His for the Summer: 50 Loving States, Florida Read online

  Her heart constricted, because he was right. She’d been determined to stand her ground and get herself out of this situation with him. But just the thought of being there for her sister. Of supporting her from the front row…

  She sighed. Hating him. Hating herself more.

  And wasn’t it strange how circles worked? Because three months after the first text conversation, she found herself once again typing a very small:

  “Okay.”

  THE HOTEL ROOM AT THE BENTON SANTA FE WAS BEAUTIFUL. Not at all what she expected after the bare fishbowl penthouse in Miami.

  No, this room was a very cozy affair, with warm adobe walls instead of glass ones, handmade carpets instead of marble floors, and plenty of distressed leather furniture to fill up it’s outer room.

  Cera’s tight heart eased a little as she beheld the room. That is until she saw the red dress lying on top of the bed at the far end of the suite. The one she’d last worn for her “dinner date” with Gus, along with a pair of strappy black heels.

  She found a note, lying on top of it, written in strong cursive: Have fun tonight. –Gus”

  This guy…

  Cera snatched up the dress and took it in with her to the shower. She couldn’t help but wonder how long it would take her to get over him, when this messed up arrangement was finally done.

  GUS HADN’T BEEN KIDDING about the quality of the seat he’d bought for her. A young college student ushered her to a seat in the very front row. So close, she could see all of the high school students in the orchestra pit, their intent gazes switching from their music stands to their young conductor in training as they played the opera’s opening number. So close, she had to resist the urge to jump up and wave at Dana when she entered stage left in a pretty white gown, wearing a wig of tumbling brown curls and carrying her therapy dog under one arm.

  Cera wiped tears from her eyes as she watched her sister sing, while stroking Maria Callas’s curly brown fur. Who would have thought the little sullen four-year-old with a severe speech delay would end up like this? Singing her heart out—and in Italian, no less!—while holding the entire audience (and one mixed-breed miniature poodle) in the palm of her hand.

  But when her sister left the stage, literally carried off by Hades’ underworld minions, the hairs on the back of Cera’s neck stood up.

  Someone was watching her. The awareness creeped over her skin as the chorus sang of poor Persephone’s demise.

  She looked around, twisting left and right in her seat. Knowing, without having to be told, that Gus was here. Somewhere in this audience. Watching her watch the opera.

  And he was somewhere close by and in eye range. The Santa Fe Opera resembled an amphitheater, with none of the usual opera appointments, like box seats. But it was still a dark space and no matter how much she strained, she couldn’t clearly see any of the faces in the dimly lit audience.

  After that, her heart stayed on a yo-yo. Rolling up with happiness every time Dana came on stage and spoke or sang in Italian, and then sinking with dread every time she left.

  The sensation of being watched never let up. Not until after the very last song, when nearly everyone came out of their seats to give the young students a standing ovation.

  He’d left. She already knew. He was probably headed toward the parking lot, destined to escape before she could get to him. But no matter. As soon as the house lights came on, she whipped around, scanning the audience.

  And then when she couldn’t find him, she felt compelled to pull out her phone and text: “You were here.”

  Slight pause, then: “Yes.”

  “But you ran away before I could see you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “Actually, I don’t know why, Gus. I still don’t understand.”

  With her heart thundering in her chest, she typed her truth: “I want to see you. I want you to come backstage with me and meet my sister. That’s what I want.”

  A lot of dot-dot-dot, like he was writing and erasing, but no answer came through.

  The need to see him—to feel like he was a real thing in her life and not some figment of her imagination, overwhelmed her then.

  In a fit of desperation she typed: “I’ll stay with you through August. No money required. I’ll do it. All you have to do is come backstage with me and meet my sister.”

  More dots. Then: “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  The apology was what really got her, because she didn’t understand. If he seriously wasn’t in this because she looked like this Pru woman, then why the hell couldn’t he come out in the open? Was he ashamed of her?

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “Deposit the check for August. We can both still get what we want from this.”

  “Why not?” Cera typed again, both angry and alarmed he’d actually rather give her two million dollars than make one trip backstage.

  “Put on the blindfold as soon as you get to the hotel room.”

  She wanted to scream, “no!” No, she wasn’t putting that damn blindfold on again. Out loud and in text, with capital letters and lots of exclamation points.

  But as if anticipating her answer, a new message appeared on the screen.

  “We made a deal. One more night. You promised.”

  Yes, they had made a deal. One Cera was bitterly regretting now. She’d do the same thing all over again if it meant seeing her sister perform as Persephone. But it felt like her mind was coming a part.

  Nonetheless, he was right. They had a deal. She’d promised.

  “Okay,” she typed back, the word as bitter as a pill.

  She clamped her lips and tried to reassure herself. One more night. She could do this. One more night, and they’d be even for the rest of July.

  17

  Luckily for Cera, her sister had been too happy to see her and on too much of a post-performance high to ask a lot of questions about how she’d made it to her opera debut.

  It had been Dana’s first official performance, but definitely not her last. Cera had barely managed to cut through the crowd surrounding her sister to tell her she was there and give her a quick hug, before a tall Asian boy and a black girl with braided extensions approached her little sister. They both looked around Dana’s age, but the crowd parted for them as if royalty were coming through.

  “You did a more than adequate job, Dana,” the girl told her.

  “Both our father and our patron were impressed,” the boy added. “But our patron matters more, since he is the one who will be financing our opera production next summer.”

  “And he agrees that you should play the younger version of Santhe,” Sparkle said, as if concluding a report.

  This didn’t make much sense to Cera, but Dana screamed. Actually screamed, like she’d just been given a golden ticket.

  The Asian boy held up his hands. “We understand your response.”

  “But please don’t hug us,” the black girl finished. “We haven’t prepared ourselves for that.”

  “No problem, I respect your boundaries—I’ll hug Maria Callas instead.”

  Which she did, squeezing the small dog close, and screaming into its brown fur.

  “Yay!” Cera said happily. Still not understanding, but if Dana was happy, she was happy.

  A pretty black woman with long dreadlocks and two men—one tall and Asian, the other huge, with dark hair and intense green eyes—appeared behind the two teenagers.

  “I see the twins have already told you the good news,” said the taller man. Cera could tell immediately he had to be from another country. His English was perfect and so devoid of an accent, it made him appear even more foreign.

  “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Rustanov,” Dana said, letting Maria Callas out of the hug. “For this program and for the opportunity.”

  So this was Alexei Rustanov, the Russian billionaire who’d funded the program, Cera realized.

  He simply nodded and said, “We will
talk further about this and your contract for next summer over dinner.”

  “Okay, okay, Lex,” said the black woman, who turned out to have a pretty heavy Jersey accent. “Since your wife isn’t here to keep you in line, I’m going to step in. I know you’re eager to seal this deal, but maybe you want to ask the woman standing next to her if it’s okay to take our future star to dinner.”

  Before Alexei could answer, the woman turned to Cera with a bright smile and said, “Hi, I’m Tasha Nakamura. This is my husband, Suro,” she nodded to the tall, Asian man, “and these are our kids, Kenji and Sparkle. Everybody, including us, calls them The Twins, but obviously they’re not. It’s a really long story, which we can tell you about over dinner. Did I hear Dana say you’re her sister?”

  Tasha was very nice, but wow, did she like to talk. Cera barely got a word in edgewise during dinner at a tony Italian restaurant just a short drive from the opera’s mountain venue. Not that she had much to say. She was more than happy to keep the attention focused on Dana, who apparently had just scored herself the deal of a lifetime.

  A role in Chrysanthemum, an opera The Twins—who were actually step-siblings—had written. The opera was an American opus, explained Kenji, about a slave who escapes from the South and somehow stumbles into a position on Lincoln’s White House serving staff, where she, among other things, attends to the manic-depressive First Lady, learns to ice skate really well, and influences the course of history by speaking words to President Lincoln that will eventually go into the Emancipation Proclamation.

  As epic as it all sounded, The Twins were most excited about the ice skating scene, which would transition Dana into her character's older counterpart. And then the older version of Santhe, the nickname of the title character in the opera, would be played by some really obscure black opera singer named Sirena Gale.

  “At least we hope we can get Ms. Gale,” Tasha told Cera and Dana. “She only put out one album in Europe over six years ago, and she hasn't sung a note since her run in a new German opera over five years ago. Not to mention we have no clue how to find her and if she's even still singing....”

  “But it has to be her,” Sparkle said with more emotion than she'd shown about any other topic all evening.

  “She's the only one in the world who can play this role as we've envisioned it,” Kenji added.

  Cera watched Alexei and the mostly silent Suro exchange what seemed to be a very significant look, full of all sorts of secret messages. Then Alexei said, “Do not worry yourself about this, children. Your father and I will get you the singer this opera deserves.”

  “We’re not children, Mr. Rustanov,” Kenji said.

  “Kenji…” Tasha warned.

  “What?” Kenji answered. “It’s not impolite if it’s true!”

  “Remember our talk about how to speak to people when you want them to give you stuff. Stuff like a whole bunch of money to finance your opera production next summer?” she countered. “Now is one of those times when you need to suppress what you’re really thinking in order to get what you really want.”

  To others, telling a kid that they had to keep their opinions to themselves in order to get what they want might have seemed a little unkind. But Cera appreciated the lesson Tasha was trying to impart to her autistic kids. Even coming from a moneyed background, as they obviously did, Sparkle and Kenji would have an uphill battle pursuing a career in the arts, where often the ability to hold one’s tongue with rich patrons could make or break a career.

  But in this case, the lesson was lost on Kenji who said, “He’s not going to take away the money because I’m telling him the truth, mother.”

  “This is true,” Alexei answered with a bemused smile. “My Eva would never forgive me if I did. But I will also not stop calling you two ‘children,’ so it seems we are at an impasse.”

  “I think next summer is going to be really fun!” Dana whispered to Maria Callas quite seriously in the glowering silence that followed.

  Despite the squabble, Cera couldn’t disagree. And she couldn’t be happier for her sister. Not only would her next summer in Santa Fe be fully paid for, room and board included, but it sounded like the role of a lifetime.

  “I’m so proud of you. I can’t wait to come see you at your performance next year,” she said to Dana, hugging her goodbye at the restaurant.

  The opera was done and Dana would be returning to the summer camp lodging with The Twins. But the town car that had followed them over from the amphitheater, idled ominously in the background. Waiting like one of Hades minions to escort Cera back into what had become her own personal hell.

  Dana moved Maria Callas out of the way to hug her back with an equal amount of squeeze.

  “I couldn’t have done this without you,” she said when she drew back. “Any of it. I don’t remember much about my mother, but I know you saved my life when I was four. And all the sacrifices you’ve made for me—I just want you know I’m never going to stop trying to make you proud.”

  So no, Cera thought, sniffing as she walked away from her sister toward the waiting town car. She didn’t regret what she’d done to make her sister’s dreams come true. Couldn’t regret any of it.

  But…

  As the driver ferried her on to the night’s final destination, her heart was like a dead organ inside her chest, filled with sand. She’d never been so happy for Dana in her entire life. But as for herself…

  She’d never felt like more of a whore.

  18

  She saw it as soon as she walked into the room.

  The single red blindfold. The same one she’d left behind in Miami, waiting for her on top of the bed. Apparently, it had followed her here to Santa Fe. Like a really creepy puppy. One that provided no therapy whatsoever.

  Cera dead-eyed the thing as she woodenly stripped. Not knowing, and not really caring, if he had a camera on her here, too.

  One more night, one more night, one more night…

  She climbed up onto the bed, letting the sandbag inside her chest fold her over, as she bent down. Butt in the air, presenting for him in his favorite position.

  One more night, she told herself dully.

  The click of a door opening came then. So soon after she was in position, she had to wonder if he’d been waiting on the other side of the hotel room door.

  As usual, he didn’t say anything when he entered. And eventually, there came the sound of two soft thunks. Followed by the soft rustle of clothes being removed. No surprise there. He always watched her as he took off his clothes.

  But the next sound in the series didn’t come. Instead of the closet door clicking open and closed, he took two steps forward.

  Then he put his hands on her, sliding them over her backside in a possessive caress.

  And dammit, her body immediately tightened in anticipation of what would come next.

  It had been a long time for them. Three whole days. The longest they’d gone since June. Forgetting how her mind wanted her to feel about all of this, her body trembled for his touch. And it felt like her core was sighing with relief when his mouth crashed down on it from behind, plunging two fingers into her. Urgent and demanding.

  His fingers were thick inside her at first, an unexpected invasion, and almost uncomfortable. For a few moments she thought this time he might not get to her. Maybe all the resentment and regret would suppress her body’s usual response to having his mouth on her.

  But he kept on working her, ruthless in his determination. His tongue and fingers moving in tandem, until she could actually feel herself become wet with desire. And she couldn’t control the moan that escaped from her lips as her core tightened with need. Need for this. Need for what he and only he could do to her.

  He used that slickness to his advantage, removing one finger from her core, and stroking her clit with her own essence.

  That was all it took. An orgasm bloomed bright as a new sun inside her, collapsing her onto her forearms, and replacing the sand inside he
r heart with pleasure.

  He’d won. Again.

  But he didn’t give her much time to feel like a fool for responding to him just as easily as she always had.

  Only a couple of seconds after she finished coming down, he had her flipped over on her back. And she soon discovered that insistent tongue-and-finger show would be the prettiest part of their staged reunion.

  Tonight there would be no sensual Latin music playing in the background as he gave her a full body massage. No slow simmer sex. No taking his time at all.

  No, tonight he buried himself inside of her without preamble, and then beasted on top of her. His hard muscles rippling between her thighs as he fucked her into the mattress with big, grunting strokes. Both his forehead and lips pressing hard into hers, as if he couldn’t bear to have any part them not touching.

  She would have loved to have hated it. But instead she found herself matching his beast with one of her own. Receiving him with needy cries, as desperate for him as he seemed to be for her.

  There was a bittersweet ache inside her now, and it felt like it was radiating from her soul. He was such a stranger to her. She still had no idea what had motivated him to do any of this. Especially with her.

  But in those moments, when they were moving together, twin fires burning horrendous and bright inside them both, it felt to Cera like he was giving her everything he had to give. Like they were as connected as two people could ever be, even though she’d never seen him.

  No, she didn’t have much understanding of how relationships worked. No understanding, really, but she found it hard to imagine this was anything less than love. Or that Gus had experienced anything like this with other women and then just walked away at the end of the summer.

  “Cera!”

  He said her name in a hoarse, broken whisper against her ear. Her name. He actually said her name. Her name, which he hadn’t ever written.

  Hearing that broke something inside of her, and she went straight over the edge, the climax exploding through her body with a meteoric blast.