Toy Boy (3 page)

“No.” I shook my head and felt tears stab at my eyes. My dreams had been dashed. How could he have been so cruel? He knew my relationship with him was my first since Thomas had been killed, and he’d made me think we could have a future together.

“Don’t say that,” he said, lowering his head so his mouth hovered over mine. “Let’s talk it through. I promise it’s not an issue. You’ll see. We’re still perfect for each other.”

“No, we’re not, and it
is
an issue.” I swallowed, my throat thickening as I tried not to cry. “I thought you were a man but you’re a boy.”

He stared at me for a moment, as if surprised by my statement, then he lowered his head farther so that his mouth was by my ear, his lips skimming my lobe.

I froze and fixed my focus on a small crop of chocolate-colored freckles just above his collarbone. The heat of his skin was warming my hands, the scent of his body invading my nostrils and lacing my tongue.

“I can assure you,” he whispered, “I’m all man. You don’t need to worry about that, baby.”

Damn, he felt all man—big and hot and filling all of my senses. If only…

He pulled me a little closer, and his breaths, in the shell of my ear, sent a pleasurable tingle fluttering over my scalp, down my neck and through my spine. My stomach flipped, my muscles tensed.

Our chests touched, my breasts pushing through my bra and blouse against his bare skin. His thighs knocked mine, solid and hard. His bulk made me feel so small in his arms.

What am I doing?

“No.” I shoved myself away and opened my eyes. “You lied.”

“I didn’t.” He held his hands up again. He had nice hands, square, neat nails and a fuzz of pale hair that went from the backs of them to his forearm, interrupted only by those little leather bracelets that were plaited together on his right wrist.

“You did lie,” I managed, refusing to admire his hands and arms or any other part of his gorgeous body a moment longer. The need to sob was overtaken by anger. “By omission,” I snapped.

“That’s not a real thing.” He shook his head.

“Oh, yes it is.” I reached for my bag and lugged it up to the crook of my arm. “I told you my age. You implied yours was the same, and that, Sullivan, is a lie.”

“But what did it matter when we’d fallen for each other?”

“Had, yes. I
had
fallen for you when I thought we were compatible.” I scanned the surrounding area. I needed somewhere to sleep until I could arrange a flight back to London. There had to be a hotel or a bed and breakfast with a spare room in the busy little port. I needed to get out of Fiscardo and Greece as quickly as possible.

“We’re compatible. You know damn well we are.” He fiddled with the sunglasses on his head, pushing them back through his hair until several strands stuck up over his right ear. “If we weren’t how the hell would we have been able to talk for hours on the phone, write emails and letters to each other that we poured our hearts into? We’re meant to be together, Kay. Admit it.” The soothing quality of his voice had gone, and in its place was a note of desperation.

Well, that was just tough.

“No.” I bunched my fist, resisting flattening his hair like a mother or a caring aunt would. “I’m sorry, but this won’t work. I’m too old for you.”

“But you’re not. Kay, please. I love you.”

I turned away. Those pesky tears were back, my chest was tight and my stomach churning. How could I have gotten it so wrong?

My stupidity had hurt us both. The only difference was he’d get over it in a heartbeat because he was young and beautiful and no doubt had a million girls after him.

“Kay, please,” he said.

“Goodbye,” I managed, walking on the cobbles toward a bar that sat against the water’s edge. Tables with blue parasols and wooden chairs were lined up outside its white painted exterior, and it had
Zofia’s
written in bright blue on a sign over the door.

“Where are you going?” Sullivan called.

“To get a damn drink and find somewhere to sleep for the night.”

“What?” he shouted. “Don’t be crazy. Sleep on the boat with me.”

I halted, sucked in the hot air and turned. People were staring. Stunningly good-looking men asking older ladies to sleep with them wasn’t an everyday occurrence—at least, not in my world.

He stood there, feet apart, a breeze catching his loose swim shorts and pressing them against an interesting bulge in his groin area, and his hair, no longer sticking up, was being pushed by the wind.

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t be serious. Me, sleep on the boat, Dolly Bird, with him? Not a chance.

I shook my head, readjusted my heavy bag, then stomped, with as much dignity as I could muster, into
Zofia’s
.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, and I sent a silent prayer upward, asking that Sullivan would not follow me. I needed to digest this new twist in my fate. It had been the last thing I’d been expecting as I’d boarded the plane that morning. I’d thought happiness, companionship, love and lust was going to be part of my life again. How wrong I’d been.

Shock had made my ears buzz, and my pulse thudded in my temples. I walked up to the bar, having to squeeze between a couple of men—locals, I presumed—and reached for my purse.

“What can I get you, pretty lady?” asked the bartender, an older guy with a gray beard and a Greek accent.

“White wine, please,” I said. “Large.”

He nodded then turned and reached a glass from the shelf.

I could feel the attention of the two older men next to me, so I gave them a curt nod then fingered through my purse to retrieve some euros. I wouldn’t sit at the bar. I’d find a table, but not outside. I didn’t want to be able to see Sullivan. I didn’t want to see Sullivan ever again. Not after what he’d done.

The barman set my drink down.

“Five euro,” he said.

I paid then took my drink and bag and moved to the back corner. The floor, like outside, was irregular, and the walls dipped in and out, creating alcoves that held benches and tables, some of which had lit, dripping candles in small holders on them. Around the top of the walls, like a picture rail, sat a shelf bulging with empty beer bottles of every type. They were dusty, and the labels were faded.

I spotted a table underneath a picture of a lighthouse being battered by waves and made my way past a few more patrons, all men. They were drinking and talking, some were playing cards, others reading. It seemed I was the only woman, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts, drink my wine and lick my wounds.

Chapter Three

As I sat, I took a peek at the door, still hoping Sullivan hadn’t followed me.

He wasn’t there.

I took a hefty slug of wine. It was a little sweeter than I liked, but I was glad of the cool liquid and hoped the alcohol would take the edge off the gnawing ache in my heart.

The men playing cards and the two guys at the bar were ignoring me, as were the ones reading their newspapers, but another man, in the shadows of a recess, was staring straight at me. He had dark hair, dark eyes and a cap pulled low. He was nursing a bottle of beer and didn’t look away when I caught him scrutinizing me.

How rude.

I inwardly tutted and again reached inside my bag. This time, I hunted out my iPhone. I wondered if I’d have connection to the Internet. I needed to check flight times for the next day, see if I could get myself back to the UK. It didn’t have to be Heathrow, which was where I’d flown out from. Anywhere would do. I’d bus or taxi back to Oxford from bloody Inverness, the way I was feeling right now.

I studied the screen. Hoping for Internet had been foolish. I had no signal or connection whatsoever. I tucked the phone away, frustrated, and again sipped my wine.

What the hell was I going to do?

I hadn’t used a tour operator to get to Fiscardo. I hadn’t needed to. Maybe the barman here would help me find a Wi-Fi hotspot. I glanced at him—he was talking loudly in Greek to the two men at the bar. Something about him made me think he wasn’t likely to be computer savvy. The Internet probably wasn’t a priority for his establishment.

The man with the cap was still staring at me. His attention made my jaw tense and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck fan up. It wasn’t an admiring look, it was more of a leer. He was too interested, and he still didn’t care that I’d spotted him staring.

He smiled a little, one side of his mouth twitching.

I gave a sharp nod and turned away, hoping that was a clear enough signal that I wasn’t interested.

It seemed not.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rise then move my way.

I swallowed and glanced around. No one was taking any notice of him coming toward the dark recess I’d scurried into.

Since Thomas had died, I’d always been cosseted by friends and family whenever I’d gone out. I hadn’t been to a bar alone. Yet, here I was, in Greece, a place I’d never been to before, sitting in the half-darkness.

I reached for my bag and went to move, but as I did so, he pulled out the other chair at my table and sat, effectively blocking me in.

“Hello,” he said, setting his bottle of beer next to my wine. “I am Juan. What is your name, beautiful?” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t place—Eastern European, maybe.

I pulled my purse closer and attempted a polite, if weak smile. “I’m sorry, but I’m just leaving. To sit in the sunshine.”

“Why you want sunshine? It is so much more fun in the dark.” The candlelight at my table flickered creepily over his stubbled face and highlighted a scar on his right cheek.

“Because it’s too cold in here,” I said, suppressing a shiver. There was something about him that set off my alarm bells. His knee had nudged up against mine, and he was looking at my chest. “Please, excuse me.”

“You are English,” he said. “Tell me where you are from, if not your name.”

Not a chance
.
“I’m sorry, but could you move your chair? I’m leaving now.”

“No.” He shook his head. “You stay, talk to me.” He leaned forward, and his nostrils flared, as though breathing in my perfume. “I want pretty lady to talk to.”

A wave of panic went through me. He had actually refused to move and let me leave.

“I like you,” he said, “and I can tell you like me. Maybe we do some little jiggy, jiggy together later.” He rested his hand on my arm and squeezed. “I show you a good time.”

“I think not,” I said firmly and pulled from his touch. “I—”

The sound of chair legs scraping on the floor and the bang of my unwelcome visitor’s body slamming into brickwork echoed around the bar.

I looked up.

Sullivan loomed next to the table. He had Juan pinned against the wall—one hand gripping his right arm, the other around his neck.

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Sullivan shouted.

“Get…off,” Juan gasped, wriggling.

“You gotta be kidding me, asshole.” Sullivan pushed into him harder, the muscles of his naked upper torso tensing and swelling.

Juan grunted and tried to shove at Sullivan.

I grabbed my wobbling wine glass, stood, then stepped farther into the corner, away from their grappling bodies. My heart was thumping wildly and my mouth was dry.

The other men in the bar had turned to witness the spectacle.

“I asked you what the hell you’re doing,” Sullivan said harshly. “Tell me.”

“What is it…to you?” Juan said, grabbing Sullivan’s forearm with his free hand and attempting to remove the grip on his neck.

Sullivan didn’t move his arm. Instead, he rammed his knee against Juan’s thigh and clamped him even harder against the wall.

Juan gritted his teeth and anger shone in his eyes. “Get…off…me.”

“I’ll let you go if you’re going to get outta here.” Sullivan’s biceps bulged. He was bigger than Juan, and his flawless skin shone, even in the shadows, with a slight film of sweat.

“No… Argh!” Juan went silent.

Sullivan appeared to have cut off Juan’s oxygen supply.

“Sullivan,” I said. “Please, stop.” I didn’t like Juan, but I didn’t want to be the cause of a murder.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, asshole,” Sullivan said, slowly, calmly, like he had all the time in the world. “You’re going to walk outta here, far away, and I’m never going to see you again.”

Juan had both of his hands clamped around Sullivan’s thick wrist. He appeared to be tugging but with no effect. He nodded, slightly. His cheeks were reddening, and his eyes were so wide I could see all the whites.

“Good,” Sullivan went on, “because if I do see you again, that beer of yours will be down your throat, and it will still be in the goddamn bottle as I ram it past your tonsils. You hear me?”

Juan nodded again, as best he could around Sullivan’s death grip.

Suddenly, Sullivan stepped backward, nudging the table out of the way and putting himself between me and Juan.

Juan fell forward, latched his hands around his throat and dragged in a deep breath.

Sullivan was also breathing fast. I could make out his ribs expanding and contracting beneath his skin. His swim shorts had ridden down, exposing the small dimples in his lower back and the first hint of his buttocks where the skin was paler.

“What is happening?” The barman rushed over, hands up, fingers spread wide. “No fight here.”

“It’s okay,” Sullivan said. “Your troublemaker is leaving.”

“Good,” the barman glanced at me. “What happened?”

“He is crazy American,” Juan said, edging away toward the men playing cards.

“I only get crazy if you hit on my woman,” Sullivan said.

His woman?

Juan glanced at me, then at Sullivan. Did he find it hard to believe this gorgeous, young man liked me? That I was his woman? Of course he did. It was ridiculous.

Juan frowned, stumbled slightly, righted himself using the back of a chair, then headed out of the bar.

I watched his figure pass by the opposite side of the small window. He was walking at a good pace.

Thank goodness.

He’d gone.