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Prologue

Leila was ready for a night at home, fuzzy socks and Chardonnay, when a friend called with an irresistible offer. “I can get you into the Vizcaya event. Raul Reyes is hosting. Interested?”

Reyes was a local real estate mogul. He owned everything. In Leila’s line of work, he was king. Getting on the list was a coup, even for her friend Sofia, an event planner with seemingly endless contacts. Still, Leila hesitated. “I don’t know. Are you going?”

“Can’t,” Sofia said. “But I’m pretty sure you can.”

“And what? Go by myself?”

“Sí, amiguita. You’re old enough. Put your big-girl panties on and go network like a boss.”

Leila sat on the edge of her bed. She fought the urge to crawl under her sheets.

Sofia was relentless. “Do I have to remind you how terrible your last quarter was?”

“No, you don’t.”

Since opening her agency nine months ago, Leila was stuck in the low-rent market, helping college grads find one-bedroom condos and getting newlyweds into starter homes. After a dismal holiday season, during which she’d had to take a cash advance from her AmEx card to give her one employee a bonus, she was at the end of her rope.

“You should be thanking me. What else do you have going on this weekend?”

“What weekend? It’s Thursday.”

“It’s Miami. The weekend started eight hours ago.”

Later, as she stepped from the shower, Leila strategized. She’d get in, canvas the place with business cards and get out. Hit and run. She brushed her coffee-colored hair and swept on lipstick with a sure hand. Her bedroom window let in very little sunlight, but tonight it framed a perfect full moon, the first of the new year. It called for more daring. She stood naked in front of her open closet and wondered when she, a third-runner-up Miss Naples USA, had become the girl who’d rather stay home with cheap wine than go to a party alone. I mean, come on!

She reached past her collection of standard little black dresses for a red lace dress so delicate it bordered on lingerie. It was tucked into the back of her closet, part of a forgotten wardrobe from a time when she’d dressed to look sexy instead of smart—a habit that had only landed her in trouble. Funny enough, the red dress was one of the most conservative of the lot. It was time to get her mojo back. Time to get noticed.

* * *

Things were well under way by the time Leila made it to Vizcaya. She entered the villa through an arched doorway and fell in awe. Despite living her entire life in Florida, this was her first visit to the private residence turned museum. She’d expected tasteful elegance, not this riot of gold leaf, tile and mosaics. But she loved it and suspected Marie Antoinette would’ve felt right at home.

She ventured out to the grand terrace and camped near a cigar-rolling station. A band was setting up. The guests came together, mingled and broke apart in a well-choreographed dance. Waiters in fedoras and white guayaberas paid homage with their uniforms to Cuba, Reyes’s birth country. And, surprise! All the extravagance was to celebrate the publication of the mogul’s first book, A New City: 7 Strategies for Urban Development. The cover featured a photo of Reyes dating back to when he’d had a full head of black hair. Copies were piled on bar height tables everywhere. Some served as makeshift coasters.

Leila spied a white-haired Reyes holding court in a remote corner, his young, pretty, third wife at his side. She knew better than try to approach him.

A familiar-looking brunette peeled away from his entourage. Leila looked to the sky, trying to remember. Paige... Paige Conner. They’d met at a charity fundraiser Sofia had forced her to attend. Was Paige in marketing or accounting? It didn’t matter. The king was inaccessible. A royal subject would have to do.

Moving quickly, she caught up with the brunette at the bar. Paige was chatting with a bartender with dimpled cheeks. Leila approached and, from a limited selection of red and white wines, ordered a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Then, relying on her even more limited acting skills, she turned to Paige and cried, “Don’t I know you?”

Paige looked up, blinking in confusion. “Sure,” she said hesitantly, “we met at that thing, right?”

She appeared to be playing along out of courtesy or pity. Leila swallowed her pride and pushed forward. “Yes, that fundraiser thing.”

The bartender served their drinks. Paige had picked red. Raising her glass, she dismissed Leila with a polite smile. “Good seeing you!”

Leila scrambled to keep the conversation going. “I’m just glad to see a familiar face. I don’t know anyone here.”

Paige took a healthy sip of wine and asked, “But you’re having fun, right?”

“I’m not here for fun.” With no time to waste, she got straight to the point. “I was hoping to meet Reyes. I’m dying to work with him. The man is a visionary! He practically created the Design District. And that new building downtown...wow!”

Paige squinted. “What do you do again?”

“Wait one second.” She pretended to search her tiny purse for a business card and feigned relief to have found one. “Here you go.”

“‘Leila Amis,’” Paige read. “‘Licensed real estate broker.’”

“That’s me!” She sounded like an idiot.

“Okay. I know the deal,” Paige said wearily. “You want me to pass this along?”

“That would be great.”

“I’ll try to get this into the right hands, but the sales team has a rock-solid lineup, so...”

“I get it,” Leila said. “And, thanks.”

Paige dismissed her with a wave of the hand, turning her attention back to the bartender. Leila happily melted into the crowd and headed for the villa.

One down. One hundred to go...

A waiter approached with a tray of mojitos, each cocktail glass stuffed with mint leaves and garnished with a sugarcane stick. Leila gladly exchanged her traditional wine for the more exotic drink. Spanning the elegant loggia, she caught her reflection in a massive gold-framed mirror. She looked good, her brown skin shimmering in the light of the chandeliers, her eyes brilliant with excitement. What a confident party crasher! She looked like she was actually having fun. Using the mirror to spy on the crowd, she sipped her cocktail and searched for her next target.

That’s when she thought she saw him.

No big deal. He’d appear in crowds, only to vanish at closer inspection. Leila was used to it. He still lived in the ruin he’d made of her heart.

She glanced over her shoulder and the usually fleeting impression held. That chiseled face softened by a wave of brown hair... Who else could it be?

Standing only feet away and flanked by two admiring women, he towered over a small group. Leila’s reaction was physical. A cramp in her gut. When she spun around, the confident woman in the mirror was gone, replaced with someone new but sadly familiar. Her instincts told her to run.

She took off, slicing through the crowd on her way out to the terrace. The band started up, playing a languid bolero. Couples came together under the full January moon—a moon that now appeared to be mocking her.

What’s he doing in Miami?

The answer was irrelevant; she’d always known this day would come. But when she’d dreamed up scenarios in which they ran into each other—an airport terminal waiting to board international flights, a fabulous party very much like this one—she’d always managed to keep her cool. And now she looked around, disoriented, damn near hyperventilating. She’d reached the edge of the terrace. A vast, formal garden stretched out before her, drenched in darkness.

Taking a minute to weigh her options, Leila noticed something stuck to the sole of her stiletto. She checked. It was her business card stained red with wine.

Really?

It had been a mistake to come here. She had to get out. Fast. Maybe he hadn’t seen her? Maybe she could sneak out?

“I remember that dress.”

The long rope of “maybes” swung uselessly in the air around her.

“Please, I don’t want a scene.”

“Then you shouldn’t have worn that dress.”

Arrogant as always! She swiveled to confront him, waving her empty cocktail glass. “What are you even doing here?”

Nicolas Adrian. Once one of Miami’s top brokers, he’d forfeited the title when he’d moved to Manhattan. That should’ve been the end of him.

He took the glass from her and set it on a nearby stack of books. “I’m here. No reason.”

Leila felt betrayed. All those expensive, guided meditation classes she’d taken had been for nothing. The universe should have sent her a warning.

He extended a hand. “Come with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“We can have it out right here, if you like?” His tone was unyielding. She had a glimpse of the man she knew well, the tough negotiator. “I don’t care who hears us, but I bet you do.”

She gave up the fight. It was that easy. “You get five minutes.” Taking his hand felt as natural as slipping on the dress.

Nick guided her down the stone stairs leading to the garden, which turned out to be a world unto itself. They walked quickly along the hedge-lined path, as though being chased.

Along the way, they were serenaded by the sound of water spouting from the mouths of marble cherubs, gushing down waterfalls and swirling into lazy lagoons. It wasn’t enough to calm her. This wasn’t an aimless stroll. His pace was deliberate. Nick was searching for a place for them to hide together rather than from each other. They stumbled across a coral rock grotto with a narrow opening that let in a splash of moonlight. He pulled her inside.

She wiggled her hand free. “We could’ve talked outside.”

He took a step, wandering deeper into the cave, marveling at it. “No, we couldn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, Nick. I’ve changed.”

“Are you sure? It’s only been a year or so,” he said, facing her now. “You look the same.”

“I’m sure.”

She stepped back and found there was no ground to gain; the cave was wide but shallow.

Nick closed the gap between them.

The past echoed in the enclosed space. Light of my life.

“Nick.”

His tone softened. “Come on, Leila. It’s me.”

Oh God, yes. She closed her eyes, all her late-night fears confirmed. He had only to say her name and her resolve turned into confectioner’s sugar.

Nick moved closer and threaded a hand through the high slit of her dress, brushed her thigh.

He had no right to touch her that way. Why wasn’t she fighting it?

The truth rose around Leila like floodwater. Her posturing was a ruse. All along she’d been actively plotting her capture. A fish seeking the fisherman’s net. He was the man who’d once called her his prize. And tonight, despite everything, she wanted him to win.

Leila drew him to her and kissed him full on the mouth. He tasted like mint and sweet cane.

Nick came alive. He pressed her into the cave wall and ran his palms over her body, rediscovering familiar terrain.

She’d expected him to take her by storm, to invade her. But his touch was unhurried, deliberately slow. He knew he had her.

The scent of wild orchids and damp earth enveloped them. She was water, the bay at high tide. He was rock, the one obstacle she could not overcome. He gathered the soft lace of her skirt. She eagerly unfastened his belt. He grabbed her hands and whispered in her ear, “Tell me what’s changed.”

Leila had no answer. She let him take her, the rough surface of the wall biting into her back. Over the distant party music she heard him groan, heard him murmur her name over and over until her moaning took over, filling the cave.