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“Let’s stay on schedule,” Sofia said. “Ericka, have the waiters serve the host and the guest of honor first.”
Her troops went out and returned with news. “You won’t believe it! Mr. I-Used-To-Be-A-Waiter? He’s the guest of honor. He’s out there giving a speech. This party is for him.”
Sofia popped a crab cake in her mouth. Interesting. He must have been nervous and slumming in the kitchen was his way to take the edge off.
“That’s so cool, don’t you think?” Melissa said.
There was no time to think. The kitchen door swung open again and this time a woman burst in. She was stunning with a caramel complexion and cheekbones that ought to be insured, but her features were distorted. Tears streaming down her cheeks made tar of her mascara. “I need a drink! Give me something, anything.”
Sofia braced herself. What roller-coaster ride was this?
Melissa offered her a bottle of water. The woman huffed. “Do I look like I need water?”
Sofia sent her employees away and took over. She grabbed a bottle of Patrón and a couple of glasses and guided the woman to a table by the kitchen’s fantastic bay windows. She poured generously and began her usual speech to calm unruly party guests. “I don’t know you or what you’re going through—”
“I’ll tell you.”
Oh, boy.
“He was only supposed to be with us a few weeks!” Her Brazilian accent produced petal-soft o’s and u’s. “I thought, why not have a little fun?”
Sofia knew instinctively who he was. She spotted him through the window out by the pool, sipping from a glass of champagne that he’d poured. He looked radiant in the fading September sun. His dark hair was cut short, barely visible, and it didn’t matter because his thick brows framed his face beautifully. But that was neither here nor there.
“I should’ve known they were going to recruit him. They all love him at the firm. He has a nickname and everything.”
“What’s the nickname?”
“What?” the woman asked.
Sofia flushed. “Never mind.”
“The Gun.”
Sofia poured some tequila for herself and wondered how he might’ve earned it. It couldn’t have been looks alone.
The woman read her mind. “He’s that good.”
Okay, then.
“They asked him to stay and he said yes. Things were great between us. We had this amazing connection, so I figured—”
“You figured wrong.” Sofia didn’t need GPS to figure out where this story was heading.
The woman slammed her glass on the marble-top table. Tequila flew everywhere.
Sofia reached for a napkin and wiped up the mess. The hostess was really fond of her antique furniture.
“I’ve seen him.” Sofia pointed out the window, but “The Gun” was no longer out there. “The man is a shot of rum and he went straight to your head. But you can’t afford to fall apart like this. You work with these people, and you’ll have to face them all on Monday. Mess up and I promise you the catty bitches out there won’t ever let you live it down. And I’m not talking about the women.”
Sofia assumed the silence that followed her little speech was a well-earned response. Then it stretched out a beat too long and something in the way the woman gripped her glass warned her that they were no longer alone.
How much had he heard?
The woman rose from the table, brushed tequila droplets off her dress and strode out of the kitchen without uttering a word.
Sofia sat with her back to the door and didn’t move until she heard it creak shut and she was certain he was gone. When you thought about it, she’d done him a favor—a big one. Life had a way of leveling the score.
So, Mr. Gun...you’re welcome.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_0d7c8856-1710-5031-bfde-110a592da99d)
Five months later...
Jon had expected nothing until she walked in. Then, suddenly, his morning burst open with possibilities. After a glance around the auditorium, she picked a seat near him. Was it coincidence or the might of his will? He watched her drop her massive purse on one of the three empty seats between them, effectively erecting a wall. She crossed her golden-brown legs and went about the careful business of removing her sunglasses. Her profile was partially obstructed by a cloud of reddish-brownish curls flowing past her shoulders, but he made out the fringe of her lashes, the upward curve of her nose and a carefully drawn mouth.
It was going to be a lovely day.
“Please rise for Judge Antoine Roland.”
Jon rose. He couldn’t shake creeping déjà vu. Had they met before and where?
Judge Roland welcomed the drowsy assembly to the Miami-Dade County jury pool. After a reminder of the importance of jury duty in the great scheme of American democracy, he led the assembly in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. When he was done, some applauded—but not too many. The judge exited the auditorium as solemnly as he had entered. With that over, the oddly familiar woman sat and mumbled, “Let’s get this over with.”
He took it as an opening. “That’s the spirit.”
She looked his way, as if seeing him for the first time. Another announcement stopped him from introducing himself.
“Please fill out the jury questionnaire as best you can,” a clerk said through the piercing feedback of a microphone. “Don’t lose it. You’ll have to hand it to the bailiff when you’re called. And, if you’re eligible, don’t forget to request a reimbursement form. It’s only fifteen dollars, but times are hard. In the meantime, enjoy the movie. Julia Roberts—she’s always fun. The snack bar is open. Plus, there’s the quiet room if you prefer to read. All in all, it’s going to be a long day, folks! So why not make a friend?”
She immediately shot to her feet. Jon figured he’d scared her away, but she only went as far as the front desk to request the forms. Then for five minutes or so, she sat quietly, brows drawn, filling in each document using a pen retrieved from the depths of her bottomless purse. It was a fountain pen with some weight to it. The ink was a brilliant indigo blue. When she was done, she carefully replaced the pen’s cap, and he noticed her fingers, long and slim with deep red lacquered nails.
She turned in one form, kept the other, returned to her seat and folded those beautiful hands on her lap. Without looking at him, she said, “You’re nosy.”
“Observant,” he said. “And so are you, but you’re better at it.”
She swiveled in her seat and studied him, her wide brown eyes taking him apart and stitching him back together. He waited, counting the seconds for her to draw her conclusions. Women either loved him or hated him. There was never any middle ground. If she fell into the wrong camp, he had ways to drag her across the line.
Her eyes narrowed. “Have we...?”
“Slept together?” he asked. “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered.”
If he was hoping to rattle her, it didn’t work.
“I remember you,” she said drily.
There was little evidence that the memory was a pleasant one.
“I knew we’d met before,” he said. “Now clue me in. It’s been driving me crazy.”
She reached into her purse for earbuds and plugged them into her phone. “Sorry. Not trying to be rude, but all I want is to get through jury duty in peace.”
“You heard the clerk. Let’s be friends. My name is Jon—in case you’d forgotten.”
“I have enough friends.”
“Your friends are not like me.” He got up and buttoned his suit jacket. “I’ll get us coffee. Then you can tell me the story of us.”
She surprised him by rising to her feet. Even on impressively high heels—the sexiest pumps he’d seen in a while—she only reached his chin. “I can get my own coffee.”
“Let’s each get our own coffee together,” he proposed. “My treat.”
She grunted and took the lead. He happily followed, feeling like a winner. In a room full of dull and disgruntled people, she had brought light and something else that he needed: a challenge. Ten minutes in, he didn’t know her name or their shared history. He was going to have to work for it.
The snack bar offered Cuban coffee, Cuban toast, Cuban breakfast pastries and a Cuban breakfast special priced at $3.99. While they waited in line, he asked her what she’d like.
“Coffee with lots of milk. But don’t worry. I’ll order.”
“I’m not worried.”
The woman at the register took one look at him and made a suggestion. “American coffee?”
“No,” he said. “Un cortadito y un café con leche bien claro.”
He paid and stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip jar. She watched him with an amused smile.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Do you really speak Spanish? Or just know how to order coffee?”
He wanted to stay on topic. “You were about to tell me how we met.”
“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “If you can’t remember, it’s best to leave it in the past.”
“Who said that? Aristotle?”
The cashier tapped on the glass partition to get his attention. Their order was ready. Jon grabbed both cups and held hers up and out of reach. “Here you go...” He gave her a chance to fill in the blank.
She folded her arms across her chest, her generous chest. “My name is Sofia.”
The name didn’t ring any bells.
“Nice to meet you again, Sofia.” He handed over her coffee. “Should we check out the quiet room?”
“Too much quiet and I’ll start crying,” she said wearily. “Let’s just find a place to sit.”
Slot machines in Vegas weren’t as loud as those going off in his mind.
She led him to the far end of the auditorium to an empty row of chairs under a window. Sunlight exposed the dust in the air, like so many microscopic angels. They sat closer this time, shoulders touching, and he wondered what she’d have to cry about. Instead, he asked why she’d filled out a wage reimbursement form.
She shot him a look. Her brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She was very lovely.
“You are observant,” she said.
“We’ve established that.” It was no mystery. She’d filled out two forms and he’d filled only one.
“My time is worth money. That’s why. Not that it’s your business.”
“We’re talking fifteen dollars for an eight-hour day, right? You’ve got to be worth more than that.”
He was aware that he sounded like an elitist ass. Fifteen dollars was plenty for anyone who needed it. As the clerk had said, times were hard. But her sunglasses were Tom Ford, and that enormous purse was Louis Vuitton.
“I’m self-employed,” she said. “And to be honest, I’ve got a couple of toll violations. The state of Florida might as well pay for them.”
He laughed. She was a hustler. He could fall in love with this girl.
“You know what?” she snapped. “I hope you get stuck in jury duty all week.”
“Not going to happen. They won’t pick me.”
“Why not?” She took a sip of coffee. “Are you a felon? If you tell them, they’ll let you go home. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the law.”
Jon carefully lifted the lid of his mini Styrofoam cup and blew on the frothy surface. “Do I look like a felon?”
“Honestly?”
Jon had no illusions. His bulk intimidated some. His weathered face didn’t hide that he’d been punched more than a few times. An ex once told him that his expensive clothes only sharpened his rough edges. He gestured to the form lying flat on her lap. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
A typical jury questionnaire had more information than any online dating profile, and Jon liked to have all the facts up front.
She brought her cup to her lips to hide a smile. “I haven’t fallen for that since ever.”
“You can trust me,” he said.
“Before coffee I don’t trust my own mother,” she said.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his form, folded in squares. She hesitated, then snatched it from his hands. He took note of the things she chose to read.
“Jonathan Gunther. Thirty-two. Single. No kids. Attorney, criminal defense...”
She stopped reading and glanced up at him.
“They never pick lawyers,” he said with a wink. “We can turn a shoplifting case into a constitutional crisis.”
“Criminal defense?”
“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked. “I won’t bring my clients home.”
“You’re the problem,” she said with a smile.
