had over men.
She’d learned that early on, back when she was really too young to be learning such things. Back on the streets of Playa de las Américas, when she’d realized that her burgeoning womanhood was another tool she could use, and was soon the most powerful tool she could use – to get attention, to work a man’s interest, to draw him in and spit him out again when she was done.
It was a trick that worked on almost any straight man. Married or single, she could make him look, make him respond, make him say and do things he would almost certainly regret. It had got her into many risky situations, and out of many more.
The epitome of this thrill for her was with a man like Hristo Markov, or Lee Bailey. Not that they were the same – indeed, they were very different in most ways.
But both were hard men. Fighters. Villains who lived outside the normal rules of society. The kind of men other guys avoided, would avert their gaze from and stare at the floor when eye contact was made.
And she, Imelda Maria Sanchez, could make even a man like that go weak at the knees with a glance, make his belly flip when she met his look, make him give that little-boy look when he was anything but a small, weak child.
It was a talent. A skill she had developed. A trick.
And now, she stood in the entrance to this somewhat brash English bar, met Lee Bailey’s look and held it, and watched his expression transform from surprise, through recognition, to undeniable, base need.
She should feel guilty for allowing herself to manipulate him so.
She should feel bad that she was laying it on so thick, here to have him, to use and manipulate him.
But the strongest feeling she felt was confusion – that underlying all this was the knowledge that he did the same thing to her. That his look reached into her belly and made it flip, that one of the reasons she lingered so long in the doorway was that she didn’t trust her knees to take her weight if she tried to move.
She shouldn’t be feeling this way.
She hadn’t come here for this.
She certainly hadn’t come here to fall .
§
The place was busy, no free tables, only a few spaces at the bar.
One of the spaces was a spare barstool by Lee.
Imelda went across and he stood. He seemed awkward, nervous. As if he didn’t know what to do. Hug her? Kiss her? Shake her by the hand – that would be so very English!
She stepped up to him, put a hand on each of his arms and leaned into his space. Her thighs pressed against his, her breasts squashed against his hard chest. She breathed him in: the beer he’d been drinking, an aftershave that was mostly citrus and spice, and that underlying scent that was him – the essence of him she so longed to taste on his skin.
She pressed her lips against his cheek. Brief softness against the scratch of his stubble. Pulled away, stepped back.
Briefly, she hugged herself. Couldn’t help it – as if a wave of something had passed over her, a physical and emotional thing she didn’t understand.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.”
A blonde girl loitered nearby behind the bar, studying the pair of them closely. Hair cropped short, tattoos peeping out of her cropped top. The brother’s girl: Jess.
Imelda smiled at her, sensing hostility, protectiveness.
Dean shrugged at the girl, raised his eyebrows, waggled his head.
After a pause, Jess allowed her shoulders to drop a little, some of the tension to slip away.
A whole conversation between the three of them, with no words.
Jess turned away, Lee indicated the vacant stool, and the two of them sat.
“Can I get you a drink?” said Jess, over her shoulder.
“One of those would be good, thank you,” Imelda said, pointing at Lee’s Estrella.
They waited while Jess poured the beer into a glass and then, finally, Lee put a hand on Imelda’s forearm and said, “You okay? I saw the other night. Markov. He looked pissed with you.”
Imelda shook her head briefly, dismissively.
“Did
She’d learned that early on, back when she was really too young to be learning such things. Back on the streets of Playa de las Américas, when she’d realized that her burgeoning womanhood was another tool she could use, and was soon the most powerful tool she could use – to get attention, to work a man’s interest, to draw him in and spit him out again when she was done.
It was a trick that worked on almost any straight man. Married or single, she could make him look, make him respond, make him say and do things he would almost certainly regret. It had got her into many risky situations, and out of many more.
The epitome of this thrill for her was with a man like Hristo Markov, or Lee Bailey. Not that they were the same – indeed, they were very different in most ways.
But both were hard men. Fighters. Villains who lived outside the normal rules of society. The kind of men other guys avoided, would avert their gaze from and stare at the floor when eye contact was made.
And she, Imelda Maria Sanchez, could make even a man like that go weak at the knees with a glance, make his belly flip when she met his look, make him give that little-boy look when he was anything but a small, weak child.
It was a talent. A skill she had developed. A trick.
And now, she stood in the entrance to this somewhat brash English bar, met Lee Bailey’s look and held it, and watched his expression transform from surprise, through recognition, to undeniable, base need.
She should feel guilty for allowing herself to manipulate him so.
She should feel bad that she was laying it on so thick, here to have him, to use and manipulate him.
But the strongest feeling she felt was confusion – that underlying all this was the knowledge that he did the same thing to her. That his look reached into her belly and made it flip, that one of the reasons she lingered so long in the doorway was that she didn’t trust her knees to take her weight if she tried to move.
She shouldn’t be feeling this way.
She hadn’t come here for this.
She certainly hadn’t come here to fall .
§
The place was busy, no free tables, only a few spaces at the bar.
One of the spaces was a spare barstool by Lee.
Imelda went across and he stood. He seemed awkward, nervous. As if he didn’t know what to do. Hug her? Kiss her? Shake her by the hand – that would be so very English!
She stepped up to him, put a hand on each of his arms and leaned into his space. Her thighs pressed against his, her breasts squashed against his hard chest. She breathed him in: the beer he’d been drinking, an aftershave that was mostly citrus and spice, and that underlying scent that was him – the essence of him she so longed to taste on his skin.
She pressed her lips against his cheek. Brief softness against the scratch of his stubble. Pulled away, stepped back.
Briefly, she hugged herself. Couldn’t help it – as if a wave of something had passed over her, a physical and emotional thing she didn’t understand.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“Hey.”
A blonde girl loitered nearby behind the bar, studying the pair of them closely. Hair cropped short, tattoos peeping out of her cropped top. The brother’s girl: Jess.
Imelda smiled at her, sensing hostility, protectiveness.
Dean shrugged at the girl, raised his eyebrows, waggled his head.
After a pause, Jess allowed her shoulders to drop a little, some of the tension to slip away.
A whole conversation between the three of them, with no words.
Jess turned away, Lee indicated the vacant stool, and the two of them sat.
“Can I get you a drink?” said Jess, over her shoulder.
“One of those would be good, thank you,” Imelda said, pointing at Lee’s Estrella.
They waited while Jess poured the beer into a glass and then, finally, Lee put a hand on Imelda’s forearm and said, “You okay? I saw the other night. Markov. He looked pissed with you.”
Imelda shook her head briefly, dismissively.
“Did
Similar Books
