by C A Devine
‘I thought you people didn’t have guns.’
‘You people?’
‘Europeans.’
‘Yeah, but we’re nearly halfway to the States here.’
‘So it’s our fault.’
‘Without a doubt, New York,’ and she steered us out the entrance, Skinny Gun-guy staring after us.
We laid in a course west. I looked ahead at the vastness of the ocean, ‘Your dad mentioned you sailed the Atlantic single-handed at nineteen.’
‘Dad loves sailing. When I was a kid, he brought me out all the time in his dingy, then his little cutter. When I was a teenager he bought the Laila. Mum thought we were mad. She used to get seasick on boats. Dad used to say, “That’s because you’re from a landlocked country. You have to understand your daughter and I are islanders.” The day we told her I wanted to do the Atlantic alone, she jumped up out of her chair and slapped my father across the head like a naughty schoolboy.’
‘So we’re going to do this?’ I asked.
‘I don’t see why not.’
I slid below and called Marcus on the satellite phone, it was only fair to let him know.
‘Mac? Mac is that you?’ he answered with a sleepy croak. ‘How are you doing? What time is it? Where are you? I was worried, I tried to call.’
‘I’m good. I’m thinking of bringing the Two At A Time home,’ I sank into the big padded chair at the chart table, swinging left and right, stretching out my legs.
‘What? Home? Where? What are you ta …?’ it finished in a hiss of static.
‘Home, home. I need some quiet time. I thought this would be good.’
‘The line’s not so good, are you calling from the satellite phone? Where are you? You can’t bring it back alone. That’s crazy. Apart from my substantial monetary investment, there’s your physical safety … sss … Yolanda said you were crazy.’
‘No, not alone, I’ve signed up an experienced captain and that reminds me, I think I’m seeing someone,’ I looked up as Max climbed down into the cabin.
‘The captain?’
‘Yes, the captain.’ She smiled over at me as she picked up a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenmorangie and poured four fingers.
‘Mac, are you telling me you’re gay?’
‘What kind of question is that?’ But it reminded me. I needed to have a talk with Marcus. Soon.
‘You better be because you better not be telling me you’re letting some girl captain sail my precious Two At A Time across the Atlantic.’
*
That afternoon Max started writing again. She snuggled into the corner of the main cabin, banging the screen of her iPad. The zip of her hooded sweatshirt was fastened tight up to the neck. She wasn’t there long before she stretched and fidgeted, her face scrunched in pain. I grabbed a few cashmere cushions and loaded them behind her. She smiled up at me, ‘Thanks.’
‘They want you back pretty bad.’ It was the first I had mentioned it since getting back on the boat.
She nodded, ‘That they do.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged, ‘They want to know where I’ve been. They want to know what I told him.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Everything.’
9
The Beach
Fallen Star Cop of Famed Heroin Bust Found Totally Naked on European Beach, the headline shot through my brain. Was I really going to do this?
We strolled down the small stone path, my hand grasped tight in hers. She wasn’t going to let me get away. How exactly had I been talked into this? We stepped onto the scorching sand, past the beach café where, yes, people were drinking beer naked – a sign stated las nudistas had to sit on a towel. That was comforting. Still, I wouldn’t want to swab it for DNA.
Max stopped in the middle, not up against the rocks, not in a quiet corner, but in the middle of the beach, surrounded by naked bodies. She slipped the knot in her siren red sarong and let it slither to the ground, only then did she pull a beach towel from her basket, shake it out and lay it on the sand. And still she didn’t sit, instead gazing out to sea before turning slowly to run her eyes over the beach.
‘You’re killing me here, Max,’ I moaned.
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she grinned over at me.
I laid my towel beside hers and slumped down, doing my failing best to ignore her. I kicked off my flip-flops and pulled my t-shirt over my head.
‘Well?’ she flopped down beside me.
‘When exactly did I agree to this?’
‘Right about the time you would have done anything I asked.’
‘And that is completely unfair.’
‘That’s been the male female dynamic since the dawn of time. You’re not telling me we should ignore our instincts, are you?’ She shot me a huge smile, ‘Come on, New York, have a bit of courage.’
‘Give me a minute,’ she opened her mouth, I held up a finger, ‘and don’t talk to me.’
‘Okay.’ She grabbed pages and a red pen from her basket, sniggering. I lay back and looked up at the sky. I didn’t think I could do this. I’m from New York, right? I’m an American. I’ve spent all my life clothed. I breathed deeply, in and out, like my psychiatrist had taught me. This was too weird. I didn’t want my psychiatrist and me being nude on a beach in the same mental picture.
‘So where did you learn to sail, New York?’ Max asked.
‘New York,’ I snorted, ‘on the Hudson. My friend Marcus, the boat owner.’ She lifted an eyebrow. ‘He and I grew up near a marina on the river. This old English guy used to give sailing classes to the kids on a Saturday morning. It was fun, all the local kids went. But Marcus, he loved it, loved the sea. He went down there every chance he got. When he started working as a stockbroker he used his first big paycheck as a deposit for the Two At A Time. I’d never seen him so excited.
‘Nowadays, like a lot of wealthy people, he barely sees his boat once a year.’
‘Now, don’t think about it. Just take them off.’
Okay, new experiences Ryan, don’t be a wuss, just do it. I slid my shorts down over my ass, pushed them past my knees and kicked them off my ankles.
I was lying stark naked, on a beach surrounded by other stark naked people. Holy God, please never let my mother find out – yes, thirty-five and still worried about what my mother thinks. Not to mention my partner, the delectable Detective Yolanda Brown. I could see her disapproving finger wave at me from 4000 miles away. I gulped. The breeze washed over my warm body. It felt cool, relaxing, stimulating. I flipped over onto my front.
‘A little self-discipline wouldn’t go astray, darling,’ Max sniggered then howled with laughter, hitting me on my naked ass with her stack of papers. ‘Read this, it might take your mind off your moving parts.’
10
The Life Less Ordinary (The Lie II)
Paris. The restaurant was a Michelin three star; the deco, Louis the Fifteenth. Sparkling crystal danced light around the room, starched tablecloths glared up at the haughty waiters polishing confusing cutlery, but the food …
You see, I have this rule, eat in the cheapest place or the best. The cheapest, you don’t spend much and it fills you, if it’s bad it doesn’t matter and often it surprises. The best place, on the other hand, is a life experience. And this all started at one of the best.
I tottered in on 3-inch arch-cripplers, wearing a strapless black number that finished well above the knee. A slit shot up the left stopping just south of decent – a practical necessity if you wanted to walk in it. It clung tight to my waist at the bottom of a firm bodice that pushed my breasts up into delicate little humps. It was my favourite dress and my waiter’s, if the beads of sweat popping up on his forehead were anything to go by. He held out a stuffed carver chair, struggling to stay focused on my face and not my very best classy slut garb.
‘Classy slut garb?’ I glanced over at Max. ‘I am never going to be able to turn over after that image.’
I was sitting alone
at the table savouring the finest escargot ever to pass my lips when I caught a scent reminiscent of childhood. Then a voice as smooth as chocolate said, ‘A beautiful lady eating all on her own is surely a crime. Would you indulge a fellow lonely diner by agreeing for me to join you?’
I looked up and into huge deep blue eyes shining out of dark skin. Shaggy black hair fell purposefully over a wide forehead and long face. It was all topped off by a delicate nose and almost feminine full lips. He was cute, no scratch that, he was a drop-dead stud, clad in a Versace suit, Gucci loafers and an indulgent smile.
I didn’t have anyone else to entertain me through dinner so when he offered his hand, I took it. He kissed my knuckles and said, ‘Angelo.’
I tossed back my long dark curls and said, ‘That’s the cheesiest line I have ever heard.’
‘I know,’ he smirked, ‘but it is expected. I am Italian.’
I couldn’t help myself, I laughed.
‘So why are you here all alone?’ he asked, settling himself in the seat across from me. He dipped his head towards the table – was he shy or just checking out my delicate little humps?
‘For the food. Dinner chatter is overrated.’ A small smile touched his lips. I didn’t think he was buying it.
‘And is it as decadent as you expected?’ His eyes flicked up to mine.
‘Decadent is such a negative word. I would prefer, hmm, spectacular. And you?’
He leant back then, confident, staring straight at me, studying me. ‘Simply for the dec,’ his smile broke into a laugh, ‘sorry, spectacular cuisine.’ His eyes dipped again, ‘I’m never sure about the knives and forks though,’ he frowned, tapping long delicate fingers on all ten of them, one at a time. ‘I think the maître d’ only sets them out for his own entertainment.’
‘What are you doing in Paris, Angelo?’
‘Business, and you?’ he looked up at me again.
‘Passing through.’
‘On your way to?’
‘No fixed destination.’ This brought the smile back to his lips.
We ate truffles, my favourite, and langoustines, his, and finished with the most delicate dark chocolate mousse ever to melt on my tongue.
‘This is like tasting clouds,’ he almost moaned.
I slid my hand across the white linen and laid it on top of his. He linked my fingers with his and a charge shot through me.
As we stepped outside into the cold Parisian air, I quivered in my strapless dress. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and drew me in. I laid my head on his shoulder. His warmth penetrated my skin.
‘Penetrated?’
‘Too much?’ Max asked.
‘Put it this way, I was only starting to recover from the strapless number.’
We crossed the cobbled lane – I was balancing on my tiptoes, trying to avoid a crippling injury. Why did women do this?
He beeped open his car. My jaw nearly hit the floor. ‘Where? How?’ I sucked in a breath of cold night air.
‘It is an indulgence, yes, but I adore cars. I always have. And it is Italian.’
‘It certainly is that,’ I was staring at a gleaming classic red Ferrari.
Then I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. ‘Do you want to drive?’ He tossed the keys at me with a smirk. Did I want to drive the Ferrari Testarossa, 390 horse power, 4.9 litre flat 12 engine, top speed of 180 mph, 0-60 in 5.2 seconds, 1985 classic? Normally I would have said no. But it was red.
When I was a kid I had no interest in dolls or other girly things. When it came to toys, cars were the only thing that mattered. I loved cars. My best friend and I had models of all the sports cars and knew the stats inside out. The Testarossa was my favourite and this gorgeous Italian man was about to let me drive one. He had me there and then, an easy target, and he knew it.
I stopped reading and looked up, ‘So this man is going to let this girl he’s only just met drive his Ferrari?’
Max nodded, ‘Ferrari Testarossa.’
‘It would never happen,’ I shook my head, ‘I think you should consider rebranding this thriller as a romantic fantasy.’
‘This isn’t romance, it’s action, it’s cars. And why wouldn’t it happen?’ She frowned and grabbed the pages from my hand.
‘Men aren’t wired that way. They don’t let chicks, they’ve just met, drive their fancy Italian red sports cars.’
‘Listen to Mr Metrosexual New York here. Chicks? Do you really use that word? You’re a pig. Not all men are like you.’
‘They are when it comes to cars,’ I said.
‘Wrong. It does happen. It happened to me.’
‘What?’
‘The car thing. That’s where I got the idea.’
‘Really? Did you, like, promise him a night of mind-blowing sex first?’ I smiled, ‘Because I can attest to the fact that you know how.’
‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Of what?’
‘That I’ve driven a Ferrari and you haven’t.’ Okay, so maybe she had a point. I grabbed the pages back.
I opened the monstrous red door and slid onto the luxurious tanned leather. I thought I might have an orgasm.
‘Orgasm?’ I looked over at her lying naked in the sand, shaking my head. I stopped a minute as the scene hit me. She was naked. I looked down, I was naked. ‘Way too much,’ I gulped.
‘I’ll take it out,’ she nodded.
‘You didn’t?’
‘What?’
‘Have an orgasm when it happened to you?’ She quirked a brow. ‘Okay, I’m never getting off this beach.’
It responded to the slightest touch. I flew up through the gears, winding through the narrow streets of Montmartre and out onto the infamous ring road. There, I opened her up. She gripped like glue to the tarmac. The noise of the engine was totally arousing, willing me to go faster. I weaved in and out of the light nighttime traffic, 70, 80, thundering through the tunnels, 90, 100 mph. We were laughing and screaming as I flew off the tops of the rolling slopes. I topped out at 120 without so much as a vibration. And when he told me to take the next exit I was more than willing.
‘Okay, so now I understand it, this was his way of getting you in the sack. I’ll have to remember that.’
‘Why? We’ve already established you don’t have a Ferrari.’
I stepped through intricate carved doors onto an oriental silk carpet. Angelo strode to the centre of the huge room, where a fine crystal chandelier twinkled light over the magenta-draped king-sized bed. He held out his arms and indulged in a slow full turn, ‘Quite something, no?’
‘Quite something,’ I agreed, looking around. French-polished cabinets flaunted old Murano glass and delicate sculpture. Sideboards overflowed with antiques. I gazed up into gilt cornicing. A central ceiling panel displayed a translucent blue framed scene of classical columns and clouds where cherubs invited me up to heaven.
‘This is your room,’ he said.
I dragged my eyes down, ‘My room?’ He was standing by the door.
‘I knew you’d love it.’ He frowned at my confused expression, ‘Or if you wish me to call you a taxi?’
‘No, this is fine. Fabulous, in fact,’ I said. He backed out of the double doors, closing them behind him. I flopped back on the silk bedspread and asked the cherubs, ‘What was that?’
*
He strolled back in at seven the next morning, a silver tray in his hands. I was zipping into my black dress. He averted his eyes, ‘I would like you to stay.’
‘I’m sorry, I have to go, I have a train to catch,’ I replied, pushing my feet into the torture implements. Whatever about squeezing into 3-inch stilettos at seven in the evening; at seven in the morning, it definitely was not pleasant.
‘I have someplace I wish to take you. I think you would like it.’ He paused before adding, ‘And I would like to spend the day with you.’
‘I don’t know, I have plans,’ I looked up at him. His face was full of disappointment. Hmm, did he really expect me to sa
y yes?
‘Are you sure?’ the huge deep eyes were mesmerising.
What the hell. ‘I guess the train isn’t that urgent, I just need to pick up my stuff.’
‘Of course. I really think you’ll like this,’ he beamed.
We stopped by my much lesser hotel, collected my bag and sped out of the city in the Ferrari. Half an hour past the ringroad, we turned into an airfield and pulled up beside a private jet.
‘Where are we going?’ I said, nervous for the first time.
‘Do you not trust me?’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘I trusted you with my precious Ferrari. Please, a leap of faith is necessary. I promise it will be worth it.’
I got on the plane.
We were only in the air for forty minutes. When we landed we were in Germany. Twenty minutes later, we pulled up at the entrance to the Nurburgring – the German formula one track. You can just drive up and pay to go around in your own car. An Aston Martin met us at the gate. Angelo held open the door for me. I was going to drive an Aston Martin around the old Nurburgring. How cool was that?
We lined up in sight of the old castle. The light flashed green and I floored it. We shot forward, the car squealed, we screamed. I flew up the gears. We banked round the first bend towards Hatzenbach and I smiled for the tourists looking on from their camper vans. I settled into the feel of the car and after the first kilometre, I picked up the pace. I kept gaining speed up to the Flugplatz, where I flew off the track, literally. The screech of metal, on landing, violated our eardrums. I hit the brakes and we hit the seatbelts. Pain shot through me. I glanced over at Angelo; he was still smiling.
I pounced on the accelerator again and spun round Aremberg. I chicaned back and forth through the bends of Wehrseifen and Ex-Mühle, flying faster as my confidence grew again. I found myself easing back a little, however, at the Bergwerk – the scene of Niki Lauda’s infamous crash. I floored it once more and careened on towards the Caracciola Karussell, The Carousel – a banked corner with a blind entrance. I skidded in fast, my enormous tyres eagerly pressing for grip. I twirled the wheel, right then left. I could smell rubber as we grappled hard for the tarmac. We spun to the left, 180 degrees, 360 degrees. I turned the wheel back and forth. No response. We were spinning and spinning. The smell of rubber got stronger and stronger. Bang! A tyre blew. We slid sideward towards the edge of the tarmac and off, screeching to a metal grinding halt on the gravel. I sucked in a fiery breath as I suffered the seatbelt pain once more.