Toy Boy

by Lily Harlem

  “Kay,” he said.

  I turned to him, surprised that he knew my name. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been expecting you.” He walked down a slim plank of wood that connected the boat to the harbor, then stood before me. “I thought you’d be here an hour ago. Was the airport busy?”

  “No, it was fine, and that’s great that you’re expecting me.” My heart lifted as I looked up at his handsome face. This was our boat. It must be if this man was expecting me. Perhaps he worked for the hire company and was helping Sullivan by sorting out the sails. “That’s good news. I was beginning to think I was spectacularly lost.” I laughed. “Which wouldn’t be that unusual for me. I do that sometimes, you know, get lost. When I first moved to Oxford, I went round and round in circles, trying to find my way about. It’s like I have no sense of direction…” I was rambling, I knew I was, it was hard not to when I could smell him now. Sweet, fresh sweat mixed with the scent of the ocean, perhaps some lingering cologne, too. My body responded. A flush traveled over my chest, and the hair at the base of my scalp prickled. Damn, if I’d been fifteen years younger, he’d have been just the sort of guy I’d have made a beeline for.

  “Yes, you told me about your appalling sense of direction.” He reached out and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.

  The overly familiar touch shocked me. I took a step backward with my cheek tingling from the brush of his finger.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Kay,” he said, frowning slightly. “It’s me, Sullivan.”

  Chapter Two

  I stared up at him. What the hell was this stranger talking about? He wasn’t Sullivan—that was ridiculous. I’d know Sullivan if I saw him. Okay, so there was something about his appearance he hadn’t wanted me to see, hence the shadowed photograph. Maybe he was going a little silver around his temples or a bit portly from his sedentary day job. Not that I minded. It wasn’t his looks I’d fallen for. It was his personality, the way he made me feel.

  But where the hell was he?

  Turning, I clutched my bag tighter. He’d be here any minute, I was sure of it. He’d likely been chatting to this teenager earlier in the day about our backstory and told him to expect me.

  “Ha, ha, very funny,” I said, shoving my shades to the top of my head and squinting in the bright Greek sunlight. “Where is he?”

  My arm was tugged and I saw that he was taking my bag from me. “Hey,” I protested.

  “Let me take that, it looks heavy,” he said.

  “No—”

  “Kay.” A pained expression crossed his face. “Please…”

  “Please, what?” I released my bag.

  He took it, placed it on the floor by his feet, then held out his hands, palms up. “It’s me,” he said. “Really.”

  “But…?” I wafted my hand in his direction. “No, it’s not. You’re so…so young.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  I stared at him, words piling up in my mouth but not coming out. Was he seriously still trying to carry on with his little joke? “Not if I was eighteen, no, it wouldn’t be a problem.” I laughed to try to lighten the atmosphere. “You’re cute as a button.”

  “Well, gee thanks, I think.”

  Damn, he was good. He even had an American drawl—the ends of his words elongated, the vowels lazily rounded—and his voice was low and sexy just like Sullivan’s…

  I studied him some more. He was frowning—his eyebrows pulled down and his lips pressed together.

  “Sullivan?” I said quietly.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Honestly.”

  A heavy weight landed in my stomach. He was being serious. This gorgeous young man was the person I’d fallen in love with. How could I have been so stupid? I’d behaved like a naïve middle-aged woman and believed I’d met someone online who was perfect for me.

  Online!

  Of course that never happened. Perfect didn’t exist, and it seemed my happy ever after didn’t, either.

  He took a step closer.

  His large shadow engulfed me as I stood there, dumbly looking up at him.

  “I’m sorry if my looks surprised you,” he said quietly.

  “Er, yeah, they—I mean you—certainly did that.”

  Again he reached out and touched a lock of my hair—he took it between his finger and thumb and rubbed gently, spreading the strands apart and studying their fanned shape.

  “No, don’t,” I said, stepping backward. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Why are you mad?” A flash of pain crossed over his face, and he dropped his arm to his side.

  “Why the hell do you think?” I gripped the strap of my handbag, my knuckles aching with the force with which I squeezed the leather.

  He shook his head. “Because I’m younger than you thought?”

  “Yes, because you’re younger than I thought. Much younger.” I had the urge to stamp my foot in frustration but resisted. Unlike him, I was an adult.

  “Why is that a problem?” he asked.

  He didn’t know? Bloody hell, I had decades on him. He’d be better suited to Brenda’s teenage daughter, not me.

  “It’s the person, Kay,” he said, “not the age or profession or continent they live on. You’ve said that before yourself.”

  “Well, yes but…bloody hell. How old are you? Please tell me you’re old enough for phone sex.” Damn, those conversations had been packed with dirty words and certainly spicy hot, and we’d listened to each other…plenty of times. I held in a wince of shame.

  “Of course I am.” He didn’t take his gaze from me, nor did he answer my question.

  “Sullivan.” I braced for it. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.” The tilt of his chin was almost defiant.

  I blew out a long, low breath. Defiant or not, he was so much younger than I was.

  “And you’re forty-two, I know that.” He took a step closer, and a small muscle flexed in his cheek. “And I don’t think fourteen years difference needs to matter at all.”

  Irritation swarmed over me. What did he know? “Of course it matters, and what’s more, you knew it would matter to me. Why else would you have sent me a photograph that barely showed your face? Why else would you have fooled me like this?”

  “I didn’t mean for it to be like that, genuinely I didn’t.”

  “What rubbish. You tricked me. I asked you how old you were early on when we were chatting, and you said, ‘old enough to know better but young enough to still misbehave’, then you laughed.”

  He rubbed at his temple. “I’m sorry. I was falling for you. I didn’t want you to just brush me off as a horny, young guy who had a crush on you.”

  “Well, it would have been easier to brush you off over the phone or in an email than to come all the way to Greece to do it.”

  He shook his head and reached for me.

  “No,” I said, taking a step back.

  “Watch it.” He grabbed my arm and yanked me forward.

  I gasped and glanced downward at the water I’d been about to fall into.

  “Be careful,” he said, pulling me against the length of his body. “The water in the harbor is deep.”

  I pressed my palms against his sun-warmed skin and looked up.

  “It’s me,” he said, winding his arms around my waist and settling his hands on the small of my back. “The guy you’ve been talking to and emailing for months. The guy you’ve been making plans with and having fun with—sexy fun with. What’s age? It’s just a number. It’s still me. I haven’t changed because you’ve seen me.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “We can’t be together.”

  “Of course we can.” He gave me a confident smile, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth.

  “No.” I shook my head and felt tears stab at my eyes. My dreams had been dashed. How could he have been so cruel? He knew my relationship with him was my first since Thomas had been killed, and he’d made me think we could have a future together. />
  “Don’t say that,” he said, lowering his head so his mouth hovered over mine. “Let’s talk it through. I promise it’s not an issue. You’ll see. We’re still perfect for each other.”

  “No, we’re not, and it is an issue.” I swallowed, my throat thickening as I tried not to cry. “I thought you were a man but you’re a boy.”

  He stared at me for a moment, as if surprised by my statement, then he lowered his head farther so that his mouth was by my ear, his lips skimming my lobe.

  I froze and fixed my focus on a small crop of chocolate-colored freckles just above his collarbone. The heat of his skin was warming my hands, the scent of his body invading my nostrils and lacing my tongue.

  “I can assure you,” he whispered, “I’m all man. You don’t need to worry about that, baby.”

  Damn, he felt all man—big and hot and filling all of my senses. If only…

  He pulled me a little closer, and his breaths, in the shell of my ear, sent a pleasurable tingle fluttering over my scalp, down my neck and through my spine. My stomach flipped, my muscles tensed.

  Our chests touched, my breasts pushing through my bra and blouse against his bare skin. His thighs knocked mine, solid and hard. His bulk made me feel so small in his arms.

  What am I doing?

  “No.” I shoved myself away and opened my eyes. “You lied.”

  “I didn’t.” He held his hands up again. He had nice hands, square, neat nails and a fuzz of pale hair that went from the backs of them to his forearm, interrupted only by those little leather bracelets that were plaited together on his right wrist.

  “You did lie,” I managed, refusing to admire his hands and arms or any other part of his gorgeous body a moment longer. The need to sob was overtaken by anger. “By omission,” I snapped.

  “That’s not a real thing.” He shook his head.

  “Oh, yes it is.” I reached for my bag and lugged it up to the crook of my arm. “I told you my age. You implied yours was the same, and that, Sullivan, is a lie.”

  “But what did it matter when we’d fallen for each other?”

  “Had, yes. I had fallen for you when I thought we were compatible.” I scanned the surrounding area. I needed somewhere to sleep until I could arrange a flight back to London. There had to be a hotel or a bed and breakfast with a spare room in the busy little port. I needed to get out of Fiscardo and Greece as quickly as possible.

  “We’re compatible. You know damn well we are.” He fiddled with the sunglasses on his head, pushing them back through his hair until several strands stuck up over his right ear. “If we weren’t how the hell would we have been able to talk for hours on the phone, write emails and letters to each other that we poured our hearts into? We’re meant to be together, Kay. Admit it.” The soothing quality of his voice had gone, and in its place was a note of desperation.

  Well, that was just tough.

  “No.” I bunched my fist, resisting flattening his hair like a mother or a caring aunt would. “I’m sorry, but this won’t work. I’m too old for you.”

  “But you’re not. Kay, please. I love you.”

  I turned away. Those pesky tears were back, my chest was tight and my stomach churning. How could I have gotten it so wrong?

  My stupidity had hurt us both. The only difference was he’d get over it in a heartbeat because he was young and beautiful and no doubt had a million girls after him.

  “Kay, please,” he said.

  “Goodbye,” I managed, walking on the cobbles toward a bar that sat against the water’s edge. Tables with blue parasols and wooden chairs were lined up outside its white painted exterior, and it had Zofia’s written in bright blue on a sign over the door.

  “Where are you going?” Sullivan called.

  “To get a damn drink and find somewhere to sleep for the night.”

  “What?” he shouted. “Don’t be crazy. Sleep on the boat with me.”

  I halted, sucked in the hot air and turned. People were staring. Stunningly good-looking men asking older ladies to sleep with them wasn’t an everyday occurrence—at least, not in my world.

  He stood there, feet apart, a breeze catching his loose swim shorts and pressing them against an interesting bulge in his groin area, and his hair, no longer sticking up, was being pushed by the wind.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t be serious. Me, sleep on the boat, Dolly Bird, with him? Not a chance.

  I shook my head, readjusted my heavy bag, then stomped, with as much dignity as I could muster, into Zofia’s.

  It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, and I sent a silent prayer upward, asking that Sullivan would not follow me. I needed to digest this new twist in my fate. It had been the last thing I’d been expecting as I’d boarded the plane that morning. I’d thought happiness, companionship, love and lust was going to be part of my life again. How wrong I’d been.

  Shock had made my ears buzz, and my pulse thudded in my temples. I walked up to the bar, having to squeeze between a couple of men—locals, I presumed—and reached for my purse.

  “What can I get you, pretty lady?” asked the bartender, an older guy with a gray beard and a Greek accent.

  “White wine, please,” I said. “Large.”

  He nodded then turned and reached a glass from the shelf.

  I could feel the attention of the two older men next to me, so I gave them a curt nod then fingered through my purse to retrieve some euros. I wouldn’t sit at the bar. I’d find a table, but not outside. I didn’t want to be able to see Sullivan. I didn’t want to see Sullivan ever again. Not after what he’d done.

  The barman set my drink down.

  “Five euro,” he said.

  I paid then took my drink and bag and moved to the back corner. The floor, like outside, was irregular, and the walls dipped in and out, creating alcoves that held benches and tables, some of which had lit, dripping candles in small holders on them. Around the top of the walls, like a picture rail, sat a shelf bulging with empty beer bottles of every type. They were dusty, and the labels were faded.

  I spotted a table underneath a picture of a lighthouse being battered by waves and made my way past a few more patrons, all men. They were drinking and talking, some were playing cards, others reading. It seemed I was the only woman, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts, drink my wine and lick my wounds.

  Chapter Three

  As I sat, I took a peek at the door, still hoping Sullivan hadn’t followed me.

  He wasn’t there.

  I took a hefty slug of wine. It was a little sweeter than I liked, but I was glad of the cool liquid and hoped the alcohol would take the edge off the gnawing ache in my heart.

  The men playing cards and the two guys at the bar were ignoring me, as were the ones reading their newspapers, but another man, in the shadows of a recess, was staring straight at me. He had dark hair, dark eyes and a cap pulled low. He was nursing a bottle of beer and didn’t look away when I caught him scrutinizing me.

  How rude.

  I inwardly tutted and again reached inside my bag. This time, I hunted out my iPhone. I wondered if I’d have connection to the Internet. I needed to check flight times for the next day, see if I could get myself back to the UK. It didn’t have to be Heathrow, which was where I’d flown out from. Anywhere would do. I’d bus or taxi back to Oxford from bloody Inverness, the way I was feeling right now.

  I studied the screen. Hoping for Internet had been foolish. I had no signal or connection whatsoever. I tucked the phone away, frustrated, and again sipped my wine.

  What the hell was I going to do?

  I hadn’t used a tour operator to get to Fiscardo. I hadn’t needed to. Maybe the barman here would help me find a Wi-Fi hotspot. I glanced at him—he was talking loudly in Greek to the two men at the bar. Something about him made me think he wasn’t likely to be computer savvy. The Internet probably wasn’t a priority for his establishment.
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br />   The man with the cap was still staring at me. His attention made my jaw tense and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck fan up. It wasn’t an admiring look, it was more of a leer. He was too interested, and he still didn’t care that I’d spotted him staring.

  He smiled a little, one side of his mouth twitching.

  I gave a sharp nod and turned away, hoping that was a clear enough signal that I wasn’t interested.

  It seemed not.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rise then move my way.

  I swallowed and glanced around. No one was taking any notice of him coming toward the dark recess I’d scurried into.

  Since Thomas had died, I’d always been cosseted by friends and family whenever I’d gone out. I hadn’t been to a bar alone. Yet, here I was, in Greece, a place I’d never been to before, sitting in the half-darkness.

  I reached for my bag and went to move, but as I did so, he pulled out the other chair at my table and sat, effectively blocking me in.

  “Hello,” he said, setting his bottle of beer next to my wine. “I am Juan. What is your name, beautiful?” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t place—Eastern European, maybe.

  I pulled my purse closer and attempted a polite, if weak smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m just leaving. To sit in the sunshine.”

  “Why you want sunshine? It is so much more fun in the dark.” The candlelight at my table flickered creepily over his stubbled face and highlighted a scar on his right cheek.

  “Because it’s too cold in here,” I said, suppressing a shiver. There was something about him that set off my alarm bells. His knee had nudged up against mine, and he was looking at my chest. “Please, excuse me.”

  “You are English,” he said. “Tell me where you are from, if not your name.”

  Not a chance. “I’m sorry, but could you move your chair? I’m leaving now.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You stay, talk to me.” He leaned forward, and his nostrils flared, as though breathing in my perfume. “I want pretty lady to talk to.”