The Night She Got Lucky

  With great care—and an unexpected surge of self-discipline—he eased her onto her back, making sure the dress covered her bare breasts but did not hinder her breathing. He brushed her left cheek with the back of his fingertips.

  “Te fuiste, mi amor,” he whispered. “Wake up, love. You left me for a moment. Breathe now.”

  She stirred.

  “That is good,” he said, suddenly aware of a strange sizzle in the air, an electrical rush moving through his body. He glanced to check if a breeze ruffled the curtains. But there was nothing.

  Then Ginger sighed, her dainty pink lips parting ever so slightly, and Lucio felt it again, stronger this time—a wave, a disturbance in the air, a question and its answer tucked inside a crackle of energy. Ginger’s eyelashes flickered. His self-control had been short-lived.

  “Forgive me,” Lucio said as he lowered his mouth to hers. “But I must.”

  He kissed her. Her lips yielded to his gentle pressure, opening to him. Lucio groaned in bliss, the energy coursing through him, the kiss building, surging, growing hotter and hotter …

  Until she struck him.

  The thud of her palms against his chest knocked the wind from his lungs. Lucio prevented himself from falling off the edge of the bed, and managed a smile. “Sleeping beauty awakes!” he said, bowing slightly.

  “You freakin’ pig!”

  With that pronouncement, Ginger sat up abruptly, her thick auburn hair askew, her dress falling far south of modesty. She choked in outrage, yanking the dress up past a set of stupendous breasts all the way to her clavicle. That’s when she screamed.

  In the two decades he’d roamed the globe as a nature photographer for Geographica magazine, he’d dealt with hysterical females of every size, shade, nationality, and demeanor. They’d cursed him in a variety of tongues—Mandarin, Punjabi, and Cajun French initially came to mind—and in a variety of exotic settings. The Nepalese highlands. Kenya’s Rift Valley. Under a canopy of strangler fig vines over the Upper Amazon. But he couldn’t remember any of them being as desirable as Ginger Garrison. There was something beguiling about the woman—quite tall but, oh, so feminine. He guessed she was in her mid-thirties, at the peak of mature beauty, with fiery hazel eyes and delicate hands, one of which was, at that very moment, flying toward his face, palm flat and open.

  Thwack!

  The guest-room door flew wide, and Lucio immediately recognized the cavalry as the other two bridesmaids in the wedding party, an older, mannish woman named Beatrice Latimer, and a little dark-haired cutie named Roxanne Bloom. Though he would have preferred it the other way around, Roxanne was in a bulky bathrobe and Bea was in a camisole and panties.

  “What the fuck?” Bea said, balling her fists at her sides.

  “Allow me to introduce myself.” Lucio rose from the bed and headed toward the neutral center of the room. “I am Lucio Montevez, but those who know me well call me Lucky.” The women did not seem impressed. “Your friend fainted on the walkway outside, and I brought her here to recover.”

  “We don’t care if you’re the pope!” Roxanne’s eyes flew wide. “We heard Ginger scream and we’re calling the police!”

  Lucio tried not to laugh. “There is no need, I assure you.”

  “Really?” Bea took a step toward him, and by the looks of the woman’s defined quadriceps, she meant business. “Because it sure looks like you just assaulted her.” Bea pointed at Ginger. “Her dress is open. She looks unraveled. That scream was the real deal. Your luck has just run out, dude.”

  “Wait.” It was Ginger. She fumbled with the dress, clutching it to her chest as she reached around her back to find the open zipper. Then she blinked, quickly shook her head, and touched her lips. Her eyes shot toward him. “I couldn’t breathe. I saw you step out from behind the roses, then everything went black.” Ginger’s jaw slackened. Her hand fell to her side. And she stared at him in shock.

  Ginger’s friend had been right—the woman was unraveled. Lucio certainly hadn’t meant to unnerve her to this degree. It was only a kiss.

  “You said you were waiting for me,” Ginger whispered, horror in her eyes.

  “I did.”

  “Then you said something in Spanish. What was it?”

  “I merely explained that you’d stolen my heart.”

  Ginger’s eyes went wider still. “You kissed me.”

  “I had hoped to revive you,” Lucio said, smiling. “I am happy to see it worked.”

  “Ever heard of a cold cloth on the forehead?” Roxanne asked.

  Lucio laughed. “This has been a rare pleasure, ladies. Please let me know if you should need further assistance.”

  He headed toward the door, looking back long enough to see the loathing in Bea’s sneer and the distrust in Roxanne’s narrowed eyes. Ginger, however, was once again touching a pair of lips that had drifted into a dreamy smile.

  With a nod, Lucio headed down the steps and outside, a smile of his own spreading across his face. Without a doubt, loosening the dress of the hazel-eyed, auburn-haired Ginger Garrison had been the most pleasant surprise of the last three months, and Lucio decided he’d allow himself a moment to savor it. After all, he deserved a brush with beauty in the midst of all the ugliness that had recently become his life.

  “Are you okay?” Roxanne rushed to the side of the bed and knelt on the rug, reaching for Ginger’s hand. “Did he hurt you?”

  Ginger blinked at her friend, feeling thoroughly stunned. Maybe the blackout had restricted the flow of oxygen to her brain! How embarrassing would that be, finding out from her doctor that cramming her size six body into a size four bridesmaid’s dress had led to permanent brain damage?

  “Ginger? Can you hear me?”

  “Huh?” Ginger stared at Roxie until her friend’s face came into focus. “Oh. Yeah. I’m fine.”

  With a loud sigh, Bea shut the guest-room door and began her commentary. “It simply fascinates me how men walk around this planet thinking they can just help themselves to women, like the female race is nothing but one giant sexual smorgasbord set out for their enjoyment.”

  Roxanne and Ginger stared at Bea in silence.

  “I’m just saying that some men have a pathological sense of entitlement. It must arrive at the moment of conception, along with the DNA coding for testicles.”

  Roxanne laughed. “I think I’ll make that my next quote of the day; would you mind?”

  Bea shrugged. “Half the pearls of wisdom on your man-hating Web site are mine anyway.”

  “And I’ve always given you the credit you deserve.”

  Bea waved her hand. “More power to you.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “So,” she said, examining Ginger. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m absolutely fine.”

  “So what the hell happened?” Roxanne asked.

  “Pretty much what Lucio said. Excuse me just a minute.”

  Ginger pressed the loose fabric to her chest, rose from the bed, and retreated into the dressing room. She quickly changed into a short batik skirt, sandals, and a scoop-neck T-shirt. She brushed out her hair and checked her reflection in the mirror.

  Not bad, she decided, considering her recent journey to the brink. In fact—Ginger peered closer into the mirror to be sure—her eyes had a distinct sparkle to them. Her cheeks gave off a warm glow. Her lips were downright plump and rosy. It must be a hot flash, she decided, because she hadn’t had a microderm abrasion since February, and hadn’t yet gotten up the nerve to have lip augmentation. In fact, she hadn’t touched her makeup for hours, not since she prepared to walk down the aisle ahead of Josie.

  Ginger took one last glance in the mirror and let go with a contented sigh. Josie and Rick’s ceremony had been the most beautiful wedding she’d ever witnessed, a real-life fairy tale. And, as she’d told Mrs. Needleman, she was ecstatic for Josie. Her friend had found true love with a truly good man, and there was no woman more deserving.

&nb
sp; There is a man waiting for you … He is out there … You could still get lucky …

  Ginger smiled to herself at the entertaining coincidence of it all. The old lady had said those words, Ginger opened the door, and a man named Lucky was out there waiting for her. But that’s all it was. A coincidence. She knew Gloria Needleman was a peculiar old lady, and Lucky—no, Lucio was his real name—was just an old friend of Rick’s who’d photographed the wedding. She wouldn’t give it any more credence than that. Ginger didn’t have time for a silly fantasy, no matter how tall, dark, and hot he was.

  Or what a stupendous kisser he was.

  Or how his accent melted her insides.

  Or the way a strange crackle of electricity shot through her skin when he touched her.

  Her friends were talking quietly when Ginger returned to the room, and by the way they abruptly ended their conversation, Ginger figured she’d been the topic.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Roxanne asked. “You want to file charges?”

  Ginger shook her head. “My dress was too tight and I fainted. He came to my aid. There’s no crime in that.”

  Bea rolled her eyes dramatically. “Looks like the buffet is officially open!”

  “I can take care of myself, you know,” Ginger said, shaking her head with amusement. “Besides, I thought we learned our lesson about butting into other people’s business—our interference almost ruined Josie’s life! And here you are, ready to do the same with me? Am I going to find you two under the tree outside my window, like we did to Josie?”

  Roxanne’s mouth opened, insulted. “You were just as much a part of that as we were, and you know we had only the best intentions.”

  “Yeah,” Bea said. “And I still believe there’s a fine line between butting into someone’s business and making sure a dear friend doesn’t commit the hugest mistake of her life.”

  “You’re twenty years late on that one,” Ginger said with a laugh, opening the door for them. “Where were you the night I met Larry Garrison at a fraternity kegger?”

  Ginger’s friends entered the hallway, but Roxanne turned around, narrowing her eyes. “You’re going to go after Lucio, aren’t you?”

  Ginger shrugged. “If I happen to see him before we leave tomorrow, I’ll thank him. But I’m not going to make a big deal of it.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Bea said, rolling her eyes again.

  Ginger smiled. “See you for dinner about seven.”

  Once alone, Ginger turned off the lamp by the bed and went to the open balcony doors. Evening had fallen. The breeze was cooler. The last moments of sunlight had cast a pale orange glow on the vineyards and gardens. Ginger stepped to the railing and inhaled the richly scented air. That’s when she saw him.

  Lucio stood quietly on the lawn near the stone wall, in profile, again with one hand in his pocket. He didn’t move, but Ginger could tell by the set of his shoulders and the slope of his neck that he carried a burden. He looked worried—worried that she’d press charges, no doubt. Ginger decided to put the man out of his misery. She’d go down there and talk to him.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lucio had strolled across the lawn to the spot under the live oaks where, just hours ago, his friend Rick Rousseau had taken his wedding vows with a sweet and funny newspaper obituary writer named Josie Sheehan. It was a turn of events Lucio would never have predicted for his old running buddy, but, as he well knew, few things in life go the way we envision. His current situation was proof of that.

  Lucio took a seat on the thick stone wall dividing the lawn from the gardens, then situated himself so that he faced west. The light here reminded him of home, the magical hills between Spain’s highest mountains and the Mediterranean, with its fig trees and flowers, lemons and pomegranates, all that decadent bounty. He’d been gone nearly twenty years and had long ago acquired U.S. citizenship, but that sunny valley by the sea was the only true home he’d ever known, and would likely remain so. He’d used San Francisco as his base of operations for many years, but he was here so rarely it no longer even made sense to keep an apartment.

  Lucio raised one knee and propped an arm on it, smiling to himself. Yes, Ginger Garrison was a beautiful woman, and it had been a real pleasure to have her in his arms and under his lips. But a woman was the last thing he should be concerned about. He’d come to San Francisco on the most serious of errands—winning back his reputation and rebuilding his career—and a woman could not possibly aid him in either pursuit. Wasn’t his weakness for women at least partially to blame for his present circumstances?

  Lucio shook his head. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  He’d already been in town three months, sleeping on a friend’s couch or in his agent’s guest room until Rick blew him away with kindness and offered Lucio the use of his house in town while he and Josie were on their honeymoon. Then, just before the wedding earlier that day, Rick had told Lucio that the house was his for as long as he needed it, because the couple had decided to make the wine-country ranch their full-time home. Lucio had been speechless.

  “Someday I will repay you for your generosity,” he’d told Rick.

  His longtime friend put his arm around his shoulder and said there was no need. “You were there for me when I needed you, Lucky. This is what friends do for each other.”

  Lucio recalled how touched he was by Rick’s offer, and chuckled softly to himself. They were no longer the wild boys they once were, cutting a swath through the continents in pursuit of adventure and pleasure—and, for Lucio at least, an occasional paycheck. They had both made many mistakes in those years and the ones that followed. They had learned some hard lessons. And they had both come to appreciate the true value of friendship.

  As it turned out, Rick’s Pacific Heights home was luxurious and convenient to everything Lucio needed. His agent lived only four blocks east in the same exclusive San Francisco neighborhood, much to the man’s chagrin.

  “I will do everything in my power for you, as always,” Sydney Frankel told him the last time they’d talked. “But I am only human.”

  And the house was just a short trolley ride away from Lucio’s friend and fellow photographer Piers Skaarsgard, who’d lent him his couch for weeks on end. It had been especially generous of Piers considering the fact that Piers’s wife had died of leukemia just months before.

  “It’s good to have another beating heart in the place again,” Piers had said to Lucio his first night in the apartment. “Stay as long as you’d like.”

  Lucio sighed. The rich and rewarding life he’d built for himself over twenty years was gone. It had collapsed’se derrumbo—that was the only word he could use to describe it. Instantly, he’d gone from the peak of his success to piecing together a day-to-day existence.

  Just months ago he was finishing an assignment in the northern deserts of China, chronicling the effect of pollution and climate change on the region’s wildlife. He had finalized travel plans for his next assignment, to Galápagos. And he’d recently learned he’d won the prestigious Erskine Prize for achievement in nature photography. He began to make travel plans to be in New York in December for the ceremony, where he’d be handed a check for a quarter of a million in U.S. dollars.

  And then it all came crashing down.

  First, some of his raw digital video went missing. Soon after, the U.S. embassy in Beijing sent word that Lucio was in danger of being deported. The missing video had been leaked to the Chinese government, which found the images shameful, and in Lucio’s opinion, they should have. At first, the Chinese claimed Lucio’s work was hostile to the People’s Republic. Days later, the Chinese amped up their claim, calling Lucio’s work an act of espionage intended to weaken the country’s international standing. Two additional details made the mess even messier: About fifty thousand in Geographica funds had been drained from Lucio’s expense account, and word got out that Lucio had been bedding his official Chinese guide, the thirty-year-old daughter of a high-ranking government official,
and the man went nuts over the “shame” his daughter had brought to him.

  Days of in-person and Internet meetings followed. Lucio admitted it; he lost his cool a few times with the Chinese, the American consulate, and with his Geographica editors—but the accusations were pure insanity! Lucio vehemently denied charges of spying and stealing the money from his own expense account. It was all rubbish.

  Nobody seemed to listen. Before he knew it, he was kicked out of the country and released from his Geographica contract, putting an end to a long and profitable professional alliance.

  Piers encouraged Lucio to come back to San Francisco. That’s what Lucio did—with his tail between his legs and his wallet open—ready to funnel every dime he had to his lawyer, who he prayed would untangle the string of misunderstandings. But that had been three months ago. With each day, it seemed to Lucio that the nickname he’d carried since childhood no longer fit him.

  He shook his head and rose from the stone wall, deciding to stroll into the heavily scented gardens of Rick’s Sonoma Valley paradise. It was funny how life sometimes doubled in on itself. He was thousands of miles from the fig trees and strawberry patches of his childhood, but this place smelled much the same to him, and the scent had conjured up long-buried memories.

  Alma had worn a simple ivory lace dress that fell to mid-calf, accented by an angry scowl. She carried a bouquet of wildflowers in front of her belly, camouflaging the baby that grew inside it. Lucio recalled how his throat had tightened at the sight of her—and it wasn’t out of joy. Unlike Rick and Josie’s ceremony, his own wedding hadn’t been about love. Or even family alliances. It was simply the only choice given to two hormonal kids who’d shucked their common sense—and their clothes—on a hot spring night at the riverbank.

  The truth was that when Alma lost the baby just weeks after the wedding, Lucio was relieved. She blamed him, of course. He was the one who had dragged her to the ugly, dirty, crowded city and was too busy with his studies to take care of her. Her brothers came to Seville to fetch her back to their village. The annulment papers came within a month.