AL ROJO VIVO

Chapter One 

Rubina Flores eyed her shiny red Mustang from across the parking lot. The white slip of paper lodged beneath the windshield wiper fluttered, and her mouth went dry.     

     ÏAww.   No.   Not a ticket.Ó   She forgot the brown paper bag of fruit she had just bought at PanchoÌs Market, crushing it against her chest.   The bag teetered forward.

     Ripe strawberries and luscious peaches hit her feet, rolled and scattered onto the pavement, along with all but one apple. σ Caramba !Ó  

     She bent to pick them up but the silky lining attached to the underside of her tight dress chose that particular moment to rip right up the back seam. She slapped her hand on her thigh, unable to decide which way to move.

     σAy, ay, ay!   What next?Ó   She slowly straightened.

     Her fruit dotted the pavement with splashes of color, and she debated leaving them there to spawn or rot, but her stomach growled in protest.   Drawing in a breath, she lowered herself carefully, snatched up the scattered fruit and stuffed them into the bag.  

     She dared not look back at the picture window of the store.   What if someone recognized her?   She wanted to be taken as a serious actress for crying out loud.   She didnÌt need an image of herself immortalized in a hiked up dress with her butt in the air, scrounging for fruit in a market parking lot.

     If there was any justice in the world, there would be a sudden, unexpected freak eclipse to distract everyone.   With the way her luck tended to run lately, she braced herself for paparazzi who would have a field day with her in this position.

     Sweat followed the scoop line of her dress to trickle into her bra as she struggled to balance the brown sack, her purse and sunglasses.   The intense heat, unusual for this time of year, made strands of her long hair stick to her neck. She tried to ignore the clammy feel of it, and hurried to end the sideshow she was providing free of charge.

     The beach house seemed far away.  

     All she needed was her hair in a ponytail, her bare feet in the sand and an ice cold Lowenbrau in her hand.   She thought of Enrique, who went beyond the call of agenting, and fussed like a second mother at times. She would settle for a glass of iced tea if he were around.

     Rubi grabbed the last apple, and risked a peek at the window. She jumped.   A lanky young boy stood less than a foot from her and she wondered how long heÌd been there, silent, his braces gleaming in the sunlight.       

     She tugged down her dress and tried to smooth her hair before giving up. She figured him to be about twelve.   Ï Hola, joven .   Whew.   Hot today, isnÌt it?Ó

     His brown eyes opened wide. ÏYes, maÌam.Ó   His freckles danced with each breath he took.   ÏMiss Rubi, could I get your autograph?Ó   He stuck out a baseball mitt and black marker.

     ÏI once dreamed IÌd play shortstop for the Padres. IÌm a big fan now.   Go, Padres.Ó   She held out the bag of fruit.   ÏIÌd be delighted to sign, mi hijo .   LetÌs trade a minute.Ó

     When she finished signing the mitt, they traded back.   He clutched the mitt to his chest.   ÏWow. Thanks, Rubi!Ó

     ÏYou bet.Ó

     He ran off toward a woman Rubi hadnÌt noticed standing near the entrance of the store.   Another half a dozen people stood just inside, up against the picture window and waved at her. Rubina did her best to wave back.

     She couldnÌt get to her car fast enough.   Her red heels clicked on the pavement in rhythm to her cursing.   She honed in on the white slip of paper again, and wanted to scream.

     Red.   Enrique had told her to stand out and make a statement if she wanted attention.   Before he could finish speaking, she had thought Red. Everything red .   That included a new car with the advance from her latest movie and first starring role.

     He had wholeheartedly agreed. ÏYouÌre a star now.   Finally.Ó   He had rubbed in. ÏDo it up right, Rubi. Lighten up while youÌre at it. Start with that dream car of yours.Ó

     A beacon is what it was--what she was--in this little crimson number she wore.   Red was backfiring.   She did not need another ticket, did not think that was the kind of publicity Enrique had in mind.

     Shifting the bag to her other arm, she lifted her big, dark sunglasses to get a better look at the paper on the windshield.    Readjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose, she took a deep breath and yanked out the paper.   It was merely a flyer.

     Relief was instantaneous as she read.   Her smile had to be wide and goofy, and she didnÌt care.  

     This is why I came back to San Diego, she thought.   Laughter started somewhere in the pit of her stomach, and rolled through her, erupting as a delighted squeal before she laughed long and hard, leaning against the car--the fruit all but forgotten.   You gotta chill, Rubi.   Not everyoneÌs out to get you.

     All right, but who was responsible for scaring her to death by making the paper look like a citation?   She straightened abruptly, tamping down the sweet laughter that lingered on her lips.  

     She spotted the culprit on the other end of the parking lot, making his way from car to car, a wad of papers rolled into his hand.  

     ÏGotcha,Ó she whispered.  

     If she had had pants on, she would have hitched them up.   She needed to let off a little steam and this guy was on the tracks at the wrong time of day.

_____________________

     This wasnÌt what Marco Carrillo had in mind for his day off.   Parking lots versus the surf, only miles from where he stood.   The afternoon sun beat on his back, relentlessly reminding him of what he had passed up to help advertise his brotherÌs part-time business while he worked second shift at the station.  

     The temperature was hotter than some of the damn brushfires they fought in the middle of the summer.   It was hard for him to stay mad at Luis for long.   Marco jammed another flyer under another windshield wiper.   Luis hustled on his days off from the station, determined to live in style and help their mother out at the same time.

     Marco lifted the faded San Diego Padres baseball cap and with an equally sweaty forearm, swiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead. He rubbed the day-old stubble on his chin. His damp hair tickled the back of his neck, reminding him a haircut was long overdue, another chore he had postponed.  

     Might as well make the most of it .   He shoved the wad of papers into his jeans back pocket and stripped off his white T-shirt. The Padres cap fell to the ground.   ÏShit.Ó  

     Half bent over, he focused on red high heels that hadnÌt been there a moment before.   The heels were attached to the hottest looking tanned legs he had seen in a long time.   In the hope it wasnÌt an illusion, he allowed his gaze to linger there, while he reached down to grab his dark blue cap.

     One of the red high heeled shoes began an impatient tap.  

     Halleluia, he thought.   Not an illusion, but if the rest of her turned out to be anything like the legs, only a dream come true.  

     Her voice filtered down to him, a gravely Demi Moore kind of voice that turned him on.   ÏExcuse me.Ó  

     He had died and gone to heaven, and if this was his angel come to save him, he would gladly have gone sooner.

     Marco straightened slowly, taking in every inch of the strangerÌs lush body.   Her hip jutted out ever so slightly, one arm balancing the bag of fruit resting there. In her other hand she held one of his flyers.

     HeÌd have to thank Luis later for asking him to distribute the flyers.   Being a handyman might have its advantages after all. ÏMaÌam?Ó  

     All coherent thoughts stopped when he finally looked her in the eyes.   They were the most unusual tawny golden shade he had ever seen, reminding him of wild mountain lions that roamed the California backwoods.   As if hypnotized, he managed--with great difficulty--to tear his gaze from her eyes to study the rest of her face.    

     A light sheen lit up the softest, the shiniest, the creamiest caramel-colored skin heÌd ever seen.   Flawless.   His fingers itched to touch her cheek and he imagined how her delicate skin might meld beneath them.   He wanted to touch the tiny dip of a dimple near the left corner of her red-tinted lips.

     Man, where did she come from?  

     He clutched the bill of his baseball cap, almost bent it in two while his gaze followed the long, glossy wave of her mahogany hair.   Her hair followed the straps of the low-cut dress until it grazed the top curve of breasts that couldnÌt have been more perfect.  

     Single strands of her hair had escaped to cling to the damp skin of her chest, forming an intricate design he wanted to etch permanently into his brain.

     She wasnÌt an angel at all. She looked devilishly tempting dressed in red from head to foot, offset by those perfect lips that pouted in boredom.   Boredom?

     He licked his lips, suddenly conscious that drooling would be highly inappropriate.

     She cleared her throat.   ÏFinished?Ó

     ÏSorry,Ó   he said.   He stuffed the cap into his hip pocket, took off his Raybans and wiped them with his damp T-shirt.   ÏToo much sun. Stunts my speech patterns and makes me forget my manners.Ó   He stuffed the shirt into his other back pocket and put his glasses back on. ÏWhat can I do for you?Ó  

     She pointed the rolled up paper in her hand at him.   ÏInteresting flyer.Ó   Peering over the top of her glasses, she drawled, ÏI didnÌt know whether I should thank you or pelt you with a peach.Ó

     ÏExtreme reactions.   Do I get a choice?Ó   He lowered his own glasses so he could watch her red lips move without the distraction of tinted lenses.   ÏIÌd prefer the thank you.Ó  

     He leaned nearer, forgetting proper respect for space, reveling in the way the scent of her flowery perfume and sweat emanated from her body.   ÏAm I at risk right now if I ask the wrong question or make the wrong move?Ó

     The flyer served as a baton between them, and she held it firmly against his chest. ÏI have good aim.   All-American fast-pitch softball.   Second base.   DonÌt tempt me.Ó

     She glanced inside the bag, the ripe peaches visible and fragrant. And fatal at this distance, Marco thought.   He grabbed a peach before she could protest, and easily tossed it from hand to hand. ÏUSC varsity team, second round pro draft choice. Pitcher.Ó

     ÏOkay.Ó   She shrugged.   With a flick of her fingers, she unrolled the flyer in her grip.   ÏNow, as for business.   I started to say you almost gave me a heart attack when I thought this was another ticket.Ó

     ÏHmm.   In a little trouble with the law, are we?Ó   His athletic achievements obviously hadnÌt impressed her much.   He plopped the peach back into her bag, wishing he could transport them to the beach. With a couple of brews and lobsters between them, she could tell him her life story.   She could bring her bag of fruit--hell, she could bring anything or nothing at all.

     Lifting her chin slightly, she asked, ÏDo you have a permit to do this in this parking lot?Ó

     ÏPermit?Ó  

     Did Luis have a permit?   ÏWhat are you getting at?Ó   He stood taller, planted his feet farther apart, ready for battle.

     ÏHow do I know youÌre a bonafide business with an ad like this?Ó

     ÏYou think IÌd be out on this blacktop on a day like today if it wasnÌt work-related?   Think twice.Ó  

     ÏWhat kind of references do you have?   Or do you have a 900 number prospective clients should call?Ó  

     She began to tap her foot again.   This time it wasnÌt very cute.   ÏWhat are you talking about?Ó   he managed.

     ÏAnd another thing--youÌre too old to be doing this, arenÌt you?Ó

     ÏOw. Tactful, arenÌt we?Ó  

     ÏA good match for your subtle observation skills.Ó

     ÏTouch», madam.   My apologies if I offended you.Ó   Bowing from the waist in an exaggerated movement, he brought his face inches from hers.   ÏYou just looked familiar.Ó

     She smiled.   His body tightened.   This was crazy. If she could do this with a smile, he was in big trouble.  

     ÏI do?Ó  

     He thought he detected a hint of hopefulness in her chocolate-laced breath.   He almost moaned, wanting to taste it, even though heÌd never been a big chocolate lover before.   He straightened, the whiff of strawberries and peaches unleashing the last of his senses.   ÏHavenÌt we met before?   Do you go to FidelÌs?Ó

     The smile faltered.   ÏWhatÌs FidelÌs?Ó

     ÏA bar, down in Solana Beach.Ó

     Her smile faded completely.   ÏBetter work on your pick up lines, amigo .   These are outdated and donÌt do much for a womanÌs ego.   Good looks have to have something to fall back on--like clever conversation-- donÌt you think?Ó   She started to turn away.

     ÏMan, honey, you need a good dip in the ocean.   The heat seems to have affected your perception of things.Ó    

     ÏOh?   So how should I analyze your tactics?Ó

     Marco pulled the T-shirt from his back pocket, his own image of her on the beach, anywhere but here, unnerving him.   ÏNothing to analyze.   You looked familiar.   End of story.Ó  

     His shoulders tensed, and he tried to flex his biceps before putting on the shirt, but his tired, sleep-deprived muscles wouldnÌt respond.   He yanked it over his head.       

     Working overtime on the graveyard shift and bending over car hoods all morning was taking its toll on his body and his sense of humor. He had to leave before he said something heÌd regret. ÏSo much for small talk, Red. Is there an offer you canÌt refuse in that damn flyer?Ó

     His tone had no effect on her.

     ÏAs a matter of fact, IÌve just bought a house here that needs minor repairs.Ó   She blew a puff of breath upward, her bangs fanning out before settling softly back in place.   ÏSo which one are you--Alvarado or Carrillo?Ó

     ÏLet me see that before I incriminate myself.Ó

     ÏYou donÌt know?   TheyÌre your flyers.   Quite clever and . . . intriguing, IÌd say.   When I saw you in those jeans and T-shirt I wondered if you might be a bit young to deliver on your . . . promises.Ó      She held it out to him, her dimple deepening in an effort to keep from smiling.   She shifted her weight and moved the bag of fruit to her other hip.  

     He happily watched the silky movement, could probably watch her for hours. ÏSo howÌs the fruit?   Bruise any back there?Ó   He jerked his head toward the doors of the market.  

     Her mouth opened in surprise.   ÏYou saw?   You saw and didnÌt offer to help?Ó

     ÏI thought about it for a minute, but you had it under control.   Think you missed the apple under the Suburban, though.Ó

     The blush that started at the base of her neck and worked its way quickly up to her high cheekbones mesmerized him.   Her skin turned a soft burnished copper.   She looked fiery hot, and he wanted to touch her, feel the blazing heat burn his fingers.   

     She gritted her teeth.   σ Ay que hombre !Ó   She grabbed the paper from his hand, planted a fist in the middle of his chest and pushed him backward. She wheeled and stalked back toward the red Mustang, muttering in Spanish, non-stop.

     He chased after her.   ÏWait up!   IÌm sorry.   I didnÌt get to read your flyer.Ó  

     She crumpled it in one hand and threw it toward his feet without looking or missing a step.  

     If he bent to pick it up this close to her legs again, he could have a heart attack.   He took a deep breath, shut his eyes and picked it up in one fluid motion.   ÏWait.   Just give me a minute.   Miss, miss . . .Ó

     She stopped and turned to face him.   ÏFlores.Ó

     ÏFine.   Se³orita Flores.   I meant no harm.Ó   He held up his hands in mock surrender, took off his sunglasses and hung them from the collar of his T-shirt.   ÏCanÌt you take a joke?Ó

     ÏNot today.Ó   She started to turn around, the Spanish words again came under her breath, heated and fast.

     He laughed, couldnÌt help himself.   ÏYou sound like Ricky Ricardo after one of LucyÌs fiascoes.Ó   He made himself stop laughing when she didnÌt join in.

     If her hands hadnÌt been full, she probably would have crossed her arms and glared at him.   He ran his hand over his mouth, trying to stop the threatening laughter, but remembering the last Lucy episode he had watched made it damn difficult.

     She slipped off her sunglasses and stared into his eyes until he was sure his heart would stop pumping.   Then she smiled.   ÏA Lucy fan.   You canÌt be all bad, then.   Did you see last nightÌs show?Ó

     That was it. They both laughed.   Lucy had worn kitchen pots and pans as bullet-proof outer wear when, for some hare-brained reason, she thought Ricky was trying to kill her. She had bounced around the living room, bounced around Ricky. ÏA moving target is hard to hit,Ó sheÌd said.

     Marco looked at the woman-- Se³orita Flores--closer.   Her laughter warmed him inside.   True, he owed a little to Lucy, but he wanted the chance to make Se³orita Flores laugh some more, didnÌt want to let go of that feeling.   Their laughter slowly subsided.

     He swallowed hard and smiled big.   ÏIÌve got a proposition for you.Ó

     She stepped back, and raised a perfectly arched, dark eyebrow.   ÏProposition.Ó   She pointed to the flyer.   ÏThat sounds about right.Ó

     He smoothed out the crumpled up flyer.   He mouthed the words and felt the heat rise in his own face.   ÏHandyman At Your Service: No job too small.   No job too big.   WeÌll Do Everything Your Husband WonÌt.   Satisfaction completely guaranteed. Call Felipe Alvarado or Luis Carrillo for free estimate.Ó   Phone numbers were listed under each name.

     When the hell had Luis changed his flyers?

     ÏI do believe you are blushing, Se³or . . .Ó

     ÏCarrillo,Ó he mumbled.

     ÏCarrillo,Ó she repeated, and smiled.  

     That dimple would be his downfall yet.   He cleared his throat, a little louder than he intended. Ï Se³orita Flores, I canÌt lose any potential clients, here.   My--uh--partner would kill me.   I was simply going to offer you services for a day, free of charge, as a gesture of goodwill.Ó

     ÏServices, huh?Ó

     ÏWeÌre the best at handyman . . . uh--stuff.Ó   He folded the paper and handed it to her, didnÌt release it when she reached for it.   ÏGive us a call.   Any time.   YouÌve got the number right here.Ó

     He stroked his chin.   ÏDo you have a pen?   IÌll give you my private line.   My partner might not be too keen on the offer I just made you.   The ad might actually be effective and we may be inundated with calls.Ó

     ÏYes, IÌm sure youÌre inundated with calls daily,Ó she said dryly, fishing around one-handed in her purse. Her hair fell forward and her downcast eyes made her lashes look incredibly long. His mind started to wander to lustful places again.

     She straightened and held out a purple Bic. He scribbled his number on the flyer.

     He looked up, pen in left hand poised in mid-air.   What in the hell was he doing?   He had a four-day shift at the fire station starting tomorrow.   He couldnÌt leave for a long lunch break.

     He might as well cross that bridge when he came to it. She stared back, unfazed. He handed her the flyer. ÏDonÌt go writing that on bathroom walls, now.Ó  

     ÏShoot--and I was just headed back to the ladies room in the market.Ó   Rubi tapped him on the forearm with the flyer. ÏCome to think of it, youÌd probably get a lot of business with these tacked up in a public bathroom.   Be careful how you advertise.   Adios .Ó  

     She set off, her long hair swinging out to cover the back scoopline of her dress.   She stopped and rummaged through the paper bag.   ÏOh. Se³or Carrillo?Ó

     He neared her, inhaling the faint scent of what remained of her perfume.   ÏYes?Ó

     She turned to face him and dropped a mottled-looking peach, dotted with small brown bruises and peeling skin, into his palm.   ÏI donÌt believe in freebies.   Consider this a down payment, and IÌll take you up on your offer.Ó