Men at Work: Through the Roof / Taking His Measure / Watching It Go Up

“When did Ben leave? Any idea where he’s gone?”

“H-he left when I went for my Tuesday massage. I came back totally relaxed—this guy Manuel is amazing—and I found the note, propped up against Gnarly’s food canister.”

“Did you say Gnarly?”

Marina nodded and tears started falling in fat droplets onto her quite-salty-enough nose. “Gnarly is the cat from his landscaping business. He showed up out of the blue one day and his fur, poor thing, was so snarled and matted and filthy that we called him Gnarly. I went to a vet for the equivalent of kitty Valium, got him nice and dopey and gave him a bubble bath. Then I spent three hours on him with a comb and a pair of scissors—some parts of his coat were beyond help. He’s the most beautiful cat now. But we still call him Gnarly.”

No doubt about it, Gina was hiding a smile. It was a nice one, not mocking. Still, Marina was suddenly conscious that she’d been babbling, focusing on an issue that didn’t make her cry. She felt…fluffy…next to Gina Keys. Had Ben left because she was fluffy? Because he didn’t take her seriously?

She’d never been more serious about a man than she was about Ben. She’d brave stretch marks and labor and the ruination of her breasts to have his children….

“So the note was next to his food. What did it say, exactly?”

Marina cleared her throat. “Well, it’s kind of personal and embarrassing.”

“I’m sure this is hard for you, Ms. Reston. But I really need to gather all the pertinent information in order to help you.”

Marina nodded and squelched the full-fledged bawl that threatened to get past her tonsils. “Okay. He said…it said…that I am still his amor, his corazón, his vida, but because he lost everything he can no longer give me any kind of a future—” Her voice cracked again.

“And so I have to forget him. I’m not to offer him my money because he won’t take it, won’t be an aprovechado. I think that means ‘kept man’ or something. And because he knows I’m not listening to him properly—ha!—he will put it in very blunt, vulgar terms—he can no longer afford me.” She said the last words bitterly.

Just thinking about it made her furious. Marina jumped out of her chair. “Cannot afford me! Like I’m some kind of greedy call girl!”

Gina Keys blinked at her.

“I don’t ask him to pay my bills,” Marina ranted, cut to the core. “He doesn’t need to. But it’s not my fault that my father died and left me a lot of money!”

“No,” Gina agreed politely, “I’m sure it’s not.”

“I run charities! I give back to the community! I’m not a wart on society’s butt.”

Gina choked on a sip of coffee from a foam cup on her desk.

“This is all about stupid, stiff-necked, macho, moronic male pride. And he’s ruining our lives.” Marina dropped her face into her hands and the bawl rolled right through the teeth she’d just paid almost a thousand dollars to have whitened.

She couldn’t control her grief. “I love him,” she said with a hiccup. “I can’t live without him. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. I feel as if I’m going to explode—go through the roof.” Something nudged her arm and she raised her head to find it was Gina’s tissue box again.

“I’m sorry,” said the P.I., looking uncomfortable. “I promise I’ll find him.” She paused. “Look, I hate to say this, but you should be prepared—he may have gone to ground with a former girlfriend or even a new one.”

Marina shook her head. “Ben isn’t like that.”

“Mmm,” Gina said, in noncommittal tones. She sat down again, and Marina picked up her purse from the floor. She sat down again, too.

“Sorry. I’ll get hold of myself.”

“Take your time. Does Ben have a second home somewhere?”

“No.”

“Would he have gone to family?”

Marina shook her head. “He hates his stepfather, so he wouldn’t have gone to his mother in Venezuela. His older brother is in the navy and his half siblings are younger, still in school.”

“How about his father?”

“I already called him. Ben’s not there.”

“He could be covering for him.”

Marina nodded slowly.

“What kind of car does Ben drive, and do you have a license-plate number?”

Marina gave her the information, along with his date of birth.

“Where does Ben like to hang out in his spare time? What are his hobbies? Does he go to an athletic club or a sports bar or to the beach or to a shooting range…”

“Ben doesn’t—didn’t—have a lot of time for hobbies. He does lift weights and he likes to run on the beach, but to relax he plans and builds projects. Works with his hands. He enjoys that type of thing.”

“What kinds of projects?”

Marina firmly squelched another rising sob. “He did beautiful cabinetry on two walls of my garage. He put in a koi pond in my backyard, with a Japanese footbridge and a teak gazebo. And we were getting ready to build a house together. He was always sketching ideas for that.”

She gave Gina every scrap of information that she thought might be helpful. “You’ll find him for me?”

Gina nodded. She exuded competence; she obviously didn’t miss much.

Compared to her, Marina didn’t just feel fluffy—she felt silly, sitting here in her expensive designer duds with her threehundred-dollar highlights, asking another woman to find her fiancé.

Usually she felt chic. But right now she felt idiotic and incompetent and miserable and unloved.

The P.I. said, “I will locate Ben Delgado.”

“Thank you.” Marina’s chin came up and once again she eschewed tears for anger. “Once I make sure he’s alive and uninjured, I’m going to kill him. And then I’ll wake him up and give him a piece of my mind. After that, I’ll kill him again, just so he really understands. And, finally, I’m going to marry the son of a bitch.”

Gina set her elbows on her desk and steepled her fingers, a corner of her mouth quirking up. “All righty then. Will that be cash, check or charge?”

2

BEN DELGADO felt like the worst kind of shit-heel. He’d left his fiancée cold, but it was for her own good. A woman in the top echelons of Miami society couldn’t marry a loser without a cent to his name.

Besides, when a man lost his money and his livelihood, it was simply a question of time before his wife hit the road. That must be the reason those bad country songs were so popular. The ones yodeling about losing your woman, your pickup and your dog all in one night. They were true.

Witness to what his own mother had done, his dad had made a few lousy investments, had three consecutive deals fall through and, next thing he knew, his wife had taken off for Venezuela with his two boys. She’d lost no time divorcing him and marrying a better provider—some guy she’d met on a plane, for God’s sake.

Ben grimaced and picked up his cordless phone. So maybe he was a little cynical, but he had reason to be. Best not to get married at all, not have his heart ripped out and his children stolen. He could see it now: his kids brought up by a golfplaying cretin in plaid shorts with an alligator on his chest. No way.

Logic intruded as he dialed builder Mathew Tremaine’s business line and asked to speak to him. Tremaine was the man he and Marina had picked to build their dream house.