Copyright © 2006 Lili B. Adams
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
By reading this excerpt, you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age. If you are younger than 18 years old, you must exit this site at once.
"Remind me again why I agreed to this?" Amy asked with closed eyes, desperately trying not to think about exactly how deep the plunge into the Atlantic Ocean below would be if the plane should - God forbid - malfunction.
Claire pried her fingers out of the death grip of her best friend. "We talked about this, remember? Your birthday? We decided to go backpacking. Starting in Venice."
"I thought you were talking about California."
"Very funny. You have been dreaming of going to Italy since I've known you. And that's been... forever."
"But I hate flying."
"Oh, stop whining. This will be perfect. Italy! And even better: Italians!"
Amy opened one eye to shoot her friend an evil glare. Claire ignored her. "Which reminds me. I have a present."
Amy's eyes flew open. "My birthday is a week away. Don't give it to me. That's bad luck."
"It's not a regular present." Claire's voice came from inside the big shoulder bag without which she seemed unable to exist. Coming up again, she handed Amy a small fire engine red diary. "See, it's not even wrapped. Besides, you'll need this."
"As a travelogue? That's nice." Amy hugged her friend.
"Don't be ridiculous. This is to record your erotic exploits."
* * *
Copyright © 2006 Lili B. Adams
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
She was on her second Manhattan when she looked up right into a pair of twinkling blue eyes.
"Well, if it isn't... Claire."
"Yes. Hi..." She pretended she didn't know his name.
"Ben. Ben Hunter."
As if she could forget. Ever since he had butted into her conversation with Amy on the plane she had been only too aware of him sitting next to her. She didn't know what it was, but something about him just bothered her. Maybe it was the way his very blue eyes seemed to shine with silent amusement. Or his dark hair, a little too long, that curled around his ears and his shirt collar. Or that generous mouth with its sculpted lips, perfectly kissable.
God, where did that thought come from?
He sat down next to her and ordered a drink.
"So, had any luck yet?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about." But of course she had.
"Your little pet project. The diary. Any stars yet?"
"And how is that any of your business?"
"I'm just concerned that you don't ruin the reputation of all American women."
"And how would I do that?"
"By being a not very good kisser."
"EXCUSE ME?"
"You plan on rating Italian men. Who says you're an expert?"
"Just for your information - I'm an excellent kisser!"
"If you say so." He finished his drink, pushed some money across the bar and stood up as if to leave.
"Hey! I..."
He turned to her, pulled her to him and kissed her.