by Nana Malone
To venture away from the mundane.
It was time to start living, to do what she always encouraged her clients to do, despite their resistance to change. Why shouldn’t she practice what she preached?
And this year, she had it in hand.
Two months earlier she’d found out about Moonlight Dating, an online service run by Jeanette Lagrange, a self-professed loner and eccentric from Market Drayton, the picturesque village in the British West Midlands. It was one of those things that Amelia, her single best friend, learned through one of her well-meaning relatives who forwarded the site link to her.
“I think you’ll get more use out of it. I much prefer the idea of cooking myself in a roasting pan to nagging or jealous boyfriends. Even temporary ones,” Amelia said bluntly when she told her about it.
Melita shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“You say that because you never met my ex-husband,” Amelia retorted. “But I’m here to talk about you. Let me read Lagrange’s bio.”
A passionate gardener with a romantic streak, Lagrange wrote how she’d sought life away from the hustle and bustle of London for the past ten years. At first impression Melita had thought it some local business struggling to burst from obscurity. But, judging from the many glowing testimonials from all over the world it seemed that the provincial tone may be only skin deep. She could only imagine a little old lady operating a lauded matchmaking service from her battered oak writing desk in a quaint little cottage.
Odd that Lagrange was the only listed employee and customer service information consisted of the woman’s generic email address; yet the site, Amelia said, boasted feedback from over a thousand past clients who’d gotten their match over a decade. The lucky ones were always hand-picked from a pool of applicants based on the five page application form, Lagrange handled all cases personally, and the service cost a paltry fee! Melita had never come across anything like this, and at first wasn’t too keen.
Amelia pressed her. She said her cousin had used the site and met the lady who was now his wife. “I mean, that woman must be psychic. Clara’s so right for Ian. She stuck with him even when he picked her up for a movie date in his wet suit and flippers. That’s what I call a miracle!”
Melita chuckled and said she’d do it, but on her own terms.
She had a choice. Did she want a tryst, a casual affair or a serious relationship? She’d instructed Amelia to tick the first option and indicate the date of April third in the preferences section.
“But don’t you want a boyfriend?” Amelia had protested. “I always thought you to be the romantic one yet you’ve been alone so long I bet you forgot how to give a hickey. You can meet someone for fun but why all this hassle just for a fling?”
“A boyfriend wouldn’t know what to do with me,” Melita insisted. “And I’m not about to dive into the bar scene.”
That was that.
She was told the company would take care of all the arrangements but she wouldn’t meet the guy until the day of. This was a singular condition only for the tryst category.
It unnerved her in no small measure but she went for it anyway. She’d experience a forbidden encounter with a stranger. She wanted it, above all, because it was time for her to do something out of character, and the very notion of it was just wild and insane enough to tempt her.
Time passed and she’d put it out of her mind but a week earlier she’d received the confirmation and details. Misgivings sank their tiny sharp claws into her, and she considered chickening out.
But when the dread she’d come to know so well each year woke up with her this morning and draped itself around her, she knew she’d go through with it.
Melita ran her fingers through the long chestnut curls she’d inherited from her mother, switched off the sconces, and left the sanctuary of her bedroom. The taxi was due any minute now.
No more would she use her handicap as a crutch. She fully intended for this night to change her life. She was sure it would. After all, Lagrange had promised an attractive man, a man of hidden depth, an adventurous man, a man who’d make her feel things. It promised her all that she wanted and more.
****
The Nautica wristwatch marked seven ten in the evening when Alex Moncado put the padlock on the outer gate to his art supplies shop. As it clicked in place, the twisted shackles around his heart responded in kind.
He swallowed, and thought how much he hated this time of year. Hated it with a viciousness that would scare off a champion gladiator readied for the fight.
Grief steam-rolled over him. At other times, it was easier to set aside the rogue waves of sorrow that gripped him now. Really, who hadn’t lost a loved one at some point? He should know. It was part of the normal cycle of life. Only that there was nothing normal about what had happened to him. For him it felt different; it had proved impossible to completely move on.
Even spending hours at the gym today and tomorrow, or an entire day of extreme trekking wouldn’t get his mind off things in the end. He’d still lie awake until midnight, and then drink himself into a stupor until morning, in the futile attempt to forget the horror that painted his soul with heavy black tar on every third day of May.
Perhaps nothing would ever work.
Still, tonight, he had a plan.
If he made it to the car and out of the city of Valletta in five minutes, he’d make his appointment on time.
Jeanette at Moonlight Dating had informed him via email that a cold supper would be provided at the meeting venue so he didn’t have to pick up dinner. He impulsively contacted the service after reading a short write up about it on a social media site.
The streets were semi-deserted after seven o’clock on a weekday, when most of the shops have closed. In moments, he had reached his car three blocks down on Old Bakery Street. He started the engine and took the usual way out around the four and a half centuries old city bastions, headed north. After three or so kilometres, however, he kept straight, directed to the villages of Mosta and Mgarr, rather than veer right toward the thoroughfare that led to his apartment. Tonight, he was going somewhere different.
A couple of successive potholes rattled the car suspension and jolted his conscious mind into overdrive. What had gotten into him to do something this insane? He knew lots of people, and his calendar was full every weekend. He went to a nightclub and got the pick of the female litter. Simple and painless. He visited the gym five times a week, and it showed, although he didn’t care. He did it to blow off steam – work off the noxious drive that pummelled him – not to become a babe magnet. Still, women loved a guy who took care of himself, especially if he wasn’t cocky about it.
He didn’t need help, not on the surface. But, deep down inside him lurked a quiet despair he couldn’t continue to ignore. Loneliness clung to him like a spectre reluctant to leave a spooked mansion. True, it was by choice. A deep, emotional attachment can destroy a person, just like the time it almost crushed him to the point of no return.
It was so much easier to keep feelings in check, to be genuine and down-to-earth, yet, stay away from too strong ties that create so much havoc and hurt, or at the least, disappointment.
It was too bad that he couldn’t shake off a sense of helplessness, for life was flying by and he didn’t have much to show for it. On the business front, he ran a successful family business, but personally, he lived with a mask permanently glued to his persona. That mask was his spectre, his friendly ghost that gave him what he wanted. A life lived alone, in his small one bedroom apartment in St. Julians, the fun capital of the island.
What he wanted...
Well, he suddenly wanted to evict that ghost, at least for a night.
He wanted something more – with an urge so strong that he signed up with Jeanette Lagrange’s service on a whim. If his friends found out they’d rib him to death, but this would remain a secret between him and the four walls of his flat.
No one would ever find out that he craved the comp
any of a different sort of lady. He had specified “intelligent”, above all else. Classy but not conceited. Feminine but not prissy. A woman who would look beyond his physical shape and see the man he was beneath, without him having to explain or prove anything – only for a night.
It felt like he was looking for a girlfriend. No, he wasn’t, was he? He just wanted an evening with someone who didn’t spend hours talking about the highlights in her hair and the wild parties she’d attended during her latest trip to Ibiza. If that evening came with chemistry and passion, all the better. Jeanette had also shared that many couples hooked up for the long haul after meeting through her.
He didn’t necessarily want that. He just wanted to be. . . what did he want to be?
Surprised.
He drove to a dead end and turned left toward Mgarr, and a little ways further, right onto a country road. About fifty meters onward he came upon the gated entrance to a private property. The gate was open so he entered the long driveway. The tyres kicked gravel and dust in the pitch dark that led to a converted farmhouse where the email instructions specified he’d meet his company for the night.
He noticed no other cars were parked there when he switched off the engine. Perhaps she hadn’t arrived yet.
What did she look like? According to the custom profile he was forwarded, this was a very particular lady and he needed to go slow with her. That may mean one of two things—she either wasn’t used to meeting men this way, or she was as unsure about this as he was.
The solid wood front door was slightly ajar so he didn’t have to use his key. He discarded it on the inlaid wood console table by the entrance and walked into a welcoming, classic modern sitting room steeped in earth tones. His feet stepped on an expensive-looking brown and beige Persian rug that covered most of the floor.
Someone had put money into this place. After looking at the outside, one wouldn’t think that such luxury and comfort waited inside. It was a two hundred year old structure, painstakingly renovated with a welcoming, state-of-the-art interior.
The large room flowed into an L-shape that carried beyond a large teak dining table with seating for six.
“You can close the door behind you,” said a lilting voice from the back of the L-shape.
His stomach made a flip like that of a schoolboy’s with a budding first crush. Laughing inwardly at the thought, he clicked the door shut and walked past the chocolate leather couch, around the table, toward the beautiful voice.
He found her sitting on a bar stool at the kitchen counter. A couple of large trays laden with cold meats, cheeses, and assorted appetizers sat untouched in front of her.
She turned toward him and looked straight into his eyes. Her eyebrows drew together.
“You must be starving,” she said.
Upon meeting her gaze, his belly did a bigger flip and he had difficulty swallowing a big lump that lodged in his throat.
God, she was beautiful.
He stared at her. Soft burnished locks flowed richly around her oval face to just below her collarbone. Tall and trim, she wore a simple silk green sheath dress that stopped above the knee and unpretentious flat gold sandals.
An artist’s muse.
The best part of her, though, were her eyes. Fine jade eyes that looked at him, into him, through him. There was something infinitely alluring about that light green gaze. It was unique, and frightening. It was… intense. Would any man be able to keep secrets from this woman?
A deeper frown creased her brow. “Is something wrong?”
His gaze fell to her full lower lip that she was now biting on. “No.”
Boy, was he charming tonight. If he went on this way, she would think him a dunderhead and call off the whole thing.
“I was saying that you must be hungry,” she tried again, while she extended a hand toward him.
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He was at her side in two strides and took her offered hand as he sat on the stool next to her. It was supple and warm against his. He briefly rubbed his thumb above her knuckles and raised her hand to his mouth to drop a light kiss on it.
She laughed, a sweet, musical sound. “Men haven’t done that in centuries.”
“Does it matter?”
“No, but you don’t need to seduce me. We both know why we’re here.”
“It doesn’t mean I should take you for granted,” he argued.
“Touché,” she replied with a grin. “So let me say ‘hi’ in my own way,” she added, before she picked a stuffed olive from the tray and slid it between his lips.
He should have told her what that erotic gesture did to him, to his base lust. But instead he crushed those words underneath the bitter flesh of the fruit. It tasted like hot chillies going down, set him alight.
She studied him with narrowed eyes, as though she struggled to focus on his face. His hand cupped her cheek, because he found himself unable to keep from touching her.
“Something the matter?”
“Just trying to see you better,” she said, while emphasizing the word “see”.
He laughed. “I am right in front of you.”
“I suppose you weren’t told that I’m fairly blind. Not totally, but I can’t see well, either,” she admitted matter-of-factly.
Now serious, he had both hands around her cheeks. His thumb traced the bottom contours of her eyes, precious like rare gems.
That’s what it was then, that special something about them. That intense gaze…
“Tonight you don’t need to see,” he said, his voice raspy. “All you need to do is feel.”
He kissed her, not like a gentleman, not gently and with care, but with an alien need that assailed all his senses. It upset him at some deep, elemental level.
Why?
That was one thing he shouldn’t have done. If this woman managed to get under his skin so fast, what would happen by the end of the night?
He’d be utterly lost.
* * * * *
Chapter Two
The contact of his lips with hers prompted an instinctual groan. Melita realized, however, that the groan didn’t only come from her. His mouth felt warm and coaxing as he parted hers for a penetrating kiss.
The instant she saw him attraction arrowed through her. Illogical, irrational, undeniably real.
She grabbed on to the hem of his blue t-shirt sleeves and hung on for dear life, while the play of his tongue against hers provoked a concerted sexual response that took over all of her body. Her wrists and forearms pressed against the powerful, taut muscles of his arm, and she wantonly leaned into his chest.
She had never felt so good about kissing a stranger. Come to think of it, she’d never kissed a stranger. His mouth tasted of savoury olive and he smelled of fresh air and man, a combination that made her head reel and her insides flutter in some strange places. She was aware of the sensual, forbidden parts of herself like she’d never been before, like she’d never been awake before.
She couldn’t help but protest when he abruptly broke contact and pulled back. His breaths came short and rugged as he spoke in a sheepish voice.
“I just realized… I didn’t even ask your name. Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” she cut in, with a bit of a wonky smile, while she struggled to find purchase around a haze of desire. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m Melita. Melita Saari-Quinn.”
“Alex Moncado,” he introduced himself with an answering grin. Then, “You have an interesting name.”
Large hands swept up and down her arms, wrenched goose pimples at his tender touch.
“Product of a Finnish and Irish-Maltese marriage. My mother gave birth in England, and missed Malta terribly at the time, so she decided to use the Latin word for the island as my name,” she laughed. “Luckily, her wish to raise me in Malta came true and they settled back here when I was five. What about you?”
He picked a bite-sized piece of melon wrapped in Parma ham and fed it to her. The cooling, sweet juice e
xploded in her mouth and mingled tantalizingly with the saltiness of the meat.
“I’ve lived here all my life, and pretty much do what was expected of me – I run a business that’s been in my family for about fifty years. We have a few stores around the island.”
“Oh,” she answered, after she’d chewed the last of the morsel. She was dying to ask him which stores but didn’t want to sound pushy. “Moncado is not a very common surname here,” she remarked, opting for a more indirect route.
“My ancestors are Sicilian. They had come to Malta and left a while later, but a couple of them stayed on. They must have loved the beaches,” he replied with a glint in his eyes that even she, with her impaired vision, could discern.
His answer wasn’t quite what she hoped for – he didn’t volunteer information about his work or state what business he was in – but she wouldn’t pressure him to tell more than he wanted. If she dug around or even flipped through the phone book, he probably wouldn’t be too hard to find on an island as small as this. Still, that wasn’t the point.
From the way he just kissed her, he liked the way things were turning out, and that’s all that mattered.
“Kiss me again,” she softly demanded, feeling uncharacteristically bold and feminine.
The blazing fire that licked at her with his appraising look was all the encouragement she needed to slide her arms around his neck and throw herself, body and soul, into another kiss. She teetered on the edge of the stool but somehow didn’t care if she toppled them both off. His arms snaked around her and held her tight, one hand splayed across her back, the other buried under her hair to hold her head prisoner.
She also slid her hand up his nape and into his hair. Sexy, close-cropped dark hair.
“Perhaps we need to go somewhere more comfortable,” he said at last, his voice rich like velvet. “What do you think of the couch? I’ll bring the trays over so we can eat.”
“How about the bedroom?” she shocked herself by suggesting. “It’s right off that corridor over there.” She pointed at a short hallway with a door to the right and one straight across, at the end of it. “I’ll pick one tray, you get the other one.”