Whisper Privileges (24 page)

“Wherever feels comfortable.”

He laughed. “For which one of us?”

Sydney slipped him a smile. “Just don’t fall
off, okay? How about we leave it at that?”

Clay laughed softly and slid his shades back
in place. Not hardly, but he’d take it as a start. Sydney revved
the engine to life and slowly pushed her foot from the ground as
the bike eased forward. “Where we going?”

“Hungry?”

He breathed in the scent of her again and
leaned close, his chin inches from her. “For you, yes.”

“Food,” she said back to him, the engine
competing with the conversation as they picked up speed.

“Sure,” he said loudly, “you bet I’m hungry.
This is your town. You make the call.” Clay pulled her long thick
ponytail between them, enjoying the silky smooth feel of her hair,
careless to the strands blowing free, tickling the skin on his
face. He liked the feel of her body, her hair. He liked the
powerful vibration of the bike rumbling beneath them, too, the
heavy muffler amplifying his pleasure.

Opting to stay off the highway, Sydney
paralleled the main highway for a bit. “Well when you’re in Miami,”
she said, “do as the natives do. How about we swing through Little
Havana for some local flavor?”

Clay secured his grip around her firm waist
and replied, “I’m game.”

Sydney turned, pulled out of the university
grounds and took a left onto a road called Granada, she took it
slow as they rode through the residential area, all of the homes
seemed built with Spanish influence. Where South Carolina’s history
was rich with French and African tradition, the French Quarter
being one of his hometown’s most famous examples, it seemed the
Spaniards had conquered the entire state of Florida. Most all of
the homes had barrel-tile roofs, nearly every other one red, many
accompanied by an array of arched doorways and windows, ironwork
embellishments and stone trim. Enormous trees lined the road,
enshrouding the estate homes in privacy, much of them filled with
bright orange blooms, others laden with heavy root systems that
fell from branches to the ground. It looked to be a wealthy
neighborhood. A brief glimpse of a golf course on the other side
served to underscore the observation.

“This is Coral Gables,” she told him, playing
conscientious tour guide.

“It’s nice.” Definitely expensive, if the
Bentley driving past them was any clue. “Do you live near
here?”

Sydney laughed, the sound carried away with
the wind. “Not hardly. I’m over in South Miami.”

“Is that far from here?”

“About ten minutes. It’s the other side of
the University of Miami.”

“Hm,” he murmured, distracted by the sight of
an impressive peach-colored building. “That’s a nice place.” He
pointed to the large building off to their left. Spanish in
architecture like the others, this one was huge boasting a center
spire that stood imperiously over the cluster of its surrounding
buildings. Trimmings were painted in cream and of course it was
housed under the same red tile roof.

Sydney glanced in the direction and said,
“That’s the Biltmore Hotel. It’s a landmark around these
parts.”

“It is?” he asked, mostly to himself. His
parents were staying there, but it looked different from this
angle. And it easily earned landmark status. Inside the ceilings
were barrel-vaulted and hand-painted with marble columns
throughout. The floors were travertine and in his opinion, the
hotel resembled an Italian palazzo. He’d perused some of the
historical photographs and they told quite a story. Built back in
the 1920’s it hosted quite the guest list until being converted to
a hospital during World War II. The University of Miami even used
it as their medical school for a while. Clay recalled it had been
renovated years ago, but had a rough time of it until some
development group entered the picture and assumed ownership.
Apparently they knew what they were doing because the company
dumped a pile of money into not only the hotel and pool, but the
golf course and spa. According to his parents, those were two key
ingredients to an exceptional hotel stay.

Passing a roundabout, Sydney pointed to an
old looking Mediterranean-style building. “That’s the Venetian
Pool,” she said, slowing so he could peek through the
iron-gate.

Sure enough, there was an enormous pool on
the other side. But the water looked awfully green to him. “You
sure that’s a pool?”

She chuckled. “Oh, yes. A famous one at
that.”

“You swim in there?”

“Used to when I was a kid. It was a big deal
to say I could swim from one side to the other.”

He smiled. Now she sounded like Q. He said
the same thing first time he set foot in an Olympic-sized swimming
pool.

“It’s built from a coral rock quarry and fed
by a spring. Very cool, too, with waterfalls and cave-like grottos.
It’s changed a lot over the years but it’s still a pretty neat
place to go.” She turned her head toward him and said, “You should
bring your family here. I bet Q would love it.”

Clay liked that she thought of Q thought of
family outings. Family was important. “Maybe I will,” he said,
holding onto the last glimpse of the pool and buildings inside. He
turned back to face forward. Or maybe
we
will.

When they turned onto the next busy road,
buildings quickly turned commercial and screamed money. But the
fancy retail brand names said it all. Within minutes the landscape
dramatically changed. No longer were buildings defined by peach and
pink stone and red-tile but instead turned square and cement and
sparsely dotted with palm trees—everything labeled in Spanish.
Signs, ads, it was like he was entering another country. “Where are
we?”

“Welcome to Little Havana,” she said, her
voice carrying that “I-know-what-you’re-thinking” ring.

But he understood what she meant. You
couldn’t miss the change it was so drastic. The further they drove,
the more it felt as if this section of town had been plucked right
off the streets of Cuba, or some other Third World country. Old men
rode bicycles along the busy road. Cars were no longer luxury
models, but short bed trucks and minicars that looked right at home
with the single story buildings pressed to the street’s edge. Clay
shook his head. It was amazing. While the previous neighborhoods
felt Old World and elegant, this area of town felt hot and humid
and “junky,” like everything had been crammed in without much
forethought.

“We’re almost there,” she said, as though she
sensed he was getting antsy.

At the moment, he was content riding behind
her, her body snug between his thighs, the wind blowing through his
hair. But later? He hoped to get closer. A lot closer. That kiss
the other night only left him wanting for more and more he planned
to get—of her lips, her body... Clay slid his hands down to rest
along her lower waist, admiring the curve as it angled up to her
broad shoulders. While taking advantage of the opportunity to feel
what he could, he made certain to keep his hold light. Scaring her
off now would not serve him well.

As she slowed, Clay caught sight of a few old
men sitting in a parking lot, their rickety old lawn chairs circled
around a card table with what looked to be a small black AM/FM
radio. Was this what they did for entertainment? Locked onto the
odd image, his head swiveled as they passed, his body dipping with
the bike as it rolled into an adjacent lot. With a cursory glance
to the apartment building behind them, air conditioner units
jutting out from windows, paint peeling off the walls, he realized
that may indeed be all they had.

Sydney put a foot to the ground and said,
“This place has the best
croquetas
and coffee.

“What are those?” he asked, and wondered
where they were eating. The only store in sight was a discount
dollar type. He swung his leg over the back end of the bike and she
dismounted behind him, kicking the metal stand into place.

“Fried rolls of minced ham. You can get
chicken, too, but I prefer the ham.”

“Where do we get them?”

She indicated with a flick of her eyes.
“Right there.”

From that makeshift trailer of a
restaurant
? But Clay wasn’t about to voice the same. She was
the tour guide here, not him. If this is where she said they were
eating, this is where they were eating. Turning the handlebars to
one side, she pulled the hair band from her ponytail and combed her
fingers through the lengths of brown. Hanging long and loose around
her shoulders, it brought out the woman in her. Made him want to
reach over and run his fingers through it, too. He gave a couple
quick yanks to his Polo jersey to release the stick of humidity and
mumbled, “Uh, I’ll have what you’re having.”

“Do you like coffee?”

Careful not to be overheard by a couple of
old women squatted down on a cement bench near the food truck—a
pair that looked like they’d been there for some time—he replied,
“It’s okay.” Certainly not his choice of beverage on a hot, sunny
day, but whatever. He was the guest here. Sydney wanted to drink
coffee, they were drinking coffee.

“Well I’ll warn you ahead of time. This stuff
is potent and not for the faint of heart.”

He stopped short. “Are you calling me a
sissy?”

She tossed him a half-smile and headed for
the dilapidated, white trailer. “Friendly word of advice, that’s
all.”

Clay watched her rear as she walked and felt
a twinge in his loins. Damn, but that thing was fine. Catching up
to her, he commented, “I’ve never seen a woman fill a pair of jeans
better than you. The way your body pours into denim is
incredible.”

“That would be great—if I were pudding.”

He grinned. “You don’t take compliments well,
do you?”

Ignoring his question, she eyed him. “Coffee
or not?”

“I’ll have one just to prove I can, how about
that? Add a water too, will you?” Now that they stopped, Clay
realized there was no breeze to speak of and his shirt was
beginning to stick.

A large Cuban man leaned to the window.
“¿
Qué deseas ordenar
?

Sydney removed her black sunglasses and
placed them on top of her head.
“
Sopa
de frijoles negros, dos croquetas de jamón y dos café cubanos, por
favor
.”
With a
sideways glance to Clay she added, “
Y agua para mi
amigo
.”

The man looked at Clay and smiled, as though
Sydney had just cracked a joke. “
Por supuesto
.”

Sydney turned to Clay with a look that was as
much sass as it was sexy. Seemed someone was enjoying herself—which
he liked to see. It made him want to kiss her in the worst way.
Lean forward, slide his arms around her waist and place a long wet
kiss on that mouth of hers. But a kiss was only the beginning of
what he wanted to do to her. He wanted to cozy up to that muscular
body and feel the firmness of her thighs, her biceps, her
ultra-flat stomach. He summoned visions of her from that first day
on the beach and could recall with clarity and detail how she
looked, how she moved. He pulled the shirt from his chest and gave
it a few quick tugs. He was beginning to sweat.

“
Aquí
,” the man said from the
window.

Sydney took two cardboard containers filled
with golden-fried mini logs from his hands and handed one to Clay.
“Be careful, they’re hot.”

“Good. I like it hot.”

She shook her head and asked point blank. “Do
you ever stop?”

“Never.” Clay chuckled. Not until he got what
he wanted.

Two miniature cups of coffee came out the
window next, followed by a larger Styrofoam cup and two plastic
spoons. “
Para compartír con tú amigo
.”

Sydney smiled and replied,
“
Gracias
.”

Clay tucked his shades into the open collar
of his shirt and pulled the wallet from his back pocket. “How
much?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got this one.”

“Where I come from, a man pays for his woman.
How much?”

Sydney paused, and held him in her gaze for a
moment. “Where I come from, a woman pays her own way. Besides, you
took care of the first lunch. This one’s on me.”

Squinting against the glare of sunlight, Clay
was about to protest, but decided against it. Something told him
that if he pushed, she’d push right back. “Fine.” He shoved the
wallet back into his jeans. “Thank you.”

Sydney paid the bill and the two of them
walked over to a white cement table, a rickety umbrella jutting up
from its center. Sydney sat on one half-moon bench while he took
the one opposite her. Pulling a paper napkin from the black metal
dispenser box on the table, he settled in for a taste of Little
Havana. “So what did that guy say?”

“That you should try the beans.” Sydney
flipped open the lid from the soup container and handed him one of
the plastic sporks.

“He said all that, did he?”

“Yep. The stuff is to die for,” she said,
then took the first bite for herself. Moving her head from side to
side, she groaned in pleasure and slowly chewed.

God, he liked the way she ate; intense,
indulgent, as though she were savoring every morsel. He grunted
under his breath. He’d have to remember that little feat later and
use it to his benefit. Clay reached his spoon over for a taste and
brought the steaming lumpy black liquid to an inch below his
nostrils and sniffed. “Not bad.” Smoky, he detected a salty garlic
scent. He slid the spoonful into his mouth, moved it back and forth
over his tongue and decided, not bad. A bit chalky, but tasty.
“Pretty good.” Definitely heavy on the garlic and onion and no good
for the breath.

“You didn’t think I’d steer you wrong, did
you?”

“Haven’t tried the coffee, yet. I’ll keep you
posted.”

She chuckled. “You do that.”