Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69330 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
He scanned the surroundings. “What about toilets?”
“There’s an ablution building on the outskirts of the property.”
He crossed his arms and watched her darkly. “What happens if you need to go in the night?”
“You hold it, or you get up and walk over there. Not all of us live a glitzy life. I’ve never had a bath, you know.”
“Never?”
“Only showers.” She smiled at his shocked expression. “I have no idea what it feels like to soak in bubbles.”
“Your clothes,” he motioned at the suit she pulled on, “how can you afford it? Does he give you an allowance?”
“Doumar doesn’t like me to have cash. If he thinks I need something, he’ll take me to buy it.”
“He lets you choose what you wear?”
“Only here. At the club, I put on whatever he tells me to.”
“How about food and other commodities?”
She pulled her hair back into a slick ponytail. “He drops off a box once a month.”
“Did he always let you live alone?”
She glanced at him quickly, and then turned to the mirror mounted against the caravan wall to apply her makeup. “I lived with him until I was twenty.”
“Why did he let you go?”
Lowering the mascara, she looked at him in the reflection of the mirror, weighing her words. “I had a few … breakdowns. It wasn’t conducive for business, and Doumar found I operated better if he gave me space.” She rounded off her appearance by touching up the red lipstick that hid the cut on her lip. After pulling on knee-high boots, she said, “I’m ready.”
The appreciation she saw in his expression warmed her from the inside until her skin glowed with a pleasant heat.
His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Take a jacket.”
When she returned with a bolero-style jacket, he took her arm and escorted her to the street where a Ducati was parked.
She gave him a surprised look. “You got wheels?”
“I like my independence. I prefer not relying on public transport.”
“When did this happen?”
“Today.”
She hopped onto the back and secured the helmet he handed her. “Does that mean you’re sticking around for a while?”
His look was piercing, searching her eyes for questions that went much deeper than the one she’d just asked, and for truths she couldn’t admit. “Would you like that?”
Her answer was to place her hands on her knees and spread them wide over the seat.
A twinkle lit up his eye. “Tease.”
He fitted his helmet and threw a muscular leg over the bike. The powerful machine sagged under his weight. He checked on her one last time in the side-mirror before pushing the ignition button. She shifted closer and wrapped her arms around his waist. His back was a wall of hard, warm body. As he shifted gears, his muscles knotted and flexed. She traced the lines that defined his body with her fingertips. The flesh and sinew braided together like strong rope. Deep ridges ran over his ribs on his sides. Under her palms, his heartbeat was strong and steady, a reassuring rhythm that lured her with the false hope that things could work out all right.
At a red light, his long, slender fingers closed around the brake on the handlebar. The watch on his wrist shone in the dashboard lights. Pressing her cheek against his back, she recalled his scent. He always smelled clean and wealthy, of posh education, cultured gentleman, and money. The subtle fragrance of his cologne served as a reminder that they were worlds apart. If only his intoxicating perfume could anesthetize her conscience.
Bono pulled up in front of Melk. It was a club with a glamorous reputation where the rich and famous played. A concierge took their helmets and the key remote to park the bike. Smoothing down her hair, she took Bono’s hand and followed him to the dining area in the front. The hostess knew him, because her face lit up with a brilliance that would put a choir of angel faces shining down on earth to shame.
“Bono!” She rushed forward and kissed his cheek. “You didn’t tell me you’re in town.”
The way the woman’s manicured hand lingered for a second too long on his shoulder was like a splinter under Sky’s skin, but Bono pulled her under his arm and said, “This is my companion, Sky Val.”
The women exchanged a cool, polite greeting.
“I haven’t booked—” Bono started, but the hostess silenced him with a finger on his lips. “My best table for you.”
She ushered them to a window table at the back with a view over the canal. “Champagne, as usual?”
As usual? Even if she deserved no better, it hurt to know she was a ritual, one of many with whom he’d gone through the same sequence of seduction.
When the hostess was gone, she turned to Bono. “You didn’t tell me you were a regular in Amsterdam.”
“You didn’t ask.”