Behind Her Smile (3 page)

“Maybe this is the year you finally have more than one drink a night,” Dora teases.

“I could be convinced to bump it up to two drinks,” I return. Dora bugs me to get wasted with her every time we go out, but I insist on being the designated driver-slash-chaperone-slash-whatever excuse gets me out of drinking. Losing all my inhibitions is not my thing. I’d rather be in control than allow alcohol to dictate how I act.

Wiggling my toes, I settle deeper in the chair. Because we “know somebody,” there were two chairs reserved for us at the edge of the pool. We’re in direct view of the brilliant Florida sun rays and the people watching. “This year, I’m going to make more time for fun.”

“You’ve been saying that every year since we met. Why don’t I believe it now? Especially since our senior projects are due in the spring. A twelve-style fashion show doesn’t come together magically. Knowing your work ethic, you’ll hardly ever leave our apartment,” Dora gripes.

“Okay. Yes, I’ve been a stickler for schoolwork–”
not to mention the two jobs I hold so that I can live in the apartment with Dora
“–but I’m going to be different this time around.”

“How’s that?” Dora drawls with undisguised disbelief.

“Surprisingly, there’s not much to do in Spring Lake, Florida. I finished the first draft of my collection over the break. Professor Eubanks agreed to meet with me the first week of classes. I’m already ahead of the game. There will be plenty of time to socialize and have a real college experience,” I explain.

Dora lifts a hand to shade her gaze while she surveys the pool. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Come on, have a little faith in me.”

“I would if you weren’t—oh, my gosh.” She gasps in a breath.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Scrambling up onto my elbows, I look over at my friend. She stares across the turquoise pool with her mouth hanging open. Quickly, Dora snaps her jaw shut and settles back into her seat.

“Don’t look!” she hisses.

“Look at what?”

“Those guys talking to my dad. Holy sex in the sun.”

Nonchalantly, I swipe my oversized sunglasses from my tote and perch them on my nose. Then I settle back into the chair, feigning an unaffected relaxation. Safely behind the dark frames, I let my gaze roam toward Mr. Gold.

Which one of these is not like the other?
I have to bite my lip to stifle my smile. Dora’s dad looks out of place seated with the two gentlemen underneath a sun-shielding white umbrella at the cocktail lounge. He’s short and balding with a generous, paunchy gut. While his companions sit relaxed, Mr. Gold gesticulates wildly, as his daughter does when she’s flustered, embarrassed, or anxious.

The three men sit around a square-top table facing the water. None of them has a drink, although another waiter dressed in white hovers a few feet away, waiting for instruction. Mr. Gold sits between the younger men. Despite his impassioned speech, neither one pays much attention. Both are handsome, one with a fair coloring, the other much darker.

An angel and a devil. The comparison pops into my mind.

The one with lighter hair carries himself with an aristocratic arrogance; his expression is far more pleasant than the darker man’s is. The darker man’s appearance screams danger. Instinctively, I know he’s trouble. He has olive skin and unruly deep brown locks pushed off his forehead. Dark brows slash across his forehead. From this far away, I can’t tell for certain, but it looks like his nose has been broken a few times. Thick stubble covers his chin and the space above his lips. The man has one leg crossed casually over the other, bored fingers drumming an unknown beat on the table. Despite his laidback body language, this man cannot hide the sort of unwavering prowess he possesses.

Delicious
and, of course, way out of my league. From across the pool, I can tell they’re wearing expensive, designer threads. Guessing age has never been one of my strengths, but I would say they are around ten years older than my twenty-one. And if they’re doing business with Dora’s father, they’re definitely part of the upper echelon of society.

“Come on. We’re going over there,” Dora says suddenly.

“No. I don’t think so. No. Why would we do that?”

Dora pulls her gauzy, white cover-up on over her string bikini and gives me her classic
are you really asking me this
face. “Two hot guys talking to my dad. It’s the perfect in. Now let’s get a move on while they’re still sitting there.”

Scrambling, I tug on an aquamarine tank dress I fashioned to wear over a bathing suit. Dora’s already a few paces ahead of me with her head held high. Her corkscrew sable curls bounce with each step, hips swishing with feminine pride. In our friendship, Dora’s the fearless one and I’m the one looking before I leap. She glances over her shoulder and inconspicuously signals for me to hurry up.

“I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’re the hot one,” she grumbles. “God, what I would do to get my hands on the one in the blue shirt.” The angel—er—the man with lighter hair.

Wisely, I keep my mouth shut. This is a conversation Dora and I have had too many times to count. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see anything special—straight, boring brown hair, chocolate eyes, and a body that’s perpetually too thin. As a girl, I was bullied for my waif-like frame because I was unable to put on weight. Dora complains about my slender physique, wishing she could drop a few pounds. Meanwhile, I would do anything to add curves to my figure. Anytime I mention this to Dora, she snaps at me, arguing that thin girls should
never
complain. But I think we’re all trying to learn to the love who we are. And I find myself wanting what I don’t have, romanticizing whatever I think I’m lacking. Whether it be a curvy backside or a doting father . . .

Obediently, I follow Dora around the potted plants to where her dad and his company are sitting.

“Girls, I forgot you were here today,” Mr. Gold says and pushes to his feet. A sheen of perspiration glistens on his forehead, probably a combination of the heat and whatever deal he’s trying to close with his present company.

“Thank you for inviting me here, Mr. Gold,” I say quickly. “It’s such a treat to spend time at your hotel.”

“Call me Ira, Karolina.” He pats my shoulder with a clammy hand, and I grin back at him.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad,” Dora says quickly though her eyes are trained on the blond man.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” Her dad slings an arm around Dora’s shoulders, hugging her to his side. My friend stifles a grimace. This show of familial love doesn’t fit with her planned seduction. No matter, Dora always finds a way to get what she wants.

“Our reservation is all set for the bar here tonight?” she asks innocently, but really, I know she wants her father’s companions to know we’re spending our evening at the hotel’s rooftop club.

“Of course, sweetheart. My assistant took care of all that.”

“We’re being so rude! Please forgive me. I’m Dora, his only daughter. This is my friend, Karolina.” Under her father’s grasp, Dora smiles demurely.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m David Morgan.” It’s the blond one speaking. His voice is silky smooth, entrancing. I’ll admit it; he’s sexy. But Dora set her sights on him, and I wouldn’t dare cross the unwritten rules of girl code by trying to get David’s attention. With well-practiced grace, he stands. He speaks in response to Dora, but his gaze is focused on me. He captures my hand and his forefinger strokes my wrist, sending shivers down my spine. Startled, I jolt at his touch.

“N-nice to meet you, too,” I say with all the class of a prepubescent tween. The lack of finesse doesn’t bother the sophisticated man. He smiles obligingly at me while I feel the burn of my best friend’s glare.
She wants this one
, I remind myself, all but yelling dibs when we approached the table.

Jerking my hand away, I shift awkwardly on my feet and turn my gaze to the darker man. He’s watching me pensively, still drumming those fingers on the table. Now standing closer, I’m able to study him. If I shivered at the touch of the angel, I’m all but frozen solid by this devil. Unlike his more pleasant counterpart, this man smirks my way as if he sees straight through me. He’s no gentleman, although he does push up from his seat to greet Dora and me. He’s almost the exact opposite of the blond man. He doesn’t play by the rules, and he doesn’t care who he offends.

“Alec,” he says, nodding his head in my direction. Whereas David is silk, Alec is velvet—rough with a gravelly voice and no pretense of good manners. Dora giggles at something David says, jerking me out of my trance.

I take another step backward, wanting to fade into the background. These men intimidate me. They’re model gorgeous and obviously well-connected businessmen. Next to them, I’m a kid from the wrong side of the county line.

“Well, we’re back to tanning. Got to get all that sun in before school starts on Monday,” Dora chirps. She kisses her father on the cheek though she’s watching David purposefully the entire time.

“Nice to meet you,” I mumble again then twirl around.

“God, I thought he looked familiar, but I had no idea that was David Morgan. Do you think he’ll meet up with us tonight? I’m going to need to look extra hot. He’s grade A real estate. The best of the best in Miami—rich, single, and sinfully sexy,” Dora says.

He’s a person, not a commodity.
If I were to reprimand Dora, she would be severely pissed. Yes, she’s going to college to get a degree in photography, but her number one goal is to find a wealthy husband. That’s not just me being bitchy; Dora’s told me drunk, sober, high, and low that she needs a man to take care of her. This won’t be the first time I follow along with Dora on a scheme to get a man. I can’t pinpoint why, but I’m relieved she set her sights on David and not Alec. That man would swallow her up and spit her out like a piece of chewing tobacco.

“Never heard of him,” I admit.

Dora rolls her eyes but links our arms together. “Of course, you haven’t. That’s why I love you. The gossip columns haven’t tainted you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“The Morgan family is huge in Miami. Huge. If there’s old money in this city, they’re it. Their business is finance,” Dora gushes, her face practically lit with dollar signs. “They have two sons—David and his younger brother, Chandler. Most eligible bachelors in the city. Hell, the state. Marrying one of them would be like scoring a classic Chanel bag on sale—unheard of. You’ll help me get ready, right?” She nibbles on her lower lip anxiously, training her puppy dog eyes up at me. I’m not tall by any means, but next to the vertically challenged Dora, I’m a long-legged, bony giraffe.

“Do you really need to ask? But first, we need to get bronzed. Everyone looks better with a sunny glow.” Nudging her with my shoulder, I lead her back toward the lounge chairs. From this angle, I hope Dora can’t see the expression I’m smothering.

Another day, another quest to find her husband.

Moonlight bathes the open-air club. Dim mood lighting and alcohol makes the club goers more attractive than in the harsh light of day. Bass cuts through the writhing bodies like rumbling thunder. From my perch on a stiff silver couch, I watch Dora unsuccessfully try to peer through the crowd covertly. Her brows are pinched together, and she looks like she just ate a lemon whole.

“He’s not coming,” she shouts in my direction. Disappointment drips off every word.

The he in question is David Morgan.

“It’s not like he said he would.” I bend down closer to her ear so she can hear me above the thump of the club.

Dora glares in my direction. “You didn’t see the intimate eye contact we shared. David was definitely feeling me, and I even reminded him we’d be here tonight. Twice.” She leans across our reserved table, swipes her vodka soda, and gulps down a swallow. It’s not as if we haven’t received any attention; we are sitting in a VIP spot that overlooks the dance floor. Men and even some women have floated by our table, engaging Dora and me in conversation in an attempt for an invitation to share our massive bottle of Grey Goose. The tally is my one drink to Dora’s four.

The plunging neckline of her black jersey dress reveals more skin than it covers. There’s no question that my friend is dressed to nab a Morgan.

“Shit, shit, shit,” she suddenly hisses. Dora’s long, pointy red nails bite into my thigh when she squeezes my skin. “He’s here, and he’s brought his brother. Quick, start talking to me and pretend like you don’t see them.”

“It won’t be pretending because I don’t see them.” Dora and I are looking in opposite directions; I’m sitting sideways on the sofa, and she has a full frontal view of the action ahead of us. Meanwhile, I have my body angled toward Dora, trying not to check to make sure my outfit is still in place. I fiddle with the braid I snaked down one shoulder.

“This is so awkward,” I complain. “If you want to talk to David, go up to him.”

“No! Men like the chase. They don’t want you following them around like a little kid. It’s like you know absolutely nothing about dating,” Dora snipes.

“Or friendship because I thought best friends were supposed to be nice to each other,” I retort, suddenly pissed off. Clubs aren’t my scene and neither is gold digging. I twist in my seat and grab for my clutch. “Look, Dora, we’ve been here for hours and–”

“Wait.” She grabs my wrist, widening her sky blue eyes to puppy dog status. “You’re right. I’m being a bitch. I’m sorry. Please just stay a few more minutes. No more than thirty. That will be the end of stalking David Morgan. I promise.”

With a sigh, I drop my purse and slink back against the rough material of the couch. I have a hard time saying no to anyone. Chronic people pleaser syndrome follows me wherever I go. “Fine. After thirty minutes, I’m out of here.”

“Deal. Thank you.”

Dora plumps her curly hair, gone massively frizzy in the sticky night air. Shamelessly, she glances down at her chest to adjust her breasts the way she wants them.

Wool—no—linen or maybe some combination of the two fabrics brushes against my bare arm, and I jerk in surprise.

The angel.

David Morgan’s pearly white, ruler-straight teeth and golden hair remind me of one of those Renaissance paintings of the saints coming down from heaven. The man looks so kind, especially compared to the devilishly handsome Alec. I wonder if he is here, too.