Rushed(75)

“Oh really? Such as?" Luisa asked, giving me a raised eyebrow.

"Well, I’m sure it’s not exactly what he meant, but I’m a bit of a Judo fanatic. Brown belt, currently. I should have had my black except that I got started late. I spent my high school days mostly wrestling, so I missed a couple of years. Did a couple of tournaments in college. I did okay, won a few."

Luisa chuckled and took a bite of her main dish, which Chef had brought out while I was talking. "A nice little pastime. I should mention that to my Professor when I get back to Porto Alegre."

"You study martial arts too?" Margaret asked. "Which one?"

“I’m a two-stripe brown belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu," Luisa said. "I haven't kept up enough to be a black belt any time soon, but it’s fun. Besides, my dancing is less painful on the body. But I'd be confident against any regular judo black belt."

I bristled and cut at my eggplant with my knife with a bit more force than necessary. “Maybe that could be arranged."

"Only if you’re willing to submit to a woman," Luisa shot back before setting her fork down. She wiped her mouth and looked down at her plate. "Don Bertoli, my apologies. I came to foster friendship between our families, not to pick a fight with your son."

Dad looked at me and laughed. “No offense taken, Miss Mendosa. Sometimes, we all need to learn lessons, either through making mistakes or through having someone remind us that our egos can’t become larger than our accomplishments. Isn't that true, Tomasso?"

I swallowed my frustration and nodded.

Dinner continued, with Aunt Margaret giving me amused looks from time to time as Luisa and I continued to verbally tip-toe around each other, trying to not piss each other off and usually failing miserably. Still, there was something irresistible about her. All through our panna cotta dessert, all I could think of was how I could get the Brazilian beauty in the sack.

After dinner, as Luisa was getting ready to leave and Dad was sipping his espresso, I took my opportunity. Going to the entryway, I hurried the few steps to stop her from opening the door. "Luisa?"

She looked at me, and I could see in her eyes that I'd pissed her off, which made her all the sexier to me. "Yes, Tomasso?"

I took a deep breath and set aside my arrogance for a moment, an act of pure will. I’d cultivated it for years, both as a tool and as a shield. "Listen, I’m sorry about tonight. Tomorrow, you have that trade show, right?"

"Yes, at the convention center. Why?" She asked, clutching her purse tightly. I could see in her eyes that she wanted to hit me with it, probably right across the face.

"Let me take you to coffee, say in the afternoon? The show's gotta have a break built in there somewhere, and it's just a cup of coffee. I . . . I'd like to show you that I'm not always such an *."

Luisa chuckled and nodded at my admission. "For the sake of our fathers and families, I accept. Here’s my phone number. Call me tomorrow afternoon. My break right now is about two in the afternoon until three. Maybe then, we can try and make a better start than this. Have a good evening, and good luck with your work tonight."

"Thank you," I said, a pleasant buzz going through me as she took out a card from her purse and wrote her number on the back. "And like I said, I'm not always an *. You'll see."

"Goodnight."





Chapter 4





Luisa





The next day was the sort of day that I had least looked forward to about Seattle—the sort of dreary, overcast day where the sky looked like it constantly wanted to rain but didn't. In Brazil, it’s different. When the clouds boil over dark and heavy, you know to get yourself indoors. When they were done raining, the clouds knew enough to go away, and the sky was beautiful.

Seattle clouds, on the other hand, seem to enjoy just mingling with each other, turning the entire sky into a sort of slate gray that sucks the life and pleasure out of the entire day. Everything gets washed out into a monotone yech that can only be abated by sleep. No wonder the city was full of hipsters who have to constantly drink coffee to stay awake.

The convention center was a lot of the same, with most of the men wearing dull, drab suits that looked like they were all made in the same factory and handed out to American businessmen along with one of three options in ties. Still, as things started, I quickly got into the zone and started to enjoy my work.

The key to my task at the Seattle convention was not to set up a booth. My family didn’t have the presence nor the available manpower to send such an entourage. Instead, my father trusted me to do what I did best, which was use all of my six-foot-two inches (in heels) and thirty-eight inches each of chest and hip to get the attention of the people at the convention, and then use my brains to complete the work and make the connections. We weren't planning on making any immediate sales, but instead to make the sort of introductions and inroads that could lead to future sales. That didn't mean I didn't have sales forms with me, but they were kept in my small folder case.

My immediate target, of course, were the churrascaria chains, the Brazilian barbecue places that could use the fact that my family offered authentic Brazilian beef for export as a selling point to their customers. So my immediate target list of people to talk to included Fogo de Chao, Rum Jungle, and Texas de Brazil. But, if the opportunity arose, I'd be happy to talk to any of the chains or even the few supermarkets that were at the convention.