Unable to hold his gaze, her eyes dropped back to his hands again. One finger idly traveled the rim of his glass. He raised his other hand, the one with the watch around his wrist, from the table, palm up.
With the index finger of that extended hand, the smallest movement invited her to walk to him. As soon as she angled in his direction, he leaned back again, his face once more lost in the shadows. She sighed with relief. It was easier to approach when she couldn’t see his face, the thin line of his mouth, the cold stare of his eyes.
Victoria, what are you doing?
Thoughts flashed through her mind. He was practically a stalker. She’d seen him almost every day. He’d watched her the entire time she was in the bar, of that she was certain. Every cell in her brain screamed at her to turn around and head to the elevators, maybe even to the bell station for an escort to her room. Confusingly, every cell in her body was drawn to the table, to him, as if he were a black hole and she was simply some nearby space flotsam.
Her gaze was completely lowered as she reached him. She had fixated on that single finger, circling his drink, and when she stopped, inches from the table, keeping it between them as if it would protect her somehow, she was silent. Having no idea what to say or why she was even standing there, she waited.
“Sit.”
His voice, deep and sure, sent a shiver down her spine. It also broke whatever spell he had cast. Finally regaining control, she turned one foot toward the exit.
“Please.” His voice was softer this time, although still more of a command than a request. She raised her gaze to look at him. He was smiling.
“You’ve been watching me,” she said. Her stomach was inhabited by a flock of hummingbirds. The intelligent, controlled part of her brain summoned a bit of consternation to go with her observation.
“Yes, I have. Sit.”
Vicki sighed. Her shoulders went from stiff and squared to resigned, almost defeated, as her fight-or-flight instincts left her bereft in the middle of the bar. She pulled out the seat farthest from him. It was a small table with only three chairs, so there wasn’t much safety afforded by the miniscule distance. She managed to keep her eye on the doorway and the lobby in sight, cold comfort before this hard but intriguing man.
“Why did you watch me all night?” she finally asked. Her curiosity was piqued, masking the very real concern that this man might be a complete lunatic.
His throaty chuckle took her by surprise. “Sweetheart, I’ve been watching you for days.”
Is this supposed to make me feel better?
“You fascinate me. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Yes. I could tell you needed to settle. I didn’t want to be one of those guys who didn’t hold your interest for more than a day. Or an evening.” He smirked at her and lifted his glass.
She fixated on his lips as he took a sip of his drink. Whiskey, she thought. She briefly contemplated taking the glass and throwing the contents in his face for the snide remark about her…er…nocturnal activities. Realizing he hadn’t really condemned her for those actions but was simply differentiating himself, she tried to relax.
Placing his drink on the table, he extended his hand. “Michael Collins,” he offered warmly.
Vicki noticed that, when he wasn’t looking at her sternly, his lips were full and moist. Inviting. Feeling a wave of embarrassment for noticing his lips instead of his outstretched hand, she quickly extended hers. “Vicki Simpson. Nice to meet you,” she replied automatically.
“Vicki? Short for Victoria,” he stated, not really asking.
Surprised at the clarification, she simply nodded, studying him with interest. Remembering he’d admitted to stalking her, which somehow then had begun to lose its weight of foreboding, she shifted to professional mode, using her work skills to shore up her confidence. She began to interview him.
Michael was amused by the change in her demeanor. In rather short order, she learned they both lived in upstate New York, although he lived outside Syracuse and she lived between there and Rochester. She had been vague about exactly where she lived but made it clear she had family there. Letting me know she’s got roots, that someone would miss her. As much as he wanted to take advantage of her in every way possible, he was also proud of her for her sense of self-preservation. Good for her.
When he told her he was a detective, he laughed at her response.
“So not an astronaut? Or an Irish freedom fighter?” The smile that lit her face as she teased him was delightful.
“Nope. Although my father swore when I was growing up that he was going to send me to the moon, I never quite got there. Nice to have a namesake that did, though.” Very few people knew that the poor guy that had been left up in orbit when Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong took those first famous steps was also named Michael Collins. A lot more folks knew about the Irish revolutionary from the movie by the same name, but he was still impressed by her quick mind and her sharp wit.
Signaling the bartender, he ordered another round for both of them. He was enjoying their conversation and wanted it to continue.
When the glass of wine was placed next to her, she frowned.
“I didn’t want another drink.”
Noting her reaction, his mouth tightened infinitesimally before he responded. “It’s only a glass of wine, Vicki. Drink it.”
She glared at him, which sparked his amusement. She’s feisty. Clearly she was not used to being told what to do.
Her gaze dropped to the glass, and she reached for it. “You’re very bossy, you know.”
Michael chuckled. “So I’ve been told.” It was not lost on him that, despite her glares and protests, she was doing what he’d told her to do.
They engaged in small talk again, commenting on the warmth in Aruba that was such a stark contrast to what was surely a series of days interrupted by the threat of lake-effect snow back home. It was late October, and the first storms of winter were likely skipping across upstate New York in their absence. Even as they spoke of minor things like the weather and the state fair, Michael noted how enjoyable her company was. She was as quick to laugh as she was to roll her eyes, and her inquisitiveness drew him to her. He hoped she’d be as curious in the bedroom as she was in the cocktail lounge, and his pulse quickened at the thought.
As Michael began thinking about ways to get her to agree to a walk on the beach, her voice interrupted his musings.
“Thank you for the drink, but I’m afraid I’m a bit worn-out. I’m going to head upstairs,” she told him.
Rising from the table, he held out his hand, waiting for her to take it. His original plan had merely called for their introduction, and he shelved his thoughts of getting her alone to go back to plan A. She stared at his open palm for a moment before placing her hand lightly in his. Turning her toward the doorway, he guided her by placing his hand lightly at the small of her back. He felt her shiver beneath his fingertips.
“Are you cold?” He knew she wasn’t, but he wanted to see how she would respond.
“Um…no. Ticklish, I guess. Your hand. It gave me goose bumps,” she replied.
Honest, he thought. Good girl.
He didn’t say anything in response to her admission, but he didn’t move his hand, either. In the elevator, he waited expectantly as the doors closed. She looked at him for more than a few seconds before smiling and reaching over to press the number four for her floor. She appeared relieved he didn’t seem to know her floor. He was happy to keep his secret and intrigued she hadn’t asked him which floor was his. When she didn’t protest his escorting her to her door, he suppressed a grin. Things were going according to plan.
Standing in front of her door, he used the hand still at her back to shift her body so she faced him. He’d kept that contact the entire time. He leaned down and brushed his mouth gently over hers before moving so that his lips barely touched her ear.
“Good night, Victoria. It was truly a pleasure.”
>
Another shiver ran through her, covering her arms with goose bumps. “Would you like to come inside?” she asked, her eyes looking slightly glazed, from the kiss more than the wine.
He pulled away from her, not releasing her body but leaning back far enough to possess her with his eyes. His lips turned up slightly.
“You’re not ready for that yet, sweetheart.” He arched his brow before his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “But I’d love to take you to breakfast. Why don’t you meet me in the lobby at nine.” It really wasn’t posed as a question, although the phrasing suggested it should be.
She blinked and paused a moment before answering. “I’d love to.”
She managed to slide the key card into the door on the first try, although her hands were shaking slightly. Michael felt the breeze of cool air conditioning in contrast with the open-air walkway before he stepped back. As she entered the room, she turned to see him watching her as the door quietly snicked shut between them.
Chapter Four
She shifted to face her room, saw the suitcase in the corner, and was snapped back to reality.
Packing.
Leaving.
Her sense of purpose—of direction—faltered. Vicki wasn’t the type to act on impulse. She was a planner, tightly in control of her schedule, her emotions…her life. Since the mission statement, she’d tried to throw all of that away, at least for a week, and it had left her feeling even emptier inside than she’d felt before. The decision to fly back to New York had satisfied her need to have a plan, but the plan itself hadn’t brought her any real comfort. Going back to take action was one thing. But she knew the stark reality of what she would face: an empty house, a broken marriage, children who had rejected her, unemployment. Facing it there or here, the reality was the same.
So why rush back?
The encounter with Michael Collins left her conflicted. She’d gone to the bar to consider her options, but from the outset, she’d intended to spend whatever remaining time she had in Aruba alone. She’d rebuffed every man who’d approached that night. Her attempts to soothe her wounded soul with another man had failed and left her feeling more like a slut than a woman rebuilding her confidence.
Sex with them hadn’t been a requirement; in fact, since the bathroom quickie with 22F, she’d only slept with one man. But she’d approached every interaction knowing that, if the spirit moved her, there could be sex. Knowing she had control over that gave her a sense of comfort.
The problem was that the spirit rarely moved her anymore.
Sex with Alan had been frantic and clandestine at first, both of them living with their parents to save money until they could marry and buy a home. Except for the occasional hotel stay, either as a treat or while vacationing, they were usually fucking like horny teenagers in a backseat or on a sofa, keeping their voices down to avoid being caught. It had a certain thrill, although even that, after a while, had become routine.
Once they were married and could fuck anywhere and anytime, they seemed to have a manic need to do just that. They’d gone from their wedding reception to their first home, a little starter place that was realistically more than they could afford. It was theirs, and they christened every room in an effort to assert their independence from the hurried, clandestine couplings that had marked their courtship.
Unfortunately Vicki quickly found sex boring. She hated to admit that by their first anniversary, faking orgasms had become more the rule than the exception. Since her orgasms had never been particularly demonstrative, she wasn’t completely shocked that Alan never noticed. Disappointed, sure, but not shocked.
She was ashamed to admit that the thrill of being caught might have been part of the excitement in the first place. The first month or so that they lived together, Alan urged her to be more vocal, reminding her that they were finally free to let loose. As much as she understood the truth of his words, she ached inside over the simple fact that she really had nothing to be vocal about.
That’s just how sex was for her. Always had been, always would be.
Some of the thrill came back with 22F. Sex with a random man in a public bathroom, in an airport in a foreign country, had a thrill factor she hadn’t experienced since her dating days two decades earlier. But it had left her feeling empty and unloved. She’d come, but only after her own hand got involved in the process.
The earth-shattering orgasms she’d read about and heard her friends talk about were, she assumed, just not in her wiring.
Going home once she’d received Alan’s message was just another act of self-recrimination. All she was doing was rubbing her nose in all her failures, which she could just as easily do after having two more days of escape.
Hell, if I want to, I can stay even longer. That’s certainly one upside of nothing to go back to.
Staring down at the suitcase, she kicked off her sandals and reached under the sundress to remove her bra. Strapless bras were tools of the devil in her opinion, but she’d passed forty and gravity was not her friend. Flopping down on the bed, she groaned as she considered the breakfast date she’d agreed to and the man who’d invited her. Not sure if the wine or him had her so off-kilter, she only knew her mind was a jumble.
Why had she gone to his table in the first place? The thrill meter had redlined as she’d approached him. Even as her brain told her to flee, her body felt things it hadn’t felt in years. She was embarrassed to admit she was attracted to him; beyond that, she was aroused by him. Something about him drew her in.
Alan was caring and giving and had always made her feel valued as a person. But somewhere along the line, whether it was caused by her position as the primary breadwinner or if it was just his nature, he began to defer to her for everything. She was bossy and opinionated at work, but by the time she came home, she just didn’t have the energy. Unfortunately whenever Alan made a decision and she questioned him on it, he’d just do whatever she wanted to do. At some point, that morphed into her calling all the shots. It was exhausting.
But Michael didn’t seem anything like Alan. As she looked back at her parade of dates from the week—if you could call 22F a date—she realized they were all cut from the Alan mold: average build, average looks, average height, average personality…just average. There wasn’t anything exceptional about any of them. They were handsome enough and seemed bright and engaging, proper…even responsible and successful. But there had been no spark and certainly no thrill. Michael was tall, he was broad, he was confident, and he was even a little intimidating. He wasn’t heart-stoppingly handsome, but what he lacked in appearance he made up for by fairly oozing confidence. Who was she kidding? He was bossy and a lot intimidating. And part of her quivered at the thought of what that would mean in a relationship.
Of course, if he was one of those Neanderthals who never let the woman drive or pick out her own entrée or have an opinion about anything, she’d be gone before they cleared the breakfast dishes. He hadn’t seemed that way, but he did appear to have some stalker tendencies, even if she had chosen to ignore them. And that bossy thing he had going on would get bothersome, she was certain.
She reread the mission statement. Perhaps she’d been failing on the integrity part of the mission. Was she really being honest with herself, and with these men? Did she know what she wanted? Was she willing to find out?
Exhausted, she drifted off thinking about dark eyes in shadow and deep, throaty whispers in her ear.
She woke before the alarm, well in advance of her breakfast with Michael. Instead of sipping coffee and reading on the balcony in her pajamas, she showered and dressed first, then resumed her morning ritual. She watched the smattering of windsurfers gliding by the resort as she enjoyed her first jolt of caffeine for the day.
Caffeine was the one thing she couldn’t live without. From her college days, when she would brew some and add the cream directly to the coffeepot, drinking it from the warmer without benefit of a mug, to her most recent morning commute, carefully mappe
d out to include a detour through the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-up window, she couldn’t start the day without it. She frowned at the thought of the Dunkin’ Donuts trip, which she’d had to stop making several weeks before the shutdown day. The shop had closed because the loss of traffic from the plant had made it too hard to make ends meet. Another casualty of the closing, leading to more glares for the “Vicktimizer,” as they’d called her.
Glancing down at her e-reader, she browsed through some of the titles in her Distractions folder. Ever since she was a girl, she had used reading as an escape. Lately she’d become absorbed with erotica, possibly because the e-reader was the perfect camouflage. No matter what she read, the book looked exactly the same. She could read it wherever, whenever, without anyone the wiser. There was a certain thrill she got from that, as if she were breaking the rules somehow.
In hindsight she realized her choice of reading material that day wasn’t the best. As she stepped into the bathroom to check her appearance before heading to the lobby to meet Michael, the woman in the mirror had flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and noticeable peaks under her dress. She looked just a little wanton, a look she credited to the reading material rather than any indication of her feelings about the upcoming breakfast.
Vicki had chosen a sleeveless sundress, pale lavender with a floral design in deep purple and blue, and a pair of low-heeled sandals. Her hairdresser had once told her that purple would help enhance the color of her eyes—something she never quite understood since her eyes were a dark forest green. Her once ash blonde hair had finally reached the point where she contemplated highlighting it. It seemed to get darker every year, which saddened her. The sun in Aruba had brought out her natural highlights, though, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through her wavy tresses, trying to tame the untamable before meeting Michael.
As the elevator door opened, her gaze swept the corridor leading to the lobby. She didn’t see him. Checking her watch, she saw that it was still a few minutes before nine, but she grew tense anyway. What if he stood her up? Had she been a fool for abandoning her plans to leave to explore something with this man?
Mission Statement Page 3
