Page 39 of No Darker Temptation

On my way out, I pass by Diego at the bar as he pours a shaken martini into a sparkling glass. “Your dedication to the role of bartender fascinates me.”

“Having a normal job grounds me,” he explains without a glance in my direction. “The same way you like to push paper in that pretentious little office of yours to have some semblance of normalcy, I do this.”

He gives the martini to a woman at the end of the bar with a smile and then returns to his station. “Dad always said he wanted us to start from the bottom because it would make us better leaders. I think he was right about that part.” My brother says. “Besides, I enjoy it. Pretending to be just a bartender for a few hours every night helps bring me back to reality. I think we lose sight of that sometimes.”

“Sight of what?”

It takes him a moment to respond. “Sight of life and what it’s supposed to be…versus what it is for people like us. This is normal. I like normal.”

Normal. I cannot fault him for that.

I leave the lounge and make the drive home in almost ten minutes. When I get there, Dimitrio is outside talking to Beni and I toss him my keys. “Do I pay the two of you to stand out here and do nothing?”

“You pay him to stand out here and do nothing,” Beni points to Dimitrio and then himself. “You pay me to stand out here and look pretty.”

I cast a look in their direction before heading inside.

No matter how many times I walk through the front doors, the main foyer never loses its wonder.

Considering the state of decay certain parts of the building were in, so much of the house’s integrity has been preserved. I look up at the ceiling of stained glass and turn of the century stonework, marveling at the sight as the last bit of early evening sunlight bleeds through. Red swirls, blue shapes, and pink petals glisten across the limestone floor, a reflection of the artwork above it. I head upstairs and follow the winding path all the way up to the first floor. An extension of the original architect’s apartment, the tiling up here is coral-pink and pale orange, complementing the woodwork. They have a fancy name but truth be told, I can never follow much of what Dahlia says when she’s on one of her tangents. I’m much happier signing the checks and letting her do what she pleases.

She still hasn’t decided what to do with the other rooms of the house but we spend most of our time here on the east end, shuffling between the first and third floors.

Under the chandelier is the center table where we usually drop most of the mail. I’m expecting some documents from one of our cousins living in Belize. They’re originals that need a signature and I want to review them before I forget.

Doña Ana appears from down the hall, presumably on her way to the kitchen, with a tray in her hands. The teacup is empty as is the cookie plate beside it.

She smiles when she sees me. “No pensé que usted volvería tan pronto.”

I smile in return as she approaches and I kneel down so she can do the sign of the cross on my forehead. Even as adults, she blesses us before we leave and when we return. “Dahlia and I have a date tonight.”

She giggles a bit as her cheeks flush deep pink, brown eyes twinkling with delight. Doña Ana’s been with the family for decades. She’s like a second grandmother to all of us. No matter what, she’s remained one of very few constants in our ever-evolving lives.

“Sí, lo sé,” she tells me. “Ella está arreglándose en su recamara. Se ve muy bonita.”

I drop the unopened envelopes on the table. “Well then I guess I better get up there and see for myself.”

We part ways in the hall and I head up to the bedroom. As soon as I step inside, the scent of Dahlia’s perfume finds me. Notes of pear and blackcurrant fade to a subtle rose and jasmine. She’s very particular about that sort of thing. Each bottle is neatly lined up on her vanity, arranged neither by size, color, nor price, but instead by mood. Her perfumes reflect her emotions and tonight, I’d wager she’s feeling…sexy. Confident. Perhaps excited. It has to be either the red bottle or the champagne pink one. I can’t remember the names for the life of me but I certainly know what each one means.

I find her in the walk-in closet standing in front of a full body mirror. Her hair is done, wild and wavy, the ends grazing her hips. She pushes that mountain of red hair aside and over one shoulder so she can finish securing one of her earrings in place.

I could look at her for hours. Especially in that dress.

The way the silk chiffon hugs her waist and spills over her hips. Garnet red fabric bleeds onto her figure like melted wax, the deep neckline hugging her breasts as the flimsy, folded straps fall over her olive shoulders. A pattern of sewn on flowers at her right hip spills across the slit running down her leg where the frills swift and sway with the ease of leaves against the wind.

I admire all of her. From the curve of her neck to the slope of her shoulders. Watching her get ready is an indulgence. Food for a starving man. It’s my favorite part of a night out with her, second only to when I get to take her home and peel her out of whatever dress she’s decided to tempt me with.

As if just realizing I’m here, she spins around, fingers adjusting the back of her earring as she smiles. “You’re early.”

“Am I usually late?”

She makes a face and returns to the mirror. I pick up the box resting on the island beside her and retrieve the necklace inside. “Your punctuality is up for debate.”

She lifts her hair and I secure the necklace around her throat, kissing where the clasp snaps into place. “It was a slow day today.”

Dahlia turns to face me and the smile playing at the corner of her mouth sends a bolt of desire through me. She tilts her head, amber gaze drifting across my face. “What?”

“Nothing.”