Page 108 of Whirlwind

“Thank you for this. I’m really excited.”

He raised his chin and went to his seat over by Tag who raised his champagne glass at me, and I grinned and I plonked back down in my chair.

“How did that go?” Beck asked, his leg pressing against mine.

I planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, for this, Beck.”

His lips broke into a wide, deep grin and he kissed me. Sweet wine and sparkle.

Bottles of champagne opened one after the other, a symphony of exultantfff pop fff pop. Raw shellfish of every kind appeared heaped on colorful hand-painted porcelain platters. Fried calamari and roasted shrimp followed, all of it artfully arranged. Heaping bowls of glistening-in-olive-oil tomatoes and cucumber and feta cheese, sprawling platters of roasted fish that were cleaned and filleted at the table by waiters. The flavors filled my mouth, capers, olives, brine, brisk, all of it dancing on my tongue.

A very attractive couple arrived, and Alessio jumped up and embraced the woman. Her hair shone in the muted light, her lean, long figure sleek in a short apricot dress paired with high heeled sandals. Although she wore minimal makeup, she glowed with golden highlights. Blessed by the gods.

The man with her had dark blond hair with a few grays, and a sharp jaw and a harsh gaze to match. My back straightened. Everything about him made me sit up and take notice. Smooth stirred with lethal. His suit was undoubtedly tailor-made, and he wore it with ease and elegance. Was he in his late 40s, early 50s? Couldn’t tell. Whatever his age, he wore it supremely well. Life here obviously agreed with him.

His brow furrowed as he scanned the restaurant and the veranda, eyes hard. Scanning and listening for trouble were definitely instinctual for this man. A high fashion model with a Secret Service background? Alessio brought them over to me and Beck.

“This is my best friend, Adri. She owns the finest special events and PR company in the Mediterranean.Cára, this is Beck and Violet.”

“Hello,” Adri said in Greek accented British English, shaking Beck’s hand then mine. Her fingers delicately brushed Harsh Jaw Hottie’s chest. “This is my husband, Turo.”

Is he Italian?

Turo offered his hand to me, his features instantly relaxing as we shook. His now softer gaze settled on Beck, and an eyebrow arched, his lips curved into a small smile. He recognized Beck. “Good to meet you.”Oh—he’s American.They shook hands and Turo’s gaze became a very keen mix of scrutiny and admiration, his slight grin deepening, sharpening. “Congrats on your tour.”

“Oh, thanks.” The look on Beck’s face told he was surprised but pleased that someone Turo’s age knew about him and his band.

Turo held out a chair for Adri next to Alessio, and he sat on her other side. Turo couldn’t keep his hands off his wife. The two of them literally kept in touch. His hand on her leg, her shoulder, absently catching a piece of her long hair, a quick kiss and a knowing grin as they spoke, a longer kiss. Each whispering to the other, her fingers going to his jaw. I was fascinated.

The way they both looked at each other, listened to one another, wasn’t only desire, it was much, much deeper. A heady cocktail of respect and adoration, a dash of wonder. Had they just gotten together? Their heat was palpable, and I wasn’t even sitting next to them. That was true sexy as fuck. Adri and Turo were all the marriage goals.

Shit, I could only imagine what they got up to in bed. Or on the beach. Or wherever. I bet they did it in public. A lot. Someone filled my wine glass—bless you!—and I took a long cold swallow.Damn, I loved Champagne.

More food arrived and somehow fit on the table. Three platters filled with mountainous twists of spaghetti with lobsters enthroned on the peaks of pasta were met withooohsandahhhs, groans of delight, a fit of applause.

“Cheers to theastakó makaronátha!” a voice broke over the table.

“Let the summer begin, my friends!” Alessio shouted.

We were served, we ate, and the flavors filling my mouth were a riot of what I’d always thought the Mediterranean would taste like. Spice and warmth, sweet freshness embraced by aromatic heat.

“There he is!” Tag jumped up and threw himself at a tall, thin Scandinavian Viking with a posse who’d just arrived.

“Kaspar,” Beck murmured.

This was the DJ remix superstar. He’d been joining forces with pop stars and hitting the Top 40 worldwide year after year. Recently, a piece he’d done with an English singer went straight to number one on the dance charts. I remembered that song getting booed one night by the patrons of Dead Ringers who were waiting for a metal band to take the stage.

I sipped the slightly sweet rosé wine that had been poured for us. Boy, Dead Ringers felt far, far away right now.

“Hey, man!” Kaspar came over to Beck and the two of them hugged, slapping each other on the back.

“Great to see you again,” Beck said.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Our tour ended, and Tag invited me to hang out.”

“I’ve heard such great things. I’m happy for you.”

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