Exclusively Yours. Nadine Gonzalez
old enough. Put your big-girl panties on and go network like a boss.”
Leila sat on the edge of her bed. She fought the urge to crawl under her sheets.
Sofia was relentless. “Do I have to remind you how terrible your last quarter was?”
“No, you don’t.”
Since opening her agency nine months ago, Leila was stuck in the low-rent market, helping college grads find one-bedroom condos and getting newlyweds into starter homes. After a dismal holiday season, during which she’d had to take a cash advance from her AmEx card to give her one employee a bonus, she was at the end of her rope.
“You should be thanking me. What else do you have going on this weekend?”
“What weekend? It’s Thursday.”
“It’s Miami. The weekend started eight hours ago.”
Later, as she stepped from the shower, Leila strategized. She’d get in, canvas the place with business cards and get out. Hit and run. She brushed her coffee-colored hair and swept on lipstick with a sure hand. Her bedroom window let in very little sunlight, but tonight it framed a perfect full moon, the first of the new year. It called for more daring. She stood naked in front of her open closet and wondered when she, a third-runner-up Miss Naples USA, had become the girl who’d rather stay home with cheap wine than go to a party alone. I mean, come on!
She reached past her collection of standard little black dresses for a red lace dress so delicate it bordered on lingerie. It was tucked into the back of her closet, part of a forgotten wardrobe from a time when she’d dressed to look sexy instead of smart—a habit that had only landed her in trouble. Funny enough, the red dress was one of the most conservative of the lot. It was time to get her mojo back. Time to get noticed.
* * *
Things were well under way by the time Leila made it to Vizcaya. She entered the villa through an arched doorway and fell in awe. Despite living her entire life in Florida, this was her first visit to the private residence turned museum. She’d expected tasteful elegance, not this riot of gold leaf, tile and mosaics. But she loved it and suspected Marie Antoinette would’ve felt right at home.
She ventured out to the grand terrace and camped near a cigar-rolling station. A band was setting up. The guests came together, mingled and broke apart in a well-choreographed dance. Waiters in fedoras and white guayaberas paid homage with their uniforms to Cuba, Reyes’s birth country. And, surprise! All the extravagance was to celebrate the publication of the mogul’s first book, A New City: 7 Strategies for Urban Development. The cover featured a photo of Reyes dating back to when he’d had a full head of black hair. Copies were piled on bar height tables everywhere. Some served as makeshift coasters.
Leila spied a white-haired Reyes holding court in a remote corner, his young, pretty, third wife at his side. She knew better than try to approach him.
A familiar-looking brunette peeled away from his entourage. Leila looked to the sky, trying to remember. Paige... Paige Conner. They’d met at a charity fundraiser Sofia had forced her to attend. Was Paige in marketing or accounting? It didn’t matter. The king was inaccessible. A royal subject would have to do.
Moving quickly, she caught up with the brunette at the bar. Paige was chatting with a bartender with dimpled cheeks. Leila approached and, from a limited selection of red and white wines, ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Then, relying on her even more limited acting skills, she turned to Paige and cried, “Don’t I know you?”
Paige looked up, blinking in confusion. “Sure,” she said hesitantly, “we met at that thing, right?”
She appeared to be playing along out of courtesy or pity. Leila swallowed her pride and pushed forward. “Yes, that fundraiser thing.”
The bartender served their drinks. Paige had picked red. Raising her glass, she dismissed Leila with a polite smile. “Good seeing you!”
Leila scrambled to keep the conversation going. “I’m just glad to see a familiar face. I don’t know anyone here.”
Paige took a healthy sip of wine and asked, “But you’re having fun, right?”
“I’m not here for fun.” With no time to waste, she got straight to the point. “I was hoping to meet Reyes. I’m dying to work with him. The man is a visionary! He practically created the Design District. And that new building downtown...wow!”
Paige squinted. “What do you do again?”
“Wait one second.” She pretended to search her tiny purse for a business card and feigned relief to have found one. “Here you go.”
“‘Leila Amis,’” Paige read. “‘Licensed real estate broker.’”
“That’s me!” She sounded like an idiot.
“Okay. I know the deal,” Paige said wearily. “You want me to pass this along?”
“That would be great.”
“I’ll try to get this into the right hands, but the sales team has a rock-solid lineup, so...”
“I get it,” Leila said. “And, thanks.”
Paige dismissed her with a wave of the hand, turning her attention back to the bartender. Leila happily melted into the crowd and headed for the villa.
One down. One hundred to go...
A waiter approached with a tray of mojitos, each cocktail glass stuffed with mint leaves and garnished with a sugarcane stick. Leila gladly exchanged her traditional wine for the more exotic drink. Spanning the elegant loggia, she caught her reflection in a massive gold-framed mirror. She looked good, her brown skin shimmering in the light of the chandeliers, her eyes brilliant with excitement. What a confident party crasher! She looked like she was actually having fun. Using the mirror to spy on the crowd, she sipped her cocktail and searched for her next target.
That’s when she thought she saw him.
No big deal. He’d appear in crowds, only to vanish at closer inspection. Leila was used to it. He still lived in the ruin he’d made of her heart.
She glanced over her shoulder and the usually fleeting impression held. That chiseled face softened by a wave of brown hair... Who else could it be?
Standing only feet away and flanked by two admiring women, he towered over a small group. Leila’s reaction was physical. A cramp in her gut. When she spun around, the confident woman in the mirror was gone, replaced with someone new but sadly familiar. Her instincts told her to run.
She took off, slicing through the crowd on her way out to the terrace. The band started up, playing a languid bolero. Couples came together under the full January moon—a moon that now appeared to be mocking her.
What’s he doing in Miami?
The answer was irrelevant; she’d always known this day would come. But when she’d dreamed up scenarios in which they ran into each other—an airport terminal waiting to board international flights, a fabulous party very much like this one—she’d always managed to keep her cool. And now she looked around, disoriented, damn near hyperventilating. She’d reached the edge of the terrace. A vast, formal garden stretched out before her, drenched in darkness.
Taking a minute to weigh her options, Leila noticed something stuck to the sole of her stiletto. She checked. It was her business card stained red with wine.
Really?
It had been a mistake to come here. She had to get out. Fast. Maybe he hadn’t seen her? Maybe she could sneak out?
“I remember that dress.”
The long rope of “maybes” swung uselessly in the air around her.
“Please, I don’t want a scene.”
“Then you shouldn’t have worn that dress.”
Arrogant