THE PANAMA CLUB: Pas de trois // Chapter 1

Cocktails were served at six o’clock on the garden terrace behind the Palacio de las Garzas, Panama’s presidential palace. A black-tie fundraiser this evening, a dinner for Faith Heart’s Foundation—a network of Panamanian foster parents needing funds beyond what the government provided and what the foster homes could raise for themselves.

Dominica met London on the terrace steps, bringing London’s second Chombolin, a mix of seco herrerano, habenero, hibiscus, lime, and grapefruit. Dominica brought an American man in tow.

“Have you met Austin? He’s a client of mine.”

London shook hands with the man who then fidgeted with his bow tie, looking around while still maintaining politeness. Giving away why he’d pressured Dominica to meet London.

London got to the point for the American’s sake: “Alvaro’s around here somewhere. You can’t miss him.”

Dominica sipped her cocktail, saying, “London is opening a ballet school in Panama City.”

The man made an appreciative good-for-you sound in his throat. “Where will it be?”

London said, “Here in Casco Viejo.”

“It’s such a beautiful city, especially the old quarter,” the man said. “I wish I could stay longer than a few weeks.”

Dominica hooked an arm under London’s. “I only get London and Alvaro for the winter months.” She made a sad face.

The American man said to London, “I guess you have to live in Atlanta during the season.”

Something caught Dominica’s eye, and both the man and London turned to see what it was. Coming onto the terrace from the palace’s archway were a man and woman. The woman tall and elegant, poised and dignified; she wore her hair back in a glossy bun. The dress she wore showed colorful flowers over a sleek black satin background, the shining fabric extending to her ankles with a slit that went only to her knee.

The American man said, “If you want to get anything done in the old quarter, that’s the woman you need to talk to.”

“Gabriella Aguilar,” Dominica said.

“The Minister of Culture,” London said.

Dominica said, “But who’s that man with her?”

The American said he didn’t know.

The man with the Minister of Culture was half the woman’s age, in his late twenties, a towering hunk with long blond hair combed back from his grim and serious face. He had a low, even brow, straight and prominent nose, and a sharp jawline. He filled out his tuxedo in a way no other man did at the function tonight, except her fiancé Alvaro.

Who, speak of the devil, now appeared, walking up from the lower gardens with the U.S. ambassador and his wife. The American man’s posture straightened and he smiled seeing the bad boy of baseball in his tuxedo with the powder blue jacket.

Dominica said to the American now, wouldn’t he like to meet Alvaro, and the man made like that would be all right, but London could tell the man was excited. Whoever Austin the American was, he was trusted enough that Dominica wanted to impress him. She was a corporate lawyer here in Panama City, and Alvaro’s sister via the foster family he’d grown up with outside Miami.

While London was demoted to third-most-important person in the conversation as they crossed toward Alvaro, weaving between the other guests invited to dine tonight in the grand Salón de los Tamarindos, London’s eyes went back to the unnerving man standing with the Minister of Culture. She knew Gabriella Aguilar was a widow and hadn’t been seen with any other men since her husband passed, so London wondered why tonight Gabriella would show up with a man so young and so good-looking. And the guy was surly. He’d scan the room like he was looking to get in a fight with anyone who looked back at him the wrong way, and when Ms. Aguilar would meet with the other guests, he’d surmise them with unhidden contempt. He looked like a top-shelf asshole, and given the guy’s gorgeous face and towering height and how good he looked in a tuxedo, London couldn’t help wondering if the man was a gigolo. If true, it would certainly give London an upper hand when dealing with the Minister of Culture. She was glad she’d attended tonight’s fundraiser.

Alvaro slipped his arm around London’s waist and held her at his side as they joined him and the ambassador. Alvaro introduced London to the ambassador, who said, “Alvaro can’t stop raving over the amazing work you’re doing here in Casco Viejo.”

“I love the ballet,” the ambassador’s wife said. “For how long were you a ballerina?—you look like a natural soubrette.”

“Thank you,” London said. “After high school, it was three years at Joburg Ballet, then after that I was the lead in La Traviata for three years. That was also in Johannesburg. Then I came to America.”

“Principle in La Traviata? Then you were Camellia?”

“The courtesan,” London said, dipping in a fifth position demi-plié, the best she could manage in her Fendi Colibrìs.

The ambassador’s wife marveled. Dominica stepped in to introduce her American friend to them and to Alvaro. She said, “Alvaro’s my brother, and also the reason we have such a great turn out tonight for Faith Hearts.” Dominica wasn’t a part of Faith Hearts, but it was her pet cause. Alvaro had given her family a heaping dose of bad-boy trouble growing up as their foster son, but they’d always stood by him, and their faith was the reason Alvaro was the success he was now rather than dead in the streets with one of the gangs he used to run with.

The American shook Alvaro’s hand, all smiles, saying, “Man, I hate to gush, I’m sure you hear it all the time, but I have a box at Fenway, and I was there when you hit the grand slam against Maxwell, and I just gotta say, it was really the sports highlight of my life, and I get to about twenty games a year.”

Alvaro said, “I think it mighta been one of my highlights too, and you know what, I might hear it all the time, but”—he winked to the ambassador and his wife—“I never get tired of it. You gush all you want.”

Alvaro charmed the American and the ambassador and his wife, all for the sake of his beloved sister, Dominica. A woman Alvaro cherished. Almost too much—one time he’d beat one of Dominica’s high school boyfriends so badly the boy was in a coma for three days.

The ambassador, a tall and distinguished man in his sixties who looked like a career politician, said, “My wife and I were wondering if you’d set a date for the wedding, and if you had, was the date here in Panama City.” He sipped his Scotch, ice cubes tinkling, a smirk on his mouth. His wife’s eyes twinkled.

“We’ve set a date,” London said, snuggling against Alvaro, glancing aside at his handsome profile. Tonight he’d worn diamond earrings, the sides of his head shaved, his thick black hair shining like liquid and swooped back from his face in heavy waves. His neck tattoo showed above the white linen butterfly collar.

“Fourteen months away,” London said, “next fall. And, yes, here in Panama City, right in Casco Viejo, at the American Trade.”

Dominica gushed, “Show them the ring, London.”

“Oh, come on, Dominica,” London said, embarrassed.

Alvaro urged her as well, and she looked up and into his big brown eyes, so filled with love, but also deep in there so much rage and hurt. She couldn’t stop herself from kissing him, using her wedding ring hand to caress his cheek while she did.

Dominica peeled London’s hand off her brother’s face to show the ambassador and his wife the engagement ring her brother had proudly presented London at Christmas.

London held out her hand to show off the diamond, a flawless 25-carat emerald cut. Both the ambassador and his wife were impressed, the wife hugging to her husband, emotions riding high from witnessing young, perfect love.

A dinner bell summoned them, a man in a white suit coat and black trousers coming out to the terrace to let all the attendees know dinner was ready to be served. Alvaro took London’s hand and they walked together through the palace’s back entrance, heading to the Tamarind Room. Alvaro leaned close and whispered, “My sister and her American businessmen friends, Ai-yi-yi-yi-yi.”

They both laughed and London cupped his cheek and kissed him again.

Behind them stood Gabriella Aguilar, stoic and unimpressed by London’s future husband’s enormous American success and the prestige he might bring to her country. Her tall, striking and stolid companion met London’s eyes and something strange flashed there. Truly something indecipherable, pottering between wanting to kill her and wanting to fuck her.

London showed him the blankest, most unimpressed face she could. No gigolo would impress her. Her eyes roamed his face, down to his shoes and back up and showed him there was nothing about him that interested her.

Servants ushered them into the Tamarind Room, with its high palatial ceilings and chandeliers and polished wood table and chairs and the fresco paintings on the walls and ceiling. They sat Alvaro and London together with Dominica and Austin the American, but Gabriella Aguilar and her hunky partner were all the way down at the other end of the long table.

The whole reason London came tonight was to meet the Minister of Culture, and so far nothing was working out.

* * *

London stood in silhouette against the blue night, a lithe black figure in front of the living room window, a strip of beach and the Panama Bay spread out beyond her.

Alvaro’s future wife was an exquisite thing far beyond what a thug with a heavy chip on his shoulder could ever hope to make his own. Beautiful women in his bed were one thing. London was an international beauty of extraordinary talent. Born and raised in South Africa, with a Dutch father and her mother Gujarati Indian, London spoke English, Gujarati, Afrikaans, Dutch, German, and Spanish. She was a ballet dancer and knew all the operas. He was a jock. The best he could be was a jock. A meathead. Baseball saved him from the streets. London saved him from himself.

After dinner tonight for his sister’s fundraiser, the car service had taken them from Casco Viejo to the outer limits of Panama City, to their private beach house on Panama Bay. He put his arms around her while she watched the waves. They swayed together and he breathed in her beautiful scent, a combination of musk, lemon, sage, and frangipani. A scent they’d custom crafted together in Paris for her twenty-seventh birthday.

He kissed London’s thin neck, her skin hot and receptive. Her hand went over his and now he nibbled gently on the skin at her collar. The way she moved with his body always drove him wild. It was what made her London. The longness of limb, the grace, the elegance. No one moved so fluidly, so effortlessly, and sometimes he found himself enjoying just watching her move. Whether it was dancing or dressing in the morning, she could turn human motion into art.

She whispered, “I can’t believe we didn’t get a chance to talk to her.”

“The culture minister?”

“When your sister invited us, I was positive she’d make sure we sat next to Aguilar.”

“The woman saw us there.”

London turned so she could meet his eyes in the dim. “I’m not sure the Minister appreciates your influence.”

“She’s the Panamanian culture minister, what would she think of some American baseball player?”

“You’re not some baseball player. You’re Alvaro Ortega.”

“Am I?” he said, pressing his crotch against her bottom. “And who the hell is Alvaro Ortega?”

She chuckled and turned in his grasp. “You’ve never heard of him?”

“Sounds like you might have a thing for this man,” he whispered, kissing her throat.

“He’s pretty hot,” she said. “Bad Boy of Baseball. At least according to Sports Illustrated.”

“How about you—you don’t think so?” He pinched the shoulder strap of her Versace gown and edged it toward the slope of her shoulder.

“He’s too good to be a bad boy,” she whispered and cuddled against his chest.

“I know a few who’d argue,” Alvaro said, now guiding the other strap to fall.

“They don’t know you like I know you,” London said.

“I sure hope not.”

Now he took her hand and led it between his legs, resting her palm over the hump of his arousal under the tuxedo pants. London caressed it, stroking her palm in north-south lines, then using her thumb and finger to find the swollen knob of his cock head, squeezing and kneading.