Page 8 of Every Step She Takes
“No,” I said. “I thought I had the wrong house. I expected…” I gestured like an idiot. “Armed guards and piranha-filled moats.”
She chuckled and pushed to her feet. “We leave our piranha in LA, where they feel more at home.” She peeled off her dirt-crusted gloves. “The security here is far more discreet. It’s a very small community, and the summer residents contribute generously to the local law enforcement. The neighborhood also hires private security to patrol. I’d warned them you were coming today, but I still expected–”
The buzz of a cell phone. She took it out, glanced at the screen and smiled. “And there it is. A text telling me that your taxi was spotted.” She tapped out a reply. “We’re spoiled out here. It’s a chance to give our kids the illusion of a normal life, but it really is an illusion. I’ll need to send your photograph to the security firm and the local police department, or the first time you go out walking, they’ll escort you to the village border.”
As she pocketed the phone, I got my first good look at her. She was smaller than I expected. Maybe five feet two. A scarf barely contained her long black curls. Oversized sunglasses covered half her face, but the skin below it was flawless and makeup-free. She wore a sundress under a gardening apron, and the dress showed off the curves that were as much her trademark as that smile.
Isabella Morales had the kind of figure that shouldn’t be possible – lush curves with a tiny waist. I’d read tabloid articles that insisted her waist was the result of industrial-strength corsets. Yet there was no way she had shapewear under that sundress, and the apron was cinched tight enough to show her waist in all its enviable glory. My waist might not be a whole lot bigger, but only because I had the narrow hips and chest to match.
When Isabella reached for the weed bucket, I picked it up and got a smile for that. Then she said, “The kids are out back. Colt’s inside, I think. I suppose you’ll want to meet him.”
She said it lightly, as if aiming between wry and teasing, but a note of tightness cut through.
When I didn’t answer, she glanced over, her brows rising. “Not a Colt Gordon fan?”
My face heated. “I… I’ve seenFatal Retribution. The first one, at least.”
Nylah had gifted me DVDs of the other two, and I’d meant to watch them, but I’d run out of time. I stumbled on with, “I liked it. I’m just not really into action movies. I’m more a telenovela fan.Mi Hermanawas just… It was amazing, and it got even better after you started writing for it and…”
My cheeks blazed, threatening nuclear-grade heat. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fangirl. I won’t do that while I’m here. I promise. I know it’d be awkward. I’m just… My abuela got me into telenovelas, and I’ve followed your career and–”
I swallowed hard. “God, that sounds stalkerish, doesn’t it? I’m so sorry. I’m just a fan of your career, what you’ve accomplished, and I didn’t angle for this job. I didn’t even know it was you. Mr. Moore said it was for Colt Gordon, and I didn’t recognize his name and–” I stopped in horror.
She laughed, a throw-back-her-head laugh that echoed through the yard as I prayed for the earth to open up and swallow me.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Morales,” I said. “I’m babbling, and I–”
She reached out and squeezed my upper arm. “You’re fine, Lucy. We just won’t tell Colt that you didn’t know who he is.” She grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry – following my career isn’t stalkerish. The real stalkers don’t give a rat’s ass about my actual achievements. Now, come and meet my family.”
Isabella led me into a cool, shady house, every window thrown wide to let the sea breeze waft through. There was nothing about the decor that screamed “interior designer,” but it was the kind of beach house that you saw in a magazine and tacked up on your dream-life wall. Every piece of furniture whispered a siren’s call, inviting you to curl up with a book and a lemonade. Even strawberry lemonade would be fine. No need to worry about stains. This was a house for sandy feet and spilled wine and wet hair.
“Colt?” Isabella called as we walked through the living room. Then louder, “Colt?”
She turned to me and shook her head. “Either he’s gone for a run, or he’s in the exercise room. That’s what happens when you hit forty and dream of being the next James Bond. Once again, I am grateful to be working off-camera.”
Isabella opened one set of patio doors. The back wall was all window with multiple doors. She led me onto a stone deck surrounding an in-ground pool.
“Yes, we have a pool two hundred feet from the beach,” she said, sounding almost embarrassed. “The water can be cold and… Well, while it’s a private beach, the waterfront is public. We certainly do let the kids use the beach, but if passing boats linger, please let us know. And if you see a camera…”
“I’ll bring the children in immediately and let you or Mr. Gordon know.”
“Colt. He will insist on Colt, and I’ll insist on Isabella. Now, speaking of the kids, they should be right over here.”
We passed a low wall to find a boy swimming. That would be eight-year-old Jamison. He was reedy with sun-bleached hair and peeling red skin on his shoulders. The older girl reading on a lounge chair was Tiana. At ten, she had her mother’s brown skin, sturdier build and dark wavy hair.
“Jamie,” Isabella said with a sigh. “Where is your swim shirt?”
“Same place it always is,” Tiana said without glancing from her book. “Noton him.”
“I don’t need it when I’m swimming,” Jamison said.
“It’s a swim shirt, dork,” Tiana muttered. “When else would you wear it? While skydiving?”
He started to respond. Then he saw me, his freckled nose scrunching. Before I could say hello, he dove.
“That’s Jamie,” Tiana said, and now she looked up, her sunglass-framed eyes on me. “He’s not being rude. He’s just avoiding conversation, which sure, is kind of rude, but he doesn’t mean it like that.”
She set the book down and rose with a grace as mature as her words, and when she extended a hand, I hurried to shake it… and tripped over the leg of a lounge chair. As I stammered apologies, Tiana’s lips pressed together. She lifted her glasses onto her head, and her eyes met mine.
