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“Yes, Miss Santillan. Has someone been bothering you?”
“I attended a large party tonight, and I’m being cautious. Thank you, Jacob, good night.”
Rather than walk into a dark room, she always left the lights on in her condo. Nothing was out of place, although the fragrant roses on the coffee table were a colorful warning something was definitely amiss. She wouldn’t toss them until their blooms began to droop. She went into her bedroom and carefully slipped out of Libby’s dress. It was scented with the haunting Aragon cologne. Maybe Santos splashed it on her for fun.
She yanked off the pink diamond ring Santos’s father had left her in his will. Miguel had died much too young, and while Santos resembled him, she longed for the original Aragon man.
Ana was so easily recognized on the street she seldom left home without a large hat and dark glasses, or her favorite disguise, a straight black wig with bangs that brushed her eyelashes, generous Goth eyeliner and baggy black clothes. She’d always tip the security guard before she left so he’d recognize her and allow her back in, but she loved being able to go for long walks on Sunday afternoons and not draw more than an occasional idle glance. Slumping along rather than walking with her usual regal grace, she felt exhilarated the whole way.
El Gato Café off Las Ramblas was a favorite place to order tea and bite-size nut cakes and sit on the patio to read. When a young man carrying a bulging backpack asked to join her, she nodded and remained focused on her book.
“Thank you. This place has become so popular there aren’t any empty tables or I’d not have bothered you.”
A good-looking guy with glossy black hair and eyes the color of dark smoke, he was so tall he couldn’t fit his knees under the table and had to sit sideways. When after a few minutes of scanning one of his books he cradled his head on his backpack and closed his eyes, Ana reached into her bag for her camera.
From the day her mother had first pushed her in front of a camera, she’d known models had very short careers. Growing up, she’d spent so much time in photographers’ studios she’d developed a real talent with a camera. She eased out of her chair and knelt to photograph the student from several angles. With no plans to sell the photos, she didn’t need a release, but she hurried to return to her chair and hide her camera before he woke.
When he sat up, he brushed back his hair and checked his watch. “It’s too beautiful a day to study architecture anyway. I like your Goth look. There’s something primal about it.”
Relieved not to be recognized under such a thoughtful stare, she offered him a cake. He took it off the plate before she’d finished asking.
“I forgot to eat breakfast,” he explained between bites. “I need to order something. Would you like anything more?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine.”
He stood but took only a single step. “Will you watch my books?”
“Yes, they’ll be safe.” She watched him duck to enter the café. She spoke to few people outside of her modeling jobs, and he was a refreshing change. There was no harm in letting him believe she was an ordinary girl who enjoyed wearing black.
He returned with a thick roast beef sandwich and a beer. “I study here for the sandwiches. What are you reading?”
“The Prisoner of Heaven, Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s latest.”
“Great writer. He spends part of the year here, but I’ve never met him. Have you?”
“No, not yet.” He was concentrating on his sandwich, rather than on her, which was a glorious relief. There had been no rose bouquet that morning, perhaps because florists were closed on Sunday, or leaving early last night had discouraged her mystery fan.
She marked her place and closed her book. “I need to go. Good luck with your studies.”
“Wait a minute, I don’t know your name. I’m Alejandro Vasquez.”
“Ana,” she replied.
“Maybe I’ll see you here next Sunday, Ana.”
His warm smile made her long to come back and step into his world, if only for an afternoon. “I’m not here often.”
“You could try.” He reopened the thick textbook and looked very serious as he turned the pages.
Relieved he hadn’t recognized her, she nodded and walked away without making any promise she was unlikely to keep.
Larina Flores was a highly respected fashion photographer, but Ana hated working with her. The woman demanded poses that were nearly impossible to hold and then took her time photographing them. Ana studied ballet to have the supple grace of a prima ballerina, but it was lost on Larina.
“Try and look more like a man, Gian Carlo. Thrust out your chest and pull Ana closer.”
“Did she just insult my manhood?” he whispered in Ana’s ear.
She answered so softly her lips barely moved. “We’re being paid too well to walk out.”
