Page 61 of Born for Starlight

"Thirsty. Talk to me about the market."

"The market." Layla blew on her coffee. "Busy. Busier than I've seen it in ten years. There's a lot of wine being gathered right now. A lot. New buyers in town, serious money, and product coming in from everywhere to meet it."

Wine?

"That much moving in?"

"More every week. And the rare vintages, querido, you would not believe what's being brought in." Her eyes stayed on his over the rim of the cup. "Young. Small growers. The kind that never reach an open shelf."

"Prices?"

"Climbing. There’s talk of a party.”

"A party," Matthew said slowly. “Now that’s interesting.”

"Private. Invitation only.”

I stood there with a coffee I’d had to get for myself and did my best to look like a woman who found wine fascinating. It wasn't hard. I've spent years on sets. I practically got a degree in standing around looking decorative while people yapped about boring crap.

But here's the other thing about all that time on sets. I know when the dialogue doesn't match the blocking.

The words were about wine. The scene was not. Nobody relaxed. Nobody laughed. Beto stood guard outside. Matthew had a gun under his arm. This immaculate woman had picked a fish market early in the morning to discuss vintages with a man she called her favorite customer, read former lover. If a director handed me this scene and told me it was about wine, I'd fire the writer.

"Any of our friends working the event?" Matthew asked.

Layla paused, just half a beat.

"One or two," she said.

"That's good to know."

"It's expensive to know." She set down her cup. "We're done. Tell Beto to thank Marisa for the brigadeiro."

Even I knew that was a chocolate dessert, and I sure as hell wasn’t expecting Beto’s wife making some for this woman.

“Brigadeiro?” Matthew stopped and looked at her. Apparently, he hadn’t either.

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Matthew put his hand on the small of my back, and we turned to go.

That was when Layla said something in Portuguese, quiet and flat, the way you'd state a fact you didn't enjoy. It wasn't too long. Maybe a dozen words or so.

Matthew didn't answer. But I was looking up at him when she said it. A wall came down behind his eyes, smooth and fast. The same wall from the diner in Jasper Creek, the day I first mentioned the girls’ school Aurora.

I might not speak Portuguese, but I've filmed in four languages I didn't speak, and holding sounds in my head until I can find out what they mean is a job skill. I took her sentence and I locked it away, syllable by syllable, behind my best decorative smile.

"Walk," Matthew said. "Don't look back at her."

I walked. I didn't look back.

I was too busy memorizing.

Beto talked the whole ride home, bless him, because nobody else in the car was going to. Something about a fish stew, his middle daughter's wedding, and a goalkeeper he had strong opinions about. I made the right noises. Matthew watched the side mirror.

We made it up to the floor. I was attempting to say something to the man in the gray suit, when Matthew hustled me into the suite.

“That was rude,” I huffed.