Esteban (Dark Paradise)

CHAPTER 4

It wasn't that I didn't think there was something wrong with the scenario. It was more like what wasn't wrong with the scenario. Everything that had happened since the day I almost drowned had been nothing but wrong. Never mind my mental state, the thoughts of hopelessness, desperation, and despair. Never mind those shadows that trailed inky fingers over my skin and tried to pull me back under, to let everything go and forget.

There was Esteban, a total stranger, who had admitted to me that he was part of a drug cartel. He had rescued me in ways that were not just lucky but calculated. Nothing was accidental when it came to him. Then there was the fact that I willingly let him whisk me away to a perilous place, all while on the back of a motorcycle. And of course the fact that I had agreed to go to dinner with him.

Perhaps that was the most troubling part of all. I was a married woman—an unhappily married woman, as he so astutely pointed out—but a married one, nonetheless. My marriage vows at this point were no more sacred than my own life, but they still meant something, which in turn meant there was something so very wrong about agreeing to go to dinner with another man.

And yet, despite all these things, all the things that were red flags waving as obnoxiously as a matador's cape, I wasn't worried.

Why?

Because when Esteban came to pick me up later that night, I was in the backyard painting the last rays of the sunset. Streaks of pink, gold, and purple were in the sky and on my canvas and dotted on my white T-shirt. I was touched by color.

"That's beautiful," he commented, surprising me with his presence.

I only briefly looked over my shoulder at him, too afraid to take my eyes off the scene. A few doves cooed in the nearby bushes, and I wished I could add audio to my painting.

"I suppose you just waltzed into my house?" I asked mildly.

"Yes, sorry about that. I knocked a few times, but there was no response. I did tell you seven, didn't I?"

"You did," I said. I dabbed a bit of ochre on the horizon. "But I lost track of time."

"And I'm glad to see it." I heard him walk down the back steps and toward me. The chickens that had been pecking at the ground clucked and ran back through the hole in the fence in a flurry of feathers. I felt him stop right behind my back. "Should I come back later, Lani? Or perhaps, not at all?"

There was an edge, a coldness to his last words, as if he was hurt. It was absurd to think that a member of a drug cartel could feel slighted.

I sighed and carefully rested my paintbrush on the easel's ledge. Then I turned around and brushed my hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand, careful not to get any paint on my face. "I'm sorry," I said and offered him a shy smile. "This light is disappearing anyway. I was about to wrap it up. Give me a few minutes and I'll be ready to go."

He smiled in return, his greenish eyes softening. It was only then that I realized he cleaned up really well. Gone were the board shorts; instead he was wearing gray slacks and a short-sleeved white dress shirt with the first two buttons undone, his skin glowing gold. His hair was tamed by what looked like gel, and he'd shaven. His look was elegant and casual all at the same time, and had it not been for the scarring on his face, that constant reminder of his job, I would have thought he was like any well-dressed man out there.

But he wasn't like everyone else. Wasn't that why I picked up the paintbrush?

True to my word, I washed up quickly until the only traces of paint were lines of lavender caught in my cuticles. Then I touched up my makeup and slipped on a plain yellow shift dress. I debated on bringing a cardigan, but today was a few degrees warmer than normal, and I knew the evening would be just as balmy. I had no idea if we were going to a fancy restaurant, but this was Kauai and I had to assume that my flip-flops would be tolerated.