with the starburst sun in the middle undulated in the evening’s gentle breeze. Uniformed guards checked our IDs and invitation before nodding us toward social secretary types, who directed us into a receiving line.
We shook hands and murmured pleasantries to tuxedoed or military-uniformed men and stunning women in designer gowns. I wasn’t quite sure what the guest of honor, a rotund man with a luxuriant mustache and small hands, did, but he greeted me with a vigorous handshake and a huge grin. I smiled back and moved ahead of Tav into the reception rooms, the hem of my emerald-green dress whispering against my ankles.
Surveying the room, I noted more men than women, a buffet table clad in a tablecloth that echoed the blue of the Argentine flag, and a combo of six musicians playing big band tunes for a handful of dancers at the far end of the room. My foot tapped in time with the beat. Tav stood close behind me. I could feel his heat against my back and our faces were disturbingly close when I tilted my head back to ask softly, “Do you see him?”
Scanning the assembled guests, Tav urged me forward slightly so we weren’t blocking the entrance. “There,” he said, nodding discreetly toward the far corner of the room, where a clump of dark-haired men in formalwear carried on an animated discussion with raised voices, expansive gestures, and the occasional bark of laughter. “The one facing us with the blue bow tie and cummerbund.”
I studied Bazan surreptitiously. Probably no more than five-eight or five-nine, he still, in some indefinable way, seemed bigger than the taller men around him. Maybe it was the barrel chest or broad shoulders and bull neck. Or it could’ve been that he was much stiller than the other men, with an economy of motion that made his few gestures seem stronger. He had broad features, tanned skin, and dark eyes under droopy lids; I could totally see him on a horse riding the range or the steppes or the pampas-whatever they called open grassland in Argentina.
It took me a moment to realize he was studying me as closely as I was studying him. Our eyes met and I looked away, flustered. I chastised myself for being so obvious. I’d make a really bad spy. “Bazan caught me looking at him,” I confessed to Tav.
“What man would not be flattered by your interest?” he said, pivoting to impose his body between me and Bazan.
“He didn’t look flattered,” I said dubiously. “Maybe we should go talk to him and get it over with.”
Tav smiled and I felt a little jolt zing through my body. “It won’t be necessary. He’ll come to us before the evening is out.” As he talked, he nudged me toward a buffet table laden with goodies that made me want to forget dancing and eat until I qualified for a career as a plussize model. I helped myself to a handful of carrots, some strawberries, and a few barbecued shrimp.
“How can you know that?”
“He will have seen the guest list for tonight’s party and noted my name. I mentioned that our ranches shared a border, did I not? He will come over to greet us out of respect for my father.”
“Goodness.” I wasn’t sure my father’s neighbors would recognize him on the street, never mind go out of their way to chat with him at a party. Maybe that was the difference between renting a suburban town house and owning a ranch. I watched enviously as Tav bit into a puff pastry that oozed chocolate and raspberry. The rest of his plate held other desserts, including a minicheesecake, a strawberry-kiwi tart, and sopapillas dusted with powdered sugar.
“How can you mainline sugar like that?” I asked, searching his plate in vain for a vegetable or any item that didn’t come from the “rot your teeth” food group.
“I have a sweet tooth,” he said, licking a trace of confectioner’s sugar from the corner of his mouth. “And, luckily, I have a fast metabolism.”
“You’d be easy to hate,” I informed him.
He laughed. I crunched ostentatiously and noisily into a carrot. A voice from behind Tav said, “Good evening, Acosta. What brings you to D.C.? I was surprised to see your name on the invitation list for tonight’s reception. Is Arturo in town?”
Tav turned to reveal Hector Bazan standing there, even more intimidating up close. The men shook hands. “No, my father is at home. I am here to make arrangements for Rafael’s body to be returned for burial. You will have heard about his death?”
“Indeed,” Bazan said, his gaze panning me from my upswept hair, to the shoulders bared by my strapless emerald dress, to the red-painted toenails peeping from my high-heeled, bronze-colored sandals. “I read the reports and have discussed the case with the detective in charge. Even though Rafael opted for American citizenship, I took an interest for your father’s sake.”
“That was kind of you,” Tav said.
“The police seem to think Rafael’s business partner did it.”
With an amused glance at me, Tav said, “I do not believe you have met Stacy Graysin, Hector. She was my brother’s dance partner and co-owned the studio with him.”
Irritation flickered in Bazan’s eyes for a moment before he took my hand and gracefully dropped a kiss on it. “I regret my unintentional rudeness, Senorita Graysin,” he said, smiling. “Obviously, you had nothing to do with Acosta’s death. The police are imbeciles.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” I said, reclaiming my hand. The man had a certain rough charm and an intensity that I figured many women would find attractive. I was not completely immune to it myself, even after what Tav had told me about him. “And thank you for inviting me tonight. I’ve never been to an embassy party. It’s fascinating.”
“They pall after a very short time, believe me,” he said.
“I wanted to say hello to Victoria,” Tav said, “but I don’t see her. Is she here?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Bazan said smoothly. “She is visiting friends. She will be sorry to have missed you.”
“I will be in town for a while yet. Perhaps I will still get a chance to see her. When does she get back?” Tav’s expression was guileless, expressing only the casual interest of a neighbor. Being a good liar obviously ran in the family.
“Her plans are flexible,” Bazan said, after the briefest of hesitations. His narrowed gaze assessed the nature of Tav’s interest. “I’m not sure exactly when she’ll be home-a week? Ten days? But I’ll be sure to tell her you send your greetings.” Before Tav could respond, he turned to me. “Octavio said you dance?”
I nodded.
“Perhaps you would do me the honor?” He nodded toward the dance floor, where four or five couples chachaed with varying degrees of ability and enthusiasm. “You don’t mind, do you, Acosta?”
Taking Tav’s acquiescence for granted, Bazan led me toward the dance floor, a smooth expanse of parquet at the far end of the long room from the buffet tables. Bazan led me around the floor and had a brief word with the keyboard player. Within seconds, the band segued to a beat suitable for the Argentine tango. Unlike its American counterpart, the Argentine tango is largely improvisational and I was surprised that Bazan had apparently requested it. It’s much easier to do standard figures with a partner who you don’t know than to improvise. Bazan clasped my right hand in his left and settled his right hand just above my waist, pulling me into a close hold. There was something familiar about his scent, but I couldn’t place it.
“You are familiar with the Argentine tango?” he asked, leading me into a
“Occasionally,” I agreed.
“That must have been part of what attracted you to Rafe Acosta,” he said. “His… unpredictability.”
I arched back slightly in his hold, trying to read his face. His eyes held a hint of mockery. “Actually, Rafe was pretty predictable,” I said. Up until the last few weeks. “He took dancing very seriously and trained hard.” And slept-predictably-with any woman who caught his fancy.
As we traveled counter-clockwise around the floor, I spotted Tav engaged in conversation with a handsome couple about his age. He seemed oblivious to Bazan and me. I felt a bit piqued at his indifference, but quickly squelched the feeling. Tav was Rafe’s half brother and would be returning to Argentina in a few days. Letting myself be attracted to him spelled “disaster” in at least eight languages.
“I, too, am a hard worker,” Bazan said, reclaiming my attention. “Perhaps I could be a competitive dancer.” He laughed, as if the idea were preposterous, but I got the sense of an ego that believed it could excel at any
