Page 83 of Kiwi Gold
I should be thinking about that. Instead, I was thinking about Laila.
Had I kissed her more, that last night? Yes and no. Yes, because holding a woman at the nape of her neck, having her hands go to your chest as if she can’t help it, getting your other hand on her face, and brushing a soft kiss over her pink mouth is never going to be anything but kissing. And no, not very bloody much, because that was about as far as our kissing had gone. Even those high-school dates of mine had offered more than that.
I could say I’d held back because of Laila’s own reservations, that wary-bird look she got in the set of her shoulders, the caution in her eyes. In fact, I’d got hit by a rush of emotion so strong that I’d had to pull back and lay my forehead against hers. I’d looked at her, her eyes closed, her mouth a little parted, and said, my thumb still brushing over the back of her neck, “I’d say that we could try a bit more now, but maybe you want to give it some time, eh.”
She nodded, just a dip of her head, but didn’t pull back. Instead, she said, “And you have an early flight.”
“Yeh.” I still had my thumb stroking the back of her neck, and now, she shivered a little. And I thought,huh.She thought she might be stunted. I was pretty sure she wasn’t. “And we’re kissing in front of Long John. Inappropriate, eh.” I grinned at her, feeling good. “Or naughty. On your part.”
She turned her face into my hand in a way that threatened all my equilibrium, then kissed my palm. “Maybe not just my part. You’re dating your half-sisters’ half-sister. Talk about inappropriate.” She kissed my palm again, then rubbed her face against it, and I thought,Bloody hell.
“No,” I said. “Nothing like that. I’ll see you when I get back, then.”
“That would be good,” she said, and then, instead of kissing me again, or rather, letting me kiss her some more, because if there was ever a woman you wanted to lay down and kiss for hours, slow and sweet and hot, it was Laila—instead of any of that, she stepped back, and I had to leave. Which was for the best. I could hardly start on her sexual education, or whatever this was, and then bugger off to Saudi Arabia for nearly a week, could I?
I thought some more about Kegan Ashford, and had to dial up the speed a bit to get rid of the aggression. I was still thinking about him when somebody headed into my line of sight, glanced at me, got onto another treadmill a few down from mine, and switched it on.
And, yes, it was Torsten Drake. Ginger hair, ginger beard, broad chest, big shoulders. A lion of a man. He started at a jog, like me, then dialed the speed up. I don’t mean, “after a warmup interval.” I mean straightaway.
When he glanced at me again, I thought,You’re joking.Then he turned the speed up some more, and I wasn’t thinking. I was just turning up my own.
He ratcheted it up, stabbing at the button like a Norwegian going for gold in the Reindeer Games, and I pressed my own button again, too.
He did it again. So did I. In fact, I took it up two notches.Try that,I thought.
He matched it.
Bloodyhell.I turned mine up again. I hadn’t known my legs could move this fast, and my chest was pumping like a bellows.
It isn’t easy to turn your head and look at somebody else when you’re running for your life on a treadmill. I was keeping my balance, focusing on my pounding feet, determined to win or pass out trying, when he stumbled and went down, flying straight off the end of the thing before I could blink.
I hit the STOP button on my own treadmill, and, of course … fell off. More or less. First I fell forward hard, because of the momentum, and then I bounced off and went down on my knees. Also hard. And with some scraping.
Drake was still down. I thought,Oh, bloody hell, I’ve killed Laila’s dad,and more or less stumbled over there, panting. Another bloke, whom I recognized as another passenger in Business class on the short flight from Dubai, ran over, shouting something in German. Probably, “Gott im Himmel!” or the equivalent.
Too late. I was already there. Drake was pushing himself up, then collapsing on his elbows with a groan and grabbing his wrist.
The German fella’s phone was out, and he was speaking on it, but I was crouched beside Drake, saying, “Stay down. Did you hit your head? Neck OK? Any pressure or pain in your chest?” Bloody hell. What if I’d given him a heart attack?
“Sod … off,” he gasped, and I stood up and told the German fella, “Yeh, he’s OK.”
Drake was staggering to his feet, still holding his wrist. His ship’s prow of a nose was off-center, and blood was streaming into his red beard. He looked at me, though, and laughed through the blood. “What did you do, get dragged? You can’t keep up any better than that with a sixty-two-year-old man?”
I looked down. Well, yeh, my knees were a bit banged up. Sliding on that nonskid mat, it would be. On the other hand, there was Drake. “You’re not one to talk, mate,” I told him. “Have a squiz at your own knees. Reckon you’ve broken that nose, too. And what’ve you done to your wrist?”
“Nothing,” he said, with another scowl. “Jammed it, that’s all.”
I said, “Right. You’re holding your wrist in front of the last man on earth you want to show weakness to, because you jammed it? I don’t think so. And then there’s the nose. Not going to impress at your presentation, not like that. You need to get them to pop that thing back into place for you.” I handed him the towel that had fallen to the deck of the treadmill, and he glared at me, but pressed it to his dripping nose and beard.
He started to say, “Fuck you.” At least, I was guessing that was what it was. I could practically see the words forming. Instead, he changed course midstream and said, “Rack off. I’m fine,” whilst glaring at me like a Viking in mid-battle. Which would’ve been more impressive if he hadn’t just fallen off a treadmill.
The German said, in English this time, “I don’t understand.” At the same moment, the door burst open and a few people appeared. Two men pushing a gurney—ambos, those would be—and somebody very much like a hotel manager. Dark suit, ultra-polished manner. He glided up to us as if spite-induced sporting accidents were a commonplace occurrence in his life and said, in flawless British English, “Ah. Mr. Drake. I’m relieved to see you standing, sir. These men will take you to hospital and get you looked after.”
“I don’t—” Drake began.
I wanted to say, “Oh, bloody hell, go on and get it over with,” but thought better of it. Then Drake said, “I don’t need the hospital. I’m fine,” and Ididsay, “Oh, bloody hell, go on and get it over with.”
The manager looked at me, now. Specifically, at my knees. He said, “It seems it would be a good idea for you to go along as well, sir. Mr …”
