Under His Spell (The Miami Tycoon) (4 page)

“Woah, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I was a little worried you called me in here to fire me. The whole situation, well, it was really my fault and I’m sorry. Can we forget about it?”

“Of course. Yes. Definitely.” He seemed relieved. “Erica, you really don’t need to worry. I’m not going to fire you. I just called payroll and had you added to the system.” He smiled once more. “Do you know how much paperwork I’d have to do to fire you now? No way.”

“Excellent! Then you’ll be happy to know that I will be making my first sale this afternoon.”

“That’s wonderful! Jess taught you well, I see.” A darker thought seemed to pass over his face. “I know this is probably not the best time to ask, but... Well, the whole office is going out on Friday. Tomorrow night, rather. Nothing too wild, we’re just going to blow off a little steam at Cielito Lindo. Would you like to come? I will, of course, behave like a perfect gentleman.”

“Of course! Jess already roped me into it. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Great. Now go make your sale. I’ll see you later.”

Erica left his office with a much lighter heart, but a small, niggling disappointment in the back of her mind. A perfect gentleman. Boo. She forced herself to focus on the sale, but her mind immediately slipped into thinking about the evening to come.

Maybe she could shanghai Emily into coming, for moral support. Manny was working swing shift, and she knew Em had a new dress that she hadn’t found an occasion for yet. She thought Emily would enjoy meeting all the people she’d been hearing gossip about for the past couple days. Girl was a slave to curiosity. Plus, Cielito Lindo was known for their hipstery-yet-amazing craft cocktails. Girl was also a slave to a good margarita.

The rest of the workday passed quickly. Erica had nearly forgotten, in all the flurry of the past couple days, about the appointment at the apartment in Miami Beach. She drove straight from the office to the place; about a 25-minute drive, as it turned out. The sun was low in the sky, casting a pinkish hue first over the Macarthur Causeway and then over the Miami Beach skyline itself. She drove past humming little cafés with yellow awnings shading their customers, who all seemed to be lingering over coffee with friends; past sleepy-looking bartenders clicking on their electric-blue open signs for the night’s business; past a tree-lined park in which strolled dogs and walkers getting their final exercise of the day. She turned from the larger avenues onto smaller and smaller streets, and by the time she reached Bonita Drive, she had been lulled into a thoroughly good mood by the neighborhood.

Taken so aback by the appearance of 7120 Bonita Drive, Erica forgot to park and idled in the middle of the street until the car behind her leaned on his horn. She knew immediately what Nick had meant by the building being worth a look.

It was an older building, and was definitely showing its age in its somewhat run-down appearance. If asked to date the era from whence it came, Erica would have immediately identified the style as late-1920’s art deco, one of her personal favorite architectural movements. It looked to be about eight or nine stories high, and was set in from the street, with a large lawn in front—though it was hardly a lawn. Lush vegetation grew wantonly in parts, and huge, venerated palm trees and oaks hung with spanish moss in others. The building itself was, as she’d already noted, rather timeworn, but it had beautiful, clean lines and timeless appeal. As Erica finally parked across the street and made her way closer, she felt as if Maxwell had wrapped the building up with a big red bow and given it to her. How he could’ve known she’d love it so much, he had no idea.

She picked her way over the stone path to the entrance and passed under the zigzag arches of the verandah, then through tall glass doors. At the back of the spacious lobby, a woman stood on the highest rung of a very tall ladder, peeling back avocado-green paper above a large stone fireplace to reveal a now-faded but once-bright mural that spanned nearly the entire back wall. Erica could make out two mermaids, done in bold graphic strokes, and a sea and stars. It was beautiful.

So was the woman doing the work of uncovering it, as far as Erica could tell from the back. Her wavy black hair fell nearly to her back, and she was dressed simply in khaki capris, a loose white t-shirt, and low-heeled espadrilles. She seemed absorbed in her work, and hadn’t heard Erica come in. Erica had no desire to startle a woman on a ladder, so she simply waited a few moments for the woman to turn around on her own.

“Oh!” The woman said, surprised. “I didn’t know you were here already! You must be Erica. I’m Marina, the owner. Hold on, I’ll come down,” she said, stepping nimbly to the ground. Marina from the front was just as relaxed and lovely as she was from the reverse; a wide, artless smile shone from a very round, tanned face. She looked a little older than Erica; early forties, maybe.

“Hello there, it’s so nice to meet you,” said the woman, gripping Erica’s hand warmly. “So you’ll be here about 6B, right?”

“Uhm, yes, I think,” said Erica hesitatingly. Maxwell hadn’t said precisely which apartment, but she assumed 6B would be just as fine as the others in the building. “Do many other people live here?” Erica inquired.

“Well, not yet. I’ve been restoring the apartments for nearly a year, but they’re just becoming habitable. There are four other tenants here, and of course I live here too. There’s someone else on your floor, so you won’t be totally alone. You can meet the rest of us if you decide you like it here! Now let’s go see the place, hm?” Marina said. “Sure,” agreed Erica. Marina walked towards an old, cage-style elevator, and began talking.

“So. Welcome to the Siren’s Palms! That was its name, when it opened as a hotel in 1928. The hotel was pretty glamorous back then; whenever movie stars came to Miami, this was where they stayed. Louise Brooks had an affair with the poolboy here, or so they say.” Marina winked conspiratorially, and went on. “Sadly, the Palms went out of fashion in the late forties and fifties, and fell into disrepair. A very misguided soul named Mike Rithgen renovated in the seventies.” She shook her head. “He of the hideous wallpaper. By the way, how do you feel about painting?” she asked Erica. “Great,” Erica grinned back. “Good,” said Marina. “You’ll see why in a second.”

They had reached the end of the rickety elevator ride, and now Marina was leading them to a lovely arched door, on which 6B was painted. The apartment itself had small rooms, hardwood floors, and scalloped moldings. There was a circular sunken living room (a remnant of the seventies, Erica recognized immediately) but Erica thought it might work, if properly decorated, with a Mumbai-doing-deco style. She envisioned gold and teal printed cushions and maybe even a round-tiered fringe chandelier. Two teak chairs, her most prized possessions, would work perfectly as well.

She said as much to Marina, who arched an eyebrow and led her to the bedroom. Erica gasped in mock-horror upon entering—the whole room was painted in a hideous burnt orange color. Then she looked up, and nearly gasped in true horror, seeing the mirror-covered ceiling. “Good lord,” she said to Marina. “I know, I know,” the landlady said kindly. “Listen. I’ll buy the paint if you supply the labor, ok? And I will work on the mirror thing. The seventies were a crazy time for us all,” she laughed.

“Okay.” Erica had made up her mind; now only one question remained. “What’s the rent?” Marina’s face got serious too. “All right, Erica. I know it’s all very much a work in progress, so...” The number she said was so low, Erica had her repeat it. “When can I move in?” she asked immediately. Marina smiled hugely. “How about Saturday?”

“So, Erica, you’re gonna keep Emily on a leash tonight, right? Don’t let any of those rich creeps stare at my beautiful wife.”

Manny was dropping Erica and Emily off at the bar next to the Maxwell & Brown offices, where the whole gang was meeting up before they went to Cielito. Manny was on his way to the night shift at the hospital.

“Oh don’t worry, I’m only bringing her to use as a buffer between me and my possibly crazy coworkers. I need somebody in the trenches with me.”

“Whatever, you both suck. I’m drinking eight margaritas and making you carry me home,” Emily joked. “I also cannot wait to meet and pass judgment upon all the people I’ve been hearing about. Jill sounds like some piece of work. Maybe four margaritas deep and I’ll giver her a piece of my mind.”

“Em, you better not. I’m imposing a three-drink limit.”

Manny looked back as he pulled over to let the girls out. “Ahh, Erica, you can’t tame the tiger once you let her out of the cage. She’s your problem now.”

“Well, I’ll be your problem tomorrow night, so get your whip ready.”

“Shush, loca. That’s our secret.” Manny blew Emily a kiss. “Bye, Em. Don’t do too much damage. And Erica, good luck!” He pulled away, leaving Emily and Erica on the curb.

It was Erica’s last night staying at Manny and Emily’s place; she’d signed the lease that day on the Bonita Drive apartment. She would miss the easy closeness and sleepover-y fun that she and Emily had had that week, but couldn’t be happier about finally having her own space. She gave Emily’s hand a little squeeze as they walked to the door of the bar.

“Emily, seriously, you’ve got to help me. Don’t let me make an ass out of myself.”

“You won’t, calm down. I think this is supposed to be what they call ‘fun,’ you psycho.”

Erica still felt nervous. She and Emily had enjoyed getting ready and deciding what to wear (Erica: a russet-colored strapless sheath, hair loosely curled, shimmery blush and rose-gold eyeshadow; Emily: a tight, off-the-shoulder black dress and no makeup but red lips) but even though Erica had spent the better part of a week with the others in the office, she still felt unsure of her place among them. Jill had only gotten more aloof as the week went on; Jess was still bubbly and friendly but had been out of the office for most of Thursday and Friday. Ashley had been kind to Erica, but always seemed to be preoccupied with something else, and was constantly in a hurry to do her next task. Which was fine with Erica, as Ashley seemed to be rather superficial and bratty.

Ryan had helped Erica a few times when she ran into an issue with a listing or a buyer, but Erica got the feeling that Jill was watching them when they interacted, so she tried to keep it to a minimum. Anthony—well, Anthony had flirted with her pretty overtly. Erica figured it was just his way with women, and had tried to make clear her indifference to his advances.

They walked inside the bar. It was a pretty small place, essentially a long hallway with exposed brick walls and big chalkboards on which the specials were written in colorful, loopy handwriting.

Jess spotted them the second they walked in and waved them over to the table where she, Ashley, Jill, Ryan, and Anthony sat. As Erica introduced Emily to all, she noticed that Ashley seemed to be a bit further along in the night’s festivities than the rest. She slurred “Sso nice to meet you,” to Emily, and toddled off to the bar to get another rum & coke. Emily slid into the seat next to Ashley’s, and Erica took the last open seat, next to Anthony.

He smiled, leaned into her ear, and whispered, “Looking good tonight. You know you don’t have to get all dolled up for me.” Smiling pleasantly as well, Erica elbowed him in the ribs. He mimed extreme pain and traced a fake tear down his cheek.

Ashley returned to the table. “Now what are you two doing over there, hmm?” she said to Anthony and Erica, just a little too loudly. “No office romance allowed!”

“Well, then you and I are screwed,” Jill said, looking at Ryan. “Guess I better look for a new boyfriend. How about that one?” She motioned to a meathead-looking guy trying in vain to get the bartender’s attention. Ryan put up his fists. “Ooh, you don’t think I can take him? You’re not getting away from me that easily.” Jill laughed and kissed him. “No, I’ll keep you, we’ll just have to bend the rules.” The table fell into loud, happy conversation. Erica’s apprehension dissipated as she and Emily argued with Jess and Ashley over the merits of the latest wedding-related reality television.

Just as Emily was making a point about the wedding-industrial complex being responsible for regenerating its victims’ children into child beauty pageants and perpetuating the vicious princess cycle, Nick walked into the bar. Erica sensed his presence immediately.

He looked tired again, worn out, pushing his hair back with his hand in a gesture that was something between relief and defeat. Erica watched as he entered and searched the room for familiar faces. His eyes set on Erica and they shared a moment of eye contact.

She had not yet seen him outside the setting of his office, in which he reigned supreme. Out here in the bar, some of his aura of absolute power was lessened. In comparison with all the other warm bodies in the room, though, he still stood out. There were older men, more physically powerful men here, but none with the same level of fascination for Erica. It was difficult to pinpoint. She thought it had something to do with his competence, and his lack of pretension. It was like he refused to enter the contest that other men in the room were subtextually engaging in: Ryan’s joking declaration of strength, Anthony’s covert glances to compare himself to all the other guys here. Nick did not compete. He just was.

“Hiiiii, Bossman!” Ashley screeched over the din of the bar. Nick looked disconcerted, but on Ashley’s part rather than his own. It seemed he could already tell that she’d had one too many. He approached the table. “Hi, guys. Are we ready to head to Cielito? I know I’m late. George wouldn’t let me out of the office. I need a fucking drink.”

“Sure thing, handsome.” Jill winked at Nick and made to get up. As everyone else did the same, Nick moved over to greet Erica.

“Glad you could make it.” He had his serious face on.

“Me, too.” Erica tried to deflect the solemnity. “Told you I wouldn’t dream of missing it. And my friend Emily’s here for the margarita’s.”

At that, Ashley must have been eavesdropping, because she squealed out “Marg-margs! Emmy, you have to try the blood orange marg, it’s sooo yumm.”