Unlikely Love: A Romance Single (3 page)

He reminded Delilah of the geeks from high school, but he'd somehow discovered the joys of working out.

“What do you want?” she said coldly, ditching the wine and pushing Marcus out of the way of the door.

The man's strong and spicy aftershave greeted her, which caused a stirring in her stomach, but she concentrated really hard on trying not to show it on her face. She didn't seem to find him as attractive with all of his clothes on, but it didn't stop her remembering his dripping and tanned body.

“I heard screaming and wondered if you needed help,” he whispered through a smirk, leaning in towards her.

“Help with what?”

“Oh, I don't know? From the sound of it, help tying the noose around the balcony?”

Delilah furrowed her brow and leaned against the door, pushing her matted, extension-free hair from her face.

“Sorry, I forgot to laugh,” her voice flat.

Behind the glasses, his chocolaty eyes flickered with a hint of amusement at her attitude. She tried not to notice how they pierced through the dark.

“It's okay. I'll remind you next time,” he winked playfully

The wink made the fluttering in her stomach return, coupled with a faint smile, which she quickly forced back. Delilah wasn't the type of woman who was going to give anybody the satisfaction of getting one over on her. She still hadn't forgiven him for not instantly moving out of his room.

“Well I don't need your help. So you can go away,” she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes before taking a step back into her room.

“One more thing,” he called after her.

“What?”

His tongue ran quickly across his teeth as he smirked wildly. She screwed up her face to stop it reacting.

“How do you spell Delilah?” he asked coyly.

“Why?” she said, “Are you going to Google me?”

“No, I just want to make sure I get it right. Y'know, in my article.”

“What article?” she demanded.

Instantly, she assumed he was paparazzi. She quickly thought back to her label before she left. They told her to behave herself because bad press across seas didn't always work out so well. She scanned the man stood in front of her, looking for a secret recording device or camera. She tucked her messy hair behind her ears and crossed her arms around her chest.

“I'm here to write an article about Madrid for European Travels Monthly, but I think a bit of drama will add an extra flavor that my editor might appreciate. I'm sure writing about a diva like you, would really help sell our magazine.”

Delilah's mouth dropped at being called a diva. She knew she could be demanding, but that's what the industry was like.

“You dare!” her eyes squinted and her voice lowered to a threatening whisper.

“Oh Delilah White,” he winked again, leaning through the dark, “I dare.”

“Marcus, we're leaving!” she cried, rushing back to stuff her feet back into her shoes.

The last thing she needed was another negative article written about her. Whoever said '
all press is good press
' was lying, because Tony nearly killed her when the press learned about her recent DUI charge in LA.

“There's nowhere to go,” Marcus moaned, pulling the cork from the bottle, “just calm down, yeah?”

Delilah's mouth dropped again.

“You're my assistant!” she screamed hysterically as she tried to re-clip her hair back in, “Assist!”

“He's right though,” the journalist called.

She spun around to see that he'd taken a step into the room, with his smirk even wider and more amused. The stubble from earlier had grown out slightly, covering the lower half of his face in a shadow. Delilah was quickly starting to think that everything attractive about him was coming across as smug.

“Get out!” she cried, marching over and pushing against his firm chest.

She felt a tingle in her fingers as they brushed against his exposed skin through the open shirt. He let her push him out of the room, even though she was tiny compared to his bulked out frame.

“Just keep it down, okay?” he winked, “No more screaming. Some of us have busy work to be getting on with.”

His hazel eyes lingered on her for, before he bobbed his head down and headed back towards his room.

“You dare write about me and you'll be hearing from my lawyer!” she screamed after him as his door slammed shut, “You hear me?”

She waited for a response, but she was met with silence. She couldn't believe how much the man infuriated her. There was something about his cheeky smirk and amused '
know-it-all
' eyes that made her want to crush him.

Just as she was about to bang his door down, Julia appeared through the dark of the stairway and marched angrily down the hall towards her.

“You!” she growled, pointing a boney and wrinkled finger at Delilah, “You too loud! People complain!”

Delilah didn't respond, instead she curled her lips into a snarl before tossing the one matted extension she'd managed to cram back in, over her shoulder. With one last glare at Julia, she marched back into her room, slamming the door as loud as she could, for the second time in a day.

From behind her expensive sunglasses, she squinted painfully into the bright sunlight, rubbing the white lotion on her tanned and slender legs. She could feel the effects of the wine from the night before, weighing heavily on her blurry mind.

She remembered quickly gulping down the first bottle of wine in no time after her meeting with her arrogant neighbor. She made as much noise as possible and talked about him very loudly, right next to the wall. After her wine disappeared, she snatched Marcus's wine out of his hands and finished his bottle for him, before collapsing face first onto her bed.

A tiny blue pool sat in the middle of the courtyard, but Delilah wasn't going to risk taking a dip. It looked murky and there were a lot of strange objects floating around in it, mainly sandals, leaves and pieces of half-eaten fruit. High stone walls kept them inside the complex, with the ugly hotel looming over them, blocking most of the morning sunlight. It had taken her most of the morning to find a spot where she could feel the sun on her skin.

“Is there a bar?” Marcus mumbled under his own glasses.

“Don't talk about alcohol,” Delilah groaned through the hangover.

Her head was spinning out of control, even though she wasn't moving. As the sun covered her skin, she felt the heat attempt to wash away her headache, but it only made her sweat underneath her makeup.

“Do you think they do pool side service?”

“I don't know!” Delilah snapped, “Go and find out.”

“I'll go and take a look around.”

“Good luck,” Delilah mumbled before closing her eyes behind her shades.

She settled into her sunbed, knees bent and arms delicately balancing on the plastic arm rests. A figure suddenly appeared over her, blocking the little sun she'd managed to find.

“That was quick. Did you find a bar?” she asked, eyes still closed.

“What on earth do you want a bar for?” it wasn't Marcus, “From the sounds of it, you did enough drinking last night.”

Delilah's eyes sprung open to see the smirk of the man from room 16, standing over her with his arms stuffed in a pair of denim shorts. His muscles popped through the tight white vest he'd chosen, and he'd ditched his normal glasses for a pair of stylish shades. He looked attractive again, but Delilah pretended not to notice.

“Come to get more material for your slanderous article?” she snarled, pulling her pink towel over her body

“I'm undecided about that. Not sure if pop stars are suited to the magazine's audience,” he smiled.

“You'd be lucky to have me on your cover! Your crappy little magazine might even sell some copies for once.”

“Are you offering?”

“Call my agent,” she said dismissively.

“I don't think we can afford you anyway.”

“I thought you didn't know who I was.”

He paused before answering.

“I took your advice and Google'd you,” he laughed, “cute music video.”

“Cute?” Delilah laughed, “You mean hot. I won a
VMA
for that.”

“A what?”

“Never mind,” she sighed, “can you move? You're blocking my light.”

He side stepped a few inches, but it didn't make a difference. His broad shadow still cast over her. She tried to close her eyes to ignore him, but she could feel her body starting to overheat from the heavy beach towel that was covering.

“What's that accent?” he asked.

She opened one of her eyes to look up at him before closing it slowly again.

“English,” she mumbled, wanting to get back to her sunbathing.

“No? Really?” he laughed sarcastically, taking a seat on the sun lounger next to her.

“My assistant is there,” she cried, clutching the towel over her bikini top and swinging her legs around the side of her own lounger, “move!”

She waved her free hand at him to shoo him away, but that only seemed to make him chuckle.

“He is?” he stood up and looked under where he'd been sat, “How small is he? I think I've squashed him.”

“What?” she snapped.

“That was a joke,” he said in his usual smug tone, “that's the part where you laugh.”

“You're not funny,” she sighed, looking over him willing Marcus to return.

“Stop changing the subject! Your accent?” he asked again.

Delilah shook her hair out and ripped off her glasses. She didn't care that her eyes were red and puffy, or that her eyeliner had been wonkily applied.

“Why do you care?”

“Because I write for a travel magazine and I'd like to think I could place an accent. I can't place yours.”

Delilah knew why. She was originally from East London, but years of record execs telling her she sounded too '
ghetto
' or too '
rough
' to be a star, had made her change her dialect. Whenever she spoke to her mother on the phone, she'd complain and moan that she'd lost her roots. Most people didn't realize that before a hit single, most singers spent years working in the studio, being molded and shaped into something that would sell.

“London,” she said vaguely, “I'm from London.”

“Which part?”

“What's with all these questions?”

“I'm interested.”

“Are you trying to interview me?” her eyes opened wide as she tried to look for a hidden recording device again.

It wouldn't be the first time somebody had tricked her into answering questions and twisting her answers.

“I'm not that interested,” he relaxed his face and rested his arms on his knees.

Delilah couldn't help but notice that every time he blinked, his thick lashes would flutter across his dark pupils, making them dance in the bright Spanish sun.

“East London,” she muttered, “I lived there my whole life.”

“You don't sound like an East-End gal,” he tried to imitate a cockney accent, but he just sounded like every American Delilah had met who'd tried to imitate a British accent.

“That was crap,” she laughed.

“Was that a laugh?” he reached over and nudged her knee through the towel, “I made you laugh!”

“No you didn't,” she curled her lips, pulling her knees in.

She didn't know what his game was, or even what his name was, but she did know that he irritated her. It had been so long since anybody had spoken to her like he did. For years, she'd been wrapped in cotton wool and only told positive things as she was groomed to become a starlet.

“Have you got plans today?” he asked, leaning his arms back onto the plastic lounger.

His chest muscles popped out, and Delilah couldn't help but notice a tuft of dark hair poking out from under his arm.

“I plan to get out of here as fast as I can,” she said, as the towel slipped from her chest and to the ground.

She noticed the man's eyes drop to her full breasts, behind the pink bikini, but they didn't linger and they were quickly staring intensely back in her eyes.

“Paradise isn't so bad,” he shrugged.

“Paradise?” she scrambled for the towel, “You're kidding, right? This is my idea of hell.”

“That's what it's called.
Paraíso
is Spanish for Paradise,” his tongue wrapped expertly around the Spanish word.

“You speak Spanish?” she arched her eyebrows.

“Fluently,” he grinned proudly, “I'm here all the time. It's a gorgeous country.”

The traces of smugness weren't as strong as they had been. Talking about his passions had softened his face, bringing out a boyish quality that Delilah hadn't seen. If she had to guess, she'd say he was only in his mid-20s.

“I think the meaning got lost in translation here,” she glanced up to her room with the balcony.

The top floor was the only one with tiny balconies, so she felt like she'd been given a slightly better deal than the rest of the guests in the grim hotel.

“It's not so bad,” he said, joining her eyes and turning to look at the gray stone building.

“Oh, it really is.”

“You want to see the real Madrid? This is it. You could stay in one of those fancy western resorts, but this is the underbelly of the city. Don't you feel the history and the real people here? You never get that in the resorts.”

“I'd take a resort any day, over this.”

The man searched her face, but she tried her best to look stern. She didn't share his passion for the locals, but she could feel herself enjoying listening to him enthuse about it.

“I guess that's what you're used to,” he shrugged.

“Is there anything wrong with that?” she mumbled.

He laughed, flashing his sparkling straight teeth. The dimples either side of his mouth popped out as he did.

“Why are you so defensive?” he laughed.

“I'm just a big deal where I come from,” she shrugged, “they don't usually put '
big deals
'
in places like this.”

“This wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't seen how the other side live.”

She glanced back up at the hotel. It reminded her of the tiny apartment she'd shared with her mother and brother for most of her life. She thought back to the hotels she usually stayed in, and it's what she'd grown used to, but it hadn't always been that way. It was her family that made her want a life of fame because she wanted to give them a better life than they'd had. It was all those nights playing a second-hand guitar in their shared bedroom that made her want a better life for them. They'd left the apartment, and she'd been able to give them enough money so they could rent a house, but she wasn't there with them to share it.

“So, what are you really doing today?” he asked.

“Sunbathing,” she snapped, “and you're interrupting it.”

She slid her sunglasses back and slammed herself back on to the lounger, closing her eyes as the sun licked her skin.

“You could always come with me,” he said, “I have something planned.”

“Where?” she asked before she had time to think about her answer.

“I'm going to a vineyard to write a piece about the wine industry here. There will be lots of free wine to taste,” she could hear him smirking, even though her eyes were closed.

She found herself considering his offer. Not because of the free wine, but because of the offer to do something that didn't involve expensive shopping and A-list parties. She imagined spending the day with the journalist whose name she didn't know, and it didn't totally repulse her.

But André wandered into her mind. Her toned and tanned model boyfriend who had done campaigns for every major fashion house in the world, and the thought of spending the day with a bespectacled journalist seemed amusing to her.

“I'm okay, thanks,” she pouted her lips, “I'll just stay here.”

There was a moment's silence before she opened her eyes. She thought he'd still be sitting on the lounger next to her, but she saw the back of his body vanish back into the hotel. Part of her was glad that he'd left her alone without more questions, but another small part of her was disappointed that he didn't put up a fight to spend time with her. After all, so many people would kill to even talk to Delilah White, let alone spend an afternoon with her.

Marcus walked slowly through the door that the journalist had exited through, carrying a tray with a glass of wine and a tall glass of iced water.

“I had to practically fight for this!” he said, “Julia made me carry it out myself. Can you imagine?”

“Hmm,” she said, snatching the iced water.

Looking back to the door where the journalist had vanished, she found herself feeling intrigued by him. He might not have been her French model boyfriend, but there was a feeling that he gave her in her stomach that she couldn't quite pin down.

Staring longingly at the door, she had an urge to know his name.