Faster Harder (2 page)

Once my hair is arranged into an intentionally messy up-do
and my eyes are sufficiently smoky, I step back out into the suite to fetch my
escort for the evening. Charlie’s jaw all but unhinges as I slip into the
sitting room.

“How am I supposed to beat back the ruffians when you go out
looking like that?” he demands.

“Who says it’s your job to beat them back?” I smile, “Now
let’s go.”

Chapter Two

House Music

We arrive at the club in a flurry of excitement and
anticipation. Walking through the vibrant streets of Barcelona, it’s impossible
not to succumb to the city’s infectious charm. Meandering through the surreal
winding paths, arriving at the pulsing open-air club, I have the irrepressible
feeling that tonight is going to be special. Significant. Possibly sexy.

Throbbing house music beckons us into the club, beating
through our bodies the minute we step over the threshold. This place is packed
with gorgeous, supple bodies, writhing and twirling in the half light. I eye
Charlie, amused by his baffled expression.

“Not exactly like your usual haunts, huh Chuck?” I ask.

“Not by a long shot,” he replies, staring as a woman wearing
pasties and a thong wanders past. “You sure you don’t want to go somewhere
more...subdued?”

“Hell no,” I tell him, weaving through the stunning crowd,
“This is exactly where I want to be tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” Charlie answers, holding my elbow as I
settle into a plush booth. For some reason, the gesture really irritates me. I
know that my friend is here as something of a guardian, but he takes his job a
little too seriously for my liking.

“Why don’t you grab us a couple of drinks?” I suggest.

“Sure. White wine?”

“How about a margarita?” I say.

“Siena,” Charlie says sternly, “You heard what your dad
said. We have to take it easy tonight. We’ve got—”

“Whatever,” I cut him off, “Wine’s good.”

Charlie makes his way across the crowded club, disappearing
into the sea of attractive bodies. My eyes wander across the dance floor.
Dozens of Spanish beauties spin and weave beneath the starry sky. Beyond them,
Barcelona sprawls out in all its glory, igniting my imagination with
possibilities. How can I be expected to sit quietly and sip my Pinot Blanc
while the whole world spins madly on all around me?

A jolt of surprise surges through me as my wandering eyes
meet another’s. Far off across the dance floor, a man I’ve never seen before in
my life has his eyes locked onto me. The intense intimacy of his gaze takes me
totally off-guard. Those are bedroom eyes if I’ve ever seen them. And the face
that houses them doesn’t make it any easier for me to keep myself composed.

My admirer’s features look like they’ve been carved out of
stone. His razor sharp jaw line, full lips, and aquiline nose are the picture
of perfection. But it’s his eyes that really snag me. They’re the perfect sky
blue, crystal clear and deep as the sea that stretches beyond Barcelona’s
shores. But it’s the intent, straightforward nature of those gorgeous orbs that
piques my interest. This is clearly a man who’s well practiced in getting the
things he sets his sights on. And right now, it would seem that his sights are
set on me.

“Here you go,” Charlie chirps, holding out a glass of wine.
A twinge of annoyance crosses my watcher’s face, and I have to swallow a
chuckle.

“Thanks,” I say, taking an eager sip. Charlie and I sit
together in comfortable silence as the club moves around us. I lose track of my
ardent admirer in the crowd, and feel a tug of regret. I’d never make the first
move with a guy like that. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“You OK Siena?” Charlie asks, “You seem kind of far-off.”

“What?” I reply, “Oh...Yeah. Just thinking about the race, I
guess.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Charlie tells me,
laying a friendly hand on mine, “Enzo’s going to be great.”

I pull my hand away as politely as possible. “I know,” I
say, “But I can’t help but be a little nervous for him.”

“I get it,” Charlie says, sipping his wine, “It’s not like
F1 is the safest sport in the world. But Enzo’s a careful driver. He knows his
vehicle, he knows how to take smart risks on the track. You don’t have to be
scared for him.”

“I’m not scared,” I say, “I’m realistic. Accidents happen.”

Before Charlie can respond, a smiling waiter appears at my
side. I peer up at him questioningly, noting the frosted glass in his hand.

“For you,” he tells me, holding out the glass, “From the
gentleman at the bar.”

I peer around the waiter and spot my handsome watchman. He’s
leaning against the bar, grinning like we’re sharing the juiciest of secrets.
His dark denim jeans are cut perfectly for his body, and he manages to make a
plain black tee shirt look like the epitome of high fashion. Sleeves of tattoos
stand out on his well-defined arms, intricate patterns and pictures that I
wouldn't mind getting a closer look at. Muscles strain at the fabric of his
clothing, stretching the material taut across his chest and shoulders. He runs
a hand through his short dirty blonde hair as I stare at him unabashedly,
giving me a devious little wink.

“She already has a drink,” Charlie says curtly, crossing his
arms over his polo-shirt clad chest. “Thanks anyway.”

“With all due respect,” the waiter replies in a delicious
Spanish accent, “My friend over there suggested that the lady might prefer a
real
drink.”

I bite my lip as a flush rises to Charlie’s cheeks. He’s one
of my closest friends in the world, but it’s still good for him to have his ego
checked once in a while.

“Thank you,” I tell the waiter, taking the glass from his
hands.

“You can’t drink that,” Charlie hisses as the man walks
away, “It could be drugged, for all you know.”

I dismiss Charlie’s protestations and lock eyes with my
tattooed benefactor. He raises his own glass to me, and I take a sip of my
cocktail. The unmistakable taste of tequila entices my taste buds. How did this
guy guess that I was jonesing for a margarita? I have to admit, I’m rather
impressed.

“It’s not a good habit to get into, accepting drinks from
strange men at bars,” Charlie says sullenly.

“He doesn’t look so strange to me,” I reply.

“Oh please,” Charlie laughs, “He’s so not your type.”

“Really?” I reply, “And what, exactly, do you think my type
is?”

“Smart guys,” Charlie says, “The quiet, sensitive kind. Not
tattooed bad boys with affinities for tequila.”

“Maybe that’s just the type of guy I’ve been settling for,”
I say airily.

“Settling?” Charlie says, “That’s nice, Siena. Real nice.”

“What’s your problem?” I ask, “It’s not like I'm talking
about you.”

“No...You never seem to be,” Charlie says, turning his gaze
from me.

I take a long sip of my frosty drink. All I wanted was to
enjoy a carefree night on the town in this beautiful city before the madness of
this weekend starts. But instead, I’m stuck babysitting the hurt feelings of
this guy who’s been carrying a torch for me for a quarter of a century? Not
exactly my idea of a good time.

“You really don’t need to stay if you’re not into this
scene,” I tell Charlie, “I can fend for myself, you know.”

“Is this the point in the evening where I’m supposed to take
a hint?” he asks.

I swallow down a frustrated retort and let Charlie come to
his own conclusions. He looks like the last kid to be picked for the kickball
team, he stands and hurries away from me, his half-empty glass of wine
collecting condensation on the table.

As Charlie makes his exit, I let my eyes wander back across
the bar and dance floor, but my mystery man is nowhere to be found. A bubble of
disappointment is just about to pop inside me when I feel a brush of fingertips
against my arm.

“How’s the drink love?” says a rich baritone voice from over
my shoulder. I turn to find my new tatted-up friend standing casually beside
me. His words are cloaked in a delicious British accent, one of my personal weaknesses.
If pressed, I don’t think I could come up with a more intriguing man with whom
to spend an evening. 

“Perfect,” I tell him, as he sits down beside me. “How’d you
guess my drink?”

“I’m pretty good at reading people,” he says, grinning at me
wickedly.

“How funny,” I tell him, “So am I.”

“Is that so?” he says, “Why don’t you give me a good read,
then?”

“Gladly,” I say, taking a sip of my drink, “My read on you
is...that you’re used to getting what you want, when you want it.”

“True,” he smiles.

“I also guess that you’re not very familiar with the word
no?”

“I don’t have much experience with it, no,” he allows.

“And I imagine that you’ve been practicing that sexy smile
in the mirror since you were fourteen years old?” I tease.

“Ten, actually,” he says, “I got a bit of a head start.”

“Should have guessed.”

“Why don’t you come and join me and my friends?” he asks me,
offering me his hand.

“Alright,” I agree, cupping his fingers in mine. Little
tendrils of sensation skate up my arm as he tightens his grasp. I can tell just
from the way he holds my hand that this is a man who’s practiced in touching a
woman’s body. But even though I’m dying to know what his touch feels like...
elsewhere
, the fact
that he’s so experienced almost makes me want to pull back a little. Make him
work even harder than he’s used to.

My companion leads me across the dance floor, and I watch as
every person he passes stops and stares. He’s absolutely magnetic, this one,
irresistible to anyone in his path. And tonight, he’s chosen me to be at his
side. For my part, I’m used to lingering in the background of photo ops for my
famous family, so being at someone’s side for once is a nice change of pace.

Together, we approach a throng of four incredibly attractive
people and come to a stop. Eight inquisitive eyes swing my way, and I do my
best to smile gamely. There’s one other man in the group, a slightly burlier
version of my new friend with a boyish grin and shaggy hair. The other three
people in the group are all women around my own age.

“I’d like you all to meet my new acquaintance,” says my
blue-eyed babe. He leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “This is rather
embarrassing, but I’ve yet to ask your name...”

“I’m Siena,” I tell the group.

“Pleasure to meet you Siena,” my companion says, “I’m
Harrison.”

“Typical,” says one of the women, a petite red head.
“Harrison’s not very good with day-to-day matters, like names and places and
deadlines...”

“That’s Sara,” Harrison says, “Getting on my case about
things is a hobby of hers.”

“I’m Cora,” offers another of the women, a lanky brunette
with freckles across her nose. She lays a hand on the husky man’s arm. “This
raggedy bloke is Andy, my husband.”

“Who’re you calling raggedy?” he exclaims, throwing an arm
around Cora’s shoulders.

The last of the women offers her slender hand to me with a
smile. “I’m Shelby,” she says, tossing her blonde curls back over her shoulder.

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, shaking Shelby’s hand. “I’m
guessing by your accents that you’re all British?”

“On the nosey,” Andy grins.

“And you sound rather American,” Cora remarks, “We had you
pegged for a local.”

“Well, I’m Italian American,” I tell her.

“Ah. Makes sense,” Shelby says, “That’s why you’re not
puking up piña coladas in the bathroom. You’re only
slightly
American.”

I raise an eyebrow at the British beauty. Italy may have
been the place I was born, but I’m still an American too. I can’t say that I
appreciate her brand of humor much.

“Well, it was really nice to meet you all,” I say politely,
“Maybe I’ll see you around...”

Harrison catches my arm as I turn to make my exit. “Aren’t
you going to stay and grace us with your presence?” he asks.

“I should probably find my friend,” I tell him.

“But you’re in need of another drink,” he insists, “And I’m
in need of your company.”

Harrison stays by my side as I step away from the group.
He’s persistent, this one. I can’t say that I’m not a little flattered by his
attention, but I’m really not the one night stand kind of girl. Surely, that’s
what this gorgeous playboy has in mind.

“Come on. One more drink,” he says. It’s a statement, rather
than a question.

“I could use one,” I allow, permitting Harrison to steer me
toward the bar.

The bartender has another round ready for us by the time we
sit down. I settle onto my barstool and take a sip of my refreshing drink.

“What are you, some kind of a regular around here?” I ask
Harrison.

“We got in yesterday,” he tells me, “I guess I already made
an impression.”

“What brings you to Barcelona?” I ask.

“Work,” he tells me with a knowing smile.

“Me too,” I say, letting my eyes linger on his wonderfully
stubbly jaw. God, how I love a little stubble on a man. “What kind of work do
you do?”

“I work for a Formula One racing team,” he tells me.

“I should have guessed!” I exclaim, “I do, too. We’re here
for the Grand Prix this weekend.”