The Wild Side: Urban Fantasy with an Erotic Edge by Mark L. Van Name

outside entrance rather than hustle through the hotel crowd. She stood a bit in shadow, intentionally early, wanting to calm down before she saw him again. No one bothered her as she watched the comings and goings, the overly perfected women on the expensive arms of much older men. She admired the working women and ruefully wondered about role reversals; she could get the same service, but why pay? She shrugged. She didn’t like to dip as low in the age pool as men her same age routinely did.
    Armando walked up, and her body took over before her mind could react. She flushed despite the cool evening air and went liquid at her core. Damn, he looked good in the night. Most men clean up pretty, but his energy was unusual, watchful and untamed, and it pulled her to him. She stood rooted to the shadow, breathing hard and waiting for him to turn and see her.
    Liz was puzzled but not surprised at being able to hide in the shadow. With each day that had passed since Sam’s death, she had become less noticed, but it hadn’t been this pronounced before. She had expected Armando to be able to see her now that she had escaped her dowdy working exterior.
    She stepped closer and touched his arm.
    “Shall we go in?” she asked.
    He jerked slightly, plainly startled at her sudden appearance and touch.
    “I’m sorry; I must have been lost in thought. Did you just get here?” he asked.
    “I’ve been staring at you for about two minutes,” she said. “I was enjoying the show so much that I hesitated to interrupt. It’s fun to watch men as they watch women,” she smiled at him.
    “I’m not used to being surprised,” he said.
    “Neither am I,” she replied honestly.
    “Let’s go in,” Armando said, recovering. “I called Jake for a table, so we shouldn’t have to wait long,” he said.
    “Cool. I didn’t think they took reservations on anything less than two days out,” she said.
    “Jake and I run with the same pack,” he said with a grin, “so he makes allowances for me.”
    Liz threaded their way to the table, giving it her best walk, hips swaying, back straight, willing ownership of the path in front of her. She enjoyed the game of pretending that the other men noticed her, however recent experience had taught her otherwise. But she was sure she could keep Armando’s eyes on her.
    As if in answer to her thought, Armando placed his hand on her back; she felt claimed.
    They settled in a back corner of the terrace and composed their order: ikura sashimi, toro and saba pieces, a complicated house roll, tomago, eel, and a salmon hand roll. It was obvious they shared a rampant craving and passion for raw fish.
    They discussed the indulgent excesses of the space, even to the staff uniforms matching the interior, the women in very short, but somehow formal kimonos, and the men in black satin jackets. To Liz’s way of thinking, it was unfair that the men wore long trousers; men usually have great legs.
    Liz sipped her martini and ran her tongue slowly over her lips. She’d decided she wanted him—now.
    “I’m not entirely sure that this is wise,” she said. He started to interrupt. “No, hear me out. I know where I want this to go but I also want to keep working at the studio. So tell me now that you can be cool with this.”
    “I can’t be sure I’ll ever again be so completely indifferent to you at work,” he said. “I can tell you that I’m good at keeping my personal and work lives quite separate.”
    “I hope you won’t hold our age differences against me,” she said.
    He almost gagged on a sip of scotch. “You have no idea how little that matters to me,” he said heatedly.
    He waved over the waiter.
    “When our order is ready, would you please pack it to go?” He handed the man his credit card.
    “Let’s go to my house,” Liz responded. “The hot tub is ready.” Under her breath, so quietly she doubted he could hear it, she added, “and so am I.”
    * * *
    Liz’s need for him threatened to