Sombra Read online

  And I almost faint.

  Dear Lord. I have a Calvin Klein model holding a card with my name on it.

  Wow.

  Tousled dark hair, not long enough to put in a ponytail, but stylishly overgrown goes every which way, perfectly mussed, like he’s just returned from bedding a fair maiden and sweet-talking her parents into giving him half the farm and a few cows. A five o’clock shadow that people would pay money to photograph makes its way along a strong jaw up to the hollows under his shapely cheekbones. He has a cleft chin. I’m a sucker for a cleft chin.

  And his lips. My god, his lips. Full and lush. Parting on an exhalation.

  Then I catch his eyes. Deep, dark brown, rich and staring at me.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t say anything.

  Giving him a hesitant smile, propelling myself forward, he meets me halfway.

  “¿Eres Kim?” He pronounces it like Keem.

  His voice. Deep and husky. A bedroom voice.

  I stare back at him, flustered, not sure what to say. “Yes, I mean, sí.”

  Four years of Spanish, don’t fail me now.

  Shaking my hand firmly, then kissing both of my cheeks lightly, he gives me a little bow. “Bienvenidos a España.”

  Behind us, off to the side, red lights flash from the baggage area for a different flight. A siren goes off and the conveyor belt starts releasing luggage to waiting passengers.

  My heart’s walloping in my throat. I’ve never been kissed on arrival anywhere, and I’m stunned by how good he smells. Like man, but not sweaty man at the gym. Rich, alluring manly man.

  Could I eat him up? I want to.

  He switches to thickly-accented English. “It is an honor to meet you. My name is Gustavo de la Guerra Cantor. Allow me to carry your bags.” He picks up my two bags like they weigh nothing, and says, “Follow me.”

  I touch my fingers to my cheeks where he kissed me.

  Welcome to Spain, Kim. This is going to be an adventure.

  Three

  Tavo - Puta madre

  I am not prepared for this.

  When my family sent me to Madrid to pick up the American girl this morning, I’d anticipated meeting a scruffy student, like those who backpack through Europe wearing hiking boots and old T-shirts. Travelers more interested in experiences than style.

  Not this woman.

  A bombshell. Kim is a bombshell. I stifle a whistle at her delicious hourglass shape, which makes my blood rush through my veins.

  I try to keep it under control. “Ready to get going?” I ask.

  She’s smoothing down her clothes and her hair. “Yes! I can’t believe I’m here! Look! I’ve got the first mark on my passport!” Her short, polished fingernail points to a solitary stamp on the first page. Her hand shakes, perhaps from travel. “This is my first foreign country. Actually, it’s even my first airplane flight. I’m so glad to meet you!” Tucking her hands behind her elbows, she looks down, then rubs her forearms and twists her wrists.

  Jesús, María, y José. As she’s talking, in a sweet, musical voice, all I think is, she’s going to live with me. If she gets this much joy from a plane ride, what would she be like with real pleasure? What would it be like to see her body with all the curves—those soft breasts and round hips—and to make her come alive with my tongue.

  No. Stop.

  With her dirty blond hair, wavy and parted on the side, she reminds me of my favorite beauty queen, Marilyn Monroe. Kim’s hair is darker and her eyes are hazel instead of the actress’s famous clear blue, but they’re just as attractive and full of light.

  Kim wears neat dark Levi’s and a short-sleeve, navy blue polka dot shirt. Pearl stud earrings adorn her earlobes, a silver heart necklace encircles her neck, and a tiny diamond ring flashes on her finger.

  It’s on her left hand. Maybe an heirloom from her grandmother or something?

  “Do you need anything before we go?” I ask as we walk away from the meeting area. “¿Un café? Do you need to change money?”

  Her speech is rushed. “I changed money before I left. I’ll have to get a SIM card while I’m here, but I don’t want to do that right now. I just want to get going.” She spins around, wide-eyed. Her pretty face, even after traveling for so long, is scrubbed fresh and clean. Her skin’s so pale it’s luminous except when she gets a pink tinge on her cheeks as she looks up at me. And she has this upturned nose that makes me think she is kind of like a conejo, a rabbit—and a sensual mouth that makes me think other things.

  Deep, dark other things. Things that I should keep away from her.

  “Let’s hit the street,” I say.

  Her expression goes slack, gazing at me, then she recovers and nods several times, smiling. “Yes! Hit the road!”

  Families reunite around us. Businesspeople in suits head for their hotel shuttles. Little kids run around adding to the noise. Suitcases roll on concrete, engines idle, people speak into cell phones, making arrangements to meet their loved ones. It smells like exhaust and jet fuel.

  The commotion around the airport is not important to me because she takes all of my attention. She is a young fawn with new legs, unsteady and enchanting, yet determined. Like she knows she wants something, even if she doesn’t quite know what it is, or how to get it. But she’s moving forward, just the same.

  I’m trying to walk with her bags and watch her at the same time without tripping over my feet.

  Current status: I’m barely managing that feat.

  As I proceed with Kim Brown through the clear, automatic doors of Madrid-Barajas airport, I watch her shiny spirit, which seems to expect something wonderful to happen at every turn.

  “You-ah, did you have a good flight?” I ask, my insides reacting to the way the ends of her mouth point up.

  “Yes, thank you. I thought I might get airsick, but I didn’t. They gave us these funny slippers. And a blanket. It was a long time in a plane to get here, but I liked it. I was too excited to sleep.”

  “This way to my car.”

  I’m obsessed with her every move, how her eyes sweep around and drink in the people around us, how her hands are animated, how she’s trying to form words in an unfamiliar tongue.

  “So, um, ¿Cómo estás?” she asks, pronouncing every letter as she bounces next to me on the balls of her feet. Coh-moh-ess-tahss. Many of my friends say only about half the alphabet when they’re talking, sliding the letters together with a drawl. Co-mo-tah.

  I stare at her and try not to laugh as we keep walking. She’s just too cute. “I’m fine, Kim.” She peers up at me, unsure of whether to be mad that I’m not answering her in Spanish, or grateful that she understood me and I understood her.

  I want to understand everything about her.

  Her nose has little, light freckles on it, just a dusting.

  A taxi honks at us as we step out in front of it, too absorbed in each other to notice. I shake my fist at the driver, which is difficult while still holding her bag, and swear under my breath.

  She gives me a broad smile, then starts paying attention to everything but me. I can feel her noticing me, though, through a cushion of charged air between us. Not wanting to stare at her, I stride faster.

  The energy between us crackles. She has to feel it, no?

  My feet hit the asphalt of the parking lot. We get to my car, and I set the bags down and help her into my Renault. “I’m sorry, the seatbelt has a trick to it.” I lean over her to fix it, and her sweet breath wafts on my cheek. As I mess with the belt, I inhale her vanilla scent. “Are you ready?”

  “I’m very ready for something new.”

  I close her door, put her bags in the back, and get in, then turn the key in the ignition and back up. With my foot on the gas, I tear out of the parking lot only to be stopped by a truck blocking the way.

  “Ay, puta madre,” I swear loudly at the imbecile in front of me. I throw up my hands and step on the brakes, honking the horn with a jaunty honk-honk-honk.

  She stiffens in
her seat, then juts her head forward, curious. “Puta madre?”

  I laugh out loud. The word motherfucker coming out of her mouth doesn’t belong there. Like having Audrey Hepburn swear. She doesn’t say bad words, and somehow I want her to say all of them.

  While I’m making her say them as she can’t get enough.

  I pause. What on earth has gotten into me? No woman has ever affected me this way.

  None. I need to knock it off.

  I straighten my features and stop laughing. “Puta madre is a taco.” The truck moves and allows me to move ahead. I proceed out of the airport parking lot and get to the autopista headed south.

  Her eyebrows knit together. “A taco? I don’t understand. You eat it?”

  And I bark a laugh again as I realize the miscommunication. Castilian Spanish can be different than that Spanish used in the Americas.

  She pokes her tongue against the side of her cheek, confused, and I immediately regret laughing at her.

  Eyes on the road, Tavo. “In Spain, a taco is a bad word. It literally means ‘bad word.’ A profanity. You don’t eat it like in Mexico. I should teach you better Spanish.”

  Dammit, I glance at her again. Her grin stretches across her face, and she gives me a conspiratorial eyebrow raise. “I don’t mind if you teach me the bad Spanish, too. I want to learn everything. Everything, Gustavo.”

  My heart stutters. Did she say? What does this mean? Am I not understanding her?

  Oh, the everything I could teach her.

  “Tavo,” I correct her.

  “Tavo.” On her lips, my name sounds like a Chupa Chups lollipop, rounded and sweet.

  “How long have you studied Spanish?” Now that she’s in the passenger seat, I keep gazing at her. It’s difficult to watch the road.

  “Tengo cuatro años de clases de español,” she tells me seriously, proud of her four years of Spanish. Her accent, I can’t place, except that it is American.

  “Hombre. Es nada. Llevo veinte-dos años de español.” I tell her that I have twenty-two years of Spanish, and she gets my joke with a big smile.

  She’s nothing like her Instagram account. She should have been taking pictures of her face. Of things she really likes. I don’t understand why it’s so boring, since within a minute of meeting her, it’s obvious that she has so much more going on than she shows on her social media.

  Although I suppose I don’t use my account for much, either.

  “I wish my English were better,” I continue. I’ve had English classes every year since elementary school along with plenty of practice, but it’s still a second language.

  “It sounds good to me.”

  “Thank you. I practice with a friend.”

  My eyes focus back on the road. We roll down the windows of my car and watch the countryside go by.

  “It’s so gorgeous,” she says under her breath. Then she turns to me. “Are we in the same classes?”

  “Yes, we will be. Translation classes include all levels of proficiency.”

  She nods, seemingly pleased. “When do you graduate?”

  “The end of this year. You?”

  “Same. Do you know what you want to do?”

  How do I answer that? “I don’t have a job lined up after. I’m to work on the family farm.”

  “I don’t know what I want to do either. There’s too many things.” A faraway haze comes over her face. She adjusts her seat back so it reclines slightly and settles in. The way she moves is so pretty. Her fingers lift and rest gently on the door, her elbow outside, then begin gliding with the wind.

  “We have a few hours before we get to Granada. Do you have a request for music?”

  “I want to hear a Spanish singer,” she says. “Please. Nothing I’ve heard before.”

  Hitting a radio button, I recognize the music filling the space immediately, but she cocks her ear to the side. “Who is this?”

  “Alejandro Sanz.” Without hesitation, I sing along with him. Everyone sings along with Alejandro. “You might know him from a Shakira song.”

  She licks her lips. “You sing well.”

  I wave off the compliment. “In Spain, we sing.” But it means more to me to sing. It means a connection with mi padre and my history.

  “Do you dance, too?”

  I nod gravely. “Por supuesto.” I’ll have to dance with her. She blinks and then yawns. I begin to tell her about the different kinds of dance—flamenco, paso doble, bolero, zambra, fandango, zarzuela.

  The kilometers pass by.

  Then I take my eyes off the road and check the passenger seat. La guiri is fast asleep, her head against the seat cushion. Poor guapita, so exhausted from travel. I think of how I’d sketch her face.

  She must trust me to fall asleep so fast. To be comfortable in my company.

  I’m not sure what I’ve gotten myself into, but I know I really like it.

  When we arrive at my family home, I put the car in park by the main house and turn off the ignition. The lovely sleeping girl in my passenger seat doesn’t wake up. She sighs, a smile playing on her lips. Her eyelids flicker.

  I get out of the car. Soon enough, my family will start swarming. I come around to her side and open the door, then reach over to undo her seatbelt. She stirs, her blinking eyes just centimeters away. Her mouth so close. I look down. The lace of her bra peeks out from her blouse. She moans a little, with cute drool trailing down her lush lips.

  I could just kiss her.

  “We’re here?” she asks, yawning sleepily, showing straight white teeth and a delectable tongue.

  How long I can resist this temptation?

  Four

  Kim - Dreams

  I open my eyes, groggy and confused, to a strikingly masculine face inches from mine.

  Is this my imagination?

  I blink. No, he’s really here.

  A strange tremor rises up from my insides, out my spine. I’m not sure where the sensation came from. He’s thrillingly close, and it’s awesome.

  As Tavo unbuckles the seatbelt, he bends over me, and I become statue-like, holding my breath, not wanting to break the spell. His minty breath entices me, and his scruff is right there, begging for me to reach out and pet his chiseled cheek. Stick my finger in that cleft in his chin. Admire him. But he’s not just a treat for the eyes, he smells sublime, like warm leather in the woods. Like rough reins that were put away cleaned and well-oiled after use.

  I’m in that unsure state between awake and dreaming, where nothing makes sense. I know how to buckle and unbuckle my own seatbelt, thank you very much, but having him so close? Hot tamale. My central nervous system, wits, wires, and general operating procedures scramble like someone’s thrown water on my electrical panel. It’s kaput.

  Speaking of water, drool sticks to my chin from my snooze, and I attempt to discreetly wipe it off on my shoulder. Great. Surely that is the way to influence people and win friends.

  I bite at my lip and let him unbuckle me, but I’m so confused. As an example, for some reason I’m surprised to still be in a car.

  Because of the dream I just had.

  I thought I was … elsewhere.

  “We’re here, guapa,” he answers in an undertone, using his handsome Spanish accent, and gives me a crooked smile featuring model-perfect teeth. He’s really a thing of beauty. “You fell asleep. It must have been the engine. Come out and meet my family.”

  Tavo works so close on the seatbelt clasp that I watch his chest move up and out, then down and in, and it’s hypnotically sensual. I could easily stare at him breathing all day instead of any Tasty video.

  He’s pretty darn tasty.

  I squash down thoughts of jamming something in the seatbelt to ensure it never works so he has to do this every day.

  And he keeps calling me guapa—pretty girl. I know I don’t look anywhere near as impeccable as him, since I’m disheveled after traveling for the better part of a day. Nevertheless, the compliment warms my belly.

 
; If I’m honest, it makes me warm in other places, too.

  Actually, if I’m really honest, I’m already warm there. And needy.

  Because of that dream.

  In it, I lay naked on a white fur blanket in the dark. A feather traced down my body, between my breasts, under my stretched-out arms, along my legs, and up to my center. The soft tip skimmed my skin, waking up all the needlepoint sensory receptors on my skin. They were alert. At attention.

  Ready.

  But then the dream changed. A finger grazed my skin, following along my arms, down my torso, up the inside of my thighs.

  That finger started rubbing. Gently circling my O zone like I was a delicacy and the lightest brush was all that was needed to send me to the ultimate climax.

  My lady bits flooded with sensation. My attention heightened, narrowed, focused in and down so that all I wanted, all I really wanted, was that release.

  I was so close to coming.

  But now that I’m awake? I’m still almost there. One more rub. One more thrust, and I’m done. I need to ease the throbbing between my legs. If I could just crest this tension, pass through it and let it journey through me, I’d be well on my way to the best O I’ve ever had. The dream is real, vivid, and I want it to be my reality.

  Apparently not. I’m slumped in an unfamiliar car in an unfamiliar country, with saliva on my face, being attended to by an underwear model in the bright afternoon sun.

  Just short of an orgasm.

  Awkward.

  Top priority after getting out of this car is to find a secret place to finish myself off before I explode.

  But as I sit here, my face heats. I’m turned on, not to mention embarrassed. Does Tavo know I’ve just had the female equivalent of a wet dream?

  Goodness.

  With more crusty eye-blinks, I wake up further. The seatbelt pops undone, but Tavo doesn’t move. Those dancing eyes light on mine, and I try to figure out what he’s thinking—an impossible task.