He relaxed, a small grin tucked into the left corner of his cheek. “Siren.”
Yes, I thought, leaning back against the seat, allowing my bones to liquefy, your siren.
Chapter Nine.
I don’t know how he did it, but the second we stepped from the car into the Mexican sunshine, Sinclair the entrepreneur was back, enigmatic and vaguely disinterested in everything around us. I wondered if that distance would apply to me but when I hesitantly waited a few feet away from him after the car pulled away, staring at him instead of where he had taken me, he turned to me with warm eyes.
“This is the reason I love Mexico,” he said and I stepped closer to read the excitement in his eyes. They were such a glorious blue that even my artist’s vocabulary came up blank and so expressive they almost entirely made up for the blank mask he always wore. I thought of his wild cry as he came back in the car, blushed at the thought of the driver hearing us, and flushed with pleasure.
“Insatiable,” he scolded gently, taking me hand and winding it around his arm again.
I gasped as we moved forward. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
He chuckled darkly. “You blush beautifully when you think about sex.”
I tried to control my flush and failed so I tuned out his amusement and absorbed our surroundings.
The Pacific stretched before us, a swathe of silky azure waves topped with broken fragments of golden light. Pelicans crowded around a corner of the busy dock, eager for scraps tossed by brawny fishermen competently slicing open the fish being pulled in by wheelbarrows from incoming boats. The mild sea breeze kept the air from reeking of putrid fish guts and I marveled at the exotic specimens laying on the broad marble tables, their long silver bodies and sword-like protrusions reminiscent of prehistoric creations.
Sinclair led me through the fan fare, the intense Spanish repartee and busy dockhands with a sure hand and widened eyes. He was enjoying himself, happy to point out the different types of fish – marlin and wahoo and dorado – all so exotic, like jewels scattered carelessly across the giant slabs.
“They don’t waste any of it,” he explained, his voice lower than the racket but still excited. “What the tourists or professionals don’t take home, the dockhands use to feed their families. Fishing is a serious sport in this part of the country, most families have made their living from the sea for generations.”
We were past the fillet station and out into the open air of the docks, walking swiftly between the boats in search of our own.
“We’re going fishing?” I asked, slightly
incredulous.
His lips twitched at my lack of enthusiasm. “Trust me, you’ll love it.”
“I really doubt that,” I muttered but he ignored me.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, biting down on the corner of a smile. “Whoever catches the biggest fish dictates what we do tonight.”
“Oh okay, I have this couple’s package – it’s a long story – but a massage might be…” I trailed off with a gasp when Sinclair tugged me into his arms and leaned down to delicately trace the edge of my ear with his tongue.
“I had something more intimate in mind.”
“Oh,” I sighed. “In that case, you’re on.”
We were still smiling as we finally came to a stop at a boat that was not what I would have called luxurious. It was oddly shaped, a powerboat with a blue awning and a small upper deck. The name scrawled across the old but carefully maintained hull was Rosa and despite my reluctance, I laughed.
When Sinclair raised a brow at me, I flapped my hand in the air. “My middle name. It must be a good omen.”
He frowned at me but the arrival of a small, deeply tanned Mexican man distracted him from questioning me further.
“Antonio.” Sinclair’s mouth trembled as he suppressed a smile but he did allow himself to reach down and warmly clasp the short man’s hand. “¿Qué tal?”
“Bueno, beuno obviamente.” Antonio responded jovially.
He had enormous eyes that sparkled like onyx as he beamed up at me, his mouth full of crooked but perfectly white teeth.
“Elle.” Sinclair’s hand wound around my side and swept down the length of my hourglass curve. “This is my friend, Antonio, the best fisherman in all of Mexico.”
Antonio chortled loudly and took my hand in both of his. “Beautiful.”
My laugh was more air than sound, and we both blushed happily at each other as I thanked him. He kept my hand, tugging me along like a child as he led us onboard the Rosa and gave me the grand tour of the compact two-story boat. He enthusiastically described the mechanics of the down riggers, huge weights anchored to both sides of the stern that would drag the fishing lures to the depths of the sea where massive, almost otherworldly fish liked to swim.