Moments In Time: A Collection of Short Fiction (24 page)

“Okay .
 . .” I started, feeling a little bit uneasy. “What do you want to know?”

When he picked up my left hand in his and raised it to eye level, my skin immediately began tingling.

“You’re married. Why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”

My chin jerked down. “How do you know I’m married?”

“Tan line,” he said. “You live somewhere where you get a lot of sun, and normally you wear your ring. But here you don’t. Why?”

I looked at my hand, at the sun spots and faint lines and a tiny splice of lightened skin where my ring usually was. “I don’t know. I was in the water so much, I took the ring off. I guess I haven’t put it back on. It’s on my dresser.”

“I see,” he said.

I frowned. “It’s true.”

“I believe you. I was just curious.”

I eyed his bare left hand. “Are you married?”

“Nope,” he said with a smile. “I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

“I’m glad you know that,” I said solemnly as clouds momentarily blocked the sun. “Men aren’t cut out for it. But so many think they are.”

I knew he could tell I was talking from personal experience, but luckily he let it go. He cleared his throat. “Is that what you wanted to know? If I was available?”

The silky way he said “available” sent a rush of blood through me. “No. What business are you in? I mean, unless you’re a CIA agent and you’d have to kill me first.”

“I’m Mexican,” he said. “The closest thing we have to the CIA
is
the CIA.”

I stared at him with impatience until he continued.

“I’m in the import and export business.”

I raised a brow. “Of?”

“Drugs.”

I froze. He couldn’t be serious. Of course he wasn’t. If you were involved in importing and exporting drugs, you didn’t just tell a stranger that.

And that was when the hairs at the back of my neck danced. He wasn’t joking, was he? I stared at him, afraid to see the truth in his eyes, but his scars and that glimmer of burning darkness within told me otherwise.

He was a drug dealer. He was part of a cartel. An actual fucking Mexican drug cartel.

I tried to swallow, feeling like there was a lump in my throat. “Oh,” I said stupidly.

“Are you afraid of me now?” he asked with intensity.

I squared my shoulders and looked him in the eye. “No more than I was before.”

“I saved your life, you know,” he said. “You shouldn’t fear someone who won’t let you die.”

“Why not?” I countered. “They might love granting something and then taking it away.”

“Lani,” he said, and my name never sounded so sweet. “You don’t trust me because you don’t trust yourself.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know you’re in an unhappy marriage. That you’re struggling to find your art again. That you feel this life holds nothing for you anymore, and you think that you’re doing your husband and the world a favor if you just .
 . . disappeared.”

I hated the way he—this stranger, this fucking drug dealer—thought he knew me.

“You’re wrong,” I lied.

“Then why are you here, with me, now, looking to find those shadows?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I didn’t even know what to say.

Esteban reached out and touched my arm gently. My skin buzzed under his fingers, feeling alive, as if it had been nothing but dead cells before.

“Some fear will kill you,” he said. “Some fear will open your eyes. I know all about the difference.”

I let out a shaky breath. He was getting under my skin and his occupation didn’t help the situation. Still, I found myself asking, “So, what are you doing on Kauai?”

He smiled and removed his hand. “Ah, the million-dollar question. How about I tell you about it over dinner?”

I smiled warily. “Is that code for ‘dump my body somewhere afterward’?”

“I told you,” he said breezily, clapping his hands together, “that isn’t my intention. You took a chance on coming here today, didn’t you?”

I looked away, letting the scenery fill my sight. “I did.”

“And it was worth it, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, still not used to the competing feelings of fear and exhilaration running through me. “It was.”

“Come on then,” he said, stepping away from me and jerking his head toward the parking lot. The golden strands in his surfer hair caught the sunlight that was piercing through fast-moving clouds. “Let’s get you home, get you rested. Maybe when I pick you up tonight, you’ll be splattered with paint. That would make me very happy.”

That would have made
me
very happy. I followed him to the bike and shot one last glance at the kaleidoscope of greens that tinted the lush cliffs. I couldn’t imagine recreating such beauty, but I knew in my heart I was about to try.

CHAPTER FOUR

It wasn’t that I didn’t think there was something wrong with the scenario. It was more like what
wasn’t
wrong with the scenario. Everything that had happened since the day I almost drowned had been nothing but wrong. Never mind my mental state, the thoughts of hopelessness, desperation, and despair. Never mind those shadows that trailed inky fingers over my skin and tried to pull me back under, to let everything go and forget.

There was Esteban, a total stranger, who had admitted to me that he was part of a drug cartel. He had rescued me in ways that were not just lucky but calculated. Nothing was accidental when it came to him. Then there was the fact that I willingly let him whisk me away to a perilous place, all while on the back of a motorcycle. And of course the fact that I had agreed to go to dinner with him.

Perhaps that was the most troubling part of all. I was a married woman—an unhappily married woman, as he so astutely pointed out—but a married one, nonetheless. My marriage vows at this point were no more sacred than my own life, but they still meant something, which in turn meant there was something so very wrong about agreeing to go to dinner with another man.

And yet, despite all these things, all the things that were red flags waving as obnoxiously as a matador’s cape, I wasn’t worried.

Why?

Because when Esteban came to pick me up later that night, I was in the backyard painting the last rays of the sunset. Streaks of pink, gold, and purple were in the sky and on my canvas and dotted on my white T-shirt. I was touched by color.

“That’s beautiful,” he commented, surprising me with his presence.

I only briefly looked over my shoulder at him, too afraid to take my eyes off the scene. A few doves cooed in the nearby bushes, and I wished I could add audio to my painting.

“I suppose you just waltzed into my house?” I asked mildly.

“Yes, sorry about that. I knocked a few times, but there was no response. I did tell you seven, didn’t I?”

“You did,” I said. I dabbed a bit of ochre on the horizon. “But I lost track of time.”

“And I’m glad to see it.” I heard him walk down the back steps and toward me. The chickens that had been pecking at the ground clucked and ran back through the hole in the fence in a flurry of feathers. I felt him stop right behind my back. “Should I come back later, Lani? Or perhaps, not at all?”

There was an edge, a coldness to his last words, as if he was hurt. It was absurd to think that a member of a drug cartel could feel slighted.

I sighed and carefully rested my paintbrush on the easel’s ledge. Then I turned around and brushed my hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand, careful not to get any paint on my face. “I’m sorry,” I said and offered him a shy smile. “This light is disappearing anyway. I was about to wrap it up. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

He smiled in return, his greenish eyes softening. It was only then that I realized he cleaned up really well. Gone were the board shorts; instead he was wearing gray slacks and a short-sleeved white dress shirt with the first two buttons undone, his skin glowing gold. His hair was tamed by what looked like gel, and he’d shaven. His look was elegant and casual all at the same time, and had it not been for the scarring on his face, that constant reminder of his job, I would have thought he was like any well-dressed man out there.

But he wasn’t like everyone else. Wasn’t that why I picked up the paintbrush?

True to my word, I washed up quickly until the only traces of paint were lines of lavender caught in my cuticles. Then I touched up my makeup and slipped on a plain yellow shift dress. I debated on bringing a cardigan, but today was a few degrees warmer than normal, and I knew the evening would be just as balmy. I had no idea if we were going to a fancy restaurant, but this was Kauai and I had to assume that my flip-flops would be tolerated.

I walked out into the kitchen where Esteban was drinking a glass of white wine. I’d told him to help himself; I just didn’t think he’d be so literal about it.

“You look beautiful,” he said, his gaze raking over me.

I plucked the wineglass from his hands and took a sip. “Thank you.” His eyes never left my lips. It should have made me feel uncomfortable, but it didn’t. Though I knew if this kept up, the way he was looking at me, it eventually would. “Shall we get going?”

“With those shoes?” he asked, pointing at my Reefs. “You might lose them on the bike.”

I smiled wryly and put down the glass, then picked up my purse from the counter. “I’m pretty good at keeping articles of clothing on.” He opened his mouth to say something but I went on. “We’ll take my Jeep. You just give me directions.”

He appraised me for a moment, running his fingers along his dimpled chin. “All right. Nothing wrong with the woman calling the shots.”

I rolled my eyes and we headed out to the car.

Though the restaurant ended up being close by, in the Princeville Resort where he was staying, being in a car with Esteban was more challenging than the motorcycle ride. I felt the need to keep the conversation going, but I wasn’t sure how. The things I really wanted to talk about seemed inappropriate, and the way he stared at me didn’t help either.

“You seem nervous,” he said with an elbow propped up, leaning casually against the door.

I raised my brows. “I’m not nervous.”

“You keep biting your lip.”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“You’ve gotten funnier, you know that?”

I eyed him quickly. “Since when?”

“Since this morning.”

“You don’t know me very well. I’m often funny.”

“Maybe in a past life. In this life, you’ve been nothing but sad.”

When I shot him a look, he smiled. “It’s all right, hey? You started painting. That made you happy. That’s a start.”

I tightened my grip on the wheel. The generic rock from the radio station hummed in the background. I was about to bite my lip but stopped, suddenly conscious.

Then I looked back to the road and cleared my throat. “You make it sound like you had something to do with it.”

I could tell he was smiling when he said, “I just wanted you to be inspired. It worked.”

“And tonight, is this the same thing?”

“You’re awfully suspicious,” he said. “I’ve saved your life, twice, brought back your inspiration for your art, and now I’m about to buy you an extraordinary meal.”

“And that’s it?”

He laughed. “Sure. That’s it. I’ll tell you this, though, the meal doesn’t have to be the only .
 . . ,” he paused, “
extraordinary
thing to happen tonight.”

The silken quality to his words conjured up an image in my mind of me facedown in some swanky hotel room, with him removing my thong, dragging it down my legs with the tip of a 9mm handgun. I don’t know why I conjured up that scene, but I found myself blanking on it, heat flushing on my chest and cheeks. I squirmed slightly in my seat.

“Does that interest you?” he said, his voice lower now.

I had to pretend that it didn’t, even though my body was currently screaming the opposite.

“Dinner sounds wonderful,” I said.

He smiled. “Good, good.”

Soon we pulled up to the restaurant, and the valet took the jeep. Esteban held out his arm for me, and I hesitated for a moment before I took it.

The restaurant was beautiful, swanky in this beachy way with low lighting, sand-colored tablecloths, and dark teak furniture. A centerpiece of frangipani floated in a small dish lit by candles.

We were given an amazing seat, right by the edge, where the restaurant was open to the ocean. You could hear the steady roar of waves as they crashed against the cliffs in the darkness below. It was a dramatic and appropriately primal setting for someone like Esteban.

“Are you impressed?” he asked, a wicked curve to his mouth.

I nodded, knowing he must have requested the table especially for me, for
us
. I couldn’t fathom why, though. He did know I was married, though he probably figured if it was that important to me, I wouldn’t have come. There was nothing innocent or accidental about us being together anymore, not with the way my thoughts were turning toward him anyway, and he knew it.