Page 8 of For Better or for Ransom

Julie hung up and Sol remained in the middle of their kitchen, her cell phone still on her ear while she checked Luke out—he’d taken over her tea preparations on the counter. It was almost bizarre how she’d had this apartment for many years, always considered it her own, but now thought about it as their place in Barcelona.

“All good?” He turned to her with an almost blinding smile.

“Yes, but I’m going to need you to put some clothes on.” She hated having said those words.

Luke’s smile became mischievous. “Why?”

“Because I have to write a fifteen-hundred-word profile before the end of the day and there’s no way I’ll be able to do any work with you looking like that.” She made a circular move with her palm in Luke’s direction.

The smile was now wolfish. “Looking like what?”

She exhaled deeply. “Like a six-foot-plus British Italian hunk who spends way too much time running, and doing hardcore yoga. T-shirt. Now. Please?”

“Only because you insist.” He placed the teakettle on the stove to heat and left the room.

He came back a few minutes later showered and dressed in his signature dark jeans and T-shirt.

“Tea is ready,” Sol told him, handing him a cup of strong English Breakfast and nibbling on some whole wheat toast.

“You are aware you made me dress but you’re the one still half naked, right?” Luke’s grin was back.

Sol checked herself. She was wearing nothing but one of his T-shirts. Her right shoulder was uncovered where the neckline had slipped. She smiled.

“You’re lucky because Divya and I have a very early interview.” He moved in and whispered in her ear. “We’ll have to talk about this appalling double standard when I come back tonight.”

A tingling rush shot down her spine. She couldn’t wait for the day to be over.

7

Luke

He needed for the day to be over and to find that bloody actor soon. But it looked as if that wouldn’t be the case. Not any time early enough.

Luke and his colleague at the Bakshi & Contadino Agency were back at the Casanova theater the day after Leonardo Pascual had mysteriously gone missing.

“I’ve learned so much from him. It’s been a joy to share the stage with him every night,” Pili Garcia, Leonardo’s costar in El baño de Edipo, was telling Divya and Luke. They were interviewing the actress, who played the character of Jocasta, in the same dingy room the police had used the previous night to talk to Sol. “He’s so talented. Of course you may be wondering: ‘But Pili, really? Sure you had to hate him. The guy was seven years older than you in real life yet in El baño de Edipo he’s your lover and son! That’s ridiculous.’ And listen, I know. Showbusiness is a very sexist profession. Leonardo will be playing the heartthrob for twenty more years at least. Whereas I’m thirty-eight and I’ve just become the woman who can only play mothers now. But still. I absolutely loved every moment with him on the stage. You know who is younger than me and would be a bit more believable as my son, right?” Pili didn’t wait for them to offer an answer. “Sandro Palau, of course. But Isabel thinks he’s not well-known enough.”

Luke was confused. It was a feeling that had assailed him from early this morning—when he’d been still sleepy and had been ordered by Sol to put some clothes on. Under normal circumstances, she’d have been happy to see him half naked—she’d have preferred to see him fully naked in fact. She would have acted on it as well. But it appeared that things were not normal: he had a bloody new case in Barcelona and because of that they weren’t in London—and they weren’t having spontaneous sex on the kitchen island.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Pili Garcia would just not shut up. Divya and Luke were trying to talk to most of Leonardo’s colleagues from the play, but Luke didn’t think that would be possible at this pace. Not if all of them just started rambling after one question and didn’t stop.

“Theater is such a devoted profession.” Pili continued her monologue, and Luke wasn’t even aware how she’d gotten to that line of thought.

The short brunette had her hair up in a ponytail and was wearing a long, flowy, tunic-like dress. She was oblivious to the fact that she wasn’t on the stage at present and she could indeed just say nothing—or limit herself to answer the questions.

“I don’t think you can do theater well and also do movies or TV shows simultaneously. Theater just needs the whole of you. People keep asking me why I don’t do television. I don’t want to do television! I’m a theater actress. I live for the stage. The stage takes all of my energy. I cannot possibly do television and do it justice. I mean, some actors do both. But do they really do a good job in both mediums?” she continued babbling.

Divya cleared her throat next to him. Luke’s colleague must be as tired as he was of playing the patient listener to Pili Garcia.

“Ms. Garcia,” Divya tried interrupting the actress.

“Oh, please, call me Pili! I’m Pili. For everyone! No one calls me Ms. Garcia. Not even my assistant. I’d say Ms. Garcia is my mother but not even her. She’s just Concha. We’re a very down-to-earth family, you see?”

“Pili,” Divya took the opportunity, and Luke was thankful because his colleague was a much more patient person than he was. Pili was exhausting. “Did Leonardo seem different or odd to you these past few days?”

“Yes! Very odd!” Pili’s words finally managed to catch Luke’s attention. “I mean he was obsessed with his new TV show. To the point where he was starting to be indifferent to what happened in the play. But you can’t do that in the theater.” Pili pronounced that last word with an affectation that aggravated Luke. “We’re live every night. Every representation of the play is a new beginning, a new birth, a new origin. But he no longer cared for the rebirth. You can’t do theater on autopilot! Theater is alive!”

Divya blinked repeatedly. She’d been on an early flight from London that morning but it probably wasn’t sleep or tiredness that made her do so—it was a natural reaction to Pili’s outbursts. “How did he show that lack of interest in the play?” Divya finally asked.