A Million Different Ways to Lose You (Horn Duet 2)

The Mediterranean sun was not a friend to my pale skin, which hadn’t seen a bathing suit in more than a decade. As I finished slathering every square inch of my body with zinc sunscreen, Sebastian emerged from below deck with his red swim trunks hanging dangerously low on his hips. He stretched his arms overhead and bent his head left and right, the motion causing his trunks to drop low enough that I could see…well, you get the picture.

“See anything you like?” he drawled, wiggling his eyebrows. His sense of humor was returning in small increments, more and more of it the farther we traveled from Geneva. That alone made the trip worthwhile. I see the bite marks I left on your hipbone, I thought, though I kept that to myself.

“Yes––and so will the captain and the crew if you don’t pull up your trunks.”

The remark only earned me another mischievous smirk. He was about to dive in when I said, “Let me put some sunscreen on you.” Beneath the constellation of freckles that had sprouted up on his shoulders practically overnight, the skin was turning a little pink. When I held up a bottle of waterproof fifty, he wrinkled his nose at it, and shook his head.

“I’m not a delicate china doll like you,” he replied in a low, sexy voice and dropped a quick kiss on my pursed lips. Delicate…hmmm. I dug a finger right into the newly pink skin at the top of his shoulder blade and he winced, shying away from the pressure.

“Right, my pretty pink rose. Guess who’s going to be looking for the bottle of aloe tonight.” I finally got some on him––even though I had to suffer through more complaints and assurances of his manliness.

Already having given up all pretense of reading a novel, I slipped on the Victoria Beckham sunglasses which Sebastian had purchased on the sly––the sunglasses which I had refused to let him buy after almost swallowing my tongue when I saw the price––and watched him do laps up and down the length of the boat.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him…my very own merman. His skin gilded, sunlight glistening off the curved planes of his slick muscles, the graceful motion of his arms as they arced and sliced through ultramarine waves. I used to roll my eyes at the silly romantic novels the other girls at school would read. Now I was writing odes in my mind to the man’s gluteus. Oh how low the mighty had fallen.

“Come in,” he yelled, motioning with his arm.

“That’s alright. I like the view from here.” The merman’s smile was wide and bright, lighting up his whole face.

In the distance three tenders approached at a high rate of speed. The seemingly invisible armed guards aboard our yacht manifested out of nowhere. Their automatic weapons pointed at the intruder, it was an ugly reminder that although the scenery had changed, the danger had not lessened. Sebastian stopped swimming and bobbed up and down in the water, watching with narrowed eyes. When a smile broke across his face, I knew there was no threat.

“Hani, what’s up, man?” Sebastian called out, amusement and surprise in his voice. After which, he lifted himself into the tender and a lot of hugging and back slapping began. The tender pulled along the side of our boat and Sebastian and the man he called Hani, along with his team of heavily armed guards, boarded the yacht.

Hani was average height and slim. He wore a short, neat beard and a smile that I got the impression was perpetual. He also had the most striking, rather unforgettably large, aquamarine colored eyes.

Over an assortment of grilled fish, from fresh branzino, a wild caught Mediterranean sea bass, to langoustines, the two men spent the entire lunch reminiscing. I soaked up every word. This was a glimpse into the life of the man I loved that I was too much of a coward to ask about. Because if I could pretend he didn’t have a past, then I didn’t have to face mine.

“Praise to Allah, he saw me go under the water.” Hani had explained that he and Sebastian had met when they both attended Stanford. Pouring himself another glass of Pellegrino, he continued, addressing me directly, “It was stupid of me. Maverick’s is one of the most dangerous places in the world to surf. I’m one lucky bastard that a world-class swimmer was there that day to pull me out and drag me to safety.”

I glanced at Sebastian and found a soft smile on his face as he watched his friend tell the story. Boy scout, I thought––the nickname given to him as a child. As much as he hated it, it fit.

His expression suddenly sober, Sebastian said, “I have a favor to ask.”