Best Erotic Romance 2014 (14 page)

I had only met his mom once. Now that I was thinking about it, he had done dirty, dirty things to me before that time as well. Maybe his mom was a catalyst for my naughty side to emerge. Shit, what if she knew the things he did to me? How could I look the woman who gave birth to him in the eye ever again?

“I like you dirty, Dani. You're dirty because of me. No reason for you to get all bent about it,” he says matter of factly.

“Don't mind being dirty with you either Ian. Just don't want the interval between being dirty and seeing your mom to be like zero-point-two seconds.” He was irritating me with his nonchalance.

He grins bigger. “You're cute, babe.”

Argh. I think blood vessels in my head broke wide open when he said that.

“We're not fucking ever again on the days we're supposed to meet up with your mom,” I declare, ignoring how much he was irritating me by his thinking my mini-meltdown was funny.

It was so not funny.

“Babe, my mom is already clued in that I like to fuck. She knows that I like you. She's smart. Putting all that together, whether we fuck the day of, she's still gonna know we fuck,” he tells me.

“Oh my god,” I almost scream.

He kisses me then. The spool-up I had going on cooled.

“Babe, go shower again. Then we go. I need to stop off and grab some beer.” He smacks my ass to punctuate his point.

I waver. I'm screwed either way. I might as well give in gracefully. With that decided, I get up and go toward the shower.

It's too hot to stay upset for any length of time anyway.

I turn back to him. “You love me?”

“Yeah, babe.” He doesn't hesitate to confirm this.

“Come shower with me,” I say to him. Then I pause until he looks at me again. “I love you too.”

His face softens and his smile stays. “Be right there.”

“But no fucking in the shower,” I tell him. “I don't need that to think about as well when we go over to your mom's.”

He busts out laughing.

“We'll see, Dani.”

A PERFECT PLACE

Catherine Paulssen

I step outside the palace at the outskirts of Vienna when my phone rings. It's Alicia, my boss, and I can tell immediately that she's not as calm as her tone pretends. “Hon, I'm on the phone with Alexander and I just told him we've found the perfect place for the movie.”

“What do
you
think, Julie?” Alexander's voice calls through the speaker.

I take a deep breath and think about a way to start, but before I can even utter a word, he cuts me off. “I see. Well, all right.”

I bite back a little smile, even though Alicia can't see me anyway. Alexander's one of the busiest directors I've ever worked for. I guess picking up the gist of a situation within moments comes with his schedule. He has no time for beating around the bush.

“Alexander”—Alicia chimes in—“don't you want to see the photos Julie has taken first, or hear what she has to—”

“No.” He exhales. “Listen, one of the producers just met this guy whose family apparently owns half of Hungary. He says they have an old castle on a mountain that might be just the thing we're looking for. Have a look at it, will you? I'll tell Kelsey to give you his number.”

While I listen to Alexander's assistant and scribble down the Hungarian guy's contact information, I steel myself for a peeved call from Alicia. And as reliable as clockwork, the moment I've hung up, my phone rings again.

“One word!” she says. “If you had given him one word, this endless marathon all across Europe would finally be over.”

“It wasn't the right location.”

“And why not? ‘The neoclassical
Palais Schönburg
, built in 1790, is one of the finest examples of Vienna's architectural treasures. Today, it's most famous for its wall frescos and enchanted gardens…' blah blah blah,” she reads from a memo. “That's
just
what they were looking for!”

“Licia, how long has Alexander been working with us now?”

“About what—eight years?”

“Ten,” I say, trying hard not to sound too smug. “Ten years. You want it to stay that way, right? Trust me, he wouldn't have been satisfied.” I glance back at the salmon-colored palace. “The ground and exteriors are great, but inside it was too—neat. It lacked dilapidation; I can't really explain. But I know for certain it's not the right place for the movie.”

She sighs. “Fine. Call me when you're in Hungary, okay?”

I promise and hail a cab.

The next day, I take the train from Budapest south to a small village in the Baranya County. A meeting has been arranged by the estate's secretary, and some Mr Illésházy will meet me at
the market square in front of the only church. I assume he's the administrator and for some reason, picture a good-humoured, middle-aged man with a gray moustache.

If the castle proves to be the location Alexander's looking for, maybe I can persuade Alicia to let me stay in Hungary for another day. Everyone has been exquisitely nice to me, and the countryside is the embodiment of rural idyll. The train passes fields of wheat ready for harvesting and big trees whose branches are abundant with apples and pears. Gentle slopes, covered with long culms that sway in a gentle breeze, become densely forested hills, and sometimes, I can catch a glimpse of the Danube in the east, sparkling in the July sun. At every village we stop at, I want to get off and wander around. You never know what hidden spots you may discover, or in my case, store away in an inner database as a possible location to come back to later.

My life is lived in trains, planes and taxicabs. I'm always on the lookout for the perfect background to a story, the scenery that grounds a character or sets him free. The place where love can blossom. Where dreams are being born, realized or taken to an early grave. Where families unite or the seed for divorce is being sown. My own place is the road, and that fits
my
character and my life as a location scout to one of Europe's biggest production companies.

I arrive at the small village in the afternoon, and it's easy to find the whitewashed church that presides over a cobblestoned market square. There's only one car parked in front of it, and apart from me, some tourists, two women chatting and children playing hopscotch. No one who appears to be waiting for me.

“Ms. Scott?”

I turn and face a man in his midthirties, tall and black-haired. “Mr Illésházy?” He nods and gives me a little smile. He has the
most beautiful eyes I've ever seen in a man. Dark brown, with little twinkles in them, framed by strong brows and prominent cheekbones.

I need to stop gawping. “So you're the administrator?”

“No, I…I believe my uncle's a friend of one of the producers for your movie?”

“Oh!” Great. Ten seconds, and I've already embarrassed myself and offended one of the estate's owners. “Oh, I'm very sorry. It's nice to meet you.”

He shakes my hand, a quirk of humor in his eyebrow. “Welcome to Hungary.” His English has a light accent that gives an alluring edge to the way he speaks. “Please,” he says and opens the car door.

He doesn't say a word while we drive out of the village. The fields around the village get replaced by woodland, and soon, we are on top of a rise that's the first in a chain of wooded hills. “So all of this belongs to your family?”

He nods. “We have a lot of land, but not a lot of cash.” I look at him, but there's no trace of bitterness in his features. “So there's not much maintenance.”

I check out his face, the strong arms revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, as tanned as the rest of his skin. “Have you been living here all your life?”

He nods. I wait for him to add something, or pose a question in return, but he simply stares at the road ahead.

“It must have been wonderful to grow up here,” I say, after the period of silence has become long enough to cross the line to awkwardness.

“Don't feel obliged,” he says.

“I'm sorry?”

“You don't have to make conversation, Ms. Scott.” He smiles politely, but decisively. My cheeks grow hot. I think he
catches my expression, because after a short pause, he points toward a mountain range in the distance. “Over there you can see the Mecsek Mountains. Very important in the history of this country.”

I square my shoulders and stare at the dark hills. “Call me Julie, please. If that wouldn't be too shallow.”

“I'm Benedek.”

I keep my eyes fixed on the mountains, but I can hear the grin in his voice. I only hope the place is more promising than meeting its owner.

The forest eventually gives way to an alley lined with plane trees. At its end, behind a wrought-iron gate with gilt accenting, lies a yellowish, three-story mansion. In its center, a steeple cupola rises above black roof tiles. The sun is swallowed by windows so dull with dirt and dust they are almost blind. Poppies grow along the weather-worn walls, and the two statues at the end of the driveway are covered with moss. Gravel scrunches underneath the car's wheels as Benedek drives toward a majestic stairway that leads to the entrance door.

He trails behind me while I take photos of the building's front and the entry area. I can't get the strange car ride out of my head, and it takes all my professionalism to focus on getting all the necessary pictures. The distance he keeps is appropriate enough, but I can feel his eyes on me. The inkling of being watched tickles in my neck and even the tips of my fingers.

“On the left are old stables where equipment can be stored. They have electricity and water connections,” he says. “Speaking of which, the fountains are still working,” he adds and points to a dried-up basin with a lion in its center.

I gladly jump at the distraction. Finally, I'm on safe ground,
and Benedek answers all my questions regarding the property with precision and good will.

I relax a little when we step inside. The air of the entrance hall is cool, slightly damp and a great relief to my hot skin. I follow Benedek up a grand staircase to the first floor where he leads me to the former reception room. The furniture is arranged as if a big party was expected, but everything—chairs, an oval table, a piano—is covered by white sheets.

I take pictures of the fading arras tapestry, a grand chandelier, its sparkle long gone, and my pulse beats a little quicker. Usually, when I'm in decaying places, I do a quick fix-up in my head. It's a program that's set into motion by default. I think what great lofts the nineteenth-century coal-mine buildings would make. How the check some Middle Eastern oil heir would write for a Scottish castle would be worth three times the sum necessary to restore it. That a derelict windmill could easily be turned into a charming party venue.

With this place, it's different. No pictures start running in my head. I'd leave everything exactly like it is.

“What is it?” Benedek interrupts my musings.

“Pardon?”

“You…” He gestures at his forehead. “You frowned.”

I blush. “It's just…” I take a deep breath. “I thought of the set decorators and the camera crews and all the equipment rolling through the corridors.”

He regards me with a little smile. I stride to the other side of the room and open a window. Paint flakes off the frame. The air that streams in from outside smells of flowers and dry grass.

He steps to one of the windows next to mine. “Tell me about the movie.”

I take a few pictures of the yard stretching out below. “There's this girl who inherits an old castle in the countryside.
When she gets to the place, she discovers a dark secret that has to do with the romance of a family member, decades ago. She eventually solves it, together with a guy from the village. There's a lot of mystery and…” I turn my head toward him and shrug. “Of course, love.”

From his place a few feet away, he looks at me with a quizzical expression on his face. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Say what like that?”

“
Love
,” he says, with a simplicity as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I throw him a baffled look. Is this the guy who didn't want to talk only two hours ago? “Don't you know love?” he asks.

“Of course I know love,” I retort, but the words don't come out of my mouth as sharply as I'd like them to.

Benedek's face doesn't change. He stays quiet for a while. “Don't you believe in it then?”

I don't know what to reply. This is the strangest conversation I've ever had with a potential client, or with a man, come to think of it. And yet I'm intrigued. Do I believe in love? I open my mouth, but still, no words come out.

“What about passion?” he asks. All I can do is nod. He takes a couple of steps toward me, closing the gap between us.

“I believe in passion,” I croak. He takes the camera out of my hand and places it on a nearby chair. Butterflies start twirling in my stomach. He slides his fingers under my chin and lifts my face. His jeans rub against my leg. Apprehension's gripping my throat, and the blood rushing against my temples is the only sound I hear. I stare at his slightly parted lips. “What about you?” I whisper.