Private Acts Page 5

  “I said don’t move,” he muttered, reaching for her, but only grabbed air. She slipped away, and helplessly, he watched her rush out the gate away from him.

  Forcing his voice into neutral, Miguel answered before the voice mail picked up again.

  * * * *

  Samirah tiptoed into the quiet house. She could smell whatever the Hills had eaten for dinner in the air. She didn’t bother to check the refrigerator to see what was left over because food was the last thing on her mind. Quietly, she moved through the house to her quarters and closed the door. Leaning back against it, she let out a heavy breath and lowered her lids. Never had she wanted a man so much. The mere thought of not having him caused a physical ache as basic as hunger or thirst.

  Tossing her package on the sofa, Samirah went into the bathroom and took a quick, cold shower. Feeling refreshed, she put on a clean pair of underwear and a tank top she used to sleep in and climbed into bed. She burrowed under the covers, as if they could protect her from her thoughts. The frigid temperature of the water hadn’t sufficed. Since the night was still young, maybe she could sleep off her horniness.

  Saved by the ring, she thought with disgust. Was she really so weak and impulsive she would have had sex with him? So far she hadn’t lived up to any of her promises. She hadn’t stayed out of trouble, and she’d come close to having sex.

  She’d never run from her sexuality before, but dammit, this trip was about taking a break and getting to know herself better—the opportunity to regroup and assess her life going forward. She wasn’t getting any younger and needed to think seriously about her future. She couldn’t jaunt across the globe forever. Time to start thinking long term, about serious issues like kids and how she would support herself in her old age.

  She thought back to her first experience abroad alone, when she’d decided to do her Le Cordon Bleu externship in Italy. She hadn’t slowed down since then, wanting to see the world and visit places other than the Caribbean where most of her maternal family lived. Ten years later, she felt the hankering for something more permanent.

  Turning onto her side, she glanced at the clock on the bedside table and realized only a few minutes had passed since she last looked at it. It seemed more like twenty hours.

  She tossed again, staring up at the ceiling, and wished she could stop thinking about what had happened between her and Miguel. Now that she’d felt his hands, she couldn’t rein in the ideas that trotted through her mind. Her thoughts skittered to the memory of their embrace, of her pinned against the wall as he kissed her. His touch had been so good, so intoxicating, it remained stamped into her psyche like indelible ink.

  What would it feel like if he buried his fingers in her hair, yanking her head back to force her to submit to whatever…?

  Samirah swallowed and kicked off the sheet in frustration. The night was no warmer than any other since her arrival, but the heat generated by her thoughts made her uncomfortably hot. With trembling fingers that reflected the tumultuous emotions rushing through her, Samirah dragged the tank over her head and tossed it onto the floor in the darkness. Her taut nipples rubbed against the cotton sheets, the torturous friction making her moan until she had to cup her breasts in her soothing palms to ease the throbbing pain.

  She just needed to take the edge off, that was all.

  She slipped her fingers below the waistband of her panties to stroke the swollen flesh between her legs. They glided through the slick cream, and she pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her moans. Panting, she worked her hips, imagining Miguel touching her, getting her off, stroking her just right with his long fingers.

  “Oh,” she moaned aloud.

  She clutched her breast and pinched the nipple between her fingers, on the very breast he’d tortured with his thumb. She continued to stroke and apply pressure between her legs. The mounting tension made her pants come harsher and faster. Release came hard, flooding her body in pleasure. Squeezing her eyes tight, she let out a loud gasp, turning her head to groan into the pillow as she grinded her hips against her palm.

  Her heart rate slowed. Sliding her hand from between her thighs, she rolled onto her back. Hair clung to her sweat-dampened neck, but she could breathe a little easier. Maybe now she could sleep.

  Now she could think clearly. Tomorrow she would focus on her future and forget about the sexy Latino next door. In the morning, she would work on her plans for her restaurant. She’d already had an idea of the colors and table settings she would use. Miguel would not become a distraction. She needed to focus—and stay the hell away from him.

  * * * *

  Miguel paced the floor of his dark bedroom. His brother had told him their mother hinted about a move to Europe with her German boyfriend. Aarón didn’t want to go and asked if he could come live with Miguel if she decided to move.

  “Of course,” he’d assured his brother. But he knew the final decision was their mother’s, and he doubted she would be receptive to turning over her eleven-year-old son to him.

  Patricia Delgado had a bad track record when it came to men. He could still remember the day his father walked out on them. He hadn’t understood the enormity of it at the time, but when his father left, he took the only means of income for him and his mother. Hearing her tears at night had saddened him, but what could a five-year-old do?

  By the time he turned eight, his mother had found a new way to support them. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what the string of men passing in and out of their one bedroom apartment meant, but the older kids in the neighborhood did.

  They teased him mercilessly, calling his mother names. One night, when she had one of her “friends” over and he was lying on the couch, he turned the TV down. He could hear them, though he knew she tried to be quiet.

  Unable to stand it anymore, he had gone to the door and knocked, wiggling the doorknob, begging her to come out. He’d promised to get a job.

  “Mama,” he’d sobbed, “stop. Please. I’ll take care of you.” He hadn’t even understood what he was asking her to stop. He only knew it was bad.

  After the man left, she scolded and spanked him and said, “I’m doing this for us.” She told him to never interrupt her when she was working again.

  Coming back to the present, Miguel sank onto the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. She’d upgraded the type of men she got involved with, but the situation remained more or less the same. And even though he’d offered to take care of her, she’d refused.

  What kinds of things did Aarón see or hear? Did he understand the trade his mother made with her body in exchange for dubious security with one man after another?

  He couldn’t let his brother go through what he did. Convincing his mother would not be easy, but he would do whatever he could to keep Aarón from the same destructive path he’d gone down for years before he’d found a male figure to mentor him.

  Chapter Seven

  After handing over their invitations to the young woman standing at the door, Thomas and Samirah entered the exhibit hall for the art fundraiser arm-in-arm. Samirah held onto him for dear life, worried she would twist her ankle, or worse, take a tumble in front of everyone because she had foolishly decided to wear shoes with such high, skinny heels, making her feel like she teetered several feet up on a pair of stilts. Every step was made carefully, like walking a tight rope.

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right, my dear?” Thomas asked with a worried frown.

  “Yes,” Samirah assured him. “Just don’t leave my side tonight.”

  Thomas looked dashing with his silver hair neatly combed and wearing a black tuxedo with satin lapels and a bowtie. On the ride over, Samirah made him blush when she told him he cleaned up well and she’d definitely have to keep an eye on him for Geneva.

  A low murmur of conversation floated throughout the room. Photographers circulated among the well-dressed attendees. Their cameras flashed every now and again as they took pictures of the works of art and candid shots
of the guests.

  Behind three cloth-covered tables stood six young people dressed in white shirts and black slacks serving the food and appetizers covering the tables. Samirah deduced they were students who had volunteered their services for the event. Matted and framed student-donated paintings and sketches covered the walls, turning the space into a temporary art gallery. Display cases sat atop stands, showcasing handmade jewelry, pottery, and sculptures.

  In the middle of the room and in front of the stage, clearly the star of the show, sat a large alabaster sculpture of a woman holding a boy in her arms. Samirah and Thomas joined the others who stood around admiring it.

  The woman in the sculpture sat on a stool, cradling a young boy in what seemed to be a comforting embrace. The level of detail was so remarkable Samirah could see the creases in their clothes and even the eyelashes lying against the mother’s cheek. It seemed at any moment life could be breathed into the inanimate object and the mother and son would get up and join the party.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Thomas said.

  “It is amazing,” Samirah agreed.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a Delgado.”

  At the mention of Miguel’s name, Samirah’s heart lurched in her chest. “Was he supposed to donate one of his works for the auction?”

  “No, but perhaps he did.”

  “It is a Delgado,” a man in front of them said in a thick Spanish accent. He turned sideways so they had a better view of the sculpture. Pointing to the base, he said, “See his signature? There is a rumor he will make an appearance tonight.” He sounded like an excited child who couldn’t wait to open gifts on Christmas morning.

  “Splendid!” Thomas said. “This piece will raise so much money for the arts.”

  “Mhmm.” Samirah’s gaze darted around the room. Miguel should be easy to spot because of his height, but she didn’t see anyone who looked remotely like him.

  Avoiding him had turned out to be much easier than expected. A taxi pulled up to his house on Thursday morning, and he left with a duffle bag. She hadn’t seen any activity at the house since then.

  Fifteen minutes later, she and Thomas strolled into a smaller room to view the abstract sculptures made from everyday items and scrap metal. As they made their way back into the main room, she asked Thomas if he’d decided on a piece to purchase.

  “I think I’d like the one on the wall over there.” He pointed to a mixed media piece comprised of paint, paper, and aluminum. “Or the collage over there.”

  “You’d better get a numbered paddle if you plan to bid on those.”

  He nodded his agreement. “Will you be all right if I leave you alone?”

  Samirah smiled. “I’ll stay close to this wall in case I lose my balance, so I’ll have something to hold onto.” Concern clouded his face. “I’m kidding. Go.”

  As the night wore on, Samirah became comfortable with the idea that Miguel would not attend the event. He must still be out of town. A small amount of disappointment surfaced, but she squashed it. She didn’t need him hanging around, distracting and tempting her.

  She and Thomas stood with another couple, enjoying nibbling on appetizers, when a commotion near the entryway into the grand hall caught her attention. A small crowd had gathered and a series of flashes burst from the cameras of the onlookers. She didn’t have to see the man to know who had arrived, but she caught sight of him through the crowd anyway.

  He looked even better than when she’d last seen him. Like Thomas, Miguel wore a tuxedo, but he filled his out in way Thomas didn’t. The ivory vest and matching tie contrasted against the black of the open tuxedo jacket. His dark hair hung loosely around his ears, and when he looked up, their gazes connected across the room. Her stomach quivered a welcome and memories of their short, hot embrace crashed through her mind.

  * * * *

  Miguel had entered the exhibit hall after a brief meeting with his former mentor, Esteban Callas, the head of the art department at the University of Cuenca. The day before he had flown to Guayaquil to participate in the afternoon session of a conference. He and other artists spoke to government officials about the importance of the arts and how to revive the Las Peñas neighborhood in the city of Guayaquil. In the 1960’s it had been a thriving artist community with regular exhibitions. Now it mainly served as a tourist attraction for those who wanted a view from Santa Ana Hill or liked to visit the old homes there. Major changes would be needed, but they could only be achieved through cooperative efforts between the government and locals.

  When Esteban had asked him to donate a sculpture for tonight’s event, he readily agreed, but delayed confirming whether or not he could attend because he wasn’t sure he’d get back in time. Standing with his hand in his pocket, he fielded questions from the people who circled him, reminded of why he shunned the spotlight. He seldom took photos, and living in a small city like Cuenca provided him with a certain level of anonymity he treasured.

  He watched as Samirah returned her attention to the conversation with Thomas, but not before he could drink in the vision she made in the bold-colored dress. On anyone else, it would have been out of place amid the conservative attire of the other women at the venue, but not on Samirah. In fact, she would have looked out of place if she had worn a boring color like black.

  He noted how other men cast surreptitious glances in her direction. Her shiny, black hair was swept atop her head in a loose twist—looking easy enough to undo with the tug of a finger. A golden array of bracelets encircled her small wrists, and the earrings she’d purchased at the boutique glittered in her ears.

  Unable to stand it any longer, he muttered an excuse to the people around him, intending to make his way over to her.

  Esteban came into his line of vision. “Are you ready?”

  Miguel had agreed to give a brief speech before the auction began. Resigned, he nodded, cast one more glance in Samirah’s direction, and followed the older man to the stage. After the introduction, he took over the microphone.

  “Good evening,” he said in Spanish. “Thank you for coming tonight. It’s both an honor and a privilege for me to attend this event and give back to my community.”

  “Thank you for coming!” a female voice yelled from the audience, which prompted laughs and a round of applause.

  Miguel lifted his hand to quiet the crowd.

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” he said with a smile. “As I said, it’s a privilege for me to be here. Before I became an artist, I had a very rocky start as a young man. Were it not for this man—” He gestured in the direction of Esteban. “I don’t know where I would be. As a teenager, he kept me out of trouble, and he showed me how to channel my energies into more positive pursuits. Without him, we would not be able to have this event here tonight, and very likely, I would not be here before you as Delgado, the sculptor. Please, give a round of applause to the faculty chair and my mentor, Dr. Esteban Callas.”

  A loud round of applause broke out.

  When the clapping died down, Miguel launched into his prepared speech about the importance of supporting the arts and their relevance in society. Drawing on his own experience, he pointed out how as a youth, he’d gotten into and out of trouble. Esteban caught him defacing public property with graffiti one day. Instead of calling the police, he told him he had real talent. If he agreed to remove what he’d done, Esteban said he would show him how to create acceptable images.

  Through his encouragement and guidance, Miguel developed a love of creating, rather than destroying. He discovered a love for sculpting, and Esteban funded his first few projects by providing him with sculpting tools and materials. The rest was history.

  Tonight’s donations would be used to expand art programs in the area—to the benefit of those young people who wanted to pursue careers in art. The money raised would also help local agencies produce more events, shows, and exhibitions to the benefit of all of Cuenca’s citizens.

  “And so I encourage you to
search within your hearts tonight as you consider your bids for these unique pieces from our future artists. Think about the impact each of your dollars will have in our city. Consider the importance of art in our lives—whether it is visual or performance art. Understand that it not only adds beauty to the world around us, but it helps to make us well rounded. It keeps us civilized, and separates us from other living things through the ability to create. Through art, we have a means by which we grow to be better people, and it moves us forward through creativity, the expansion of our imagination, and hope.

  “Hope. An important element in dragging a teen out of self-destructive despair. Hope that there would be a better tomorrow, and a young man could live a better life than the one he’d grown used to.”

  Deafening applause followed when he finished his speech.

  Miguel stepped down from the stage and a woman took over to conduct the auction. A few minutes into talking to another guest, he noticed Thomas Hill slowly winding his way through the crowd, a worried expression on his face. Once or twice he stopped and stood on tiptoe, searching for someone.

  Miguel excused himself from yet another conversation he’d barely been paying attention to and approached the older man.

  “Mr. Hill, is everything all right?” His first thought was that something had happened to Samirah. Since descending the stage, he hadn’t seen her, though she’d been easy enough to spot in her red dress when he stood behind the podium.

  Thomas Hill seemed surprised Miguel knew his name. “Yes, I mean no. I came here with a young woman—Samirah, but I don’t see her. We need to leave immediately. I left my wife alone, and it seems she hurt herself trying to move around without assistance, and now I must hurry home to see to her.” He clenched his hands together in worry. “I really, really must go.”