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The abrupt disconnection clicked in Erica’s ear, and she pulled the phone away and stared at it a moment, incredulous, before shaking her head and snapping the flip-front down. Her mother would never stop trying to marry her off, no matter how many times Erica tried to explain her dreams and goals. A pity her mother expended so much energy on a lost cause.
It wasn’t that Erica didn’t like men. She did. She just didn’t want to be subservient to one, as her mother had been to her father. Susana Gonçalves might claim she’d been fulfilled by feeding children, washing clothes and putting everyone else’s needs before her own all these years, but she had been a promising folk guitarist in her youth, on the fast track to giving Joan Baez a little healthy competition.
Then she’d met Erica’s father, and the rest was history. Moises Gonçalves had been raised a kind but strictly traditional man, and into the attic went his wife’s guitar. No time for “frivolity” with babies on the way and a husband to tend, Erica supposed. What a shame.
Call her a skeptic, but Erica refused to believe her mother didn’t have regrets about leaving that musical dream behind. As for herself, she didn’t plan to have a single regret. No way would she give up her identity, her life, her goals and dreams for a band around her finger and the “opportunity” to serve a man all her life. No way in hell. Nothing Mama could say or do would ever change her mind.
“So, what I’m looking for are some really innovative ideas of how you’d like to represent your town in your particular medium,” she told the gathered artisans, her voice composed, her look professional, her manner that of complete control. “The sky’s the limit here, folks. I want to push the envelope and really get New Mexico into the news. This is the first Cultural Arts Festival of this type for our state. Let’s make history.” She smiled with confidence. “Ideas?”
The event planner sent down by some large company in Santa Fe crossed her arms and leaned one toned but still shapely hip against the edge of the front table. Her head tilted slightly forward and to the side, sending the razor-perfect ends of her straight black hair brushing across her shoulder to dance against her cheek like a sheet of satin.
Tomás Garza sat back in his chair and studied her. Erica Gonçalves. He hated to admit it, but she couldn’t be more perfect if he’d conjured her up from his most fervent, most hidden fantasies. Organized, take-charge, encouraging and yet still approachable.
Hope wouldn’t feel threatened—an important consideration.
His jaw tightened, but he pushed aside his inner resistance and refocused on the lady at the front of the room, trying to read her, to soak her in. He needed to get a handle on her before he approached with his proposition. With only five months left, he couldn’t afford any more false starts or setbacks.
He listened while the sculptor representing Albuquerque suggested a Michelangelo-size idea to represent his city—a mixed-media sculpture that would suspend from the rafters of the event hall. A false sky, if you would, filled with faux hot-air balloons to represent the renowned Balloon Fiesta held in Albuquerque each October. An excited murmur rippled through the room as the artist and the planner discussed logistics for a work of this scope. Soon, others began offering their ideas, all praised and efficiently cataloged by Ms. Gonçalves with quick taps of her fingers on the laptop keyboard.
The tone of the meeting was electric, a creative thunderstorm, led by a woman who knew just what to say and do to make things happen. Tomás felt supercharged, both by the atmosphere and the fact that he may have just stumbled on a solution to his dilemma in the form of a petite, fast-track business dynamo named Erica.
The city representatives—specially selected artists, all of them—kept the flow of ideas rushing forth until only a few towns remained—his included. Without warning, the lady he’d been studying turned her dark-eyed gaze on him.
He straightened in his chair—a holdover habit from his less-than-stellar high school days, he supposed, when hearing his name meant he’d been busted for screwing around.
“Mr. Garza? Do you have any ideas for how to incorporate Las Vegas into your piece?” She smiled.
He relaxed his expression, but a flare of inexplicable self-preservation ignited inside him. Lifting one ankle to rest atop the opposite knee and smoothing his palms together, he took his time working his idea into words. Luckily, he had given this some thought, and he considered himself reasonably articulate, even paying only half attention. “Yes. I’d like to craft piñatas to replicate some of our city’s historic buildings, for an interesting twist. An amalgam of Mexican craft work with New Mexican culture. And definitely representative of Vegas.”
Her gaze brightened, and Tomás caught several appreciative nods from the other artists around the room in his peripheral vision. That pleased him. Some artists dismissed piñata making—his family’s artistic heritage—as a child’s craft rather than the endangered art it truly was. He worked hard to overcome the misconception, creating piñatas people wanted to display as well as those for children to break open at birthday parties. The reaction from his peers gathered here today seemed encouraging. He looked to the lady and raised one eyebrow in question.
“Fabulous,” Ms. Gonçalves said. The distant look in her eyes told him that sharp mind of hers was already three steps ahead in the planning. “Really different.”
“Gracias.” He warmed beneath her praise.
“How many houses were you thinking of incorporating?”
“One to represent each of our historic districts. Seven total. They’ll need to be big to capture detail. I don’t want to overdo it.”
“No, that’s perfect. You’re right.”
“Great.”
“Perhaps we can suspend them low over a map or photo of the town,” she said, swirling her hands out in front of her as though she had the full picture in her mind, “approximately near the locations of the districts they represent.”
He shrugged. “Works for me.”
A raised hand caught their attention, and they both turned toward a dazzling, dark-haired muralist from Angel Fire who sat near the far wall.
“I have a cartographer friend who’d jump on this project if the budget allows enough to pay him,” offered Monét Montoya, bangle bracelets tinkling as she gestured. “He’s worth it. His maps aren’t just maps, they’re art.”
Erica nodded. “Great. Get with me after the meeting and I’ll take down his information.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Garza? It is your project, after all.”
He appreciated the consideration. “Fine.”
“Good, then.” She typed the idea into her laptop with finality, and moments later it appeared on the projector screen:
Las Vegas: Display of seven piñatas in the form of historic buildings suspended above an art map of the city.
“Thank you, Mr. Garza.” Erica smiled at him, and his stomach tightened with a distant emotion he vaguely recognized as lust. His wariness increased. Granted, she was hot. Any red-blooded man could see that. But he had no intention of bringing a strange woman into his life—or his daughter’s life—lust or no. As Bob Marley so wisely crooned, “no woman, no cry.” He and Hope had learned their lesson on that account long ago.
“My pleasure.” He managed to smile with his mouth, but his eyes failed to cooperate. Not wanting to appear surly, he softened what he was sure had been a cold expression with a wink. To his surprise, her eyes widened slowly before she averted her gaze and cleared her throat. Interesting. When she raised her face to the crowd, Tomás noticed a flush to her chest in the V of her blouse, which belied the calm, cool exterior. He looked away, denying his own awareness. Awareness that had no place in this meeting room, or in his life.
“Okay, let’s move on.”
Please do, he thought, with palpable relief.
He watched Erica toss her hair and focus on another lucky artisan in the room. Grateful that her disconcerting attention had shifted elsewhere, Tomás tuned out a bit while the rest of the towns weighed in. He sat back to ruminate further about the best way to approach Erica Gonçalves with his proposition.
The job probably wasn’t as prestigious as her regular gigs, but he needed her, much as he hated to admit it. She could pull this off without a hitch, and he…well, he wasn’t so sure he could pull it off at all on his own.
The very thought of not being capable, of knowing he needed to seek help, brought self-disgust bubbling up in his throat. He and Hope had never needed help from anyone before. He hated admitting that he didn’t have every aspect of his busy life under control. Lately though, where his little girl was concerned, he didn’t seem to have a damn thing under control, and he’d do just about anything to make it better.
Part of it was her age, he knew. Kids went wacky during the middle-school years. Part of it was hormones, something he didn’t want to think about in relation to his baby girl. He needed to accept the fact that Hope wasn’t a baby anymore, however, and that sometimes young ladies acted…mysterious. Detached. More confusing the closer they came to womanhood—the nature of the beast. He pictured her and smiled with equal parts love, fatherly concern and sympathy, remembering age fourteen only too well. It wasn’t so many years since he’d been there, considering he’d been little more than a child himself when Hope had come along.
But he wasn’t the child anymore, he was the parent, and it was his responsibility to fix things, to make life perfect for his daughter. All that mattered was her happiness, and, much as he hated to admit it, the lady standing at the front of the small conference room could be the answer to his prayers. He wouldn’t allow stubborn pride to keep him from reaching out to her. No. He’d buck up and solicit her help, no matter how galling it was to admit his parental shortcomings. He’d do anything for Hope, even go into debt, even swallow his own foolish pride.
Calmer, more determined, he took in a breath and tracked Ms. Gonçalves’s smooth, efficient movements with his eyes, feeling better by the moment. If anyone could pull this off, she could. Everything would work out, and his daughter would magically revert back into the adoring, open, happy girl she had once been.
Pride swallowed. Help accepted.
Problem solved. Balance restored.
Hope and Daddy against the world once again.
Chapter Two
The meeting had gone well. Erica smiled to herself as she organized her notes. Creating a statewide cultural arts festival out of thin air and big dreams was a monstrous undertaking, but luckily the artisans she’d brought on board were not only talented but creative and enthusiastic, as well. The firm had a full team of event planners working on the festival, but the art included was the most important part, and Erica was in charge of finding appropriate artisans. She felt good about it.
If the sculptor from Albuquerque could pull off his idea, if he got the scale right—and certainly he would—the whole festival would feel as if it were taking place outside, beneath New Mexico’s blue skies and a rainbow of hot-air balloons. The undertaking was so huge, so fresh, it bordered on arrogant. She loved it. They’d make history…not to mention national news, which suited her five-year plan perfectly. She’d take all the help she could get making a name for herself in this competitive business. That out-of-the-box creativity was exactly what Erica had hoped for when she called this final planning meeting. Now that all the decisions had been made, they could all focus on pulling this beast together.
A knock sounded on the conference-room door, yanking Erica out of her thoughts. She glanced up and frowned, then checked her watch as she crossed the room, certain that she had another half hour at least before she needed to vacate the meeting space.
At the door, she hesitated, her mother’s grave warnings bubbling up from somewhere in her subconscious. She smiled at the absurdity, but nonetheless asked, “Who is it?” before opening the door. She hoped the effort would win her a few respect-your-mother points in heaven.
“Tomás Garza,” came the deep but gentle voice from the other side of the door.
The piñatero? Her heart revved, remembering her surprise when she first saw him at the meeting. When she’d sent a letter requesting his participation in the festival, she had expected him to be an old, paunchy man. How wrong her preconceived notions had been.
He was a quiet, watchful man, but certainly not old. And not even close to paunchy. She’d guess him to be in his early thirties, with long dark hair he wore pulled back into an utilitarian ponytail. It managed to look ultramasculine and enticingly rebellious at the same time.
She’d found him attractive, sure. But he’d stuck in her mind mostly because he’d been so…still. Utterly still, like an animal. Alert, aware, taking it all in, and ready to bolt at any moment. She found it disconcerting. Maybe she was crazy, but she’d gotten the feeling that Tomás had watched her every move during the meeting. His body motionless, deceptively casual. Those unusual brown eyes tracking her like prey.
She shivered, then pushed the ridiculous emotions aside and pulled open the door. “Mr. Garza,” she said, by way of a greeting. “Did you forget something?” His eyes glowed almost, and she suddenly realized they reminded her of those polished tiger’s eye stones sold in a lot of the tourist shops.
“Please call me Tomás.”
“Tomás, then.” She splayed a hand on her chest. “And I’m Erica.”
He nodded. “I didn’t forget anything. I wondered if you might have a few minutes to talk.”
“I have a little less than thirty minutes before the hotel kicks me out of the room, but come on in.” She stepped back, motioning for him to enter. “Is this about the festival?”
He smoothed his palms together, a vaguely hungry look in his eyes. “Actually, I came to speak to you about a different matter. A more…personal matter.”
Personal? All of a sudden, Erica recalled the wink he’d so casually tossed her during the meeting. At the time, she prayed no one else had seen it. Now, she stiffened, imagining just what this personal matter of his involved. Why did this crap seem to happen to her on almost every job? She dressed professionally, didn’t exude flirtatious vibes, as far as she knew. She simply wanted to be taken seriously in her career, not treated like fresh meat everywhere she went. Was that too much to ask? She hated to admit to herself how disappointed she was to learn that the quiet piñatero was just another in a long line of men who viewed the work arena as one big singles bar.
Her chin lifted. “Mr. Garza—”
He cocked his head, friendly curiosity in his eyes. “I thought we’d moved on to first names?”
She sighed. “Tomás, then. Before you say anything further, I’d like to make it perfectly clear that I don’t date business associates. Ever.”
His eyes widened, then crinkled with amusement. “You think I’m hitting on you?” He paused a moment, then added, mostly to himself, “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you, the way I phrased it.” His apologetic gaze met hers. “Ah…I’m almost flattered, Erica. But it’s not that kind of personal matter.” He held up his hands, palms forward, in a gesture of surrender. “I would never be so presumptuous. Sorry if I gave you that impression.”
Oh, God. Mortification oozed from her brain through her body like hot lava, miring her in its fiery thickness. The words were out there. She couldn’t snatch them back. She had to simply save face as best she could. “I, uh, owe you an apology, then. Clearly. It’s just that sometimes—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, holding up a hand. “I understand. I’m sure men come on to you all the time.”
“Not…all the time.” Ugh, she could perish.
“Well.” His eyes smiled, but his mouth managed to remain serious and sincere. “Rest assured, me hitting on you is one thing you’ll never have to worry about, Erica. Promise.”
Never? Realization cut through her mind, and with it came a deeper gouge of humiliation. God, it just kept getting better, didn’t it? Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? She’d been too damn busy noticing how unexpectedly young and attractive the piñatero was to realize—
How uncharacteristically narrow-minded of her.
She worked with people in the arts community all the time, she should know better than to assume. Clearly, Tomás Garza was gay, and here she’d accused him of—oh, Lord. She really did want to shrivel up and die. She knew no other way to recover from this social gaffe other than just…sucking it up and admitting she’d acted like an ass.
“I’ve come to request your help. Or your services, to be more specific,” Tomás continued, clearly not as bothered by what had transpired as she. “A business proposition.”
“Ah. Business.” She pushed out a humorless, self-deprecating laugh, wishing she’d fall through the floor, the earth, and all the way to China. “Okay. Well, give me a minute to regain my composure. I’m thoroughly embarrassed.” She twisted her mouth to the side and met his gaze directly. “Please accept my apology for the unfair assumption, Tomás. You must think I’m terribly arrogant.”
“Absolutely not.” Tomás laughed, but the sound was kind. He didn’t seem the type to derive pleasure from other people’s humiliation. “I think you’re a woman who probably puts up with men’s unwanted attentions all the time. I understand.”
Her humiliation waned, thanks to his kindness. “Still, to automatically assume…well. I just hope this won’t affect our working relationship. Believe me—” she laid a palm on his forearm, then lowered her tone to an intimate level hoping he’d recognize her sincerity “—I work with a lot of gay men, and consider many of them my closest friends. This is completely not an issue for me.”
Startled confusion clouded his eyes for a moment, then he smiled widely. She hadn’t noticed that dimple before.
Don’t notice it now, dummy. He plays for the other team!
“Look, ah…don’t worry about it.” Laughter laced his words. “I should’ve made myself more clear. Obviously. But, what’s done is done.” He clapped his palms together. “What do you say we start over from scratch?”
“Sounds like a fabulous idea.” She gestured behind her, relieved to have made it through the flaming hoop relatively unscathed. “I hope you don’t mind if I pack up while we talk.”
“Not at all. In fact, I’ll help.”
“Thanks.” He set about stacking chairs while Erica disconnected her computer and placed the components in the leather carrying case. “Tell me more about this proposition.”
He glanced up, then held her gaze. “I’d like to hire you for a special project. I need your expertise.”
Erica cocked her head to the side. “What’s up?”
“My daughter, Hope—she’s fourteen. Fifteen in—” he checked his watch “—just about six months.”
Daughter? Erica blinked, trying to grasp this newest bit of information and assimilate it into Tomás’s swiftly metamorphosing profile in her brain. From paunchy old man to sexy young man to gay man to father of a teenager—all in the span of a couple minutes. How much was one woman expected to take?
“I’d like to celebrate it during the summer, though, which means I have about five months to plan one heck of an extravaganza to celebrate her quince años,” he went on. “One perfect night for a very special girl turning fifteen. It’s been a dream of mine ever since she was born to make it extra special for her. There’s only one problem.”
She forced her vocal cords to form words. “W-what’s that?”
“I have no clue how to plan a quinceañera, and my little bundle of teenage hormones isn’t giving me much direction.” His mouth took on a rueful quirk.
Erica stared at him for a moment while her mind tried to catch up. She ran both hands through her hair. She needed more information, needed to pull herself together, needed…a drink.
“Well? What do you say?”
He wanted an answer now? She laughed, a small nervous sound. “Hold on. To be frank, I’m still trying to get over my shock that you have a daughter. And one that old. Fifteen?”
“Almost.”
She shook her head, marveling. “And here I thought you were about my age.”
His body stilled. He stood motionless before her, looking as he had during the meeting…wary, watchful. “I’m thirty-one,” he said, the words devoid of emotion.
“Ah. So you are about my age. Three years older, in any case.” Erica did the math. Interesting. “Your daughter was—”
“Not a mistake,” he said, his warning tone putting her on instant alert. His tiger’s-eye gaze hardened.
She blinked in surprise. “No, I…I wasn’t going to—I didn’t mean it that way.” Although she couldn’t imagine a seventeen-year-old boy planning to father a child. What else could it have been but a mistake?
Almost as if he’d read her thoughts, he added, “I had her too young. True. That’s my fault, not hers.”
“Of course not. I never…” She stepped closer, hating this awkward turn in what should’ve been an innocuous business conversation. She’d felt off-kilter since the moment he walked in, and things kept spiraling ever downward. She used to think her communication skills were a strong asset. Ha. “If I’ve offended you, I’m sorry.”
He studied her a moment, then his shoulders loosened. It seemed it was his turn to experience some embarrassment. “No. My fault. I’m…a little defensive where Hope is concerned. Undeservedly so in this instance, I fear. I’m sorry.”
Erica shook her head and released a little huff. “We seem to be apologizing a lot here.”
