Worried, I hand the baby girl to her father and slip out of the room. I stand against the wall across from the bathroom, and when Justine comes out with red cheeks and even redder eyes, she looks startled.

  “Justi. Come here.”

  She does. I open my arms, and she leans into me. I think about scrapping my Madrid plans and asking her to marry me right then and there, but wouldn’t it be bad form to do that to Diana, on the day she gives birth? Wouldn’t Justine want a day of her own to celebrate?

  “We’re going to get our chance, Justine. We will. Don’t worry.”

  She begins to shake, and I realize that she’s sobbing, her small body racked with emotion. I’ve never seen her cry like this, silent and fierce.

  I hug her tight because there’s nothing else I can do. I’ll make it all perfect in Madrid.

  19

  No Future

  “And why do you think the deal fell through?”

  Justine and I are in the jet, about twenty minutes from takeoff to Miami, and I’m talking to David on my cell.

  “Well…” he says, his voice hesitant.

  “Is it because of that son of a bitch?” Something in my tone makes Justine’s head snap up from her magazine and flash a concerned look. She’s sitting in one of the tan leather seats, and I’m pacing the small aisle.

  “I’d say it probably is.”

  I push out a breath. I don’t even have to say the name for David to know who I’m talking about.

  Jonathan Bates was a former business partner. We’d tried to break into South Florida’s affordable housing market together. At first, we’d been successful—we’d gotten a $350-million contract to build housing for senior citizens. Not only was it lucrative, but it was also altruistic—who didn’t want better and inexpensive housing for the elderly? I knew we could do the project right and give people a decent place to live in a city that’s one of the most unaffordable in the nation.

  Bates had been in charge of the construction contracts. Harvard-educated, he was five years older than me and looked like he would be more comfortable on a tennis court in New England, surrounded by the Kennedy family. He was as WASP-y as I was Cuban, and for a while, our differences worked in our favor.

  But after the project was underway, I’d learned that his veneer was just that—a shell of lies. He hadn’t graduated from Harvard; he’d merely taken a certificate course. His old-money attitude was also fake; he came from a middle-class family in Ohio. What he did have was charm in spades and the ability to talk himself into various situations. Which had served him well in Miami, where people didn’t ask questions as long as you were making them money.

  I did ask questions—too many. Suspicion mounted after I’d heard from various people in the industry that he was on the verge of doing shady things with construction contracts, government bond money, and tax credits. Things that would have gotten us both thrown into prison.

  So I’d bought him out and righted the ship before disaster struck. It was only later that I found out how close the company was to being embroiled in scandal, and I could have lost everything because of the corrupt judgment of one shithead.

  Bates, being the snake he is, had the balls to be offended that I’d released him from the project. Said I still owed him money and threatened to sue for defamation—something about how I’d tarnished his reputation in the community. I’d relished the chance to get him in court and show the world his unsavory business ethics, but so far, he hasn’t filed shit, and I’d largely forgotten about him.

  Trouble is, my association with him on that project had affected that branch of my company. Local governments hadn’t given me one affordable housing contract since, and I’m now having trouble with getting approval for a luxury condo. Bates has connections with officials at all levels in Miami, which makes me wonder whether he’s at the root of the lethargic pace of the permits. I’d been telling myself that it was just the Miami mayor’s unwillingness to build more high-rises, but now I’m thinking differently.

  “Fuck that guy. Do you think he’s somehow thwarting our offers? Talking shit to county and city regulators?” I ask David as I’m at the end of the aisle, facing the door to the bathroom.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s a possibility.”

  I hear someone clear a throat, and I turn. It’s the flight attendant, and he’s holding up both hands, signaling we’ve got ten minutes until take off.

  “Gotta run, David. We’ll discuss this in Madrid.”

  I walk up the aisle and lean over to Justine, pressing my lips to her cheek. I haven’t told her anything about Bates, figuring that she had enough worries with the paper.

  “You sure you want to go to this party tonight?” she asks.

  “Babe, we have to. I’ve donated too much money to be a no-show.” I crouch down next to her seat. “Don’t be nervous. You’re going to be gorgeous in that dress you picked out. I promise we’ll have fun. We’re together, right? That’s all that matters.”

  She looks at me with big, sad eyes, and I squeeze her knee. My Justine, so brave and fierce at work, but also so shy at times.

  I love every facet of this woman.

  * * *

  Justine isn’t relaxing.

  From her stiff posture to the deer-in-the-headlights look in her eyes, she clearly isn’t having the time of her life at this party. I mean, I’m not a fan of these, either. But I put on a smile and try. Part of me thinks I should have proposed before the party, so she’d have the ring to show off. But I don’t believe Justine cares about any of that, and I want to do it at the hotel in Madrid, in the moonlight, on the hotel balcony. Maria reserved the perfect room.

  Just us. As it’s always been and always will be.

  I kiss her temple as a warm breeze kicks up. I smell salty ocean and magnolias, along with Justine’s sweet perfume that I love. Combined, it’s the scent of home.

  “Ohhh, muñeca. Don’t be intimidated by these women. Don’t be afraid by Bethany. She’s harmless and actually quite nice. She goes to the islands a lot.”

  Justine shoots me a quizzical look. “The islands?”

  “Turks and Caicos. Bahamas. Bermuda. You might want to have lunch with her. She’s not as vapid as you think.” I inhale deep. We’re on a balcony of the hotel, and only a few other people are standing around and looking at the sparkling Miami skyline. “You should relax. Just breathe. Smell the sea? Isn’t it relaxing?”

  Two lines appear between Justine’s brows. “I hate when people tell me to relax. If it was that easy, I would have done it already.”

  Startled at her snappish tone, I raise an eyebrow at her. She’s really in an awful mood. I wonder if she’s on her cycle.

  “And don’t you dare suggest that I’m about to get my period.”

  I can’t help but chuckle as I hold up my hands in a surrender gesture. “How’d you read my mind?”

  That makes her laugh. Good, this is what she needs.

  “Sorry to be a bitch. Which one was Bethany?”

  “The brunette. Bethany Hewitt. The one you were talking with, the one who said I’d be a good husband.”

  Justine mumbles something unintelligible and finishes her drink.

  “You have absolutely nothing to be jealous about. You’re gorgeous, you’re brilliant, and you’re mine. And I’m yours,” I murmur into her ear.

  She pulls back and stares at me. I think she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t.

  “Why do you look like you’re going to cry?” Cupping her face, I kiss her. “You feel a little clammy. Maybe you’re getting sick. Half of the paper was sick last week, so I think you’ve caught something.”

  She nods mournfully, and I press a hand to her forehead. Dios, I don’t want her to be sick while I’m away. Or sick when she comes to Madrid. I scowl. “Yeah, let’s get you home. C’mon. I want you to get some sleep.”

  She doesn’t move and remains silent, staring over the balcony rail at the city.

  “Oh shit. I know what you’re upset about. You’re worried about us being apart.”

  This makes her nod twice.

  “I want you to come to Madrid in a couple of weeks. I’ve been waiting to surprise you with the plan.”

  She looks startled. “What? I can’t get away from the paper that long. That’s ridiculous.” She lets out a long breath.

  “As your business partner, I’m advising you to do so.”

  A faint smile crosses her lips, but as I call for the car service, I’m wondering why she’s not more animated at the idea of joining me in Europe, in a place we both love. I’m sure she’ll warm up to the idea once I tell her about the hotel suite and the other things I have planned.

  And once she’s there, surely the three-and-half-karat engagement ring will put a smile back on her face.

  * * *

  It’s four hours later, and I’m sitting on my sofa in the dark. The living room is illuminated only by the light of the moon, a pitiful, wan glow instead of the brilliant, silver sheen over the water that I’d come to love.

  I’m drinking whiskey, wondering where the fuck everything went wrong.

  There’s no proposal.

  No Justine.

  No future.

  I rake my hand through my hair. I bared my soul and told her everything. She knows how her father tried to bribe me, how I hoarded her photos for my pleasure, how desperate and craving I’ve been for her all these years.

  And still, she rejected me.

  I down the last of the whiskey. I’m as close to sobbing as I’ve ever been in my life—and I don’t think I’ve cried since I was on that boat with my uncle thirty years ago. No, that’s not true. I nearly cried when she left the first time.

  Nearly. And I’m even closer now.

  My breath comes in a shudder, and I think back to that first goodbye and the painful weeks that preceded it. It’s the only detail Justine doesn’t know, and now it doesn’t matter.

  I’d driven to St. Augustine to see her father after she’d had the miscarriage. Edward had insisted on having lunch in a greasy diner instead of a proper restaurant. Stupidly, I’d sought his blessing to marry her. Thought I’d do things nice and legit.

  “I’ve only ever wanted Justine’s happiness,” I’d told him. “It’s my only goal in life, to be successful so that she can live well.”

  Edward had sipped his sweet tea, then cleared his throat. “You seem like an ambitious young man. I’m sure you’ll do fine in life. But, Rafael, I’m old-fashioned. I think that people should marry their own kind. Cubans with Cubans, Southern girls with Southern men.”

  I’d wanted to cold-cock him. If it hadn’t been for Justine, if it hadn’t been for the miscarriage, I would have. I’d have laid him flat on the floor in that greasy diner and kicked him until he resembled the steak on his plate.

  “I’m going to think about this, Rafael. I’ll get back to you with my answer. I never respond to an important question on the same day.”

  I’d held my anger inside, feeling my heart race in a way it never had before. “I can respect that, sir. I want your approval because I know it’ll be important for Justine. I love her more than anything.”

  We’d eaten in silence, and Edward had glanced at me. I’d never understood the phrase “looking down his nose” until that moment. It was a haughty, arrogant expression.

  “Here’s a question. I was planning on asking Justine to someday take over the paper. It was supposed to be her brother’s responsibility, but you know about that tragedy. What will happen when she takes it over? She has a great allegiance to the Times and our family legacy here in St. Augustine. Will you want to leave Miami?”

  “I’ll help her,” I’d said quietly. “Anything she wants, I’ll do.”

  Edward had smirked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you have the acumen to run a newspaper. Selling a few condos in Miami doesn’t make you a businessman.”

  Just wait and see, you old cracker. Wait. And. See.

  I let out a laugh-sob as I pour myself another drink. Edward’s check had come in the mail the following week. It had made me more determined than ever to succeed. To win the world.

  And now that I’ve won everything, it means nothing.

  I lay back on the hard, modern leather sofa and sling my arm over my eyes. My skin is pulsing, beats of shame and anger. I’m leaving in only six short hours, and I’d hoped that I’d be going to Madrid with the promise of Justine’s love.

  I rise, stiffly. Stripping off my clothes as I walk to the bedroom, I’m naked by the time I open the door.

  Justine’s still on the bed in her red gown, her vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling. The sadness on her face makes my heart feel as though it’s in a vice grip.

  I need to taste her, kiss her, enter her, one last time. I pause, one knee on the bed, so she can say no if she wants and send me back to the sofa. Instead, she sits up, takes off her dress, and reaches her hand to me.

  “Please. We’re not over, are we? I don’t want to lose you.” She’s pleading with her eyes.

  Why is she doing this to me? Why is she jerking me around, manipulating me, not accepting that my business is more important? I know I’m an asshole for thinking this, and even in my drunken, miserable state, I’m self-aware enough not to say that out loud.

  I try to silence her by claiming her mouth in a deep kiss but stop when she shivers in a breath.

  “I can’t lose you.” Her blue eyes are watery. I kiss her again, this time less angry. I run my tongue over her velvet-soft bottom lip.

  Could this be any fucking harder? I want her, all of her, for the rest of my life. And nothing less. I all but begged her, and she turned me down. I lift my head and stare at her. “I don’t know. I think I need to let you go, mi cielo, for my own sanity. I need to find happiness. I can’t be tormented or obsessed with you anymore. I need to find love somewhere. I want a healthy, normal relationship.”

  “But maybe we can do a long-distance relationship. Come to St. Augustine. Live with me.”

  “My life is here. And you don’t want me in your life that badly. You don’t want to make any concessions for me. You don’t want to give up what you have in St. Augustine.”

  “But you need to understand why. It’s not for me. It’s for everyone who works at the paper. It’s for the paper itself. For my profession. I can’t close my business. It’s too important for the city.”

  I stare at her.

  She’s sobbing now, ugly-crying. “So this is it?”

  I don’t know the answer. Or maybe I fear my response.

  With a rough tug, I strip away her panties and slide my fingers between her legs.

  A little cry escapes her lips as I drag my fingers over her pussy. She’s not as wet as she usually is, but a few strokes later, we’re capturing each other’s breath, my fingers are buried inside her, and she’s melting and creamy.

  I nestle between her legs. This is the last time, the last moment I’ll consume her. She’s saying my name, and I glance up. Tears are streaming from the corners of her eyes.

  “Justi…” I move up her body, needing to look at her, to touch instead of lick. Her eyes flutter shut, and she frowns when her orgasm takes over. It’s sick how much I want her, how much I need her, and how I can’t have her.

  By the time I bury myself deep in her and whisper I love you, I can’t tell if the tears on her face are from her or me.

  20

  All Wrong

  “Dude, you look like shit.”

  I cut a glance at David, who’s across from me at a table on the terrace of the Hotel Atlántico. I’m in a foul mood because the people at the table next to us are smoking. Everyone smokes in Spain. Or perhaps everything is annoying me tonight.

  “Thanks. I appreciate your honesty.”

  “Didn’t you sleep on the plane? I slept like a baby in business class. Those new pods on American are like a cradle. A couple of drinks and bam!” David snaps his fingers. “I’m out like a baby.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ve slept in forty-eight hours. Or more. I can’t remember.”

  On the plane, I’d seethed and argued with Justine in my head for a solid five hours until we’d landed in London. There, I’d tried to focus on business, barking orders on the phone for two hours before catching a flight to Madrid. Usually, I blasted through jetlag. Tonight I feel like a bull has run roughshod over my body.

  “Someone’s in a mood,” said my assistant, Maria, when I’d snapped at her during my London layover.

  “It’s not you. Sorry. I apologize. You don’t know the half of it,” I’d growled.

  Once I’d arrived at the hotel in Madrid’s city center, I’d thought I could get some shuteye. But when I read the email from Justine, my heart had practically jumped out of my chest.

  Then I’d gotten mad.

  I’d cursed her, called her names, deleted her number form my phone.

  Then I’d restored it, because of course, I know it by heart.

  I’d tried to sleep for a few hours but was too wound up. Now it’s ten at night, an hour or so before people come alive in Spain. We’re among a handful of people on the terrace, and I’m glad I wore a leather jacket because it’s cold compared to Florida. I shoot a glare at the smokers.

  “I feel like death.”

  David gives me a know-it-all look. “Let me guess. Justine?”

  I nod grimly and wave down a waiter. “I told her I couldn’t see her anymore.” The waiter stops at our table, and I order a beer.

  David narrows his eyes. “What? Why? Last I talked to you about Justine, which was—when? Yesterday? The day before? Everything’s blending together with the building contract negotiations. Anyway, you said everything was great between you two. What the fuck happened?”

  “I was going to propose.”

  David’s jaw drops. “What? Jesus, you move fast. Marriage? She said no to a marriage proposal?”

  I make a pfft sound. “No. I didn’t even get that far. Things went sideways when I asked her to close the paper and come live with me in Miami. That happened when we went to the islands last weekend. I’d assumed she was giving the idea some thought and would come around eventually. But then in Miami, she said no and refused to close the paper or leave St. Augustine.”

 

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