to the side, indicating that I should look across the pool, where there’s a gentleman in a Panama hat lounging under a cabana. His hair is silver and his skin is so dark and crispy from the sun that he looks like one big melanoma. He raises his glass in the air, toasting me, and I return the gesture halfheartedly.

“Ew, he’s old enough to be my father,” I whisper to Alonso.

“I believe he does have a daughter about your age. Twenty-one, right?” He flashes me a flirtatious smile.

“Oh, Alonso, you flatter a girl. If I weren’t already spoken for . . .,” I flirt right back.

“Alas, it was not meant to be, señorita.”

“But we’ll always have the pool, won’t we? And our shared fondness for coco locos. Thank you for introducing me to these, by the way.” I take another sip of the cocktail. “I will be forever grateful.”

“El gusto es mio,” he assures me.

Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I say in parting, “Tell the old coot that while I appreciate the booze, I’m not in the market for a sugar daddy. So, he should seek his fun elsewhere.”

“He dared to dream, señorita. We cannot fault him for that. Of course, his wife would if she knew.”

“He’s married?” I feign shock. “The dirty dog! And here I thought his intentions were honorable.”

Alonso and I burst out laughing at the same time.