CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Miramar, Mallorca
December 13
In an ice-blue suit that matched her eyes, nude peep-toe stilettos, and her dark hair in a neat chignon, Calliope Buchanan was every bit the polished entertainment reporter she claimed to be. She sat in the back of the Mercedes and tapped a short pale-pink nail on her iPad screen. Steady pulled up to the guardhouse of the March villa and announced her. Sensing her disquiet, he spoke over his shoulder as he pulled through the gates. “You doin’ okay back there?”
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Calliope confessed.
“It always means more when it's one of our own. Just stay mission-focused,” Steady instructed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, do the interview. You probably did a dozen when you actually worked at The Harlem Sentry. This is just one more. You’re a reporter getting a fashion story from a supermodel. Ask the questions you prepared. If you happen to notice our boy or anything else interesting, you know what to do.” Steady kept his head forward, navigating the winding drive with ease.
If Cam was within earshot, Calliope would mention the beachfront restaurant, La Sirena.
Calliope steeled herself with a deep breath. “I got this.”
Steady kept his head straight as he pulled up to the imposing estate. “Yeah, you do.”
A camera-ready Gemini March crossed one mile-long leg over the other and blew on her tea in a move that was both practiced and seductive. Calliope sat dutifully at Gemini's elbow at the small, glass table in the solarium and hung on the model's every word.
Gemini set the teacup in the saucer without taking a sip and finished answering the question on a laugh. “And the buckles! I mean, the man is a genius, but getting into some of the garments can take hours.”
The man in question was New York designer Marcus Arroyo. Gemini March had plucked him from obscurity by wearing his gowns on red carpets two years ago. She and Arroyo had both made tabloid headlines when she arrived at the Grammy Awards in an Arroyo original made entirely from fig leaves. Since then, the designer had experienced a meteoric rise as an avant-garde formal wear designer.
“I’ve walked his shows in Milan, Istanbul, Bangkok, Paris—there's always some ‘incident’ with those damn buckles,” Gemini continued.
Calliope giggled along with her host. “He has repeatedly called you his Muse.”
Gemini's smile bloomed. “Marcus is like that best friend girls have in middle school. We’re joined at the hip. We’re always texting and FaceTiming. We travel together. He's deathly afraid of flying, so I send a March jet for him in New York. He picks me up in Palma, and off we fly. That way, I can hold his hand—and get him good and drunk.” She winked.
“Is there a romance brewing?” Calliope held up her tablet, making a show of preparing to jot down Gemini's juicy response.
“Oh, God, no. He's like a baby brother to me. He's happily sowing his wild oats. I don’t see him settling down for a while. I prefer a man with a little more…” She spun her teacup in the saucer. “Maturity.”
Calliope grabbed the opening. “Looks to me like you’re talking about someone in particular. I’m sure our readers want to know what's new in your love life.”
With calculated restraint, Gemini reached for the small silver tongs and pinched a sugar cube. “Well, I do have some news on that front.” She summoned the maid. “Renata?”
The unobtrusive woman stepped forward. “Yes, miss?”
“Is Miguel on the property?” Gemini inquired.
Calliope masked her excitement by returning her gaze to her tablet and tapping out some notes.
“Yes, miss. He's in the gym,” the maid replied.
“Perfect.” Gemini's lips parted.
Calliope could practically see the salacious thoughts flash through the model's mind as she imagined him working out—back on the bench, bar above his glistening chest.
“Tell him his presence is requested. No need to shower or change.”
The maid hastened from the room, and Gemini returned her attention to Calliope.
“Miguel?” Calliope probed.