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  “Here,” she said to the startled floor boss. “You deal with him.”

  As she strode off, Maji’s left hand began to throb. Must have smacked it against a table. That’s what being rusty gets you, Rios. At least you only hurt yourself this time. She cradled the hand against her center, thinking about where to find ice in a warm-drink town. Any tourist bar by the marina would do.

  “Wait,” called out a deep voice behind her. A native Spanish speaker, not angry but insistent nonetheless.

  Maji tamped down the urge to flee. She could get out to the street easily enough, but then what? She had no plan B if they banned her. Don’t borrow trouble. Just breathe. She stopped, took a deep breath, and turned back.

  A uniformed security guard headed toward her. By habit she sized him up in less than a second, taking in his soft belly, the pristine uniform, the neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache along with erect posture and a slight hitch in his step. Injured vet.

  With a solicitous smile, he held her chips out. “You dropped your winnings.”

  When? Without even noticing. Off your game, Rios. “Wow. Thanks.” She reached out with her good right hand.

  The guard’s expression shifted to genuine concern. “You are hurt. We must see to that. Please.”

  * * *

  Celeste scrolled through the online tabloid articles, reliving the night Adrienne picked a fight with Erlea. The worst of them, salaciously titled “Catfight at the Kitten Club,” made it sound as if the rock star and the soccer player tried to claw one another’s eyes out in a drunken scuffle. Well, perhaps Erlea was drunk, but Adrienne was merely possessive and cruel, with enough whiskey in her to let her mask slip off in public. Even a year later, Celeste shuddered at the memory. Her scalp tingled where Adrienne had used her hair to jerk her about, hissing in fury about Celeste’s behavior. When Adrienne abruptly released her, Celeste fell. By the time she picked herself up off the club floor, bruised and humiliated, Erlea had Adrienne pinned to the ground several feet away. The crowd turned their phone cameras toward the two celebrities, ignoring Celeste.

  And now Erlea would arrive here tomorrow, living in the same hotel with her for months. If Celeste ran into her, would the singer even recognize her? And what would Celeste say to her? Thank you for rescuing me from my hateful girlfriend. Sorry she tried to sue you sounded terrible. No; she would avoid the star and her crew altogether, unless they called for the house doctor.

  A knock at her office door announced someone here, today, in need of her services. A welcome reprieve from dark memories. “Doctor?” a deep voice asked before a second knock. “I have a patient for you.”

  Ah, Santxo, head of security. A friendly man, willing to be a friend if she let him. “One moment.” Celeste blacked out the screen on her computer and put on her professional face before opening the door. “Yes, Mr. Quintana?”

  Santxo’s broad form in the doorway nearly blocked the guest from view. “I really don’t need a medic,” the woman said, peeking around him.

  “Wonderful,” Celeste replied. “A miracle cure.”

  Moving aside at last, Santxo volunteered, “This lady was accosted by another patron and defended herself ably. You do have an X-ray machine in there, don’t you?”

  Celeste blocked his effort to step inside. “Thank you, Mr. Quintana. I will interview our guest and determine what she needs.” She met the gaze of the woman who quite disconcertingly seemed to have given her a full examination in the few seconds Celeste had stood within her view. “If you wouldn’t mind coming in for a moment?”

  “Not at all,” the woman replied with a smile. “Thank you,” she added to a puzzled-looking Santxo as she stepped inside. “I can take it from here.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Celeste reinforced, moving to close the door on him.

  He hesitated. “But shouldn’t I tell you what happened?”

  Celeste looked at her new patient. “Did you strike your head? Are you capable of speaking for yourself?”

  “I think I can manage,” the woman said, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. She turned to Santxo and addressed him in Spanish. “If you’ll take my chips to the cashier, I promise to stay until you return with my winnings.”

  With relief Celeste closed the door behind the well-meaning head of security. He was nosy by nature, which might have been an asset in his work but sometimes put him at cross-purposes with hers. And this time he seemed particularly interested in the guest, who looked familiar somehow. Intriguing.

  “You must be someone famous for our head of security to be so concerned when you seem fine,” Celeste said. “If I should recognize you, I apologize. Now, how can I help?”

  “No apology needed.” The guest lifted her cradled hand a little. “And this barely counts as an injury, Doctor. A little ice for the swelling and I’ll be good to go.”

  “Please, call me Celeste. And you are?”

  “Maji,” the woman said, not offering a last name. She snugged her left hand back to her belly, protected like her identity.

  A pretty name, Middle Eastern sounding. Celeste thought she looked more Spanish, but then she had always been bad at guessing ethnicity. In her sports practice, her clients often played for teams outside their home countries. Without her notes on their biographies, she would be hopeless. “Maji,” she repeated. “Ice, of course.”

  “If it’s no bother. I can hit a bar for some, otherwise.” Maji seemed restless. “I should get out of your hair.” Then she laughed when Celeste self-consciously brushed the pesky new bangs from her eyes. “Your hair’s fine. I just don’t want to keep you from any real patients.”

  Celeste laughed. “No need. You are the most real of my day. In fact, it would be a great favor if I could please examine your injury.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?” Maji hopped up onto the exam table and pushed her left arm forward, supported by the right.

  Rotating the hand gently, Celeste noted that Maji’s pinkie was swelling, with a redness that would become a nasty bruise. She palpated, listening and watching for any sign of discomfort. None. This woman either had a high pain threshold or was trained to not betray an injury. Testing that theory, Celeste wiggled the finger. Not a twitch. “Does this not pain you?”

  “A little. Maybe some tape after the ice.”

  Celeste gave her a hard look, but Maji did not flinch at that either. “I see. And in what sport do you compete?”

  “I don’t do competition.” A smile, finally—somewhat sheepish. “Martial arts. And yes, we self-diagnose and self-treat. Bad habits.”

  For that smile, Celeste thought she might forgive a number of peccadillos. “And how did you sustain this mortal wound?”

  The smile vanished. “An annoying guy interrupted my winning streak. I should have let it go. But then when I tried to leave, he grabbed for me, and…I overreacted.”

  “Well, no one has a right to touch you if you don’t want them to,” Celeste insisted, then worried how that might sound. “What I mean is—”

  “No, you’re right, of course. And if he’d been a real threat…whatever.” Maji sighed and frowned. “But I need to do better. Plus, the casino could ban me.”

  A client more concerned with the impact of events on her future performance than with the injury itself: familiar ground. Celeste smiled at her. “I’ll tell you what. While you ice, I shall investigate. If you are in any danger of a reprimand, I will warn you so that you may prepare your defense.”

  “I don’t have a defense. I’m a black belt.”

  That reminded Celeste of Adrienne’s lawsuit. Her ex had tried to use Erlea’s martial arts background against her. “No need to worry. Santxo seems concerned for you, not about you.”

  “I hope you’re right. If the casino wants to ban me, it’s a done deal. But I meant it more…morally. Ethically?”

  “Like a code of behavior,” Celeste confirmed. “Admirable. Explain?”

  Maji looked relieved. “Thanks. But I�
��m more wiped out than I realized. Can we just say that I should know better?”

  “Really you don’t owe me an explanation at all,” Celeste reassured her. “Why don’t you rest now?” She left Maji reclining with the cold pack and stepped outside to speak with Santxo.

  “Well?” he said, his bushy mustache twitching with worry or excitement. Or both.

  “She’ll be fine with rest and ice,” Celeste reported. “A bruise, nothing more. No lawsuit…Tranquilo.” Chill out, she translated mentally to American slang.

  Santxo looked disappointed. “So it really isn’t Erlea? I thought maybe she would tell you.”

  Seriously? Well, the VIP treatment made sense now. “I am quite convinced she is just an average tourist. Besides, don’t you have your crew scheduled for Erlea’s arrival tomorrow?”

  He winced at her look. “She could have arrived here early…and incognito.”

  Celeste smiled at the dramatic notion. Santxo had confided that the media had been seen inside the complex already, sniffing about. He seemed to relish kicking them out. Perhaps this mystery woman was a reporter.

  “Wishful thinking, my friend. But aren’t you trained to observe? I admit there is a resemblance, but that is all.” Maji was nice looking, with a definite charm. But Erlea? Unforgettable. Despite how the evening had ended, Celeste held on to the way she’d felt when Erlea had turned her charm on her.

  Santxo’s eyes sparkled with intrigue below bushy brows that rose with excitement. “Indeed, I am trained. And you are the mistaken one. I have seen all the music videos and behind-the-scenes clips on the web. Erlea is not always so glamorous. Sometimes she looks quite like the woman in there.” He pointed to her office. “And she has kept a very low profile, not like most gamblers. If not for the tidy sum she has earned these past days, we would have taken no notice of her at all,” Santxo explained. “No trouble until today, when this Brit sits down and tries to talk with her at the blackjack table. She discourages him from interrupting her game, but he persists. Then he puts a hand on her arm, calling her Erlea like it is their little secret.”

  “You saw all this yourself?” Celeste wondered exactly what security was for then.

  “Well, I was just keeping an eye out for her. I would have helped if she needed it.”

  “And yet she was injured, no?”

  “Yes, and he’s very lucky. She handled him like a pro. Or a black belt, I should say.” He looked smug. “Did you know that?”

  Celeste mustered a blank look in response. “So I have heard. In Aikido, right?”

  Santxo’s exuberance deflated. “Correct. The man she handled so adroitly told me so, too. He is a bit obsessed with Erlea, I think. And you know who he is?”

  Celeste opened her mouth to cut this line of gossip short, but too late.

  “Dr. Lyttleton! You know, the famous one. He does all the nip and tuck on the celebrities. And now he is mortified, afraid she will ban him from the VIP reception.”

  Celeste smiled. “Santxo, my friend, what an opportunity to use your diplomatic skills. You know I cannot give you information about my patients. But you could comp this mystery woman a room. Then she would have to give her passport to the front desk, and you could assure the doctor that he has not offended the great and mighty Erlea.”

  “Genius. You are as brilliant as you are beautiful. How are we so blessed to have you?”

  Celeste only smiled and waved him away. If he knew the answer, he would not think so highly of her.

  Chapter Two

  Maji jolted awake when the door opened. “I should get going.”

  “Don’t forget your winnings,” Celeste said with a smile, handing her a stack of euros. She took Maji’s chilled hand and confirmed that all the joints moved freely with the swelling reduced. “Let me get that tape.”

  While Celeste lightly splinted and wrapped the pinkie with practiced ease, Maji asked, “So…I’m not in trouble?”

  “Definitely not. However, Santxo—Mr. Quintana—is quite curious about your identity. He thinks your attacker may be right, that you are Erlea traveling incognito.” Celeste’s wry smile showed what she thought of the idea.

  Maji laughed, looking down at her tan slacks and boat shoes. “I look like a pop diva? That’s a first.” Could be worse. “I haven’t seen her photos or videos. Do I look like her? You tell me.”

  Maji watched the Frenchwoman tuck her stylishly bobbed hair behind an ear, an odd mix of diffident and professional in her unbuttoned white coat over pressed slacks and an aqua blouse that went with the shifting blue-green of her eyes. Dressed for the indoor climate, not for the bright sun outside. And to impress whom? Perhaps she was always neatly put together, by habit and culture.

  “From a distance,” Celeste replied at last, “you do resemble her. But anyone who saw you both up close would not be confused.”

  “Have you seen us both up close?” Maji enjoyed Celeste’s blush in response. “You have. And she made quite an impression.”

  “It was a fleeting introduction. She would not remember me.” Celeste looked studiously nonchalant. “It was a dark and crowed club, and she was drunk, living up to the stories about her wild behavior.”

  Maji wondered about the story behind that story but didn’t prod. “Do you like her music? She must be very popular, to sell out arenas.”

  “Oh yes—her concerts are spectacles of a large scale. So much, she is bringing a show here to try onstage before taking it on tour. Wait, I will show you…” Celeste twirled her rolling chair back to the desktop computer. She woke the screen, closed a news article, and clicked on a paused video. In it, a woman in an outrageous outfit curled around a pole onstage while belting out a song. Quite athletic, and the tune was catchy.

  Maji laughed. “Seriously? I should have just sung something. That would have shut him up.”

  Celeste smiled and clicked on another video. “This is Erlea live, performing her most recent hit, ‘Salvaje.’”

  Maji squinted at the little image of the star dancing in sync with a bevy of muscled men, all of them in animal-print bodysuits. “Untamed, huh? Somebody could get hurt in a show like that and need care from a fan with an MD.” She raised a brow. “Good thing you’re doing your research.”

  Celeste blushed. “She will be staying here. I like to be prepared.” While Maji let the air-conditioned hum of the room call bullshit for her, Celeste straightened up her pristine coat self-consciously. “Anyway, Santxo wants to offer you a free room here to get a look at your passport. A pretext, you understand?”

  “I do. Nonetheless, I prefer to sleep on my boat. But I would show it to him for a dinner at Cuina Mallorquina. If you’ll agree to join me.”

  Celeste blushed again. Too much teasing for one day?

  “Sorry. That’s not fair. Never mind,” Maji backpedaled. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “I am not embarrassed. I am…on rougirait à l’idée. You know this expression?”

  “I think we’d say tickled. Tickled pink. You are, huh?” Maji felt herself grin.

  “My girlfriend always said that women did not hit on me because I looked too straight. As if I should wear a leather jacket and moto boots to express myself. No, to…proclaim myself.”

  Maji’s tiny bubble of hope burst. “I see. Does she?”

  “Not that I have seen. But I would not know. She is in Marseilles and I am here.”

  “Finished or just on holiday from each other?” Maji asked.

  “For me there is no going back. For her…”

  Maji reached out and touched Celeste’s arm lightly. “It’s complicated?”

  “Close enough.” The cloud over Celeste’s demeanor cleared. “But dinner is simple. I hear the restaurant is worth its exorbitant prices, and your company I know I will enjoy very much.”

  Maji exited the casino feeling almost giddy in the afternoon sun, winnings in her pocket and a dinner date in hand. But as the reality sank in, her joy ebbed like the outgoing tide and a familiar
feeling of dread flowed back in. What if Celeste wanted more than dinner? Like a whole night—or more. Maji did a quick calculation of the time difference between Majorca and New York. As if there’s ever a good time to call home and whine. But she had promised Ava she would reach out if she started to spiral down. And this definitely counted.

  * * *

  Maji closed the sailboat’s cabin hatchway, shutting out both light and cooling breeze. She pressed speed dial, then nearly hung up at the second ring. It was selfish to pester Ava when she needed all her energy to fight that stupid fucking recurrence. Anyone who won two rounds with cancer should be off the hook for the rest of their life.

  Neither of her godmothers needed more to worry about. You should be there, helping them for a change. On the fourth ring, she reached out to close her laptop.

  “Maji?” Hannah answered, looking concerned. And tired.

  “I’m sorry,” Maji began. “Bad time, huh? I can just—”

  “No, hang on,” Hannah said, turning away to speak quietly in Hebrew. She returned with a weary smile. “She wants to see you for herself. I’ll go make tea, and you will keep it brief.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ava’s face appeared, pale but calm. “The doctor is in. And so happy to see you, darling.”

  “Hey.” Had Ava lost more weight? Was that hair wrap a bad sign? Maji was afraid to ask. “How’s chemo?”

  “A lot like having the flu for a few days every other week. Not so bad, really.”

  “You know I know you’re lying, right?”

  Ava laughed. “Yes, but you’re supposed to humor me because I feel like shit and you feel sorry for me.” The humor in her eyes took some of the sting from that bitter truth. “Now, Hannah will be back soon to fuss. So spit it out.”