Missionary Position (4 page)

“Gerhard Hendriks.” His large hand wrapped around mine in a firm grip. With formalities out of the way, he shrugged off his suit jacket and loosened his green silk tie before sitting down and ordering a gin and tonic. Silver ball cuff-links embellished the cuffs of his dress shirt. Mr. Hendriks was such a suit.

“For the record, I’m only half Dutch.”

“What’s the other half?”

“American.”

“Really? But you have a Dutch name and accent,” I stated the obvious. Go me.

“Want to see my passport?” He smiled. “My mother is American, and I went to school in the States. My—” The bartender interrupted him when he set down a gin and tonic and another bowl of delicious kibble. Gerhard took a sip and then continued, “Anita lives in Chicago now.”

“And you?” I asked.

“Here for now.”

“For now?”

“I travel a lot for work. Amsterdam is home, but otherwise I’m a nomad.”

Sexy nomad. Images of Lawrence of Arabia came to mind.

“What about you, Selah Elmore?” My name sounded different, exotic, on his tongue.

“What about me?” His charming Dutchness charmed me stupid.

“Where do you live?”

“Portland. Oregon. Not Maine.”

He nodded. “I’ve been to Maine, but not the other Portland. I went to college in Boston.”

There was something distinctly Harvardian about him. “Harvard?”

His smile broadened, revealing straight, white, ridiculously gorgeous teeth. “How’d you guess?”

“There’s something about people who attend Harvard.”

“What?”

“They have names like Gerhard and wear expensive navy suits.” I grinned back, testing the flirting waters.

“I’m a stereotype? Are you trying to catalogue me?”

“Stereotype? I don’t know you well enough to say, but I do enjoy cataloging things. Blame my job.”

He scanned my red jersey dress and narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look like the banking type. I’d guess collector or curator since I first saw you at the auction reception.”

He did remember seeing me there. Sitting up a little straighter, I mentally preened.

“Art history professor, but you were close.”

“Ah, it all makes sense now.”

“It does?” I sipped my martini and then nibbled on one of my olives.

“Why you were at the reception. African art professor?”

“No, the human form. Mostly how female nudity is portrayed across cultures.”

He paused with his glass near his mouth. “You’re an expert in naked women?”

I nodded, watching his reaction.

“Huh.” He swallowed. “Who knew such a job existed.”

His response was typical, making me laugh. “Jealous?”

“A little. My work involves no naked women. Although, sometimes there are naked breasts.” His eyes met mine.

“In banking? You mean when you take clients to strip clubs?”

“Now, now. Don’t start with your stereotypes again. Who said I was a banker?”

“I assumed.”

He smirked.

“Yes, I know. Ass-u-me. You were at the reception tonight and someone pointed you out as part of the TNG group.”

“Because I was standing with a group of bankers doesn’t mean I’m a dull number cruncher.”

I couldn’t tell if he was teasing, but I felt like an ass for putting him in a box. “So what do you do?”

“I crunch numbers.” His face remained blank for a moment, then his eyes crinkled and his lips twitched.

I smacked his arm where it lay on the bar. “You do not!”

“I do in a way, but no, not really. I work for another area at TNG.”

“One that requires you to travel.”

“Yes, in fact I leave for a conference in a few weeks. Enough blabbering about me, what are you doing in Amsterdam?”

I told him about my week here, and plans in Accra for the next six months.

His smile returned. “You’ll love Ghana. It’s Africa for beginners. Stable, peaceful, and almost everyone speaks a little English.”

“You’ve been?”

“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 favorite 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.