her chest and eyeing Pacino as she fiddles with the gold chains around her neck.
No sooner has Eva returned with the beers than Pacino leans over and looks into my eyes so that I feel as if a dagger – of lust, not pain, has imbedded itself in my stomach. He has dark feral eyes and they pull me in. While my stomach starts doing flips, he says, loading the sentence with meaning, "Where are you two going, later?" He has an almost perfect English accent with just a trace of something foreign.
"Why?" I say, but it comes out like a squeak.
"Because wherever you're going we'd like to go too."
Male Model lowers his eyes. He has the prettiest lashes. When he looks back up he seems faintly embarrassed at his friend's forthright manner and smiles sheepishly at Eva.
"We'll be lucky if we find our way back to the hotel," I say, taking a swig of beer, which fizzes up inside my nose, causing me to sneeze.
"It's our first night here," says Eva, staring at Male Model while licking her lower lip and pulling at her left earlobe. "And I do believe we're lost."
Pacino laughs. "I see. In that case, once the rain has stopped me and my friend won't mind showing you the way back to your hotel. Not at all." He waves to the waitress and orders some champagne.
"That would be kind," I say. What I'm thinking is that it's awfully presumptuous of him to think we want them to come back to our hotel. In a flash I panic. Maybe we've got our wires crossed. Maybe he thinks we're prostitutes! I decide to set him straight.
"I'm Kate Pickles and this is Eva Black," I say. "We work in advertising." Getting no reply I say, "And you two are?"
"Who would you like us to be?" says Pacino. What a creep. Eva starts giggling.
"Why don't you just call us by our nicknames, everyone else does," says Male Model, fitting a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "He's the Marquis and everyone calls me the Count." I bat away the impulse that these two might be dangerous loonies. Something about them intrigues me, or rather something about the Marquis still intrigues my lower regions enough to stick around. Not that I intend sleeping with him, of course.
Once the champagne arrives, and I've had a couple of glasses, I feel myself letting down my defences. I can sense that they are dodgy as hell, but I don't care. What the heck, we're on holiday and they promise adventure, an escape from our, okay my, dull little life.
Even as a voluptuous brunette in a pink bikini steps off the podium and comes up to the Marquis to start a slow, sensuous strip, he shoos her away as if she's nothing more than an irritating fly and continues talking to me. It makes me feel very attractive, warm and oozy, a feeling I haven't experienced in forever.
We find out they are both from Vienna. They are vague about their jobs but can talk in detail about many European destinations. I figure they're probably playboys.
Suddenly the intimate atmosphere is shattered by the ringing of a mobile phone. The Count gets up to answer it and walks away. When he returns he looks anxious.
"It's my sister, Anya. She's gone off the rails again. My mother is very concerned."
"How old is she?" asks Eva.
"Sixteen. She's ended up in hospital after mixing Ecstasy and booze."
Thinking about his sister is depressing. I don't want reality to enter into this unreal situation. Eva puts her face close to his and starts talking to the Count. They speak quietly, so I don't really hear what they're saying. Sorry if I appear unsympathetic, but I'm all burned out in my sympathy for Eva. I wonder about her, I really do. A few hours ago, while she was all heartbroken over McManus, I was her shoulder to cry on. But her misery seems to have dissipated, the moment she saw the Count.
I look over to see that the Marquis is observing me intently. "You are lost in your own little fantasy world," he says.
"Any more," hic, "champagne?" I say, smiling and raising my glass.
As he refills my glass, his eyes don't leave my
No sooner has Eva returned with the beers than Pacino leans over and looks into my eyes so that I feel as if a dagger – of lust, not pain, has imbedded itself in my stomach. He has dark feral eyes and they pull me in. While my stomach starts doing flips, he says, loading the sentence with meaning, "Where are you two going, later?" He has an almost perfect English accent with just a trace of something foreign.
"Why?" I say, but it comes out like a squeak.
"Because wherever you're going we'd like to go too."
Male Model lowers his eyes. He has the prettiest lashes. When he looks back up he seems faintly embarrassed at his friend's forthright manner and smiles sheepishly at Eva.
"We'll be lucky if we find our way back to the hotel," I say, taking a swig of beer, which fizzes up inside my nose, causing me to sneeze.
"It's our first night here," says Eva, staring at Male Model while licking her lower lip and pulling at her left earlobe. "And I do believe we're lost."
Pacino laughs. "I see. In that case, once the rain has stopped me and my friend won't mind showing you the way back to your hotel. Not at all." He waves to the waitress and orders some champagne.
"That would be kind," I say. What I'm thinking is that it's awfully presumptuous of him to think we want them to come back to our hotel. In a flash I panic. Maybe we've got our wires crossed. Maybe he thinks we're prostitutes! I decide to set him straight.
"I'm Kate Pickles and this is Eva Black," I say. "We work in advertising." Getting no reply I say, "And you two are?"
"Who would you like us to be?" says Pacino. What a creep. Eva starts giggling.
"Why don't you just call us by our nicknames, everyone else does," says Male Model, fitting a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "He's the Marquis and everyone calls me the Count." I bat away the impulse that these two might be dangerous loonies. Something about them intrigues me, or rather something about the Marquis still intrigues my lower regions enough to stick around. Not that I intend sleeping with him, of course.
Once the champagne arrives, and I've had a couple of glasses, I feel myself letting down my defences. I can sense that they are dodgy as hell, but I don't care. What the heck, we're on holiday and they promise adventure, an escape from our, okay my, dull little life.
Even as a voluptuous brunette in a pink bikini steps off the podium and comes up to the Marquis to start a slow, sensuous strip, he shoos her away as if she's nothing more than an irritating fly and continues talking to me. It makes me feel very attractive, warm and oozy, a feeling I haven't experienced in forever.
We find out they are both from Vienna. They are vague about their jobs but can talk in detail about many European destinations. I figure they're probably playboys.
Suddenly the intimate atmosphere is shattered by the ringing of a mobile phone. The Count gets up to answer it and walks away. When he returns he looks anxious.
"It's my sister, Anya. She's gone off the rails again. My mother is very concerned."
"How old is she?" asks Eva.
"Sixteen. She's ended up in hospital after mixing Ecstasy and booze."
Thinking about his sister is depressing. I don't want reality to enter into this unreal situation. Eva puts her face close to his and starts talking to the Count. They speak quietly, so I don't really hear what they're saying. Sorry if I appear unsympathetic, but I'm all burned out in my sympathy for Eva. I wonder about her, I really do. A few hours ago, while she was all heartbroken over McManus, I was her shoulder to cry on. But her misery seems to have dissipated, the moment she saw the Count.
I look over to see that the Marquis is observing me intently. "You are lost in your own little fantasy world," he says.
"Any more," hic, "champagne?" I say, smiling and raising my glass.
As he refills my glass, his eyes don't leave my
Similar Books
