Chapter 1

• "I yearn for your mouth, your eyes, and your kisses,"
• Miguel said those exact things to me right away.
• He was reading a poem in both Spanish and English in front of the University of Miami class on a beautiful October day. During the first week of classes, he moved to Public Speaking. On the day he read aloud, he was observed by all because he had already missed several courses.
• He was the center of attention for all the girls. I was unable to do either.
• It was my nineteenth birthday.
• Miguel wore a simple black T-shirt and faded pants. He was tall. With his short black hair, dark lashes, and dark eyebrows, his face was covered in dark stubble, giving him the appearance of the devil's finest pupil. A red-lighting threat to my heart.
• Miguel only gazed as he spoke, toward me. Taking a seat in the second row was me. I wanted to kneel at his feet and beg him to do everything he wanted with my body and soul because his eyes were so full of possessive need.
• Miguel looked at me once he was done talking, a half smile on his face that hinted at pleasure.
• I was out of breath. Hypnotized.
• "I'm grateful, Mr. Perez. The professor's voice startled me so much that I quickly gathered my papers, "Ms. Dubois, you're next." I grabbed one that had fallen to the ground and picked it up with trembling fingers.
• I moved past Miguel to take a seat at the front of the room. Our eyes locked for a brief moment, and I swallowed hard. I folded my arms, my lips uncomfortably damp. I would have liked to take off my vintage dress with its black and rose print and my black flip-flops because I knew they scraped against my flesh. I felt naked in Miguel's stare. His gaze made me desire to strip off alongside him.
• The professor asked, "Could you please tell us the title of the poem you're reading?"
• "I've chosen 'Sonnet Seventeen,' by Pablo…," I said, stuttering as I looked down at the floor.
• "Open your arms wide. Additionally, you'll need to speak up more. Recall that this is a lesson on public speaking, not whispering in public."
• I looked up at Miguel as the few kids who had bothered to pay attention giggled. With his lengthy legs spread wide and taking up room in the front row, he slouched low on his chair. A seductive smile developed on the contour of his lips. My curly hair was tucked behind my ear.
• I took a deep breath and started.
• Miguel looked at me slowly and for extended periods while I read the poem. His mouth opened, allowing me to see his tongue poking out from the corner. I grinned by the time I got to the second sentence. I kept it a secret from him. We had the impression of being the only two persons in the space.
• I shivered with restless need as I ran outside into the white-bright Florida sun after class. My wrist was softly grasped, causing my fine hair to shake on my nape.
• "Victoria?" he said in a soft voice.
• "Yes."
• I think I had kissed a couple of guys at that point, maybe a bit more. I used to be somewhat shy. I also avoided boys who resembled Miguel, mostly because I thought they wouldn't be into girls like me.
• "Where are you from?" My tiny wrist appeared so frail in his large grasp.
• "St. Augustine."
• Miguel smiled, exposing dimples beneath the beard.
• He rhymingly added, "So, Victoria from St. Augustine," and instantly won my heart. What do you have planned for the weekend? Are you planning to attend the costume party that everyone is talking about? Do you have on makeup?"
• For a moment, I could only laugh. I was notified about the party by my closest friend Amelia, and she was pushing for me to go too. No, I had replied.
• But maybe I would if Miguel was present. Heat burst through my skin like I'd been at the beach all day in August. His eyes glinted in the sunlight, a most unusual color, almost coppery.
• "I have no plans," I said to myself.
• One more smile, this one evil. I had never seen a man with such long eyelashes.
• "Do you know what you should be for the costume party?"
• He looked at me for a long, smoldering beat after I shook my head once more.
• "Mine."
• Fifteen years later
• A pirate is standing next to me on the pavement.
• "Seriously?" I say aloud.
• I swat the man sprawled in front of my newspaper building with my hand. The guy wears a black hat with a purple plume covering much of his face.
• "A drunk pirate? Now?"
• He doesn't hear me, even though we're the only ones on the street; since he's completely lost. If his stomach didn't rise and fall, I would assume he was dead. Black boots, a black vest, and dirty green slacks. Nothing on top. His chest is bare, flabby, and white as a fish. When the pungent smell of beer reaches my nose, my nose naturally wrinkles. A tiny sigh slips from my mouth. The man likely had a wild weekend during the city's yearly pirate celebration. Here on the concrete in front of the St. Augustine Times, the last stop on the Sunday night parade party route, he would have run out of steam and energy.
• I curl my lip in disdain when I see a limp strand of green pearls hanging around his neck.
• My newspaper features an attention-grabbing title honoring the ten-day celebration of foolishness, as it's the city's top tourist attraction. Just like it has been for decades, at every annual pirate celebration. In fact, as the publisher of a tiny newspaper, I had to write the headline this year because there are occasions when you have to fill in for your city editor who is away on vacation.
• Mardi Gras meets Pillage the Village! With the Pirates!
• I give a loud snort. Pirates. Visitors. Florida.
• As the youngest female newspaper publisher in America, I'm on the cleanup team on Monday morning. It's my day to look amazing, sound intelligent, and convince everyone that my business can be saved.
• Fantastic.
• "Hey. Pardon me. Hello!" I yell at the person, but he remains still. Not now, and I don't need this. I poked the pirate's forearm with my black, pointy-toed stiletto—which was already causing my heel pain—after taking a few steps forward. He is not giving up.
• The security guard for the newspaper, Ryan, opens the front door and looks down at the sleeping man. I retreated a few feet and winced. I'm trying so hard not to get angry that Ryan didn't handle this when he got here that morning. I gesture to the inebriated person.
• "We must take action. Right now. Make a police call. We cannot allow a prospective investor to enter the paper this morning by trampling over a sleeping pirate."
• Ryan retreats inside while I walk back and forth, the flesh on my left heel becoming thin. I look at my timepiece. It is eight-thirty in the morning, and the smell of the beer in the plastic cup a few feet away from the pirate is as foul as the morning air. I can already feel a droplet of sweat forming on the back of my leg.
• I stop on the corner, next to the loading dock where the circulation team loads newspapers into the trucks at three in the morning, and attempt to think of a way to get the drunk out of sight. Relying on the local sheriff's department, which hasn't been happy with me since the paper ran a great exposé six months ago on a spate of officer-involved shootings in the city's black area, might take longer than moving the guy ourselves.
• In an attempt to cool off, I brush my long hair off my neck and allow it to fall in a thick, sticky curtain at my shoulders. When I might have slept for an extra thirty minutes, why had I spent the time to blow it straight? This heat makes me hate having my hair down. Already, my natural waves are struggling with the humidity.
• It's the humidity that wins.
• Maybe I should just go hide in the cool comfort of my office with the air conditioning, throw my hair up in a bun, and act like I didn't see the drunk. When the vice president of the private equity investment fund arrives for our nine o'clock meeting, act as if nothing is wrong.
• No. Not able to accomplish that. It's far too timid. A true woman winks and stares the challenger in the eye.
• My foot taps more quickly. I don't think Ryan and I could manage this muscular guy by ourselves. Who else can assist? Who even comes in at this hour? Since the beginning of the rumors in the city's alt-weekly newspaper and on a local blog about our approaching bankruptcy, reporters, editors, and ad salespeople have been arriving a few minutes later every day and departing a few minutes earlier every night.
• My eyes land on the newspaper building, a four-story stucco and concrete colossus constructed by my great-grandfather. I've always felt that the building had a distinct personality. imposing. grave. a significant location.
• It occupies a full block. Even if the building is unsightly, it's mine, and I'm doing all in my power to keep it that way.
• I sigh. Oh great, I should have reminded maintenance that when I had driven by the night before, the building's sign's letter "S" had stopped glowing. It read, The Time, in vivid green letters. Put it on the extensive list of damaged items in the newspaper.
• On that list, I'm at the top.
• "Victoria!"
• My oldest friend Amelia, the chief financial officer of the paper, hurls herself out the front door, landing on her belly. She is carrying a child; very, very pregnant. Her tanned complexion, which is glistening from sweat, is what makes her look like an alligator in 10 years. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
• "Hey. Be cautious before approaching the pirate. My thumb circles my temple, and my hand automatically moves to my forehead. I should have known better than to sip that second glass of chardonnay last night as I got ready for the meeting today.
• "Oh, hell." Breathless, she dashes past him and comes running towards me. Why is she moving so quickly? Whether she's pregnant or not, she never rushes.
• Certainly, we must get him out of here. Are you aware if Ryan is contacting the police?"
• "I have no idea. This morning, did you notice the Wall Street Journal?
• She tosses me a copy of the newspaper. To make it into a manageable rectangle, fold it twice.
• "Not at all. Had time only to read our paper, make a pot of coffee, and get ready. and worry over today. What's going on?"
• "Florida Capital."
• "What about it?" I take the paper away from her.
• "Read the article."
• "Afterwards. There will be a fifteen-minute meeting. I'm awaiting the Vice President's arrival. That inebriated is something I don't want him to see.
• "I am aware of the meeting's time. You should read this because of this. She holds up a plump finger to indicate the bottom of page one. I won't inform her that her fingers appear like sausages because of the combination of pregnancy and humidity.
• I read aloud the first few phrases while squinting. "MDA of Miami has decided to purchase the bulk of Florida Capital in an unexpected move. MDA will take over all of Florida Capital's interests as part of the $800 million cash deal, and it will also keep growing the number of media properties and businesses it acquires in Florida and Latin America. The worth of the assets under MDA is $18 billion.
• The article abruptly shifts to a different page, and I choose not to look for it. I shrug as I meet Amelia's big, blue eyes. "All right? This appears to be fantastic news. They'll be more inclined to give us money if we ask them to. Success!"
• She grabs the paper and uses it to swat my arm. "Read the rest."
• I thrust the paper in her direction. "I have to handle this pirate. Do you believe Ryan, you, and I could pull him across the street? Hold on, no. It is not possible. It's too late for you. Who is present in the newsroom?
• "A few men. Continue reading, though. Paragraph two. upper left column. Amelia speaks with a lovely Southern accent, yet her bluntness is unusual.
• "Okay, Jesus, you're pushy today." I pick up the paper, turn it over, and read aloud in a buzzy voice while reading quickly. MDA, which was established less than a year ago, provides support to midmarket businesses across a range of sectors, such as media, distribution, consumer and business services, consumer goods, and financial services. Miguel Perez Gomez, the Miami condo king and the wealthiest man in Florida owns MDA and is listed at number 275 on the Forbes 500 list."
• My chest tightens as my voice wanes. I counted five times as I read the name. It's been years since I stated it out loud.
• "Oh my God," I mumble. Suddenly, half of Florida is scorching hot. I look around and use the newspaper to fan myself. My headache explodes into life. "Oh God."
• "I think it's the same Miguel."
• "I'm grateful. Miguel is the same, of course." For an instant, I think I might burst a vein in my temple. I take a breath.
• This is not good. Not as good as awful. Horrible.