Heavy Love(22)

Reading between the lines forces me to realize that this is one of  Franco's places. He's a celebrity, after all, worth millions of dollars.  Add to that, his habit of forcing me onto an emotional rollercoaster. I  smirk, "When exactly does this party start?"

"Relax," Franco flips on the lights. "I'm going to search for the boat keys. I'll be back."

I sit on a navy blue suede settee in the entryway. From my vantage point  of the living room and along the hallway is tailored furniture,  enhancing the beach-house style. As he rummages around upstairs, saying  that he might know where the keys are, my eye sweep across a 12 by 18.  From my viewpoint the features are that of my new friend. But dressed in  a suit.

Franco doesn't seem the type.

I arise, and walk across the glossy hardwood floors. Stepping into a  manly living room with all dark, yet laidback furnishings, I stop at the  opposite wall. A glossy plaque displays Franco's undergraduate degree  from the University of Barcelona Next to it is Franco. Lo and behold, a  tan suit adorns every single inch of his muscles. He's standing with a  darker version of himself. Dark caramel skin, jet black hair and  crinkles around his eyes. I know that this is Franco's father. The man  he hardly mentioned while telling me so many adventurous stories as a  child. Below the portrait of them are the carved words in Spanish. I can  make out "son" "happy" and  …

"MD, wow," I breath the words.

"Yup, that's me," Franco's tantalizing voice calls from behind me. "My  life was all mapped out. I was buddies with the head honcho at Barcelona  Center Medic."

"So that's what you gave up for fame? For passion?"

"My father's words are ‘saving lives.' I gave up saving lives to become a  slave to the stove." That's all he will say. Franco jiggles the keys  and grabs my hand. "Vámonos, Angelique."

~~~

Being in Franco's presence has been eye opening. He lives for passion.  So far in life, he's been blessed. He's done what many only dream, from  graduating with high honors and well on his way to becoming a doctor.  He's prospered as a chef, and if I only have one goal, it will be to  ensure that Franco returns to the stage again. Cooking is his passion.

After about thirty minutes on Franco's powerboat bright lights sparkled  in the distance. The closer we get to the docks, the sound of music  begins to peel through the hard ground of the engine. The air is  different here. Though salted just like Cabo de Blanco, it's also thick  with desires as Franco takes my hand, helping me onto the dock. There  are colorful couples, young and old, each one clinging to the other,  faces placated as they whisper or full blown smiles. And the night has  disappeared as a flamboyant festival cruises up and down the tiny  passageways.

"Where are we?" I ask Franco, moving closer to him. Every other step, a  singer or a guitarist dominates the sidewalk with spellbinding music  that has crowds at a standstill. This place is cluttered. I'd hate to  compare it to Disneyland, because the annoyance of crowds doesn't matter  here. Here, everyone is in sync, and each step allows me to be just  that much closer to him.

He steps even closer to me, and smiles. "We're still in España, Angelique."

My head tilts sideways just slightly. "I know that, Franco."

With the various bands that we are walking by, Franco is forced to speak  into my ear. His warm breath tingles or maybe it's his words, "Your  only thought, baby doll, should be to enjoy every moment."

About an hour later, we stop at a couple doing the flamingo in the  middle of the street. His body molds against my back as more tourists  and Spaniards stand around to watch.         

     



 

The warm sweetness of chocolate rolls down my full lips as I salivate. I  lick my lips. The chocolate con churro we've shared is good, no doubt,  but I pass it back to Franco without another bite, then share in the  clapping.

"I take it we have something to teach you," Franco says, then he eats the churro in one bite.

"Hey," I'm almost disappointed that he finished off our sweets, the  crowd has begun to join in. One of the performers, sashays her way  toward us. Her eyes are on me. Mouth wide, I realize the women are  gathering dancers, and I shake my head no.

"Bailamos, bailamos, si?" Pearly teeth on display, she pulls me toward  the makeshift stage. My cheeks are burning. Another performer hands me a  vibrant red and orange fan. As embarrassed as I am while trying to keep  the rhythm, in truth, I could click the heels of my ruby slippers  together beseeching the Wizard of Oz to stop time. Yet, the twinkling  flurry of stars blanketed by an indigo night begins to fade as Franco  stops before a nightclub.

"Franco, do you know what time it is?" I glance at my cell phone that's  still halfway juiced up, and scoff. "Franco, it's past three am. Where  I'm from the DJ is announcing last call for alcohol. Matter of fact,  only people that have business at this time of night – "

"You're no longer in the states, you just dubbed yourself a pro a little while ago. And the night can't end without a dance."

I bite my lip. "While it sounds tempting and you have a way with  persuasion, Franco, how about this. I step into the club with you.  Although, prior to that occurring, you shake my hand – man to woman – you'll  return to cooking professionally?"

Franco is a very commanding being. All night long I've been light years  outside of my comfort zone. But I hold out my hand with a smile. Instead  of giving my hand a firm shake, he pats it. "My apologies, doll face,  but you'll thank me later for not making promises I can't keep."

My bottom lip drops, I stare at him, head cocked to the side.

"Don't give me the face, Jelly," he now takes my hand and pulls me to  the hardness of his chest. "We're having a good time. Ahora  bailamos – Now, we dance."

"Yes, we're having a good time." With my nose burrowed in his chest, I  take a deep scent of him. Caring for a man like him comes easy. It's as  if Franco's sole desire this evening has been to place a smile on my  face. How can I return the favor when he's so ornery?

Franco then starts singing the part from Bootylicious about the crowd not being ready for me.

"Oh, you've got jokes?" I smile, swatting at him while stepping away  from his embrace. I lean back on my heels as he grabs my hand and guides  me toward the building. This time instead of murmuring with that  baritone voice of his and tantalizing my ear, Franco kisses that silky  patch of skin by my ear.

My feet criss cross before the other as I walk in a daze. He leads us  toward the white building, with its' large windows and vast amount of  balconies. There are people dancing and the strobe lights coming from  inside the many windows zip and zap into the dark sky.

Franco says, "This isn't Barcelona or Ibiza, but the vibe is just right."

We step inside; the air is thick with smoke. Immediately my senses are  heightened by the rhythmic music and exotic scents. The lighting is dim,  providing a laidback ambience, but from my view, I can tell that there  are different rooms in this club that cater to every sort of people.  Such as the strobe lighting piercing through the entryway of a few rooms  upstairs. Men and women have become one, dancing to the Spanish music,  nobody in the world exists. I lick my lips, mouth instantly watering as  we walk past the scent of sex and lust.

I watch another couple whose bodies mold together in perfection. Every  time the male leads, the female follows. Then I can feel Franco's eyes  on me. After gulping back my desire, I tear my gaze from the two. And I  notice Franco still holds my hand. We've been attached all night, almost  as if there's a need to touch, a need to feel.

Franco steps closer to me. For the umpteenth time my knees just about give way as his lips kiss my ear. He asks, "Want a drink?"

"No," I shake my head.

"Good." His hand gazes my cheek as if I have this sweetness to me when I  just want to be so very bad for him. I've never been so readable in my  life, but I must be something short of a grade school book, because  Franco pulls me into his arms. He's held me close all night, sometimes  due to being in a thick crowd, and at other times just because, but  right now his hold is tight. The music seems just a bit sultrier, being  held by the man that I've craved for the many years I've watched him on  television.         

     



 

For the first time, I'm telling myself that this is real. I am in the  arms of a man who has sparked a frenzy in the cooking world. Franco  gathers my gaze as his fingers thread through mine, bringing them high  over my head. My breasts rise slowly and I'm aware of myself. Nothing in  this world exists as his fingers skim down my arms then my waist.  Franco's hand goes to the small of my back and once more he forces me to  him in a sharp, urbane move. I take in a sharp breath. The suave way he  controls my body makes my skin feather with need. And this is all  before we even start to dance.