by Romy Sommer
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 over-enthusiastic sightseeing – 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.
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 halfway 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 reopened. 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 guidebook.”
She looks at me as if I’m a bug she wants to squish, then reopens the guidebook. “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.
I’ve barely had a few sips of one of the Landmark Café’s electric-blue signature cocktails when Khara rejoins 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 guidebook 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.
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 of the tall 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.
She aske
d 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 titbit away.
“Have you lived in Las Vegas all your life?”
Khara nods, but doesn’t say anything more. This conversation is going nowhere fast. Has she never learned the art of making small talk?
“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 good. 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 grin 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 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 guidebook 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 noteworthy.
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 guidebook, tucks it away into her big, faux-leather handbag and says, “So where to next, tour leader?”
I choke on my last mouthful of wine. Doesn’t she know the significance of a black card? Or does she simply not care? It’s that last thought that hits me like a horse kick, as if everything I’ve ever known has been turned upside down. I’ve never met anyone before who doesn’t care about the money.
I have to clear my throat before I can speak. “I need to get you to your dress fitting, but we’re going to make a stop for dessert along the way.”
Chapter 5
Khara
The sun on my face feels completely different to the Nevada sun. Milder, gentler, as if the fluffy white clouds drifting overhead are filtering out the heat on its path down to the ground. I lift my face to the sky, feeling the warm prickle on my closed eyelids and my cheeks. I breathe in deeply and smell food, and humanity, and exhaust fumes, ever-present in any city in the world, I suppose. But above all of these is the delicious scent of the man beside me.
The chemistry between us is impossible to ignore. Trust me, I’ve tried. All morning and all through lunch I tried to ignore this thrum of awareness I get whenever Adam is near. I tried so hard I now have a headache.
I sigh.
“Is it that good?” Adam asks. His voice is doing that purring thing again, making me shiver. Or maybe that’s the ice cream trickling down the cone and melting over my fingers. I stop worshipping the sun and rapidly lick my fingers clean, catching the cold droplets dripping down the sugar cone with my tongue.
Adam makes a small sound, a little like a groan, and I flash him a look that I hope says ‘In your dreams’.
“Not bad,” I answer. “This could even give Ben & Jerry’s a run for their money.”
He snorts in amusement, and I smile to myself. This rich, creamy, home-made ice cream is way better even than Ben & Jerry’s, and I’ve been involved in a clandestine love affair with Ben and Jerry since my first high school boyfriend (ironically named Ben) broke my heart. I feel just a little as if I’m being unfaithful to them, but this cappuccino and French vanilla ice cream is seriously the best-tasting thing that has ever passed my lips. I take another lick, and moan with pleasure.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Adam not-so-discreetly adjusting his chinos, and suppress another smile. No reason why we can’t both feel uncomfortable.
I have to admit, Adam’s version of sightseeing isn’t too bad. From the Guildhall we walked along the embankment of the Wester River which runs through the city. Glass-walled tourist boats ply the river, loudspeaker
s blaring, while plainer-looking water buses move in a steady stream in and out from the very modern-looking dock. Then he hailed us a horse-drawn carriage, just like the ones in New York City romcoms, and we rode through the increasingly narrow, cobbled streets to this square in the shadow of the cathedral.
Dotted around the square are the quaint wood-and-canvas stalls of a farmers’ market, bustling with shoppers, vendors shouting for attention, kids and dogs, and tourists, who are easy to spot because they look just like the tourists we get in Vegas. We eat our ice creams sitting on the sun-baked edge of the stone fountain in the center of the square and a light breeze drifts cool droplets toward us.
Without a doubt, the home-made ice cream stall is the most popular, even more popular than the craft beer stalls. People are queuing for this ice cream, and I don’t blame them. Why isn’t this in the guidebook?
“Do you come here often?” I take another long lick from my cone, enjoying the way Adam’s eyes dilate at the sight. Geez, but men are predictable, no matter where in the world they are, or how much money they have.
Adam shrugs. “I’ve visited Westerwald off and on over the years, first because my mother is a patron of the Neustadt Ballet and has family here, and then more frequently after I got to know Rik and Max.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but it tells me more than I wanted to know. A patron of the ballet? I’ve never even seen a ballet. It just reaffirms that this man who seems to be trying his utmost to win me over is in a whole other league. Still, I can’t quite reconcile the man beside me, licking melting home-made ice cream off his fingers as the breeze ruffles his dark hair, with the one I saw earlier, ordering pretentious foods and waving around his fancy credit card and generally acting like a dick. The man I met in Vegas, the one I saw last night, didn’t look like the kind of man who’d want to get his no-doubt-designer pants dirty sitting on the edge of a public fountain, as relaxed here among us mere mortals as he looked in the palace library.