Missionary Position Page 3

  “I had an assignment there three years ago. In Accra.”

  “I’ll be staying in Accra! Mostly. I want to visit the North and see some elephants.”

  “You have to see the elephants. Also, eat joloff and kelewele. Watch out for the palm wine, though; it sneaks up on you.”

  Tall, gorgeous, charming, worldly? Bless you, Anita, patron saint of blind dates.

  “I can’t wait. I have oodles of Out of Africa fantasies running through my mind.”

  “Lion hunting?” he joked.

  “No, a hot alpha man washing my hair. Duh.” I rolled my eyes.

  “The naked women expert dreams of being seduced in Africa? I’m sure that can be arranged.” His eyes met mine, and we locked stares for a moment. I couldn’t read him. Maybe it was a Dutch thing.

  “Africa, Amsterdam. I’m easy that way.” I smirked at my own word play.

  His eyes searched my face for a hint of joking. There wasn’t one.

  He straightened his shirt cuffs. “You’re a funny bird.”

  “I’d say so. Given I’m not a bird at all.” I smiled at him.

  He studied my expression, considering me for a moment.

  “Anita said you met at the sushi bar in JFK.” His face exhibited his doubt in my taste and sanity.

  “We did. I see you judging me. Normally, I’d be sitting in judgment, too. Sushi. Airport. Eating raw fish in advance of a long flight. However, it’s good quality sushi, and surprisingly delicious.”

  “I’ll have to believe you and Anita.”

  “Next time you’re at JFK, try it. Trust me.”

  “Trust you? I don’t know you.”

  “Then trust Anita.”

  He blinked at me and his eyes flickered with some emotion I didn’t understand. “Do you like sushi? It wasn’t some sort of dare you lost with a friend?”

  “Absolutely love it. I’ll miss it in Ghana.”

  “Ghana is known for many things, but sushi isn’t one of them. You should eat sushi before you leave.”

  “Is that an invitation to dinner?”

  He played with the edge of his cocktail napkin for a moment, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. We should have dinner. Do you have plans for tonight?”

  I checked my watch. It was close to nine, but unlike home, people here didn’t eat until later. “Can we find a table somewhere?”

  “We can get one downstairs. One of the best sushi places in Europe is in this hotel.” Gerhard waved the bartender over and they had a quick conversation in Dutch before the bartender walked over to the phone behind the bar. He returned and they spoke for another minute. I understood nothing.

  “We’re set for 9:30. Another cocktail?” He smiled and pointed to my empty glass.

  With a few words, Gerhard could make a last minute reservation for us at an amazing sushi restaurant. Suit or no suit, Gerhard was quickly becoming my favorite person on the planet.

  We spent the next half hour chatting about Ghana, art, Amsterdam, and Boston. His arm drifted behind my shoulders and rested on the back of my stool. A delicious soap or cologne scent tickled my nose. Another point for the Dutchman. Damn if he wasn’t winning me over, regardless of being so very not my type.

  When we stood to walk down to the restaurant for dinner, my head came up to his bicep—his very shapely, nicely defined bicep. I could climb him like a tree if I were a koala. Lucky marsupials.

  His hand warmed my lower back as he guided me through the bar and remained there in the elevator as we descended. The size of his hand made me feel petite in the best way. I shivered at the idea of his fingers other places on my body.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “Not at all. I was thinking of your hand on my back.”

  “My apologies. Too familiar?” He removed his hand and leaned against the wall.

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.” I met his eyes.

  He broke eye contact and swept his gaze up my body while rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip.

  He nodded but didn’t speak. The elevator doors opened to the lobby, and whatever he intended to say, or not say, was lost.

  Despite his teasing me over airport sushi, dinner tasted incredible. Beyond the airport variety, I’d eaten excellent sushi more times than I could count, but nothing came close to this meal. Everything tasted like it descended directly from sushi heaven and each dish resembled tiny sculptures. No spicy tuna rolls here. I didn’t bother asking what I was eating after the first course. I didn’t care. My normal squeamishness about texture and taste disappeared into a hedonistic frenzy of flavors and sensations. It felt like having an orgasm for the first time.

  Gerhard laughed at my moans of delight while we ate. I teased him about letting his hair down when he took off his tie.

  “I can’t remember the last meal I enjoyed this much,” I said when the last of our plates had been cleared from our table.

  “You certainly enjoyed yourself. I worried at one point the waiters might have thought some hanky-panky was happening under the table the way you moaned and squirmed.”

  “Say it again,” I demanded.

  “Say what?”

  “Hanky-panky.”

  “Heynkay-peynkay.”

  “Your accent is stronger when you say that. It’s adorable.”

  “Adorable?” He arched an eyebrow. “Really? Kittens and baby bunnies are adorable. Bankers and number crunchers are ‘boring stiffs’ I think is what you said.”

  “Fine. Not every number crunching banker is a boring stiff. Neither are all Gerhards.” I smiled at him.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Honestly, I’ve had a wonderful evening. Much better than spending it at some café with backpackers.”

  “You don’t seem the type to hang out with backpackers and stoners.”

  “Maybe twenty years ago, but not now.”

  He subtly worked his jaw side to side. “Twenty years ago I was fifteen.”

  Well, that answered that question.

  “Twenty years ago I was twenty-three,” I stated, holding his gaze to gauge his reaction.

  He blinked, but didn’t react or make a joke about older women. “Then we’re both too old for silly things like disco clubs and sleeping on trains.”

  I raised my nearly empty wine glass for a toast. “To being too old for silly things.”

  He clinked my glass and said, “But doing them anyway.”

  I laughed in response and tapped his glass with mine a second time.

  Funny how if I thought I’d never see someone again, I acted more myself, more free than at home where I might run into them at the store in my saggy yoga pants and Sunday sports bra.

  I said yes when he asked me out for dinner the next night.

  And the one after.

  Amsterdam became more interesting than old paintings, canals, and the possibility of death by bell-ringing bicycles.

  “MMM, GERHARD.”

  I squirmed and fisted the pillow, cracking open my eyes. Early morning light sliced along the edges of the blinds in my hotel room.

  The things that man could do with his hands.

  Too bad it was only a dream. He made the perfect pirate, all Norse God and fair. I let my mind wander through the images of my dream. Each one could be a scene in one of my nom de plume romance novels.

  Thor on the high seas. Breeches unlaced, broad, hairless Scandinavian chest bared under a faded and tattered uniform jacket, and legs for days ending in boots, big boots, very big boots covering his very big feet.

  After a quick debate, I grabbed BOB instead of my notebook. The scene could be saved for later.

  Damn Amsterdam and its Dutch charm.

  I fell backward into the pillows, letting my hands wander as I mentally thanked Betty for adding batteries to the bag the other day.

  Where was I? Right, Norse Gods. Pirates.

  Gerhard.

  I STOOD AGAINST the back wall in the auction room—my fa
vorite spot to watch the bidding. Some people liked to sit up front, but serious bidders preferred to be in the rear or side of the room to observe their competition. Not that I intended to bid—the estimates were beyond my price range—but I was happy to observe.

  Martha gave me a little wave from her position on the right side of the room, near the banks of phone bidders. I cautiously waved at her, making sure the auctioneer didn’t take my gesture for a bid.

  The energy in the room simmered and heated up occasionally, but it never reached anything close to the bidding wars of contemporary or modern art auctions. Today’s auctioneer charmed and worked the partially full room the best he could.

  My phone rang. The man next to me scowled despite speaking loudly in German on his own phone. Returning his scowl, I silenced the ringer and dashed out of the room to answer it.

  “Morning, Selah,” a man’s voice greeted me. I glanced at the screen where Gerhard’s name was displayed

  My mouth fought to resist breaking into a schoolgirl’s grin.

  “Morning. I’m at the auction,” I explained, even though he didn’t ask what I was doing.

  “I know. Look behind you.”

  I glanced behind me, and then returned to the auction room, scanning the crowd until I located his familiar sand colored hair sitting in the last row on the far side. Today’s suit was gray and stretched across his broad shoulders, accenting them in a way that shouldn’t be allowed in polite company.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, standing still and making eye contact with him.

  “Come sit with me,” he whispered.

  I didn’t move from my spot.

  “Come. Sit.” He patted the empty seat next to him and ended the call.

  My feet obediently followed his command until I sat next to him.

  “Hi.” His tone was hushed.

  “Hi—” Enthusiasm made my voice too loud.

  “Shhh!” an octogenarian in the row in front of us turned and hissed. The thin, bony finger she held to her lips ended in the sharp point of her blood red nail.

  I raised my eyebrows at Gerhard, who stopped his laugh by biting his thumb. His shaking shoulders gave him away, though.

  Tempted to stick my tongue out at Madame Shhusher, I instead leaned closer to Gerhard, inhaled his spicy scent, and repeated, “What are you doing here?”

  He shook his head and wrote on his catalogue: “Bidding.”

  I took his pen and replied: “For work?”

  Another shake of his head. “For my father. He collects.”

  Son of a collector. Not only did he make money, he came from money.

  “May I?” I softly asked, gesturing at the catalogue. He had noted the sale price for several pieces and had drawn a circle around an upcoming lot, an Ashanti comb from Ghana. A woman’s head and chest, including pert gumdrop boobs, were carved above what resembled a large hair pick. Valued in the low thousands, it was impressive. I pointed at the picture and gave it the thumbs-up.

  He smiled and flipped a couple of pages forward, pointing at a color photo of a group of sculptures of women, their breasts a fascinating depiction of the effects of gravity. He waggled his eyebrows at me.

  I snickered like a teenage girl passing notes with the cutest boy in school. Damn him.

  No hissing, but we did earn another dirty look over the shoulder, which only made me snicker again.

  Gerhard’s hand wrapped around my wrist to calm me. It had the opposite affect; my pulse fluttered.

  Madame Shhusher and the room faded away, leaving me fixated on his warm skin pressed against mine. His fingers tightened slightly and released.

  His lot came up for bidding. This wasn’t his first auction. He waited until the frenzy at the front of the room slowed, and bid with a subtle flick of his paddle.

  The way his wrist controlled the paddle did things to my pulse and stomach, which would appall the dowager in front of me.

  The auctioneer tapped his gavel and called out Gerhard’s number as the winner.

  “Congratulations!” I said, loudly.

  “Shhhh!”

  Gerhard laughed and grabbed my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

  We stopped at the desk to arrange delivery of the sculpture. I listened to him speak Dutch to the employees, charming them with his charms.

  Bright sunshine greeted us when we walked outside.

  “Do you have plans for lunch?” he asked, stopping when he stood a step or two below me, making us the same height.

  “Aren’t we having dinner tonight?”

  “We are. Let’s do both.” He grinned at me.

  “Don’t you have to work? Auctions and lunches aren’t exactly bankers’ hours.”

  “Are you looking for excuses to say no? Am I overcrowding your schedule?” Worry darkened his happy expression.

  “Not at all. I have nothing for the next two days until my flight. I just—”

  He interrupted me. “Then say yes.”

  “Yes. But you didn’t answer about your work.”

  He walked down the street and clicked the alarm on a black BMW sedan. I fell in step slightly behind him; my traitor feet would follow him anywhere.

  And we hadn’t even had sex.

  The image of him holding his paddle popped into my mind.

  Yet.

  “… I’m not starting my next project for a few weeks.” While I was thinking about paddles, he’d been speaking.

  “What?”

  “What what?” He tilted his head to look down at me.

  “I missed what you were saying.”

  “Is it the accent again? It’s stronger when I’m home.” He gave me a small smile. “Sorry. I was saying as much as you cling to the notion I’m a banker, I’m really not.” He bumped his shoulder with mine. “And my schedule is loose for the next couple of weeks until I start a new project.”

  “Ah …”

  “Ah?”

  “Got it. Where are you taking me to lunch?” If Gerhard wanted to bump shoulders with me and take me to lunch, who was I to say no? My mother didn’t raise a fool.

  “IT LOOKS LIKE a propeller penis. Or a penis jet, which most planes look like anyway.”

  “You’re very articulate. And perhaps a little obsessed?” He smirked at me. The sun faded his eyes from blue to gray.

  “Stop. Look. Really look at it. Vertical, rounded top. Classic representation of the human phallus.” I flashed a grin at him. “Better?”

  “It’s a windmill, not some sort of Dutch inferiority complex made of wood.”

  “Who said anything about inferiority complexes? I certainly didn’t. Interesting you would mention size envy.” I pursed my lips together to maintain my serious expression.

  We sat at a picnic table in a beer garden flanking the only working windmill within Amsterdam city limits.

  Gerhard leaned back. “I guess from this angle, and with your perverted mind influencing me, I can see your point.” He nodded, and then rolled his eyes. “Also, I think you’ve had too much beer.”

  “And cheese!” I speared the last cube on the plate between us. With the cheese clamped between my teeth, I grinned at him.

  “Sexy. You American girls have all the tricks.”

  I chewed and swallowed. “We do. Songs have been written about our wiles.”

  He surprised me by singing lyrics from a Lenny Kravitz song. His singing voice resonated low and gravelly. Some might say it was pure sex. Some would definitely say that.

  The contrast between the sex falling from his lips and his uptight suited appearance confused me. After a few hours with Gerhard, I failed at my attempt to categorize him. American men were easier to label and decipher, almost simplistic in their “type”. And for most, food, ego stroking, and sex—not necessarily in that order—would keep them happy.

  Gerhard would not stay put inside his uptight banker box.

  I wondered if he ever lost the suit. Would I recognize him wearing jeans and a T-shirt?

&nb
sp; I bit my lip. Jeans, T-shirt, or nothing.

  I wanted to have sex with banker Gerhard. Maybe sex would solve the puzzle. He probably enjoyed being tied up and called baby.

  I shuddered.

  “Cold?”

  I blinked a several times, clearing my head. “Maybe.” A cloud moved in front of the sun and the temperature dropped. I grabbed my sweater out of my bag.

  “You won’t be needing a sweater for a while.” He gestured to my sweater.

  “I know. I’ll miss the gray and the rain, but bring on the heat.”

  “You say that now. Wait until you’re tired of the sticky feeling of mosquito spray, sweat, and dirt.”

  “Well, when you put it that way, it sounds lovely.” I turned and smiled at him. “What do you miss about Ghana?”

  “The people, mostly. My friends there. The mangos. The way the waves assault the shore.”

  “Sounds exotic and slightly dangerous.”

  “It can be. Don’t be lulled into thinking the same rules from the States, or here, apply there. Promise me you’ll play it safe. No ‘I am woman, hear me roar’ nonsense if you’re dealing with police or the government. It’s a land of chiefs and clearly defined roles.” His expression was serious.

  “I’ll behave. This isn’t my first trip outside the West.”

  “Where else have you been?” His voice revealed his interest.

  “Vietnam, Chile, Costa Rica, Thailand, Cambodia …” I listed some of my more exotic destinations.

  “Impressive.”

  “Thank you, Mr. World Traveler. What about you? Where’s your next assignment?”

  “I’m supposed to be based in Kenya for a month. I think. It might change.” He stared out across the semi-empty beer garden.

  “Kenya? We’ll be on the same continent.”

  “Africa’s a big place.”

  “True. But it will be nice to know I’ll have a friend on the same continent.”

  “Is that what we are? Friends?”

  “In twenty-four hours, what else could we be?” I held my breath waiting for an answer. I typically wasn’t this woman—the woman who waited for the man to pursue. If I wanted someone, I had them. One word to Rob, the boy band backpacker, and he would have followed me home, but I didn’t say the word. And here I sat, waiting for a man wearing custom tailored suit trousers and expensive black leather shoes, who was so very not my type, to chase me. Or at least confirm he was interested. He flirted. We bantered, but he hadn’t made a move. Not even after dinner last night. I received a hand on my back and a polite double-cheek kiss when he escorted me to a taxi.