Page 7 of Sinful Escape

But this was new territory for me.

He flicked his hand toward the bus door. “After you.”

“Oh. Ummm, yep.”

God damn, I’d better snap out of this monosyllable shit, or it’s going to be a very long trip.

While Roman settled into the driver’s seat and flicked a switch to close the door, I grabbed the microphone, placed my knee onto my chair, and turned to my new group of tourists.

“Hello again and welcome to Vacation Dreamz. This is the twenty-day European Dreamz tour. So, if you’re on the wrong bus, too bad—you’re stuck with us now.” A few people chuckled, but nobody jumped up and scrambled for the door. It was a good sign.

“Just to be sure, I’ll go through the passenger list. Please raise your hand when I call your name.”

With pen in hand, I started at the top of my list, noting the first passenger was from the United States. “Katie Anderson.”

“Here.” Katie waved, and I marked her name off the list.

Once complete, I tossed the clipboard aside. “Everyone, say hi to our driver, Roman.”

Roman glanced into the rear-view mirror and waved. “Ciao.”

“Hi Roman,” most of the tourists said in unison.

“Righty-ho, sit back and relax, once we’ve escaped the London chaos, I’ll give you a few more details.”

Some of them cheered as Roman kicked the bus into gear and we set off. The hum of the engine competed with the chatting tourists as we drove through the city. I shifted in my seat so I could watch Roman’s muscles bulge as he turned the steering wheel. If I wanted to, that is.

Which I didn’t.

“So, Red,” he glanced at me. “What’ve we got in store with this group?”

I shot him a what-the-fuck look. “Red?”

“Bruce told me it was your nickname.” A cheeky glimmer danced across his eyes.

I glared at him. “Listen. You may call me Red, however, if you ever call me Dolly Parton, I’ll ram my clipboard up your clacka.”

He blinked at me with a comical expression. “Clacka? I’m guessing that’s Australian.”

“Yep, for up the crack of your ass.”

He burst out laughing. “Right.” He nodded with conviction. “No Dolly Parton jokes.”

My previous driver had taken to calling me Red within three months of us working together. Lucky me, not only was my hair a frizzy mop, but it was also the color of roasted carrots. So the nickname suited me. And it was a thousand times better than my real name. I’ll never forgive my parents for naming me Daisy Chayne.

My mother said it was beautiful. I say it’s vomit-worthy.

At first it was the flower reference that had instigated my loathing.

But then I learned that a daisy chain is also a sexual position where three or more naked people usually of the same sex . . . well, never mind.

I was a jeans and plain-blouse girl. Practical and simple. That was my designer code.

And I’d never watched a porno and had no intention of watching one either.

So yeah, thanks Mother for the fucked-up name. I’ll take Red any day.

Turning from Roman’s beaming smile, I picked up my clipboard. “We’ve got sixteen men and fourteen women. Seven Americans, five Australians, two from Japan, two from the UK, two South Africans, four Germans, two from Ireland, two from Korea, two from Brazil, one from New Zealand, and one from Sweden.”

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