The minute Samantha spotted the dark-eyed man, she knew he was Senor Wrong, but she wanted him anyway. She stood in a San Francisco gallery transformed into pure color and light. Everywhere, hidden video cameras projected images of stained glass windows, bright at noon or soft at dusk, their colors forever in flux. “Brilliant light,” black-clad guests enthused, but it faded before Senor Wrong’s blazing intensity.
He approached her with an agile, fluid stride. “Wow. Does this hit you?” The lilt of his Spanish accent blended with the Philip Glass music that soared around them, and he smiled with a hint of humor, his teeth white against his skin.
Struck by the beauty of his baritone voice, she ran a hand over her black leather skirt and managed, “Well, yes, it does.”
“Have you ever seen anything like it before? It knocks me over. Excuse me, I’m Miguel de Canovas.”
“I’m Samantha Manning.”
“Ah, Samantha. I’ve never met a Samantha before. That’s like a movie star’s name.”
“And I suppose in your country, Miguel’s a movie star’s name, as well.”
“Ha. I’m not a movie star, just a photographer.”
“Oh. How did you get into that?”
Pain flashed in his eyes. “I lost my estancia and had to get a job.”
As he moved closer, his eyes held hers, unwavering, hypnotic, with a slight upward slant, which drove her wild. But a complicated past flickered in their darkness.
Her insides seemed to move and unclose as this man’s confidence, his sheer masculinity, pierced her. Though obviously a black belt seducer, he’s gorgeous. The gods must have taken longer to create him, hurrying through thousands of other men first.
She steadied herself. “You’re a professional then?”
“Photojournalist at the newspaper here - no by-line yet. I’ve got videos on YouTube. Viewers write comments, make me feel like Ang Lee, but I’m an old fashioned boy who likes to take stills. You know, plain pictures.” He peered around the room. “There sure are a lot of connoisseurs here.”
Tall, slender, broad shouldered. I’m going to collapse. “Video’s hot, especially among the digerati, but I see a ton of event hounds, too. This gallery’s the Sanctum Santorum of chic.”
“And you? Artist, connoisseur? Clearly, you’re chic.”
Her cheeks warmed; in fact, her entire body sizzled. “I did buy a Robert Frank shot once - New York at midnight. Couldn’t resist.”
As she spoke, Miguel again examined her with care, as if to memorize her. She tried not to notice, imply that gorgeous Latins approached her all the time, but that sensual warmth continued to rise until suddenly dread brushed by. “So, um, what do you want to express in your plain still shots?”
“People who’ve escaped the present, removed themselves from who they were: a woman applies lipstick and avoids her own eyes in the mirror, a guitarist reads a farewell letter between rehearsals . . .”
All of a sudden I believe in love at first sight. “Sounds intriguing.”
“Sometimes I shoot the city. I’ll never forget the day at Ocean Beach when I first saw the fog wafting above a line of huge breakers. I try, but images can’t capture nature’s pulse, only help people remember it.”
“Yes, remember, even the things you want to forget.” Grief clenched her painfully. I came here to forget, not to . . . “Tell me, how’d you land in San Francisco?”
“I came when a man named Rudolpho . . .” He stopped. A hostile, secretive ember glowed in his eyes.
A dangerous edge here, Samantha decided, but danger’s more exciting than bland predictability. Bed ‘em and bail – that’s probably his bio sheet. Maybe I’ll give him his customary one-night stand, have him while I can, just for the memory. Why not eat life with a big spoon again? When Mom and Dad died, I turned into a zombie. Still, I’m vulnerable right now. Can I take being hurt by him?
A black clad waiter with a pony tail passed chardonnay, and Samantha took a sip - nice and dry, the way she liked it. Other servers passed daikon-infused cuttlefish and quail eggs with okra.
When the waiter moved away, Miguel smiled. “Can I send out for piece of steak?”
“Steak. You must be from Argentina.”
“I am. Have you ever been there?”
“No, but I’d like to go sometime.”
“It’s a country of rhythm, guitars, and castanets. There’s light in the sky, and light in the warmth of a thousand smiles.”
“What do you miss most?” Your mistress? Wife, maybe? Ninos?
"The street sounds in the Argentinean countryside: chickens, dogs, bells, children. Burros amble across the roads; you never see them here.”
“One might turn up.” “Miguel! Samantha! Dear ones!” The gallery owner, Ceylon-Marie Ridgley, swept over enveloped in Paris perfume and awarded them a tight, glossy smile. Thrice divorced and once widowed, she bore the nickname, “Four Weddings and a Funeral.”
With gentlemanly grace, Miguel greeted her. “Buenos tardes, thank you for inviting me tonight.”
“Your installation,” Samantha said, “its fab.” Fab. What a dumb thing to say. The French speak of l’esprit d’escalier – devising the appropriate comment after the conversation’s over. That’s moi.
Ceylon-Marie rearranged her long ivory scarf and held her bleached blond head motionless, eyes forward. “Naturally it’s ‘fab,’ my dear. Forget fifties throwback Pollock paintings with the ridiculous price tags.” Her gaze shifted to Miguel, superiority glinting in it. “Senor de Canovas, you intrigue me. I understand you’re an estanciero besides being a photographer. I’ll visit and see your work pronto, as you would say.” Her eyes now darted above, around, beyond Miguel’s. “ ‘Bye, dear ones.” She waved her arms in a symphony conductor’s arc and whirled away to pursue an important client, one who habitually bemoaned her children developing “the problems of the rich,” lest anyone consider her poor. Dressed in fur trimmed silk, she reminded Samantha that whenever you’re overdressed, you’re badly dressed.
A young beauty with a smug older escort skillfully joined Ceylon-Marie and her prey without spilling their drinks. “Critics are dogs lifting their legs at the same tree,” the smug older escort snorted, “and modern art doesn’t age gracefully - no staying power.”
Ceylon-Marie gave him a “Who’s talking?” look, which prompted him to scuttle off, his date sullenly slouching by his side.
Miguel and Samantha both laughed. “Ceylon-Marie performs one task at the genius level: selling art,” Samantha said. “She has an eye and, without boring subtlety, has grabbed all the power here.”
Miguel flashed his killer smile. “Besides, she’s the only dealer in the city who remembers my name. The others say, ‘Juan, we only take on established artists,’ or ‘We have over ten million artists in the US, Pablo. Better take up something practical, like bull fighting.’ But I have dreams . . .”
OK, I’ve known quick flares, but when did a man hit me this way? “People without dreams don’t have anything. Besides, Ceylon-Marie’s the one who counts, and she’s excited by you – your work.”
“I wouldn’t choose the word ‘excited,’ but will pretend to agree, since we men are eager to impress young, carefree, dance-all-night girls - girls whose blonde girls have a gray cast, like the fog.”
Samantha tried to disguise the rush that surged through her. “Brava. Do you rehearse these speeches often?”
He laughed but glanced down guiltily. His hand brushed against hers.
She needed something to say, clutched at, “Do you have any relatives here?”
“Yes, my cousin, Carlos. He’s a New York emergency room doctor. Everyone thinks we’re twins, because we look exactly alike.”
“Twins?” Argentina contains multiples of these specimens? Should I organize a tour for my girlfriends? “As an estanciero, you’re used to servants doing everything, right? How are you doing on your own?” Translation: do you have a live in who does the housekeeping?
“I make beds and wash dishes, but I lack – what do you say here? – flair.”
“You’re not Martha Stewart?”
“The one who makes salads with twenty-seven vegetables? No, in the kitchen, I’m Miguel with the can opener.”
His long, slender fingers grazed her forearm, and she nearly moaned with desire. Somewhere inside, she heard a whisper, “No.”
Why? What’s wrong? She tried to reply, but Miguel gave her a stare that reduced her to silence until his voice broke into it. “So, do you plan to become President of the United States? I’ve heard that all El Norte women want to be.”
I want a baby. Husband optional. “I’m a gemologist at GRJ.”
“GRJ?”
“Gold Rush Jewelers, but there are other things in my life – like movies and produce marts.”
He smiled. Surely no man who smiled with so much heart would harm another person. Would he?
Someone approached - a luscious redhead, all curves, full lips, and predatory movements. Her hips rolled and swayed as she came forward and extended her hand to Samantha, her eyes suspicious. “Hello, dearie,” she said, “I’m Carmencita, Miguel’s date.”
Samantha wanted to push her aside and grab Miguel. Instead, she did the oh-how-lovely-to meet-you charade and joined a client enjoying one of Ceylon-Marie’s monologues. “Photography’s the place to be today. Picasso’s fine if you want a trip down memory lane - bobby socks, Sputnik . . . Mondrian? Leave the geometry to Euclid.”
When she paused to inhale, Samantha said her thank-yous for the thrilling evening and slipped away.
Once outside, Samantha decided to forget Miguel. On Saturday afternoons, his ancestors probably watched virgins sacrificed in pits of fire. Firm and resolute, she hailed a cab. When it pulled up, a muscular man appeared on the sidewalk and opened the door for her. His unblinking eyes stared at her. Straight on, his face looked average, but when he glanced over his shoulder, his nose and chin jutted out so far he looked bizarre.
With a clammy hand, he grabbed her forearm, making goose bumps of revulsion rise. She expelled a quick breath and met his stare. His eyes turned inward, as if following a maelstrom of strange thoughts that spun around in his head. A word popped into her mind: malevolence. She climbed into the cab, eager to see the end of him.
He held up a gold and emerald earring. “Did you drop this?” His wind-up toy voice vibrated with a strange edge.
One of my earrings must have fallen off. “Yes, yes I did,” she replied, so he handed it to her. “Thank you.” She clamped it around her ear lobe.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
He gave her the creeps, and she didn’t want to answer. Still, he’d been kind enough to return her earring. “Samantha,” she replied, noticing his slight whiff of Pine Sol.
His ears, which lay flat against his head, had a tongue depressor shape. He pulled at one of them and winked at her. “I’m Thal.”
She motioned the cab driver to get going.
END
Struck by the beauty of his baritone voice, she ran a hand over her black leather skirt and managed, “Well, yes, it does.”
“Have you ever seen anything like it before? It knocks me over. Excuse me, I’m Miguel de Canovas.”
“I’m Samantha Manning.”
“Ah, Samantha. I’ve never met a Samantha before. That’s like a movie star’s name.”
“And I suppose in your country, Miguel’s a movie star’s name, as well.”
“Ha. I’m not a movie star, just a photographer.”
“Oh. How did you get into that?”
Pain flashed in his eyes. “I lost my estancia and had to get a job.”
As he moved closer, his eyes held hers, unwavering, hypnotic, with a slight upward slant, which drove her wild. But a complicated past flickered in their darkness.
Her insides seemed to move and unclose as this man’s confidence, his sheer masculinity, pierced her. Though obviously a black belt seducer, he’s gorgeous. The gods must have taken longer to create him, hurrying through thousands of other men first.
She steadied herself. “You’re a professional then?”
“Photojournalist at the newspaper here - no by-line yet. I’ve got videos on YouTube. Viewers write comments, make me feel like Ang Lee, but I’m an old fashioned boy who likes to take stills. You know, plain pictures.” He peered around the room. “There sure are a lot of connoisseurs here.”
Tall, slender, broad shouldered. I’m going to collapse. “Video’s hot, especially among the digerati, but I see a ton of event hounds, too. This gallery’s the Sanctum Santorum of chic.”
“And you? Artist, connoisseur? Clearly, you’re chic.”
Her cheeks warmed; in fact, her entire body sizzled. “I did buy a Robert Frank shot once - New York at midnight. Couldn’t resist.”
As she spoke, Miguel again examined her with care, as if to memorize her. She tried not to notice, imply that gorgeous Latins approached her all the time, but that sensual warmth continued to rise until suddenly dread brushed by. “So, um, what do you want to express in your plain still shots?”
“People who’ve escaped the present, removed themselves from who they were: a woman applies lipstick and avoids her own eyes in the mirror, a guitarist reads a farewell letter between rehearsals . . .”
All of a sudden I believe in love at first sight. “Sounds intriguing.”
“Sometimes I shoot the city. I’ll never forget the day at Ocean Beach when I first saw the fog wafting above a line of huge breakers. I try, but images can’t capture nature’s pulse, only help people remember it.”
“Yes, remember, even the things you want to forget.” Grief clenched her painfully. I came here to forget, not to . . . “Tell me, how’d you land in San Francisco?”
“I came when a man named Rudolpho . . .” He stopped. A hostile, secretive ember glowed in his eyes.
A dangerous edge here, Samantha decided, but danger’s more exciting than bland predictability. Bed ‘em and bail – that’s probably his bio sheet. Maybe I’ll give him his customary one-night stand, have him while I can, just for the memory. Why not eat life with a big spoon again? When Mom and Dad died, I turned into a zombie. Still, I’m vulnerable right now. Can I take being hurt by him?
A black clad waiter with a pony tail passed chardonnay, and Samantha took a sip - nice and dry, the way she liked it. Other servers passed daikon-infused cuttlefish and quail eggs with okra.
When the waiter moved away, Miguel smiled. “Can I send out for piece of steak?”
“Steak. You must be from Argentina.”
“I am. Have you ever been there?”
“No, but I’d like to go sometime.”
“It’s a country of rhythm, guitars, and castanets. There’s light in the sky, and light in the warmth of a thousand smiles.”
“What do you miss most?” Your mistress? Wife, maybe? Ninos?
"The street sounds in the Argentinean countryside: chickens, dogs, bells, children. Burros amble across the roads; you never see them here.”
“One might turn up.” “Miguel! Samantha! Dear ones!” The gallery owner, Ceylon-Marie Ridgley, swept over enveloped in Paris perfume and awarded them a tight, glossy smile. Thrice divorced and once widowed, she bore the nickname, “Four Weddings and a Funeral.”
With gentlemanly grace, Miguel greeted her. “Buenos tardes, thank you for inviting me tonight.”
“Your installation,” Samantha said, “its fab.” Fab. What a dumb thing to say. The French speak of l’esprit d’escalier – devising the appropriate comment after the conversation’s over. That’s moi.
Ceylon-Marie rearranged her long ivory scarf and held her bleached blond head motionless, eyes forward. “Naturally it’s ‘fab,’ my dear. Forget fifties throwback Pollock paintings with the ridiculous price tags.” Her gaze shifted to Miguel, superiority glinting in it. “Senor de Canovas, you intrigue me. I understand you’re an estanciero besides being a photographer. I’ll visit and see your work pronto, as you would say.” Her eyes now darted above, around, beyond Miguel’s. “ ‘Bye, dear ones.” She waved her arms in a symphony conductor’s arc and whirled away to pursue an important client, one who habitually bemoaned her children developing “the problems of the rich,” lest anyone consider her poor. Dressed in fur trimmed silk, she reminded Samantha that whenever you’re overdressed, you’re badly dressed.
A young beauty with a smug older escort skillfully joined Ceylon-Marie and her prey without spilling their drinks. “Critics are dogs lifting their legs at the same tree,” the smug older escort snorted, “and modern art doesn’t age gracefully - no staying power.”
Ceylon-Marie gave him a “Who’s talking?” look, which prompted him to scuttle off, his date sullenly slouching by his side.
Miguel and Samantha both laughed. “Ceylon-Marie performs one task at the genius level: selling art,” Samantha said. “She has an eye and, without boring subtlety, has grabbed all the power here.”
Miguel flashed his killer smile. “Besides, she’s the only dealer in the city who remembers my name. The others say, ‘Juan, we only take on established artists,’ or ‘We have over ten million artists in the US, Pablo. Better take up something practical, like bull fighting.’ But I have dreams . . .”
OK, I’ve known quick flares, but when did a man hit me this way? “People without dreams don’t have anything. Besides, Ceylon-Marie’s the one who counts, and she’s excited by you – your work.”
“I wouldn’t choose the word ‘excited,’ but will pretend to agree, since we men are eager to impress young, carefree, dance-all-night girls - girls whose blonde girls have a gray cast, like the fog.”
Samantha tried to disguise the rush that surged through her. “Brava. Do you rehearse these speeches often?”
He laughed but glanced down guiltily. His hand brushed against hers.
She needed something to say, clutched at, “Do you have any relatives here?”
“Yes, my cousin, Carlos. He’s a New York emergency room doctor. Everyone thinks we’re twins, because we look exactly alike.”
“Twins?” Argentina contains multiples of these specimens? Should I organize a tour for my girlfriends? “As an estanciero, you’re used to servants doing everything, right? How are you doing on your own?” Translation: do you have a live in who does the housekeeping?
“I make beds and wash dishes, but I lack – what do you say here? – flair.”
“You’re not Martha Stewart?”
“The one who makes salads with twenty-seven vegetables? No, in the kitchen, I’m Miguel with the can opener.”
His long, slender fingers grazed her forearm, and she nearly moaned with desire. Somewhere inside, she heard a whisper, “No.”
Why? What’s wrong? She tried to reply, but Miguel gave her a stare that reduced her to silence until his voice broke into it. “So, do you plan to become President of the United States? I’ve heard that all El Norte women want to be.”
I want a baby. Husband optional. “I’m a gemologist at GRJ.”
“GRJ?”
“Gold Rush Jewelers, but there are other things in my life – like movies and produce marts.”
He smiled. Surely no man who smiled with so much heart would harm another person. Would he?
Someone approached - a luscious redhead, all curves, full lips, and predatory movements. Her hips rolled and swayed as she came forward and extended her hand to Samantha, her eyes suspicious. “Hello, dearie,” she said, “I’m Carmencita, Miguel’s date.”
Samantha wanted to push her aside and grab Miguel. Instead, she did the oh-how-lovely-to meet-you charade and joined a client enjoying one of Ceylon-Marie’s monologues. “Photography’s the place to be today. Picasso’s fine if you want a trip down memory lane - bobby socks, Sputnik . . . Mondrian? Leave the geometry to Euclid.”
When she paused to inhale, Samantha said her thank-yous for the thrilling evening and slipped away.
Once outside, Samantha decided to forget Miguel. On Saturday afternoons, his ancestors probably watched virgins sacrificed in pits of fire. Firm and resolute, she hailed a cab. When it pulled up, a muscular man appeared on the sidewalk and opened the door for her. His unblinking eyes stared at her. Straight on, his face looked average, but when he glanced over his shoulder, his nose and chin jutted out so far he looked bizarre.
With a clammy hand, he grabbed her forearm, making goose bumps of revulsion rise. She expelled a quick breath and met his stare. His eyes turned inward, as if following a maelstrom of strange thoughts that spun around in his head. A word popped into her mind: malevolence. She climbed into the cab, eager to see the end of him.
He held up a gold and emerald earring. “Did you drop this?” His wind-up toy voice vibrated with a strange edge.
One of my earrings must have fallen off. “Yes, yes I did,” she replied, so he handed it to her. “Thank you.” She clamped it around her ear lobe.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
He gave her the creeps, and she didn’t want to answer. Still, he’d been kind enough to return her earring. “Samantha,” she replied, noticing his slight whiff of Pine Sol.
His ears, which lay flat against his head, had a tongue depressor shape. He pulled at one of them and winked at her. “I’m Thal.”
She motioned the cab driver to get going.
END
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