After Hours Bundle (42 page)

Kate looked at her watch. “We have to get back. We're going to be late.”

“That's another thing you'll have to learn about, now that you live in Miami. Living on Latin time,
la hora latina.
We are always late. Without exception.”

“That drives me crazy. It's so rude!”

“You'll have to get used to it, if you're going to hang out with me,
amorcito.
”

“What did you just call me? And who says I'm going to hang out with you?” But her lips twitched.

Alejandro drained his coffee and stood. He took their cups and dropped them in the trash. “I just called you
little love,
and of course you're going to hang out with me. We're going to work on the project together.”

“I haven't agreed to that yet….”

“Well, no. But you will,” he said calmly.

Her eyes flashed. “Oh, yeah? You're awfully sure of yourself, sport.”

He nodded. “You're shy, Kate. I've watched you and you haven't mingled much. Do you even know anyone else well enough to ask them?”

She started walking faster, her beat-up loafers making clopping noises on the pavement. The sole of her left one flapped with each step, flashing her little toe.

“Hey,” he said gently, and put a hand on her arm. She stopped, but wouldn't look at him. “It's not a criticism, you know.”

“Most people say I'm stuck up or standoffish. How can you say I'm shy when I told Kurtz he was wrong in front of the whole class?”

“Ah, but that's different. It has to do with facts and figures, with intellect. You're very sure of your brains, Kate. It's socially that you're inhibited.”

Her arm quivered slightly, and once again, she stepped away, creating space between them. “I appreciate your analysis, Doctor. Can I get off the couch, now?”

He had a sudden image of her lying naked on his brown leather sofa at home, wearing nothing but that little crease between her eyebrows. He wanted to get her off, all right.

“Thanks for the coffee,” she said. “I'll think about the project and let you know.” And Kate spun on her battered heel and walked quickly to the nearby ladies' room, where he couldn't follow her.

Alejandro tried not to stare at her ass as she pulled open the door, but failed miserably. He might be moonlighting as a manicurist right now, but he was still, after all, a man and not a
rosquete.

He was also determined to work with Ms. Spinney on the marketing project. Because she intrigued and piqued him…and he knew instinctively that it was the only way to get into her baggy khaki pants.

K
ATE STARED OUT
at the Atlantic Ocean from the window of her Key Biscayne condo and reveled in her loneliness. She didn't know a soul in the high-rise, and she rather liked it that way. All her life people had known her by her name, her parentage, her family.

Here in Miami she could blend in and be anonymous. Oh, there were countless acquaintances she could call if she wanted to tap into a built-in social network, but she didn't. She wanted to break out of the Spinney mold and just be a regular person, live a regular life.

As she watched the waves cresting on the shore, she thought about the gorgeous, slick Latin guy in her marketing class. He was funny and she half-liked him, even though he set off all kinds of warning bells in her head.

He was too good-looking, and too charming. But he was also intelligent and had unerringly taken the right tack with her. Kate was used to people tiptoeing around her family name and money; treating her with a certain amount of deference or awe—unless, of course, they came from the same type of background, in which case they didn't give a damn.

But Alejandro had mocked her instead of deferring to her, which was refreshing, not to mention amusing. She wiggled her bare toes on the hardwood floors and glanced at her beat-up loafers. Her father would call them disgraceful and her mother wouldn't notice. Her brother wouldn't care. And Gerta, her parents' housekeeper, would make her leave them in the mudroom.

You need to save your money for new shoes,
Alejandro had said to her, knowing full well that she was a Spinney and that her family's business supported entire towns. And he'd insulted Harvard. The corners of her mouth turned up. He had a nerve, didn't he? She liked that about him. She hated people who kissed her ass.

She wasn't sure she liked his flirting, though. And she didn't like her body's response to his touch. She didn't trust him. But that was nothing new—she hadn't been brought up to trust anyone.

“Don't be naive,” her father had told her from the time she was ten. “You've been born a very wealthy little girl. People—and later, men in particular—will try to use you for your money.”

Kate watched an opportunistic seagull dive and snatch something from the water before wheeling away. She envied its freedom—but more than that, she envied that the bird knew what to do with it.

She'd created some freedom by leaving Boston and putting hundreds of miles between herself and her family, but it still felt peculiar. She did a lot of rambling on her own, felt lonely much of the time, and second-guessed her decision to leave. But it was time.

The poor little rich girl: oldest story in the book. And yet she lived it, cliché that it was. Money was supposed to create freedom, wasn't it? Yet all too often it tied people down. Tied them to a certain lifestyle, or ways of thinking, or to a monolithic business dedicated to making more and more of the green stuff. And for what purpose? So that it could be counted, guarded, fought over, invested, lost or stolen.

Filthy lucre: that was how she'd come to think of it. Most of her family loathed each other or didn't speak to one another for various financial reasons having to do with Spinney Industries.

Kate sat cross-legged on the floor in only her oxford shirt and underwear, staring vaguely out to sea. She was quiet for a would-be revolutionary. But as her thirtieth birthday approached, she felt an urgent need to discover the Kate side of her as opposed to the Spinney. To break some rules. To defy some conventions. She even had a secret desire to—just once—dance on a table in a bar. Why should Paris Hilton have all the fun?

But so far it remained only a renegade impulse that her brain wouldn't allow her body to follow. Spinneys didn't do such things, unlike Hiltons.

The phone rang and she almost ignored it, but finally got up to see who it was. She didn't get many calls these days, since she hadn't given many people her Florida number.

It was a 617 area code, not surprising, and it was—her heart sank—her unpleasant cousin, Wendell Spinney IV. The last time she'd seen him, he'd made fun of her hair, insulted her and then voted not to allocate funds for a Spinney donation to the Special Olympics.

What did he want? She thought about letting it go to voice mail, but she'd only have to call him back.

“Hello?”

“Katydid. It's Wendell.”

She loathed the nickname. “No, Katy didn't. What's up, Wendell? Need a good stock tip?”

“I'm doing pretty well on my own, thanks. But I'm headed down to Miami and I need a place to stay.”

“Why are you coming down here?”

“Business,” he said vaguely. “Now, about accommodations—”

“That's easy—the Mandarin Oriental.”

“I'm not paying those prices.” Wendell loved status goods but was incredibly cheap when it came to anything else.

“How about a Motel 6, then?”

“I don't think so.”

“Go to the Spinney compound in Palm Beach. You'll be a lot more comfortable there than in my condo. And there's a chef.”

“Alistair is there with Lisa and the kids. And don't tell me to just avoid him. It's not possible with those brats.”

She sighed. Just when she'd found some peace…

“C'mon, Katy. Where's your sense of family? Besides, I need someone to show me around town.”

“Wendell, I'm the wrong person to show you around. I do absolutely nothing but work.” Miami was an intimidating town to explore by herself, and she didn't seem to possess the easy familiarity that made other students quick friends.

A brief hope flickered in her: maybe Wendell had become a nice person in the few months since she'd last seen him? Doubtful. Kate grimaced. And she certainly couldn't dance on a table with
him
in the picture.

“I'll be there from the sixth to the tenth,” he said. “Can you pick me up at the airport? And Katy, you
do
have a guestroom there?”

“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly. “But no bed.”

“You get a bed. I'll bring my own sheets.”

“Get a bed? Just for you?”

“What's the matter, Katy? Can't afford it?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “You need one anyway.”

That's debatable.
But she said, “E-mail me your flight info.” Great. It looked like she'd have Wendell's pudgy, pompous ass here whether she wanted it or not. It never ceased to amaze her how he didn't blink at going where he wasn't wanted.

Kate didn't want
any
of her family down here, but she especially didn't wish to see Wendell. However, she felt a certain sense of obligation and kinship—his nuclear family was just as screwed up as her own. Their mothers had been identical twins, down to their matching drug habits. The only difference was that Kate's mother was hooked on barbiturates and Wendell's had been hooked on cocaine. A martini too many on top of it all had stopped her heart when Wendell was three.

“See you soon, Katy,” he said into her ear. “Au revoir.”

She hung up the phone. Why had she answered it?
Get a bed.
The nerve of the guy! Kate scooted on her butt over to her laptop, which lay on the floor since she still had no furniture in her living room, either.

She logged onto the Internet, found the Web site of a well-known outdoor equipment manufacturer, and zeroed in on what she was looking for. Kate grinned evilly. She'd get a bed for Wendell, all right. One of the blow-up variety. He'd be right at home on the big air bag.

When her order was complete, Kate wandered out onto the balcony and let the wind blow through her hair, inhaling the damp, salty scent. The air here in Miami was thick with humidity, very different from the crisp, briny Cape Cod breeze.

Below her she saw people sunning by the pool, sailboats and yachts out in the ocean; the occasional fishing boat. She'd started to relax and just people-watch when she heard the phone ring again. Tension coiled in her neck and shoulders as she stepped through the door and picked it up. “Wendell, what do you want now?”

“Who is Wendell?” said a deep, amused male voice with a slight South American accent. “Your boyfriend?” The timbre vibrated right down her spine and coiled into her stomach.

“Who's calling?” she asked, even though she recognized the voice immediately. A shimmer of unwilling excitement went through her. She shook it off.

“Alejandro, from the MBA program.”

“How did you get my number?”

“From the student roster, Kate. How are you?”

“Uh, fine.” A pause ensued, and she tried to remember her manners. “How are you?”

“Fine.” The tremor of laughter still echoed in his voice. “So who is Wendell?”

She dragged her bare toe across the sheen of the hardwood floor, leaving a streak. “He's my cousin. My obnoxious cousin, who's invited himself to stay, even though I hinted that he should call a hotel.”

“I see,” said Alejandro. “Well, maybe you should take pity on him. He's probably saving money for new shoes, too.”

Kate snorted. “No need. Not only could Wendell dress in suits made of hundred dollar bills, but he's the type of person who actually travels with shoe trees and polish. So his footwear tends to last longer than mine.”

“Ugh. I dislike him immediately,” Alejandro said. “But at least I don't have to kill him, now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Because he's not your boyfriend.”

Kate didn't know how to respond. “You're flirting again,” she accused him, suspicious.

“It's a genetic flaw,” he told her. “I am unable to help myself.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that. But you can kill Wendell if you want to. He's very annoying.”

Alejandro laughed, and she loved the sound of it, rich and deep like flavored chocolate. “Kate,
mi corazon,
if he's so bad then why are you letting him stay with you?”

“He's family,” she said gloomily.

“Enough said. How long will he be there?”

“Five days. Unless I can persuade him to leave sooner. I'm hoping the blow-up bed will do the trick.”

“A blow-up bed won't get rid of anyone with determination. You'll have to make things more uncomfortable than that.”

“I'd love to, but I'm not sure how. You can't stick nails into an air mattress.”

“Hmm.” Alejandro thought for a moment. “Is this Wendell an animal person?”

“No. Not at all. Why?”

“Because I have a friend who could loan you a pot-bellied pig.”

Kate choked on a laugh. “A
pig?
You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm not. And does this Wendell smoke?”

“God, no. He's rabidly anti-nicotine and germ-phobic. The guy travels with his own sheets.”

“Then you need a smooth-talking Peruvian to puff cigars in your living room, too.”

“Are you trying to invite yourself over?”

“The Yankee catches on.”

Kate thought about it, and then said cautiously, “I actually like the smell of cigars, as long as they're good ones.”

“And I will bring a large dish of
cau-cau,
which your cousin will be forced to try out of politeness.”

“What's
cau-cau?
”

“Tripe. The stomach lining of a cow. It makes most gringos gag, and my Tia Carlotta loves to cook it.”

Kate shivered. “That will send dear Wendell right over the edge.”

“So when am I coming to dinner? I'm inviting myself for purely altruistic motives,” he reassured her. “Only in order to save you, you see.”

“Yeah. I am touched by your selflessness, Al.”

“No, please not Al. You may call me Alejo, though.”

“Alejo,” she repeated, liking the exotic sound of it.

“Yes.
Perfecto.
Now, Alejo is coming to dinner on what evening,
mi corazon?
”

“You are shameless,” she told him.

“Sí.”
His tone remained warm and amused.

She decided to relent. “I can't believe I'm doing this, but it's for a good cause—Wendell-fumigation. You can come to dinner on Saturday, okay?”

“I am there.
Gracias.
”

“And you'll bring the cigars and the…that nasty stuff.”

“Well, as a Peruvian, I don't think it's nasty, but
sí.
You wish me to bring the pot-bellied pig?”

Kate almost said no. Then she looked around. Spinneys didn't bring the barn into the parlor…but Just Kate might. What the hell. She had no carpet for it to soil. And it might be very entertaining to see Wendell's reaction to it. A woman who danced on tables might have a pig in her condo, right?