The End Zone: SPORTS ROMANCE (Contemporary Sport Bad Boy Alpha Male American Football Romance) (New Adult Second Chance Women’s Fiction Romance Short Stories) (19 page)

He sat in the sand next to her chair, looked out toward the turquoise water. “You’re from the States, aren’t you?”

In a flash, the t-shirt was off of her eyes and over her breasts. Her head was turned toward him, but the cat definitely had her tongue. Her look said “
Get the fuck away from me
,” but she was having a bit of trouble measuring the situation.  

She finally settled on a question of her own, “How could you tell?”

“You walk like an American.  I can’t even explain it, really, but I can pick out fellow Americans anywhere.”

“So, you were watching me walk?”

“No, I
noticed
you walking and thought I’d say hello.”  He turned toward her a bit. “Also, I was a bit curious. You don’t often see an American woman traveling alone this far from home. You must be quite the adventurer.”

She pushed the unruly strand of hair off of her nose again. “This is my first time anywhere outside of North America. I came here specifically to get away from American men—and from one man in particular.”

“Sorry to hear that. I guess we’re at cross purposes then, because I’m here to meet beautiful, adventurous American women.”

“I’m not really adventurous.”

“At least you don’t deny being beautiful.”

“I didn’t say that.” Finally, there was a little smile in her hazel eyes, and she was leaning ever so slightly toward him. “But thank you for the flattery. Just know that it’s not going to get me into bed with you.”

“You mistake my attentions, miss...”

“Linda. And you are?”

“Robert.”

“Not ‘Bob’?”

“Nope, just Robert. Never Rob or Bob; and definitely not Bobby.  Anyway, I said I’m here to meet beautiful, adventurous American women, not bed them.”

She adjusted the t-shirt over her breasts and turned a little more toward him, drawing one smooth leg over the other slightly. He kept his eyes locked on hers, and she seemed to sense his effort to do so; and her smile grew larger. “I hardly believe that you’re not interested in bedding women, Robert. I think you’re some kind of player.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “I’m actually here to overcome my shyness. Back in the States, I can’t even talk to women; but here, I’m able to walk up, look them right in the nipples, and have a conversation… Could I borrow your shirt for a second?”

She laughed, and it was beautiful. “Sorry, Robert, but you seem to have overcome your shyness quite well without the help of my nipples, and I’m sure you saw enough when you ‘noticed’ me walking on the beach.”

“I’m sure no man could ever get enough of you, Linda,” Kirk said as he got to his feet, “but I’m afraid I have to go.”

“Really?” She looked genuinely disappointed and settled back into her chair with a fading smile.

“Flying to Athens in the morning, and I’m staying over in Larnaca, unfortunately. But it was very nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your vacation and don’t run into any more of those awful American men.”

“I guess they’re not all so awful.  I’m glad you decided to talk to me, Robert. Safe travels.”

“Same to you.” Kirk turned and walked back toward the hotel and noticed the bystanders who reacted to his movement.  Looked like at least half a dozen, and two of them seemed to be zeroing in on Linda. Soon enough, she wasn’t going to be so happy that he talked to her.

*****

Linda Dorgan waited until Robert-not-Bob was out of sight before moving her t-shirt back over her eyes. She had kind of hoped he would at least look back, but it seemed he really did have somewhere to go. Story of her life: Mr. Might-be-Right at the wrong place and time.  Maybe she should have asked for his number back in the states. Would that have seemed desperate? What if he wanted hers, but didn’t want to look desperate himself? He definitely didn’t give off a married vibe, and good-looking single guys about her age seemed to be in short supply; and the ones who were available seemed more interested in the under-thirty crowd.

She imagined him coming back and standing over her, with that dimpled smile and sandy blond hair, those blue eyes looking her directly in the nipples as they continued their conversation.
Maybe we should get a drink. Why don’t we go up to your room?
  Oh, gawd! Her friends wouldn’t even believe it.  They thought she was crazy just for going to Cyprus—for going anywhere alone. She could have found just as much sun in Florida or Hawaii. But it wouldn’t have been the same escape; wouldn’t have drawn the same broad line of demarcation. She wouldn’t believe it herself—meeting a man while on an adventurous Mediterranean vacation and sleeping with him that night.  It was a nice little fantasy, though, and Robert was the perfect leading man in her romantic mind-movie.  She could almost feel him looking down at her.

And then
she
was looking down as she was lifted straight up by her armpits and the shirt fell from her eyes to her knees to her toes to the sand. Men on either side of her had her by her wrists and upper arms, their thumbs pressing into the bone with such force that she couldn’t muster a scream, just an airy “Ah! Ah! Ah…”

A dusky, weather-beaten woman in a blue police polo shirt and black cargo pants picked up the cotton t-shirt with the end of her baton.  The toes of her black steel-toed boots reflected Linda’s own freshly-pedicured toes with their soft-colored nail polish and even softer flesh, as they struggled to maintain some useful contact with the beach.

“What was your business with Mr. Whitman?” The woman crumpled the shirt in her hand and poked the baton directly between Linda’s breasts, every eye on the beach witness to her crucifixion.

She shook off the surprise and felt her horror turn to anger. “Who the fuck is Mr. Whitman? And who sent you here...? It was my ex-husband, wasn’t it? I can’t believe you would harass an American citizen like this at the bidding of a fucking county police officer.  I want to talk to the American Embassy! Now!”

The baton and the thumbs pressed harder.

“This has nothing to do with any American police officer, but thank you for offering your nationality. Now answer my question: What was your business with Mr. Whitman?”

“I don’t know any Whitman.”

“You only finished talking to him. Did you exchange something?”

“What?”
Robert! What has that handsome asshole done?

“Did you exchange anything?”

“No.  He was just hitting on me. I don’t know him.” Linda tried to twist her arms to put the pressure in a new spot. “Can I have my shirt, please? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

The end of the baton now pressed against the jugular notch at the top of Linda’s sternum. “It’s no use lying to us,” the policewoman said. “You looked very familiar with Mr. Whitman. We will uncover any connection you have to him.” 

Looked very familiar with him? It felt very familiar with him…

Officer Baton-woman backed away and spread the hotel beach towel on the sand, then placed the t-shirt and Linda’s flip-flops on top of it before emptying her bag one item at a time: bottle of sunscreen, two bottles of water, a trashy novel, a tube of lip balm, a floppy hat, and absolutely nothing nefarious. 

“See,” Linda said, “nothing funny…” She looked beyond her tormentor. “FUCK! People are taking pictures of this with their cell phones. I’m going to be all over the internet.  Give me my goddam shirt!” 

The policewoman turned, and a dozen cell phones suddenly turned away or disappeared.  She turned back and said something that was Greek to Linda, and the men released their grip on Linda’s arms. That only doubled the pain for a minute, but not so much that she couldn’t get her shirt on when Attila the Policewoman tossed it back to her. Then the men took her again by the elbows and she was marched into the hotel barefoot, like a child being taken to meet a harsh schoolmaster with a cane. The policewoman followed with Linda’s belongings packed into her bag.

They took her through the lobby and directly up to her room, where she was ordered to open the safe and produce her passport.  When that was done, they finally gave her a little space and let her sit at the desk while the policewoman went out onto the balcony and made a phone call. 

As Little Miss SWAT in her combat chic came back through the sliding glass door, Linda said, “I want to talk to the American Embassy, and I want all of your names and ID Numbers.”

“Your embassy has that information.  I’ve got them on the phone right now, and someone wants to talk to you, Ms. Dorgan.”

Linda took the phone. “Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Ms. Dorgan. My name is Miles Konrad. I’m the Deputy Chief of Mission here at the embassy.” He paused for a second. “I understand you may have had a somewhat traumatic encounter on the beach, and I want to offer as much of an explanation as I can. But first, are you okay?”

“I’m recovering.” She looked at the two men who had tried to destroy the circulation in her arms. “But I’d sure as hell like to know why I had to be dangled topless in front of everybody at the beach.”

“Yes, I heard about that, and the Cyprus Chief of Police would like to offer you a personal apology and VIP transportation for the rest of your stay. Also, we will pay your hotel bill and move you to another hotel of your choice if you longer feel comfortable there.”

“How about express service through customs and security when I fly out?”

“Done. You’ll go out under diplomatic status.”

“And business class?”

“All the way back to Dulles.”

“So, you know my itinerary.”

“We have that ability; mostly so we can help tourists who run into problems.”

Like muscular problems with dimples and blue eyes
. “So, tell me about this misunderstanding, Miles.”

“The man you met on the beach is a State Department employee with a Top Secret / Sensitive Compartmented Information clearance.”

“And...?

“Well, he operates very independently, and we—for reasons I can’t disclose—were concerned that he may have fallen in with some of the wrong sort of people—”

“The kind of people who would restrain a topless woman in front of dozens of tourists carrying cameras and smart phones?”

Miles Konrad cleared his throat. “More like the kind of people who would like to kill lots of Americans.”

“So how do the Cyprus Police fit in all of this? Shouldn’t I have been confronted by some kind of Jason Bourne character? Can’t we police our own?”

“We don’t have police powers in other countries, Ms. Dorgan, and we couldn’t move that many assets fast enough. That’s why we asked the Cyprus Police for help. Even if we were running the surveillance, we’d get their permission.”

Sure you would.
“One more question, then.  Was Mr. Whitman working? And why would he show up at a beach in Limassol in cargo shorts and a golf shirt when he’s staying in Larnaca?”

“I have some ideas about that, but I can’t really share them.  He is on vacation, but guys like him are naturally curious about different locations that could come in handy for their work.”

“Can’t have enough hotel beaches for lone-wolf diplomatic work, I suppose.”

“Something like that.”

*****

After a day in Athens and a direct flight back to Dulles, Kirk killed two days unpacking his apartment while the rest of the team made their separate ways home.  It had been six months since he moved in, but he’d slept in the place less than a dozen times.  Almost none of his artwork was up, and the only room that was completely done was the second bedroom, which he had turned into a small home gym—a guy had to have his priorities, after all.  The rest of the house was decorated according to what he’d found by stalking a friend’s wife on Pinterest. Kirk had seen enough of the harshness and brutality in the world. He wanted his apartment to be an escape from that. 

As he rolled up to the safe house on the third day, Kirk thought again that it was a bit silly to call the place a house.  It was a unit at the end of a one-story strip of office buildings in Merrifield, VA. The sign on the window read, “R-Cal Client Solutions,” and nobody ever came around to ask what they did.  As far as the property manager knew, they were some sort of collection agency.  In a way, it was true. They collected images of people doing things they weren’t supposed to be doing, like passing information to terror groups or Russian foreign intelligence. Or they collected copies of laptop hard drives that unsuspecting traitors had left in their hotel rooms when they went out to dinner.  Everyone on the team was a surveillance expert. A couple of them were experts in computer forensics, a couple more were breaking and entering specialists, and Kirk was a Defense Intelligence Agency liaison and emergency muscle when things went south.

“There’s my love slave!” Nikki was the first to see him as he stepped into the conference room. “I felt those eyes on my behind. Kirk loved that bikini…didn’t you boyfriend?”

“I can’t remember; what did it look like?”

Nikki wagged a finger at him and shook her head. “Umm-hm! We all see what you’re trying to do, but I WILL NOT model it for you here… Don’t want to give one of these old men a heart attack.”

Bob—named after Bob the Builder because he’d been a general contractor before he joined the team and still reported himself to the IRS as such—took fake umbrage at Nikki’s remark.  “Who are you calling old men? I’m the oldest guy on this team, and I’m telling you that fifty is the new twenty-two. You could give me one of your professional lap dances right now, and the only attack I’d get would be after I told my wife about it.”