by Romy Sommer
entrance, seated on an uncomfortable-looking antique bench just inside the door. She’s still dressed as she was at breakfast, in jeans that fit her like a glove, and a cropped tank top that leaves her midriff bare. I’ve seen plenty of bare female flesh in my life, but somehow that tantalising glimpse of tanned skin gets my pulse racing with a thrill I haven’t felt in a long while. It’s good to feel alive again.
She’s holding a book open in her lap, but paying no attention to it as she chats to the
footman stationed at the door. As I cross the vestibule to join her, she turns her head and frowns.
Not the usual reaction I get from women when they see me, which is frustrating and challenging in equal measure.
“Please get someone to bring my car round from the garage.” I hold out my car keys to the
footman.
Khara hops off the bench. “There’s no need for that. We can walk.” She waves her
Frommer’s guide at me. “The guide book says all the major attractions are within a few miles’
radius of the palace.”
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“Exactly, we could be walking a few miles.” Most women I know, with the possible
exception of my sister, who is exceptional in everything she does, object to walking any distance further than the block between Harrods and Harvey Nichols.
But then Khara’s scuffed sneakers are more suited to walking than the high heels most
women I know wear. Not that she needs heels. Even in flat shoes she only has to tilt her head a little to look up at me.
“Okay, let’s go then,” I say, offering her my arm. She looks at it as if it’s poisoned, so I
shrug and let her precede me through the door.
It turns out that, unlike Khara’s sneakers, my leather brogues aren’t made for walking. By
the time we’ve toured Neustadt’s historic town centre, visiting the Baroque cathedral, the City Hall, the opera house, and the national museum, my feet are killing me, and it’s taking all my effort not to let her see me wince. While acting like a wimp is most certainly not part of my seduction plan, the need to pretend I’m fine is seriously hampering my ability to flirt. Or maybe I’m just rusty. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had to work this hard to get a woman’s attention. Usually a grin and a flutter of eyelashes does it. Or a flash of my credit card.
As we traipse through one historical building after another, I initiate Stage One in my
seduction repertoire: laying the ground work. This first stage is getting the woman to feel
comfortable enough to relax and be open to more. Standing close, but not too close that she’ll feel threatened, opening doors for her, paying her an honest compliment, appearing interested in
everything she says, making eye contact.
Those last two are harder than usual. Khara barely says a word, and seems to find her
Frommer’s guide way more fascinating than me. She doesn’t stop moving, as if she’s determined to work her way through the entire guide book in one morning - which might actually be possible,
since it’s the shortest guide book ever printed. Westerwald is not a very big nation, and its capital, Neustadt, would fit into Greater London five times over. Though Westerwald is still triple the size
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of Erdély - I checked on Google. I doubt that Frommer’s have ever bothered to print a guide book for Erdély.
Khara shows genuine interest in everything she sees, and it’s almost as if she’s trying to
absorb everything, store it up in her memory, with a single-minded focus that excludes everything else - including me. But I can’t help wondering if there’s something more to her Khara’s over-enthusiastic sight-seeing - could it be an attempt to avoid me?
Which must mean I’m already having an effect on her. So maybe it’s time to step up to
Stage Two: touch. A light hand on the bare skin of her lower back, a brush of an arm, moving in a little closer to whisper in her ear.
But every time I step closer, she steps away. Every time I touch her, she shrugs me off.
The last time a woman shut me down like this even though she was clearly attracted… I
screw up my face trying to recapture that memory, but that evening was a bit of a blur, and over-shadowed by me taking a fist in the face for Nick in a brawl over a bad poker hand. Didn’t Max tell me that Phoenix and Khara met in Vegas? Maybe it’s just Vegas women who are my Achilles heel.
I’m a heartbeat away from giving up, deciding that maybe she doesn’t want my advances
and I’m just being a dick, but then I catch her swift intake of breath as I brush against her. Sure, it could be a sign of discomfort, but then I spot her blush as she turns away. A woman doesn’t blush if she wants nothing to do with you.
I can work with that. I can turn ‘interested but won’t admit it’ into ‘I want you right now,
any way I can get you.’
Though maybe not right now. “When I offered to play tour guide, I envisioned a champagne
cruise along the river where we could see the sights without actually having to visit any of them,” I groan as we step out of the dark interior of the smaller Church of St Boniface into blinding sunlight.
I’m also not sure who the tour guide is here. Turns out Frommer’s has an extensive section on the church’s eighteenth century frescoes while I didn’t even know this church existed.
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Khara smiles, perhaps for the first time all morning, but it looks too saccharine sweet to be
real. “Feel free to go back to the palace. It looks like I’ll be able to manage this town on my own. It seems everyone here speaks English after all.”
“I know all the best bars in this city, and most of the nightclubs,” I offer, injecting as much humour into my smile as my aching feet will allow.
She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t travel half way around the world to see the inside of yet another bar. Aren’t you even the slightest bit interested in history or art?”
Would she be more interested if I told her my ancestors used to make history, and were
patrons to some of Europe’s most famous artists and composers? I’m not really willing to find out, because I suspect I might know the answer, and my ego has already been bruised enough by her
lack of interest. “I promised Phoenix I’d show you around the city, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
Even if it kills me, which, if my feet are anything to go by, might just be possible.
“And you always keep your promises?” Khara scoffs, a look in her eyes that seems to pierce
right into me.
Her words are a lance, striking me in the open wound that Nick’s death re-opened. I
promised my mother I’d consider her brother’s offer, and instead I’m doing everything I can to avoid thinking about it. I promised Nick I would keep him out of trouble. I promised my best friend Charlie that I’d always be there for him. I failed them all.
I lift my chin. “I need a drink,” I say, though my jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised I
manage to get the words out. “The Landmark Café has got to be in that damned guide book.”
She looks at me as if I’m a bug she wants to squish, then re-opens the guide book. “Yes,
here it is. It’s part of the Beaux-Arts Guildhall, which houses the tapestry museum.”
I draw the line at tapestries. “Great, you can look at tapestries, and I’ll drink.” It’s close enough to midday for drinking to be acceptable.
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I’ve barely had a few sips of one of the Landmark Café’s electric blue signature cocktails
when Khara re-joins me, looking disgruntled. “The tapestry museum’s closed,” she announces,
sliding into the seat across from me.
“Thank god for that.” I reach across the table and
tug the guide book out of her hand.
“Because now we’re going to see this city my way.”
“As long as there are no bars,” she warns.
“Sweetheart, we’re sitting in Neustadt’s most famous bar right now.”
She glares at me, clearly not liking that epithet, then looks around as if seeing the place for the first time. “There’s so much light!”
The Landmark Café is housed in a glass box overhanging the river that bisects the city. At
night, this place buzzes with loud music, neon light, and Neustadt’s young and trendy, but it’s not one of those bars that looks seedy in daylight, and there is rather a lot of daylight in here. Sunlight reflects off the silver surface of the river, throwing dancing patterns against the glass ceiling. I lean forward, dropping my voice seductively. “The Guildhall was built in the eighteenth century, over the foundations of an earlier, older Guildhall. This conservatory is said to have been a precursor to London’s Crystal Palace.” I straighten up. “Is that what you want to hear?”
She licks her lips, and for a second her expression of indifference cracks, proving she’s not
as unaffected as she appears, and that I was - sadly - right that the way to this woman’s heart is through ancient history. I grin, and just like that her disinterested expression is back.
“Since this bar is also famous for its lunch menu, we’ll grab a bite here before we carry on
our tour.” I wave for the waiter. And that’ll give my feet a chance to recover before we make the long walk to the bridal boutique for her dress fitting.
The waiter brings our menus, which are printed in French, German and the local
Westerwald dialect. Khara studies the menu, and I can almost feel her anxiety mounting across the table.
“Shall I order?” I ask.
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She nods, and hands back the menu to the waiter, giving him an unconsciously flirty smile,
the kind I’ve been trying to get out of her all morning. I barely glance at my own menu before I place the order. In perfect French. Okay, I’m showing off a little. But a man’s got to use every weapon in his arsenal.
I still don’t earn a smile.
“So tell me how you met Phoenix,” I prompt as soon as the waiter heads to the kitchen.
Khara shrugs, looking out the tall glass windows towards the river. “We worked together for
a while when she lived in Vegas.”
Phoenix worked in a casino bar, as I recall. Which makes Khara a barmaid too. No wonder
bars don’t feature high on her list of must-see places. If anyone told me I had to spend my holiday visiting corporate offices, I’d probably also not be very impressed.
“And you? How do you know Max?” She looks at me then, her gaze meeting mine, and I
think it must be the first time she’s looked directly at me because I notice now that her eyes are a really dark blue, almost indigo, and it’s as if I’ve had a hit of a particularly powerful drug, the sudden, unexpected whammy of attraction sending a rush to both my brain and my groin.
She’s not a classic beauty, but her face has character, with perfectly shaped eyebrows and a
sultry cupid’s bow mouth. Her make-up is on the too-heavy side, the smoky eyeliner making her
almond-shaped eyes look even bigger. Her blue-tinged hair is frizzy, making her look like a
mermaid - wild and exotic. I find myself leaning forward, like an eager schoolboy.
Since it’s never a good idea to let a woman know you’re too interested, I force myself to
sprawl back, crossing my arms over my chest.
And speaking of chests… My gaze flits down hers. Her arms are also crossed over her chest,
pushing up her breasts to give me an excellent view of her cleavage, since her tank top leaves very little to the imagination. It’s so skimpy, her bra straps are visible.
Her eyes narrow when my gaze lingers too long, and she rapidly uncrosses her arms. Not
that it makes much difference. I’m still picturing those breasts cupped in my hands.
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She asked me something, didn’t she? I focus back on the conversation, and clear my throat,
more than a little pissed at myself. Since when do I get enthralled by a woman’s eyes - or chest - for heaven’s sake?
“I was at university with Rik, Max’s brother, and we all played together on the same polo
team for a few years, before Max moved to the States.” I answer, finally piecing together her
question.
“Polo’s the one in the water, isn’t it?”
I grin. “No, it’s the one with the horses.”
Her eyes are wide again. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
I shrug. “Not if you know what you’re doing.”
She shudders.
“You don’t like horses?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never seen one in real life.”
I have to close my mouth. There isn’t a single person in my circle who hasn’t grown up
around horses. Everyone I know owns either racehorses, thoroughbreds for everyday riding, or polo ponies - and sometimes all three. I received my first Arabian on my fifth birthday.
“Well, you’ll have a chance to meet your first real horses this weekend. Max has agreed to
take part in a charity polo tournament with my team.” In Nick’s place, since we haven’t yet found a permanent replacement with a similar handicap.
The waiter returns with our wine. He pours a little of the chilled chablis into my wine glass.
I breathe in the bouquet, swirl the wine in the glass, then take a small sip. Crisp, just a little tart, perfect. I nod, and the waiter fills both our glasses. Then he clears away the cutlery we won’t need, and Khara’s shoulders lose a little of their tension. I file that interesting tidbit away.
“Have you lived in Las Vegas all your life?”
Khara nods, but doesn’t say anything more. Sheesh, but this conversation is going nowhere
fast. Has she never learned the art of making small talk?
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“Tell me about it,” I prompt.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
I’m pretty good at reading people. That’s why picking up women has always been so easy
for me, and why I’m so good at charming clients. So I know that this woman is being deliberately cagey. Now I’m not just interested; I’m intrigued. What deep, dark secrets is she hiding?
“Okay, then, tell me something about Phoenix that I don’t already know,” I say, my tone
teasing again, changing the subject to easy common ground.
Instead, she clamps her lips together, and shakes her head. My eyes widen. Wow, whatever
she has on Westerwald’s soon-to-be Archduchess, it must be a whammer. I wonder if Max
knows…?
But before I can press her, the waiter arrives with our meal. Khara eyes the plates with
suspicion. “What is this?”
“Veal Entrecôte, and creamy polenta with truffles and parmesan.”
“And again in English?”
I chuckle, and earn another glare. “I guess you could call it rib-eye steak from a calf, and
oatmeal with mushrooms and cheese.”
“Then why not just call it that?” She takes a tentative bite of the veal.
“Because it sounds better in French. Everything sounds better in French.”
She shrugs. “Just sounds pretentious.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, and I can tell she’s enjoying the meal, despite her initial misgivings. She digs into her food as if she were starving. All or nothing. Does she do everything with that same single-minded focus? My mind strays as I imagine her in bed. Naked. All or nothing.
That wild hair spread out across my pillow, its wildness matched in her eyes.
I gri
n at the vision. It would certainly be a refreshing change from most of the women I’ve
dated. Though maybe calling them dates is an exaggeration. Let’s be honest: I don’t date them; I
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sleep with them. But I’ll also be the first to admit that’s growing old. I’ve been looking for a fresh challenge lately, and here she is, sitting right in front of me.
As we eat, Khara props the guide book in front of her on the table, and starts to read,
effectively walling me out. This time I manage to keep my mouth closed, but I’ll admit that I’m stunned. Batting a maiden over, as we say in cricket, is rare enough for me, but this is a definite first. I cannot think of a single moment in my life where any woman found a book more appealing than my company. Most women I wine and dine even put away their mobile phones in my presence.
Still, her supposed absorption in the book gives me a chance to study her. There’s something
raw about Khara. It’s not so much that she lacks polish, but rather a vitality, an untamed quality simmering beneath the surface. She doesn’t have that rigid posture and glossy façade that most women in my circle develop somewhere around their pre-teens, nor does she carefully weigh
everything she says and does. She makes me feel a deep, primal urge I’ve never experienced before.
It’s that physical kick I get every time I touch her, but there’s something more there, something I can’t identify.
Despite the fact that she keeps shutting me down - or maybe because of it - I actually want
to spend more time with her. I want to understand who or what put that chip on her shoulder about men, about me. I want to get to know her. And that is rare enough to be note-worthy.
When we’re done with the main course, I summon the waiter for the bill. This is my grand
moment; now I’m sure to get her attention.
I whip out my black credit card.
The waiter’s eyes go reassuringly big and round. But Khara doesn’t even blink. She casts a
glance at the card, then closes the guide book, tucks it away into her big, faux-leather handbag, and says, “so where to next, tour leader?”