Ignited (Roman Holiday 5)

He blushed like a boy.

Carmen got to her feet, registering the twinge in her ankle with annoyance. She’d worn the wrong shoes, and now she would suffer for it.

“I spoke with Heberto this morning,” she told Roman.

“Yes.”

“He was interested to know how things were coming along on your project. He said that if you aren’t able to get enough leverage on the Bowman woman, he could speak with her father.”

“No.”

“The senator is campaigning. He might want to hear what his daughter’s been up to. It’s potentially quite embarrassing, given his vocal support for business over environmentalist nonsense.”

“No, Carmen.”

“Or we could go the other way. His numbers were poor in Miami last time. He’d be grateful for help winning the Cuban vote. A fund-raiser, perhaps. A donation in return to talking some sense into his black sheep.”

“No. I’m handling her.”

“I’m sure you’re handling her plenty. The question is, are you getting anything from the woman other than a warm place to shoot your load?”

Noah flinched. Carmen didn’t blame him. It was the worst thing she’d been able to think of to say, mean and predatory.

This was how she had to be. Men didn’t respond to her otherwise. They didn’t listen. They didn’t learn. They just took things, unless you made them stop.

Unless you hit them with a seven-hundred-dollar driver. Then they called you a bitch, but they stopped.

But she felt strange, still. That weird sensation hadn’t gone away—as though she were splitting in two. As though she was actually hurting, and she didn’t want to hurt.

Roman said, “Carmen, it’s not—I don’t—Listen, the thing is …”

What had happened to him? He’d been so sensible a week ago. She’d had such hope for him. The woman had turned him into someone who raised his voice and sputtered. Someone Carmen was tired of talking to.

“The thing is, Roman, that we’ve invested in your project. Even if you do own this property, Zumbado Development is going to be building the hotel, and Heberto wants these units down. He wants them down yesterday.”

“That’s not the best way to handle this.” Roman had raised his voice now, speaking loudly enough for Noah to hear. His wrinkled forehead got more wrinkled. “It’s a delicate situation, and if you bring him into it—”

“Twenty-four hours,” Carmen said. “You green light this demo within twenty-four hours, or we’ll take care of your new girlfriend our way, and I’ll knock the fucking buildings into the swimming pool myself.”

She reached up to her ear and hit the button on her new headset to cut off the call, wishing, as she often did, for her old phone that had flipped shut. There had been something so satisfying about the finality of that noise.

Noah was watching her, arms crossed, face creased as though he were one of those ancient old men who played dominoes all day at Máximo Gómez Park in Little Havana.

She checked his left hand, but it was as bare of a wedding ring as it had been the last time she saw him.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“No.”

No. Nothing was okay. There was this … disruption. Upheaval. An earthquake beneath her perfectly ordered life.

She felt awful.

“Roman isn’t prepared to go ahead with the demolition today.”

“Oh. Shit. That’s really going to mess up the schedule.”

“He also broke up with me.”