My heartbeat is suddenly as fast and arrhythmic as a clumsy tap dance.
How the hell did he get my number? And so quickly…
Phaedra leans in to peek, and I stuff the phone into my purse. A burst of laughter and conversation from Cosmin and the fangirl draws her attention away.
My phone buzzes again.
I’d like to apologize in person for my misstep in Abu Dhabi.
“Who’s that?” Phae asks, swiveling my way again.
“No one. Wrong number.”
When the phone lights up a third time, she snatches it from my hand and I have to pummel her to retrieve it. As I secure it in my purse, I spy the message:
I understand if you’re committed. But if not, meet with me so we can talk.
Does he mean “in a relationship” committed or “already have plans with friends”?
Phae gets grouchy over my “sneaky” phone messages and launches some mean little digs, making me feel stupid in the way that’s always come naturally to her. We’re low-key bickering when a merciful distraction arises as Cosmin starts to wander off with the cute girl Phae would never admit to seeing as her rival.
I sneak my phone out and reread the messages. Throwing a glance at Phae, I type a stealthy reply.
I’ll wait out front for exactly five minutes. Your window is 9:18-9:23.
Phae isn’t thrilled when I bail, but she might be playing it up. Making each other “the bad guy” has always been part of our Old Married Couple vibe, so I’m not worried. Once she gets back into her room with snacks and pajamas, I figure she’ll be glad for some alone time.
When I go out to the motor lobby, Cosmin is there with thewoman from the bar. She’s drunkenly falling all over him, slipping a hand into his suit jacket while he holds her up. They don’t see me, and I discreetly go sit on a bench at one side of the doors. They appear to be waiting for a car.
I check the time on my phone: 9:18.
The countdown begins.
A sleek BMW sedan pulls into the circular drive, but Cosmin makes no move toward it. He checks something on his phone and pockets it. The sedan with its dark-tinted windows sits, quietly purring.
The hotel doors open. A pair of pristine black monk-strap shoes stop to my right, and I slide my eyes in that direction without looking up.
Leisurely, I check my phone. “One minute to spare.”
He chuckles. “You allowed me very little time.”
Damn the sorcery of that deep voice of his…
I lift my gaze, and the sight of him is like an erotic version of static shock. It all converges on me in a second: the memory of his scent, the texture of his skin, the rock-hard curves of muscle under my fingertips, the delicious sound of every sexy thing he murmured into my ear that night months ago, the subtle rumbles of approval he made when I came.
He extends a hand. “Shall we?”
“Where are we off to?” I ignore his hand and saunter to the car.
“As yet undetermined. I’m thinking on my feet.”
He opens the rear door for me, and I pause to lean on it. I wait, one eyebrow raised. He gives me a look of chagrin, mouth quirking on one side.
“I owe you an apology,” he delivers in a remorseful sigh.
“How much isthatworth? More or less than a thousand euros?” I sit carefully—my dress daringly short—and pivot to swing my legs in, scooting over to make room. Klaus gets in and shuts the door.
“Would you like to dine?” he asks. “Have you been to Attica?”
