Fierce Passion (13 page)

His tender kiss surprised her and shot a chill up her arm. It was as blatantly sexual as his glance. is tenderHiShe recognized him from his brochure, although he was even better looking in person. His curls were tipped with gray, and a sly challenge lit his blue gaze, but she didn’t appreciate being studied so intently. She’d worn her hair in a bun and pushed a stray curl into place.

“Today’s yellow roses were a surprise, and thank you, but you needn’t send more gifts.”

His low voice was honey sweet. “Oh, but I want to. It’s impossible to give a beautiful woman too many presents.”

“Mr. Lamoreaux,” she began again, “Mr. Perez will make certain I’m well paid for my work. You needn’t do anything more.”

Paul Perez guided Lucien into one of the comfortable chairs he used for informal conferencing. He took the one at his side rather than sit behind his desk, and Ana sat across from the men. “Tell us what you have in mind, Mr. Lamoreaux,” Paul began, “and we’ll move on to specifics and decide upon a fair payment for Miss Santillan’s talents.”

“There’s no need for us to be so formal. Please call me Lucien.” He winked at Ana. “You have the most extraordinary legs. All of you is sublime, of course, but for my shoes, I want to hire only your legs.” He pulled some sketches from his briefcase. “This is what I have in mind. You could be seated in some ads, standing in others, but to emphasize the beauty of my footwear, I want to show only your legs.”

“It’s a shame my legs don’t work on their own,” Ana remarked softly. “You’ll have to pay for all of me, no matter how little is photographed.”

The Frenchman responded with a low chuckle. “I love a sense of humor in a woman. When can we begin?”

Ana wanted only the job, not to take a French lover, and her mind sped to Alejandro. She silently scolded herself for wondering about him, and hoped he missed her with an agonized pain worse than any lingering headache. Excruciating, torturous pain would be good. People saw her looks and imagined men fell in love with her with a single glance. The truth was, she had very little luck with romance, and the fiasco with Alejandro was another example of her sorry fate.

Paul brought the meeting to a close with the promise he’d have a contract for them to sign in a few days. Ana stood when Paul did, but Lucien appeared reluctant to have the meeting end.

“After we sign the contracts, we must all go to lunch to celebrate,” he insisted. “I’m embarrassed by how much money I’m making with my shoes, and I intend to spend it on the people whose company I enjoy.”

Ana managed a faint smile. “Lunch would be lovely, Mr. Lamoreaux—Lucien. I’ll look forward to it.”

He gave a mock bow. “What a thrill it is to meet you, Miss Santillan. Good day.”

Ana and Paul remained silent until they heard the elevator doors slide closed. She dropped back into her chair. “He’s a very charming man, and I won’t have to sit through an hour of makeup if only my legs are posing.”

“You do have lovely legs, Ana, and the money is just the same. He’ll probably give you a lifetime supply of his shoes as a bonus. I received one other call late yesterday from Orlando Ortiz. He said he met you while you were working on the
Mediterranean Goddess
yesterday, and he’d like to book you for ads for his cruise line.”

Ana had to bite her lip to keep from shrieking. “You’re not serious.”

Paul appeared puzzled. “Why, you didn’t like him?”

“I’ve been dating his eldest son, and apparently he doesn’t approve. Please tell him I won’t go on board one of his ships until Alejandro and I are sailing on our honeymoon.”

Paul’s eyes grew huge. “Has the man proposed?”

“No, and he probably won’t, but I’m not working for Ortiz. He’s a mean-spirited bastard I’d rather forget.”

“I assume his son is nothing like him?”

“Nothing at all.” She picked up her bag and stood. “I’m sure you won’t whisper anything I’ve said to the tabloids, but please don’t tell anyone else I’m about to marry the heir to the Ortiz fortune, because I’m not.”

The agent’s expression lit with glee. “That’s such a delicious secret, Ana. Couldn’t I mention you know him?”

Fortunately, she knew he was teasing. “No, not a word. Please give Mr. Ortiz our standard refusal: my current schedule simply doesn’t allow time to promote his cruise line. You needn’t say I’m dreadfully sorry, though.”

He walked her to the office door. “You lead such an exciting life, Ana. You should begin working on your memoirs.”

Ana left without replying to his silly bit of unwanted advice.

A job kept her busy on Thursday, but the weekend appeared bleak. Saturday afternoon she put on her floppy hat and sunglasses for a long walk to burn off her restless energy. She stopped at a flower shop on Las Ramblas and had just picked up an iris and daffodil bouquet for her bedroom when she glanced up to see Libby Gunderson and Maggie Mondragon coming her way. She peeked over her sunglasses so they’d recognize her and said, “Hello.”

“Ana!” Libby exclaimed. “Come have a drink with us.”

Ana paid for the flowers and, eager for some company, joined them. They sat at a table at the closest café, and Ana ordered tea and a thin slice of lemon cake. “You’re not carrying anything. How can you walk down Las Ramblas and not buy something fun?” she asked.

“I’ll get some flowers before going home,” Maggie replied. “We were talking about school and not paying attention to the vendors along the way.”

“I’m coaching the women’s sports at the same America high school where Maggie teaches Spanish,” Libby explained. “Most of the kids are great, but others, are, well, a challenge.”

“They believe they know everything?” Ana asked.

“Yes, exactly,” Libby responded, “and they are sophisticated kids. Most of their parents are executives with American companies, and they’ve traveled and seen a lot of the world. That can make school seem a total bore, but they need to keep their grades up for admission to the best colleges. To make matters worse, parents put pressure on us if their students aren’t applying themselves.”

Ana sipped her tea. “I didn’t spend much time in high school and didn’t attend college, but aren’t most teenagers obnoxious?”

“Maggie was never obnoxious,” Libby exclaimed.

“I was the studious sort,” Maggie added, “unlike my sisters.”

The pair were half sisters and shared the same mother, but Miguel Aragon had been Maggie’s father. Ana could see him in Maggie, but she’d known her for nearly a year and gotten used to the striking resemblance. Miguel had been an extraordinarily handsome man, and Maggie was a beautiful woman. It wasn’t a thought Ana cared to dwell on. “It must be nice to have sisters. I’m an only child.”

Maggie sat forward slightly. “It doesn’t have to be a disadvantage.”

Ana nodded. “True, but it would have been nice to have someone else around so my mother wouldn’t have been so totally focused on me.”

“Siblings are definitely an advantage there,” Libby agreed. “I don’t want to pry, but did you call Javier Cazares?”

“Yes. He’s an excellent detective. It turned out to be a shoe designer who was sending me flowers, not an obsessed or dangerous fan. I still have the kittens, by the way, but I’ve gotten used to them.”

Their conversation turned to the fashions Ana had recently modeled, and she told them about the brief trip to Mallorca. “I love location shoots. I don’t have time to travel otherwise.”

Libby finished her drink. “We’re going out to dinner tonight with Rafael and Santos. Would you like to come with us?”

“Seeing you this afternoon was fun, and thank you for the invitation, but Santos would choke if he had to sit through a dinner with me. Perhaps we’ll see each other at another charity event.”

Maggie and Libby watched Ana hurry away, swinging her flowers in time with her steps. “Does she seem sad to you?” Maggie asked.

“Why would she be sad? She has everything, doesn’t she?”

“Everything except Santos,” Maggie reminded her, “and maybe you shouldn’t tell him we saw her.”

“Good advice,” Libby agreed.

Ana went to a French movie at a small theatre Saturday night and stayed in on Sunday. She hoped Alejandro would go to El Gato and sit on the patio all afternoon waiting for her, but she had too much pride to sit there alone hoping to see him. Instead, she danced in her home studio and even went so far as to don a tutu. Dancing always made her feel better, and so, tired, she slept all night without waking.

She’d just gotten dressed Monday morning, when Henry buzzed her condo. “Ms. Santillan, there are some detectives here to see you.”

“Detectives? More than one?”

“Yes, two.”

“I’ll come right down.” She turned to Fatima. “If they’re looking for witnesses, I haven’t seen a damn thing.” She pulled her hair back in a ponytail and hurried on downstairs.

The men were waiting at the security desk. The taller was dark and heavy set, the shorter red-haired and wiry. Their expressions were impossible to read, instantly making her uneasy. “May I see your credentials, please?”

“Sergeant Robles,” the taller man said, and both showed their badges. “This is my partner, Guillermo Mesa. We have a few questions for you. It won’t take much of your time.”

Ana would rather not invite them into her home. “We have a conference room. Let’s use it. I’m curious as to why you’d want to see me, but we needn’t involve anyone else who lives here. Is the room free, Henry?”

“Yes, it is. Do you want coffee?”

The detectives shook their heads. “No, thank you, Henry.” She led them down the hallway, past the elevators to the conference room. It was furnished with the requisite long table and ten comfortably padded chairs. A wall of windows lit the room. She waited for the men to enter and then propped open the door. She took the chair at the end of the table, and they pulled up chairs on either side. Uneasy, she folded her hands in her lap. “Well?”

Robles leaned toward her. “Do you have any idea why we’re here, Miss Santillan?”

She looked between them, but there were no clues in their solemn expressions. “Absolutely none. I’ve not forgotten to pay any traffic fines, have I?”

Mesa’s voice was high and sharp. “There’s no humor in this situation.”

“What situation?” she asked again. “I’ve no idea why you’re here.”

Mesa’s pale blue eyes narrowed in an accusing stare. “Jaime Campos has been murdered. It’s in today’s papers.”

Shocked, Ana sat up straight. “I haven’t read the paper yet. Jaime Campos, the photographer?”

Robles nodded. “I believe you worked with him often.”

Sickened by their news, she leaned away from them and sank deeper into her chair. “Sometimes, not often. We worked together with Galen Salazar on Mallorca week before last. He was a terrific fashion photographer with some war experience.”

Mesa tapped his nails on the table. “You knew he was working on an exhibit of his art photography?”

With no reason to deny it, she answered truthfully. “He told me about it, but I wasn’t interested. Do you think it had something to do with his death?”

“You’ve complimented his work. Why didn’t the project interest you?” Mesa continued.

With a near constant frown, his sharp features gave him a ratlike appearance. She could almost see his nose twitch. She took a deep breath to dispel the image. “I model haute couture, gentlemen. I don’t do nudes.”

Robles opened a folder and laid an 8x10 photo in front of her. “How do you explain this?”

Ana picked it up and studied it closely. It was a frontal nude of a slender woman in a brazen pose with legs spread wide and hands on hips. “He’s Photoshopped my head onto someone else’s body. This isn’t me.”

Mesa glanced at his partner. “So you wouldn’t have wanted to see it included in his exhibit?”

She wondered if they were being deliberately dense. “He may have played around with his photos, but he wouldn’t have used something as obviously inauthentic as this.”

“Why not? Would you have sued him?” Robles asked.

She handed the photo back to them. “He wouldn’t have used it because it would have harmed his professional reputation immeasurably,” she stressed. “This is something a paparazzo would fabricate and sell to the tabloids. I’ve no idea who might want Jaime dead, and if you’ve no other questions, I’d like to go.”

“We have a few more,” Mesa answered, his faint smile sliding into a smirk. “Where were you yesterday?”

“Here. I usually don’t work on the weekends, and I enjoy relaxing at home.”

“Did you have any guests?” Robles inquired.

“No.” She certainly hadn’t expected to need an alibi, or she would have invited someone in the condo building for dinner.

“Did you attend church?” Robles asked.

“No. Did you?”

Mesa shoved his chair back. “You’d be wise to watch your attitude, Miss Santillan. We may want to speak with you again, and you may want to have an attorney present.”

Ana bolted to her feet. “Where was Jaime murdered? In his studio?”

“Yes, and his blood splattered many of his prized photos.”