Free A Cut Above by Ginny Aiken

fantasy world.
    All of a sudden, the strain of the day hits me. I’m swamped with exhaustion, and the bed sings my name. I toe off my tan pumps, drop my jacket on one of the two nightstands, and set my cell phone’s alarm to blare in time for dinner.
    Soon, I’m asleep. “Stranger in Paradise” creeps into my dream . . .
    Mr. Magnificent sweeps the lovely young woman with the red hair up into his arms. Her froth of wedding gown train trails down, kisses the red brick tile floor like something out of an early Hollywood film.
    “Aren’t you supposed to carry me over the threshold and into the room, Mr. Magnificent?” the bride with the red hair asks as they whirl away. “You know, not out of the honeymoon suite.”
    Mr. Magnificent runs down a vintage staircase, his feet barely touching the treads, her gown fluttering behind them, her veil like a wind-tossed cloud. “Don’t fret your little old head with such thoughts, my lovely young damsel in redheaded distress,” he says. “I know what I’m doing. Me Tarzan, you Jane.”
    “But Mr. Magnificent, I am woman, hear me roar!”
    Mr. Magnificent smiles, his footsteps echoing in the hacienda’s wide halls. “I know best . . . I know best . . . I know best . . .”
    Then, sinister Pedro twists the end of his new mustache, greets them with an evil smile, and opens his yellow cab’s door. Mr. Magnificent crumples the lovely young woman and her fluffy gown into the modest confines of the backseat. The car door slams shut and Pedro speeds away.
    On two wheels, the cab spins circles ’round the fountain in the hotel courtyard, drowning out the last strains of “Stranger in Paradise . ” The lovely young lady with the red hair feels sick, queasy, ready to barf into the air-sickness bag in the rear pocket of the seat in front. Pedro laughs, a madman’s peal, then cries out in glee. “Whee-eee-whee-eee-whee-eee—”
    I bolt upright, gasping, disoriented.
    “Where am I . . . ?” I look around, trying to catch my breath. Then the details of my Mad Hatter day slam back into my thoughts. That’s when the piercing squeal gets through to me. I reach over to the nightstand and turn off my cell phone alarm.
    A quick shower and a clean cream skirt and top later, I head for the hotel’s rooftop restaurant. I’m led to a small, yellow-linen-covered table, and the maître d’ pulls out one of the two wrought iron chairs for me. He shakes out my napkin, then hands me a tall menu and murmurs something about his hopes for my enjoyment of my meal.
    With the open menu before me, I reach back a bunch of years to my vacationing high school Spanish in hope of deciphering the hotel kitchen’s offerings. I get nowhere.
    “Is that you, Andie? What a surprise!”
    I turn at the sound of the familiar voice, and blink at the sight of Gladys Bergen in a gorgeous sage green silk summer dress. “Are you staying here?”
    “Nowhere better to stay when visiting Bogotá.” She gives the restaurant an appreciative and approving gaze. “Ever since Howard and I discovered this treasure ten years ago on his first business trip to Colombia, we’ve returned time and time again. We’ve never regretted it.”
    “That’s good to know. Especially since I’m at the mercy of my business contact here. He made all the arrangements.” Gladys frowns. “Is that wise, dear? The hotel choice is impeccable, but can you trust him with your safety?”
    And there you have it. That’s the monster dancing in the ballroom of my head ever since Mr. Cruz insisted on treating me, as he put it, to a worry-free time in his native land.
    I didn’t like the lack of control back when I first heard of it; I hate it even more now. How am I supposed to get myself out of any potential jam, since I know nothing about anything Colombian?
    But I can’t share these fears with a virtual stranger—are we seeing a trend? I’m not feeling the love here. So much for telling Max I wouldn’t be surrounded by strangers like