Diabla Meets Big Ju Ju Read online

  Chapter 2

  Ricky and I sauntered back up to the office. The sky was a sweet loving blue. The birds were singing their own song of joy and the sun was shining in our own special universe. Why not? We were madly in love.

  No, no. Hold it . . . you got it all wrong. Not that. Not with each other . . . Okay . . . Ricky first.

  He came into the office a few weeks back looking beat and gray. With that great Cuban skin, Ricky doesn’t get circles under his eyes, but this time he had craters. I figured it was another long one-nighter for Mr. Latin Dynamite. Beautiful ladies with boundless energy . . . just the type he likes. He comes in like that occasionally, but his recovery time is short and quite remarkable. It was different this time. The next morning, same look. Then it hit me. He wasn’t just tired. It was more like moon struck. He was quiet and he spent what seemed like hours staring out the window and smiling to himself. When I asked him about lunch, he simply said, “I have plans.” I knew it might be too soon, but it looked like the hook was digging in deep.

  When I met her, I knew why. If he was Latin Dynamite, she was an easy match, a Cuban Dream. Her face was the model for a combination of Beyonce and Penelope Cruz. The skin shown like polished bronze. Her raven hair swung about her head like black silk. And the body . . . Way Beyond Wow. At first, I figured -- oh my God -- another one of Ricky’s air-headed bimbos.

  Well, this bimbo was a CPA, a senior partner in the firm and the co-author of three textbooks on personal tax filing that were in use at FSU, UF, UCF, and all of the other major universities in Florida. She had a penthouse on Atlantic Ave. and skirted around town in a new Mercedes E-Class Cabriolet . . . red with a black convertible top, no less. Still, none of that meant I had to like her. Ricky decided we all had to have dinner together . . . on him. My first reaction was “yuck,” Then I thought, “such a deal on the food,” but I still wasn’t sure about the company.

  He insisted on Casablanca, a newer place on Alhambra, close to the beach. Expensive and elegant. The maître d’ was all decked out in a black silk jacket and matching bow tie, the whole shebang. As we walked to our table in the back, a quiet fell over the dining room. I gotta tell you that I’ve had my share of oglers in my day. When I wear that short red dress with the plunging neckline and black stilettos, I can shake my silky blond curls and the guys will choke on their gazpacho. But tonight they weren’t even giving me a second look. All eyes were glued on one Evelyn Santiago. She wore a black cocktail dress; sexy, but elegant, with a stand of natural pearls gleaming casually at her neck. Her glossy black hair looked like an ad for shampoo from the pages of VOGUE. She moved like a female panther, silent and measured, but with unimpeachable grace and dignity. A couple of the guys had to wipe the drool off their chins.

  We were seated. Ricky ordered a bottle of Dom Pernignon like he owned the place. I almost choked. She placed her hand gently on my arm and smiled. She squeezed warmly and spoke.

  “Ricky has told me so much about you. You sound like a clone between Wonderwoman and Grace Kelly. I’m not sure I can compete.”

  It should have sounded like catty bullshit, but her girlish laugh and warm smile gave it a serious authenticity that hung in the air. We talked while Ricky mostly just listened. It was normal girl stuff, but no name dropping or one-upmanship. It just flowed like a peaceful river deep in the woods. We also laughed a lot while Ricky beamed and nodded.

  I felt like a first class ass. I had no choice. I had to like her. She was absolutely delightful, charming, funny, unpretentious. Her smile and her laugh simply nestled into you and slowly set you on fire. We had snifters of cognac after dinner. The whole evening just continued to get better. I decided it might be appropriate to take a cab to the boat in case the love birds wanted to nest in the darkness.

  Now I guess you’re wondering about me and my Sterling. I know. It makes me want to puke, too. But that’s his name, Sterling Major. It’s hard for me to get it out of my mouth, so I just call him S most of the time. Anyway . . . more about him later.