Miami Spice (13 page)

Erica found the residence easy enough through her
GPS. The Sloans lived in a ranch style house of meringue stucco and
Spanish ironwork. As luck would have it, Gianni’s dark Jag sat in
the driveway. Flipping down the mirror on her visor, she did a
quick repair job on her lipstick and took in a deep breath. After
all, she wanted to meet Nico’s parents, didn’t she? Now seemed the
right time.

Before she rang the bell, Erica ran a nervous
hand down the front of her short denim skirt, and then straightened
the spaghetti straps on her jersey top.
Aqu
í
nada
va
—
Here goes nothing!
She didn’t have to wait long after
she rang the door bell. The man himself, Gianni Sloan, answered her
summons and stood in the doorway, barefoot and wearing only a pair
of olive sweat pants. His attractive face tightened with surprise
at seeing Erica on the flagstone porch. He quickly walked outside
to join her, shutting the door behind him.

“Why, Erica, what a surprise! I had no
idea!”

“Of course you didn’t. I just made up my mind
to stop by,” she answered as she gave him a quick going over.

The diamond in his ear winked back at her. As
Erica noticed the crown tattoo, her gaze traveled lower to register
the silver ID bracelet and the star mole peeping just above the
waistband of his sweats. Could it be possible? Could twins have
exactly the same markings in the same places, wear the same
jewelry, even when they profess no affinity for one another?

“Well, what can I do for you?” His eyes
narrowed as he focused on her face.

She felt momentarily stymied. “I...I...I came
to show you some changes in the plans, and to see if they meet with
your approval.”

“Oh, all right.” He seemed to visibly relax.
“I’d invite you in, but the house is a mess. The maid’s day off,
and the folks are at the club playing a couple rounds of golf. Let
me throw something on and I’ll take you to this great little place
that makes terrific
agua frescas
.”

“You know what,” Erica wavered as she reached
for her handbag, “why don’t I just leave the changes with you, and
you can call me later after you look them over? I’d like to try and
finish up your apartment this week if possible.”

“Is there something wrong,
querida?
”

Erica had been so busy retrieving the new design
prospectus from her purse that she didn’t notice Gianni’s movements
until his fingers grasped her chin and tugged her face up to
his.

Stunned, she tried to open her lips and say
something. “Wha... what did you call me?”

Gianni gave a little laugh as he snatched his
fingers away and planted both hands on his hips. “Oh, I’m sorry. I
guess I got carried away. Nico told me he likes to call you by
those little endearments. I also heard he sent a mariachi band to
your place last night. Talk about a romantic guy!”

“Yes, yes, he is.” Erica stepped back.

His presence seemed so overpowering. She felt
both a sudden attraction and a fleeting revulsion for the man. The
crown tattoo with its black club emblem stared back at her, and she
remembered how she had traced its outline as she lay with Nico
along the bunk bed on board the sailboat. She could almost feel his
warm flesh and smell his intoxicating scent.

Retreating further, Erica suddenly teetered
along the edge of the step as her sandal’s stiletto heel stuck into
the crack between the flagstones. Before she could tumble back
completely, Gianni reached for her flaying hands and pulled her up
and into his embrace. She had no choice but to surrender
completely, at least until she could steady herself once more.

When her cheek touched his breastbone, she
felt an incredible flash of déjà vu, a potent trigger of her
senses. Gianni’s skin felt the same way, like velvet over smooth
marble, and he gave off that same aroma, that heady mix of
masculine sweat and Asian-inspired aftershave of water lilies,
jasmine and green tea.

Before she could regain sanity, Erica followed her
mouth as it tipped up to his and settled along his smooth lips in a
hot, steamy kiss. His arms enfolded her against his chest, and she
registered his hardened cock as it pressed into her abdomen. For
one crazy moment, she wanted to reach inside his sweats and wrap
her fingers around the thick shaft. Instead, she withdrew her lips
from his mouth and struggled out of his hold. She lost one sandal.
Now quickly stepping out of the other, Erica turned and ran
barefoot down the flagstone walk.

She didn’t breathe again until she threw
herself into the driver’s seat of the Hyundai. Blindly, she pulled
away from the curb and into traffic; and then, amazingly, managed
to drive home without causing an accident, the car washing she had
planned completely forgotten.

That night, Erica paced the condo floor in
the shadows, the only light from the trio of candles she lit
earlier, votive candles in slim glass holders with the
Virgen
Guadalupe
etched on each.

Gianni had called and left several messages,
but she simply placed her phone on silent mode. She couldn’t
reason, she couldn’t conjecture, she couldn’t theorize. The need to
eat a gallon of tres leches ice cream kept a rumba going in her
stomach, and then attacked what little brain cells she had left.
Finally, in frustration, Erica grabbed her phone and dialed a
number. She needed expert advice, and needed it fast. When Sacha
answered her summons, she briefly explained her situation and
dictated her needs.

“Gotcha, girlfriend,” he confirmed. “I’ll be
there in forty-five!”

When her partner did arrive about an hour and a half
later, he brought with him a hefty paper sack. Extracting the
contents, Sacha set out their feast on Erica’s dining table.

“I got coconut pecan,” he announced as he
indicated the half gallon of ice cream, “and
pan dulces
with
that funky pink frosting, and some jicama sticks with lime and
chili powder.”

Erica’s perusal of their goodies only
increased her hunger pangs. Sacha had even included a deli carton
of
carnitas
and a package of corn tortillas. On his way
over, he must have stopped at the bodega just around the corner.
The small neighborhood market offered almost anything under the
moon. When she didn’t move right away, he came up behind, clasped
her arms and helped to guide her to a chair.

“Now, darling,” he started as went for two
plates and utensils. “Tell your BFF all about it.”

Erica had no idea where to start...exactly.
Over the phone, she hinted at a romantic liaison, though she wasn’t
so sure with whom. Now she tried to explain her situation, what she
thought, and what she conjectured.

“Could Gianni Sloan be so duplicitous, so
contemptible as to pose as his twin brother?”

Sacha shrugged as he spooned red chili pork
in a tortilla. “I’ll have to admit it does sound suspicious. Put it
this way, if you really want to know, you’re going to have to do
something about it.”

Taking up a soup spoon, she began to attack
the ice cream and spoke between grateful bites. “So, do you think I
should go with my gut feeling, and maybe take that trip?” That
meant booking a flight to New York and onward to Connecticut.

“Yes, but you have to do it without Nico’s
knowledge. Surprise is your best defense and offense.” He giggled.
“Look at me! Talking like an athlete!”

When he arrived, Erica noticed the sweep of
glitter shadow along his eyelids and the swipe of Kohl liner below.
The tight suede pants and the tie-dyed shirt tipped her off that
Sacha probably had plans for the evening, but he had quickly
postponed his outing to a South Beach disco in order to come to her
aid.

“So, you won’t mind taking over the condo job
for a couple of days?”

“Darling!” Sacha fluttered his long lashes.
“It would be a privilege and an honor. Of course, you’re going to
have to fill me in all along the way. I want daily updates!”

They ate in silence for several minutes
before Erica could process her thought patterns in some semblance
of order once again. “What if it is true? How can I face him, work
with him? I just can’t get up and move. I sunk my life savings into
this place.”

“That may be a problem, although, there’s nothing
more exquisite than a woman scorned—or, in this case, duped. You’ll
have to give back as good as he gave. Come on!” Snatching the spoon
out of her hand, Sacha prodded Erica to her feet. “We’re going out
to see a friend of mine.”

“I’m not dressed for going out,” she started
to protest until he shook his head violently.

“No, no, this isn’t a ‘going out’ date. Where we’re
going the outfit doesn’t matter. In fact, Madrina Paola wants to
see you in your usual relaxed state.”

“Madrina Paola?” Erica’s frown deepened.
“Don’t tell me! You’re taking me to a voodoo lady?”

“Not voodoo!
A Santera!
There’s a
difference. Madrina Paola is the real thing, and she’s practiced
the art of Santería for ages. She’s from Brazil where they do it
right. Now, we’re going for two potions. One to make that man tell
you the truth, and the other to make you fall out of love if your
suspicions prove correct.”

Crossing her arms, Erica tried to negate his claim.
“I’m not in love with Nico or Gianni or whomever he calls
himself.”

Sacha gave her his signature stance, part
indignant hip-hugger, part dancer’s pose. “Oh, yes you are,
girlfriend! You’ve got it good, and you’ve got it bad for the
man!”

Erica couldn’t argue with that. Of course,
she had it bad. Nico had cast his spell over her, and it would take
a tremendous amount of magic to snap her out of it. That’s if she
really wanted a “cure.” As a daughter of Cuban émigrés, she knew
all about Santería. In fact, two or three of her ancestors were
well known for practicing the religion, a combination of worshiping
the African deities of the Yoruba and the Catholic Church’s saints.
Strange, yes. Potent, well, she wasn’t too sure if it really
worked, though she also knew her Tía Rogelia swore by it, as did
several members of her family. What did she really have to lose
except a couple of hours? Hours where she could stew in her own
chili juices and scarf up the rest of the ice cream! Erica quickly
went for her straw bag.

“All right!” she conceded and took Sacha’s
hand. “Let’s go and get me charmed.”

Erica harbored only one hesitation as she
tried to find a safe place to park her Hyundai. This part of South
Miami offered more than just salsa music coming from the myriad of
small bars or street vendors hawking everything from knock-off
sunglasses to sweet churros. The underbelly of the city came out
here at night, those looking for a good time, whether it be drugs,
gambling, or prostitutes of both sexes.

When she finally found a decent space, she
allowed Sacha to lead the way, and he guided them to a stairwell
between a tattoo parlor and a
taquería.
The zesty smells of
fried tortillas and onions punctuated the still air, while
someone’s boom box blasted out an urban hip-hop song. In many ways,
these little neighborhoods reminded Erica of small pockets of
Latino villages. During the day, flower stalls sold a variety of
bright blooms, both the real and tissue-papered variety on metal
stalks. Whole, plucked chickens hung in
carnería
windows,
the blood drained and sold to Santeras for their ancient rituals.
Joyerías
sold more than just a selection of jewelry, but
religious artifacts and items for such occasions as confirmations
and
quinciñeras.
Another business offered cut-rate prices on
fabric for wedding gowns, custom-made by the seamstress who owned
the shop.

“Come on, girlfriend,” Sacha urged as he
started up the dark stairs. “The
chupacabra
won’t bite.”

“It’s not the
chupacabra
I’m worried
about.”

Taking in a steadying breath, Erica followed along
until they reached the landing. A naked bulb highlighted a door
painted a lime green. Her colleague rapped twice, and then opened
the door and entered. She followed suit and found herself in a
long, shadowy room. The cloying smells of incense and various herbs
overwhelmed the place. Erica tried not to touch a thing as Sacha
led her between two tables, both filled to the brim with strange
paraphernalia. Squinting, she noticed one wall of shelves, each
filled with apothecary jars of various ingredients. Allowing her
imagination to wander, she perused dried leaves, roots and fish
eyes, and perhaps several jars of ground-up chicken feet.

She giggled. “Yes, I’d like a couple eyes of newt and
a quarter pound of bat wings, please!”

“Shh!” Sacha warned next to her. “Madrina
Paola will do all the talking, and you just listen.”

“Oh, I plan to,” Erica acknowledged.

They found the lady herself sitting in a
recliner, all two-hundred pounds of her. A black-and-white
television at her side seemed to be airing a soap opera in Spanish.
The Santera wore a floral muumuu and a few strands of puka beads,
her silver hair plastered back into a small knot at the top. When
her visitors approached, she observed them with small, sharp eyes,
the color of shiny obsidian.

“
Venga, mis amigos
,” she welcomed in a
low, slightly accented voice. “You,
Eriqueta
, must come
closer.”

Erica heard Sacha take in a sharp breath. He
quickly whispered to her. “I didn’t tell Madam Paola your name. I
just said I had a visitor to bring.”

Oh well... She found a small, paint-splashed stool
and sat as close as she dared. She hoped the dark stains were paint
and not dried blood. Before she could react, Erica watched the
older woman grab her hand and hold it tight. The Santera’s flesh
felt springy to the touch, like a damp, warm sponge.