Andrea.”
Be still, my heart! The way he rolls the r in my name makes it sound like poetry . . . a symphony . . . something far more exotic than a common, everyday name.
Then I realize I have to corral my bucket of mush for a brain again. “Thank you, Mr. Rivera. I’m looking forward to my time here.”
“Marcos. Please call me Marcos.” When I nod, he goes on. “Are you on vacation in our country?”
“No. Not this time.”
He arches a jet-black brow. “What kind of business brings you here?”
“I’m a gemologist. I’m on a buying trip for my employer.” “Ah . . . our emeralds.”
“Exactly.” I figure the fewer words I utter, the less stupid my fascination with the old Hollywood-handsome one-man welcoming committee will make me sound.
My cell phone rings.
Marcos glances at my handbag, then steps toward the luggage carousel.
I nearly swoon at his polite sensitivity, but get a grip and burrow in my purse to open the chirping gadget. “Hello?”
“Andie?” Max says. “Is everything okay?”
What’s up with him? “Of course, everything’s okay. Why would you think it isn’t?”
“Remember? I’ve traveled with you before.”
“That is so not fair! Your lack of faith in me is the reason I insisted on coming alone. And it’s the reason it’s going to stay that way. I don’t need a babysitter.”
As I go to close the phone, I hear him squawk something about what I think. I know where he’s going, and I’m not joining him. I can so take care of myself. I even find people willing to help me along the way. Mr. Rivera is a case in point. Too bad Max isn’t a little more like the Colombian.
Men!
Then the oddity of my current situation dawns on me. Since when do I, Andie Adams, have men like Max and Mr. Rivera flocking to my side? I’m still using the same vanilla-scented body lotion and spray, not some exotic come-hither elixir. So what’s the deal here?
I ponder the conundrum—but not for long. The luggage carousel coughs to life, and suitcases and duffels belch out of a black maw onto the rubber surface. Round and round other people’s bags go, and that dreaded lurching starts in my gut. Will I have more than the clean pair of underwear I always stash in my briefcase?
“There it is!” I yell in ecstasy when the glaring orange suitcase bounces out. Thank you, Jesus. Damp, hand-washed underwear in a foreign land does not a happy me make.
“I’m happy for you,” my companion says, humor in his eyes. “Can I take you somewhere?”
CRASH-BAM-BOOM!
Reality clunks me down from that flattery-flavored cloud I’ve been floating on. Am I nuts? I don’t know this guy from a rat in a New York alley. And here he’s offering to take me “somewhere.” I’ll bet.
In spite of his killer looks he could be a . . . well, a serial killer. “No, thank you. Everything’s been arranged for me.”
Oh, he’s good. There’s that touch of disappointment in his expression . . . I almost fall for it. Almost.
“Well, Andrea. I suppose I shouldn’t be keeping you any longer. Here.” He holds out a business card. “If you should need anything during your stay, please call. I’ll be honored to help you.”
Is he laying it on too thick now? Or is paranoia my new middle name? In either case, my alarms have gone off, and I refuse to put myself in danger. I don’t even agree to call for help, should I need it. That’s what boring but safe embassies are for.
I sigh. And take the card.
“Thank you for your help back there,” I dip my head toward the customs and immigration booths. “And adiós .”
As Mr. Rivera strolls away, I wonder what he’d been doing in the airport. No normal being hangs out in an airport for the sake of hanging out in an airport. I glance at his card, and my eyes nearly drop out of their sockets. If I can believe what
I’m seeing, the hunk in a white silk shirt and finely tailored black linen pants is a Colombian lawmaker. A senator .
Maybe I should have
Be still, my heart! The way he rolls the r in my name makes it sound like poetry . . . a symphony . . . something far more exotic than a common, everyday name.
Then I realize I have to corral my bucket of mush for a brain again. “Thank you, Mr. Rivera. I’m looking forward to my time here.”
“Marcos. Please call me Marcos.” When I nod, he goes on. “Are you on vacation in our country?”
“No. Not this time.”
He arches a jet-black brow. “What kind of business brings you here?”
“I’m a gemologist. I’m on a buying trip for my employer.” “Ah . . . our emeralds.”
“Exactly.” I figure the fewer words I utter, the less stupid my fascination with the old Hollywood-handsome one-man welcoming committee will make me sound.
My cell phone rings.
Marcos glances at my handbag, then steps toward the luggage carousel.
I nearly swoon at his polite sensitivity, but get a grip and burrow in my purse to open the chirping gadget. “Hello?”
“Andie?” Max says. “Is everything okay?”
What’s up with him? “Of course, everything’s okay. Why would you think it isn’t?”
“Remember? I’ve traveled with you before.”
“That is so not fair! Your lack of faith in me is the reason I insisted on coming alone. And it’s the reason it’s going to stay that way. I don’t need a babysitter.”
As I go to close the phone, I hear him squawk something about what I think. I know where he’s going, and I’m not joining him. I can so take care of myself. I even find people willing to help me along the way. Mr. Rivera is a case in point. Too bad Max isn’t a little more like the Colombian.
Men!
Then the oddity of my current situation dawns on me. Since when do I, Andie Adams, have men like Max and Mr. Rivera flocking to my side? I’m still using the same vanilla-scented body lotion and spray, not some exotic come-hither elixir. So what’s the deal here?
I ponder the conundrum—but not for long. The luggage carousel coughs to life, and suitcases and duffels belch out of a black maw onto the rubber surface. Round and round other people’s bags go, and that dreaded lurching starts in my gut. Will I have more than the clean pair of underwear I always stash in my briefcase?
“There it is!” I yell in ecstasy when the glaring orange suitcase bounces out. Thank you, Jesus. Damp, hand-washed underwear in a foreign land does not a happy me make.
“I’m happy for you,” my companion says, humor in his eyes. “Can I take you somewhere?”
CRASH-BAM-BOOM!
Reality clunks me down from that flattery-flavored cloud I’ve been floating on. Am I nuts? I don’t know this guy from a rat in a New York alley. And here he’s offering to take me “somewhere.” I’ll bet.
In spite of his killer looks he could be a . . . well, a serial killer. “No, thank you. Everything’s been arranged for me.”
Oh, he’s good. There’s that touch of disappointment in his expression . . . I almost fall for it. Almost.
“Well, Andrea. I suppose I shouldn’t be keeping you any longer. Here.” He holds out a business card. “If you should need anything during your stay, please call. I’ll be honored to help you.”
Is he laying it on too thick now? Or is paranoia my new middle name? In either case, my alarms have gone off, and I refuse to put myself in danger. I don’t even agree to call for help, should I need it. That’s what boring but safe embassies are for.
I sigh. And take the card.
“Thank you for your help back there,” I dip my head toward the customs and immigration booths. “And adiós .”
As Mr. Rivera strolls away, I wonder what he’d been doing in the airport. No normal being hangs out in an airport for the sake of hanging out in an airport. I glance at his card, and my eyes nearly drop out of their sockets. If I can believe what
I’m seeing, the hunk in a white silk shirt and finely tailored black linen pants is a Colombian lawmaker. A senator .
Maybe I should have
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