Glancing closer, it took him a moment to grasp he was looking at pages from a manuscript. Something to do with werewolves and vampires, and a frightened young woman with a French accent. After a few minutes, he found another sheet of paper.
Reservation details for the Orchid Hotel in Macau for one Tara Benson.
Who the hell was Tara Benson and how on earth did he get her documents?
Then realisation slapped him in the face, and he groaned. The red-head from the airport. When he had caught her in his arms, they had both dropped their bags, and papers had gone all over the damn place. These pages must have been hers.
Frantically, he began searching the remaining documents in his briefcase. He couldn’t find anything of his missing, so at least she hadn’t picked up any of his paperwork. “Thank fuck for that,” he exclaimed, releasing a relieved sigh from his lips.
Gathering the documents, Cong stood up and walked over to his desk. A bowl of fresh fruit was positioned on the side, the surface gleaming in the dying sunlight, his home laptop closed. He didn’t like clutter on his desk; he hated distractions. The bin sat to the side, empty, waiting to be filled. The new housekeeper was doing an excellent job cleaning his place while he was away.
Cong tossed the documents in the bin. After all, he didn’t have to return those papers to that woman.
Business came first. After all, getting the paperwork sorted for the Japanese project was far more important than returning some strange woman’s story.
Tara
Macau had undoubtedly surpassed itself. Despite being only eleven miles wide, the city possessed a massive personality. There was a vibrancy in the air that invaded the senses. Each step took her to something new; a new sight, a new smell, a new sound. God, it was electrifying. The tourist pamphlets informed her of how the city’s historic district had been added to the UNESCO World Heritage Site, and how many ancient monuments and urban squares were interwoven in the heart of Macau, but seeing it for herself was like a dream finally coming true.
Getting up early that morning, Tara had enjoyed a quick breakfast in the hotel before setting out to do some sightseeing. Traffic and other urban noise sang through the streets, but instead of being a din, she relished it. Excitement bubbled through her veins as she walked the streets with her map in hand.
The smells of street food wafting down the street caused her stomach to rumble even after enjoying a hearty breakfast. Tara had always loved her food, especially in the morning. Fruits, yoghurts, cereals, croissants; it didn’t matter as long as it tasted good. Greg had always tutted her on the amount she ate, warning her she’d get fat.
“But not now,” she whispered to herself as she glanced around at the buildings as she continued walking. “Now I’m free of all his crap.”
After yesterday’s conversation, Tara vowed that she would forget about Lying Greg, Skanky Carly, and her traitorous family, and instead concentrate on just having fun. After all, that’s what she was here for, to have fun. This was her dream, to explore the Far East, enjoy the culture and the food, and forget England. Nothing was going to get in the way of that.
Spying her hotel at the top of the road, Tara felt the first flush of exhaustion descend upon her. While she had rested at cafes during the day, she had been on her feet since early morning, and they were crying out for release from her shoes. A long shower sounds good right about now, she thought.
The young doorman gave her a brief nod and smile as she walked towards the door. As she stepped through, she returned the smile and welcomed the blast of cold air as she ventured inside.
Situated just ten minutes’ walk from Senado Square, the hotel was beautifully chic with a touch of grandeur. She remembered the website saying it had recently undergone a restoration project the previous year; the photos had hardly done it justice. Heavy red curtains hung from the windows, with hues of cream and gold making up the principal colour scheme within the reception area. Gigantic vases nearly her size sat against the walls, and gold veins ran through the creamy marble floor, giving it a refined and elegant appearance. A small seating area with a few comfortable couches was located on the right, while the bar was on her left.
Tara walked up to the reception desk and offered the young woman a tired but genuine smile. “Hello, can I have the key to Room 1043 please?”
Black hair slicked back and tied into a tidy bun, the receptionist smiled back. “Of course, Madam. One moment please,” and began the hunt for the card key. Stretching her hand over the desk to give Tara the key, the young woman’s dark eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, yes, a gentleman is here to see you, Madam.”
“To see me?” Tara asked, her brow furrowing in confusion as she swept a lock of red hair away from her face.
“Yes, Madam. He is waiting in the lounge.”
“For me?” she repeated.
“Yes, for you.”
Tara turned at the sound of the heavily accented male voice behind her. Wait, she didn’t know anyone in Macau. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, hating how breathily her voice sounded.
It was the man from the airport. Dark blue tones shone in his black hair, and his dark eyes sparkled in the light. A smile played across his lips as he glanced up and down her body before quickly resting back on her face. Wearing black trousers that clung to muscled thighs, a crisp white shirt rolled hallway up his arms revealing a silver Rolex, Tara’s heartbeat began racing as she realised she was looking him over herself. Really, checking out a perfect stranger? Very classy, girl, the annoying voice in her head droned.
“It’s me,” he confirmed, and Tara could hear the chuckle he was trying to suppress.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, tilting her head, brows drawing together.
“When you bumped into me yesterday, some of your papers accidentally managed to find their way with mine,” he said, offering her a black folder she only now realised he grasped in his hand. “I thought I’d return them to you.”
Tara took the folder from him. “Oh, thank you very much. I was going through my stuff last night when I realised some were missing. But how did you know where to find me?”
“There was a hotel reservation printout in the paperwork, so I figured this must be where you were staying.” His words came out low, tinged with a sensual edge.
“Good powers of deduction,” Tara laughed.
He shrugged, one side of his mouth pulling up into a cheeky grin. “Just call me Sherlock.”
Letting out a peal of laughter, Tara took the folder. Relief washed over her; at least now she could finally finish the first round of edits on her book. “Is there something else I can call you?”
“My name is Zheng Cong,” he said, offering his hand. Taking it in hers, Tara marvelled at how soft his skin was, and the contrast between their skin, as though a sun-kissed cinnamon bark surrounded a pool of milk.
“Thank you, Mr Zheng, for returning my documents, it was incredibly nice of you,” Tara said, her voice dipping low and husky as she stared into his eyes.
His grin widened. “Call me Cong, please, and I think it’s been quite some time since anyone has called me nice.”
“I doubt it. And call me Tara.”
“Oh, it’s true, I assure you, Tara. Most people know me as the man with a block of ice for a heart.”
Tara found herself laughing at his words, her eyes never leaving his. They were unusually piercing, as though they could see right through her. “I’m sure they don’t. Even if they did, I think you’re pretty nice.”
Cong arched an eyebrow. “Because I returned your work?”
Tara nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Of course. Don’t you think it’s considerate that you’ve taken the time out to return something that doesn’t belong to you?”
Head cocked, Cong’s grin turned mischievous. His eyes scanned her most unusually. “Maybe. Or maybe it was because the stranger was a gorgeous woman who I’d like to have a drink with.”
Tara’s heart ju
mped into her throat. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe. He thinks I’m gorgeous? she asked herself. “You say that to every tourist you come across?”
Cong gave her a wink, and his grin widened. “Only those who fall into my arms at airports.”
Tara felt the stain of a blush cover her cheeks, but she was saved the embarrassment of not knowing what to say in response when a neatly dressed Asian man rushed over to them. Dressed in a tailored black suit, white shirt, and red tie, the stranger bowed to them and quickly began talking to Cong in Cantonese. The only thing Tara could say in the language was ‘how are you?’ - Néih hóu ma – and ‘do you speak English? ‘Néih sīk-m̀h-sīk góng Yīngmán a?’ Neither of which was particularly useful when listening to their conversation.
It was evident by the way the man in the dark suit was acting that he was paying Cong a lot of respect. Frequently, he would bow to Cong and agree with something he said. Occasionally, they would both glance over at her and then turn back to each other as they continued talking. Tara listened to the language. It was harsh, rough, and compelling, but extremely fascinating to listen to the variety of tones.
With a final glance at Tara and a quick bow of the head, the black-suited man rushed off, making a gesture to the receptionist who quickly followed him. Tara glanced back to Cong. “Everything OK?” she asked, feeling a crease pulling between her brows as she watched the two figures disappear.
Cong smiled and nodded. “Oh yes. The manager is just arranging a few things.”
Tara turned back to Cong, the crease deepening. “He seemed to know you.”
Shrugging, Cong lost his smile. An indecipherable look appeared in his eyes. “I bought this place last year, they should know me by now.”
“You bought this hotel?” Tara repeated, feeling her jaw drop wide open.
“My company buys and invests in many of local businesses. It’s good for the local economy,” Cong told her, his tone matter-of-fact.
Holy cow, this guy must be loaded, the voice in her head exclaimed. Suddenly, as Tara shifted her feet, she slipped on the marble floor. Her feet slid off the floor, shooting into the air as her bottom hurled towards the floor. Gripping the folder in her hand, determined not to let them scatter as they did yesterday, her efforts were rewarded with the sickening thud of her derriere colliding with the floor. Gasping in surprise, then in pain, she raised her head to see Cong laughing and shaking his head before offering her a hand up.
“Tara, you must be the only woman I’ve known to slip twice at my feet in twenty-hour hours. I’m going to think that I’m a jinx if this carries on,” he chuckled, pulling her to her feet. Damn, he was stronger than he appeared.
“And I don’t even have a broken heel this time,” she muttered, glancing at her flat sandals. “The floor is slippery.”
“Has anyone told you how clumsy you are?”
Tara felt the pool of blood rush to her face. She glanced down to the ground, hoping he wouldn’t see how mortified she felt. “All the time. I swear I can’t go anywhere without causing a scene. I’m the only one I know how can actually fall up the stairs.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve done that?”
“Only last week,” Tara laughed nervously. “The week before that I knocked over an entire chocolate display at the supermarket. Cassie, my best friend, has threatened not to go out in public with me many times.”
“I’m not surprised,” Cong laughed, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I find it rather endearing.”
Tara moaned. “You mean amusing,” she corrected, rubbing a hand over her tired eyes.
“No, I will stick to my first assessment, but I’m hoping you won’t have any more accidents while we are having a drink. The cocktails here are excellent, and it would be a waste if you dropped any of them.”
Tara lifted her gaze and met his eyes. “Excuse me?” she asked, her voice laced with confusion. Had she misheard him?
Cong stepped forward. It was easier to see the specks of light shining in his eyes from his closer position. “Have a drink with me, Tara. You can tell me more about this book. I assume it’s yours, am I right?” Mouth dry, Tara nodded. “I took a glance at it last night between stacks of my papers. I’m not caught up on my literary reading, but what I read so far sounded good. We’ll have a few drinks, and you can tell me about your book.”
Tara swallowed around the lump forming in the back of her throat and tried to push down the bubble of nervousness that began to rise in the pit of her stomach. “You read my chapter?”
Cong nodded. “It’s not very often I get the chance to read fiction,” he explained, brushing a lock of hair out of her face, forcing her glance upwards. “I’m not an expert or an editor, but from what I read, you seem to be a natural writer.”
A sigh escaped Tara’s mouth before she could suppress it. “Hopefully my skills as an English teacher are finally paying off.”
“A school teacher, huh? I wouldn’t have imagined it when I first saw you, but now I think about it … Please tell me you haven’t caused any accidents in the classroom?”
Tara shook her head as she laughed, transferring the folder from one hand to the other. “Only once, but it wouldn’t surprise me if I did when I return home. I suppose I’m due for another scene.”
Turning towards the bar, Cong offered his arm in a timely, old-fashioned way. “At the moment, the only thing you are due is to enjoy a drink with me and engage in some stimulating conversation. Shall we?”
Tara’s stomach twisted in knots at his words. Why would this gorgeous man want to have drinks with her? Surely she looked a mess, with her skin glistening with sweat from traipsing around the city all day, and her hair plastered to her skull? Was he just being nice? Did he just want to get laid with an easy target? She could feel her pulse pounding in her temples, and it took all her willpower to force her heartbeat to steady itself so she could breathe.
Ah, go for it, the voice in her head told her. It’s one drink. What harm could it do? It’s not as though many cute guys are going to ask you out here. Might as well.
Tara reached out and took Cong’s arm, glad for it. Between the slippery floor and her shaky legs, she needed something to keep her upright.
Cong
There was something about the touch of her hand on his arm that sent a ripple of some strange emotion down his spine. Was he nervous for crying out loud? He’d had models and actresses on his arm before and never felt this way, so why was it happening to him now?
The nerves are probably because you think she’s going to fall and tear your five-thousand pataca shirt, he thought. Working out at around six hundred dollars, the crisp shirt white was just one of many such expensive items. A far cry from the tattered rags he’d worn growing up.
But look at how far he’d come since his younger years. Now look at him. Clean, tailored clothes, and a beautiful woman on his arm.
As they walked towards the bar, Cong took a glance at Tara. By the gods, she was exquisite. Red hair the colour of garnets flowed down her back, and her skin, almost glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, was the colour of fresh milk. Inhaling deeply, the scent of roses and salt lingered in his nostrils, as though the brightest red rose had been dipped in the ocean and placed beneath his nose. Her hand slightly trembled on his arm, and he wondered if she was as nervous as he was. Maybe I better go slow with this one.
Only a few people were in the bar with them; an Asian couple was speaking Mandarin softly by the window, while a Western man with shaggy blonde hair sat by himself in the corner typing away on his laptop. Guiding Tara into a seat by the bar, Cong smiled at the smartly-dressed barman who approached them. Dressed implacably in dark trousers and a black shirt with the hotel’s monogram, a surge of pride washed through him at the sight of the young man. It had been almost a year since he’d bought this hotel, and it looked as though it had been the right decision.
“What can I get you, sir?” the man asked, his face etched with an eager but genuinely fri
endly smile.
“What would you like, Tara?” he asked, offering her a smile of his own.
“White wine, please.”
“Make that two white wines,” he said to the barman who hastened to fill the order. Cong turned to Tara, staring at her eyes. They were the most brilliant colour of green he’d ever seen. “So, Tara, what brings you to Macau?”
At the sound of his voice, Cong noticed that she jumped slightly. Yeah, she was nervous alright. “I’m just having a holiday. Usually, I just travel around Britain, but this time I thought I’d try a bit further afield.”
“A bit? Macau is on the other side of the world.”
Tara shrugged, and Cong wondered how she made such as casual gesture look so graceful. “The other side of the world is what I want right about now,” she said, with a tinge of bitterness coating the words.
“Oh, why is that?” he asked, nodding his thanks to the barman who placed the wine glasses in front of them. He noticed how long and delicate Tara’s fingers were as she reached out and gently picked up the glass, not a hint of varnish adorning her nails. Not a woman who usually primps herself for hours before going out then. Interesting.
Another shrug. “Just family drama back at home. I had to get away for a while, and I’ve always dreamed about visiting Macau and China. It’s just another world, completely different from where I’m from.”
Cong raised an eyebrow. “No cities where you’re from then?” he teased.
Tara let out a small laugh, a sound like tinkling water, as the nervousness slipped from her stance. Her face was delicate and heart-shaped with high cheekbones and full parted lips. Perfect for kissing. “Of course, but it’s different. I don’t know quite how to describe it, but there’s more atmosphere here, something that just makes it more impressive and beautiful. Besides, I don’t live in a city; I live in a small town.”
“Do you like the town where you live?” he asked, sipping his wine. They’d certainly improved the wine list since he first inspected the place, he thought.
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