Page 13 of Sombra
Scanning the horde of people hugging andkissing, reuniting from their journeys, I look for my ride. A de la Guerra girl. Likely with dark hair.
That describes almost every woman here.
Off to the side, a few dozen people, mostly chauffeurs, hold cards with names on them.
Gómez
García
González
Pérez
Singh
Martínez
Brown.
Brown.Oh, that’s me.Kim Brown from West DesMoines.
My eyes shift from the card to the person holding it. Nimble fingers grip the name card. Those fingers lead to strong, veiny hands. Sinewy forearms with a few beaded and leather bracelets. A handsome, lean chest ensconced in a dark blue button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, which is neatly tucked into dark blue jeans with a fantastic leather belt. Those jeans, oh my golly gosh.He looks good in them. And by good I meangood. Stylish dark brown leather shoes complete his refined appearance. But then I look up.
And I almost faint.
Dear Lord. I have a Calvin Klein model holding a card with my name on it.
Wow.
Tousled dark hair, not long enough to put in a ponytail, but stylishly overgrown goes every which way, perfectly mussed, like he’s justreturned from bedding a fair maiden and sweet-talking her parents into giving him half the farm and a few cows. A five o’clock shadow that people would pay money to photograph makes its way along a strong jaw up to the hollows under his shapely cheekbones. He has a cleft chin. I’m a sucker for a cleft chin.
And his lips. My god, his lips. Full and lush. Parting on an exhalation.
Then I catch his eyes. Deep, dark brown, rich and staring at me.
I can’t breathe. I can’t say anything.
Giving him a hesitant smile, propelling myself forward, he meets me halfway.
“¿Eres Kim?” He pronounces it like Keem.
His voice.Deep and husky. A bedroom voice.
I stare back at him, flustered, not sure what to say. “Yes, I mean,sí.”
Four years of Spanish,don’t fail me now.
Shaking my hand firmly, then kissing both of my cheeks lightly, he gives me a little bow. “Bienvenidos a España.”
Behind us, off to the side, red lights flash from the baggage area for a different flight. A siren goes off and the conveyor belt starts releasing luggage to waiting passengers.
My heart’s walloping in my throat. I’ve never been kissed on arrivalanywhere, and I’m stunned by how good he smells. Like man, but not sweaty man at the gym. Rich, alluring manly man.
Could I eat him up? I want to.
He switches to thickly-accented English. “It is an honor to meet you. My name is Gustavo de la Guerra Cantor. Allow me to carry your bags.” He picks up my two bags like they weigh nothing, and says, “Follow me.”
I touch my fingersto my cheeks where he kissed me.
Welcome to Spain, Kim. This is going to be an adventure.
