Missionary Position (5 page)

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?

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.

He interlaced his fingers and stretched out his arms, exhaling. “Sure. Of course.” A little smile tugged the corner of his mouth, but his eyes didn’t sparkle.

Wait.

Could Gerhard be gay?

I mentally replayed our time together. There was flirting and the aforementioned banter, but my friend Quinn and I had the same thing in spades, and he was most definitely gay. Quinn didn’t make my thighs clench together. Unless I was trying not to pee from laughing.

Color me officially confused.

Meticulously dressed. Fancy shoes.

Tingles on my skin when he touched me or stared at me with his stormy sea eyes.

I looked down at his long fingers. Well-groomed nails. Metrosexual?

Would it be rude to ask if he was gay? Nothing compliments and says ‘I want to have sex with you’ like asking about sexual preference.

If I didn’t want to have sex with him, I would ask.

Why would Anita, patron saint of superior genes, want me to meet her gay brother?

One word: Ghana.

He’d been there and would be a good resource.

Of course.

This wasn’t a romantic set-up.

Suddenly, the beer, sun, and cheese caught up to me. I closed my eyes. After a few breaths, I opened my lids and sighed.

Gerhard stared at me funny.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Exhausted. I think jet lag snuck up on me. Or there was alcohol in our beer.”

He chuckled and offered to give me a lift to my hotel for a much needed nap.

Once in my room, I found my moleskine notebook and made a list of things I knew about Gerhard.

Turned out, I didn’t know very much at all.

Confused and frustrated, I fell onto the bed fully dressed and gave into beer and dairy sleepiness.

Gerhard Hendriks was a Dutch enigma, much like the Flying Dutchman.

I HAD A nap, a shower, and a new outlook on Gerhard.

We had now.

I was leaving; he was leaving. I wouldn’t spend the next thirty-six hours stewing. I didn’t stew. I wasn’t a stewer. Not over men.

Forty-eight hours of going with the flow. I would be Selah Elmore, flow-goer.

I admitted when I first woke up, groggy from another Gerhard, Norse God pirate dream, I thought about emailing Anita and asking about his preference for teammates when playing hide the salami, but while showering I decided it would be weird and desperate, and anti-flow-going.

Instead, I would put on my lady pants and enjoy the company of a handsome man without wondering what it would be like to get in his pants.

It would be a first in a long time for me.