I raised my brows. “I’m not nervous.”
“You keep biting your lip.”
“Maybe I’m just hungry.”
“You’ve gotten funnier, you know that?”
I eyed him quickly. “Since when?”
“Since this morning.”
“You don’t know me very well. I’m often funny.”
“Maybe in a past life. In this life, you’ve been nothing but sad.”
When I shot him a look, he smiled. “It’s all right, hey? You started painting. That made you happy. That’s a start.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. The generic rock from the radio station hummed in the background. I was about to bite my lip but stopped, suddenly conscious.
Then I looked back to the road and cleared my throat. “You make it sound like you had something to do with it.”
I could tell he was smiling when he said, “I just wanted you to be inspired. It worked.”
“And tonight, is this the same thing?”
“You’re awfully suspicious,” he said. “I’ve saved your life, twice, brought back your inspiration for your art, and now I’m about to buy you an extraordinary meal.”
“And that’s it?”
He laughed. “Sure. That’s it. I’ll tell you this, though, the meal doesn’t have to be the only . . . ,” he paused, “extraordinary thing to happen tonight.”
The silken quality to his words conjured up an image in my mind of me facedown in some swanky hotel room, with him removing my thong, dragging it down my legs with the tip of a 9mm handgun. I don’t know why I conjured up that scene, but I found myself blanking on it, heat flushing on my chest and cheeks. I squirmed slightly in my seat.
“Does that interest you?” he said, his voice lower now.
I had to pretend that it didn’t, even though my body was currently screaming the opposite.
“Dinner sounds wonderful,” I said.
He smiled. “Good, good.”
Soon we pulled up to the restaurant, and the valet took the jeep. Esteban held out his arm for me, and I hesitated for a moment before I took it.
The restaurant was beautiful, swanky in this beachy way with low lighting, sand-colored tablecloths, and dark teak furniture. A centerpiece of frangipani floated in a small dish lit by candles.
We were given an amazing seat, right by the edge, where the restaurant was open to the ocean. You could hear the steady roar of waves as they crashed against the cliffs in the darkness below. It was a dramatic and appropriately primal setting for someone like Esteban.
“Are you impressed?” he asked, a wicked curve to his mouth.
I nodded, knowing he must have requested the table especially for me, for us. I couldn’t fathom why, though. He did know I was married, though he probably figured if it was that important to me, I wouldn’t have come. There was nothing innocent or accidental about us being together anymore, not with the way my thoughts were turning toward him anyway, and he knew it.
He knew it and he was using it to his advantage. I wondered if I was there with him because I still felt I owed him. That was what the moral part of me wanted to think. But I was beginning to think that the moral part of me drowned in the ocean all those days ago. My morality was floating with the sharks.
Esteban quickly ordered us two mai tais, telling me that the bar at the restaurant had the best ones (as did every other place on the islands, apparently), and then folded his hands in front of him, a gold ring with a jade stone in it gleaming in the candlelight.
I was thankful for the conversation starter. “That’s a lovely ring,” I told him, gesturing to it.
He smiled. “Thank you.”
Not as forthcoming as I had hoped. “Is that from a significant other?”
He raised a brow to that and then smiled politely at the waiter as our mai tais were delivered. He nodded at the drink. “Try it. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He was skirting the question, but okay. I had a sip. Not too sweet, with just enough fruit and rum. It was pretty perfect as far as mai tais went. I started playing with the purple orchid it was served with.
“You are not wrong,” I admitted.
“I rarely am.”
“Who gave you the ring?”
He admired it on his hand. “Perhaps I bought it.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s not really your style. You’re wearing it out of respect or obligation.”
His mouth ticked up as he eyed me steadily. “You’re good. You’re very good. You should come work with me, hey?”
I kept watching him, waiting for an answer, something about him to hold on to.
He sighed. “It’s from my brother.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes,” he said carefully. “He . . . has funny ways of showing his affection. I almost died once, you know.” His eyes flicked up to me, their green depths glittering. “But I wasn’t trying to die.”
I ignored that remark. “What happened?”
He shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary. A car bomb.”
I choked on my drink and started coughing. He leaned over in his seat, concerned, but I waved him away, my hand flapping rapidly.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I squeaked out when I could. When I finally got myself under control, I was still blinking at him in disbelief. The words couldn’t quite settle into my brain. “A car bomb?” I whispered.
He stroked the scars on his face. “Where do you think I got these pretty little souvenirs?”
“Not from a car bomb,” I said honestly as I glanced around to make sure no one was listening. The man had said he was part of a drug cartel, but I suppose I never really understood the reality of it. This wasn’t some movie, some story. This was real life, a drug lord’s life, and somehow I had gotten licked by it, like a hand darting in and out of a candle flame.
“Well, I did. Wrong place, right time. Or maybe not, maybe it’s the other way around. It was, in some ways, the best thing that could have happened to me. Becoming so—tainted, physically—hurt my way around some of the women I
