1
What in the actual… was that fresh racket!
Another volley of explosions had erupted out on the street, almost shaking the elegant hotel on its foundations. Since he’d touched down at Barcelona’s Josep Tarradellas Airport an hour ago, Kim Delatour was feeling like he’d been dropped into the middle of a civil war, the way bombs and explosions were going off on all sides. The hotel receptionist, a demure, hazelnut-skinned lad with huge honeyed eyes and an ingratiating smile—early twenties, perhaps a little young for Kim’s tastes—told him that he’d arrived on Saint John’s Eve.
“Who?”
“Saint John. You call this Midsummer Night’s Eve, I think?”
“Yes, of course. It’s today?”
“A big celebration in our country, fireworks, fire in the streets ...”
“Fire?”
The thirty-hour flight hadn’t honed his social skills any. All he wanted to do was get up to his room, take a long hot shower and sleep for twenty hours.
“You know, big fire, people sitting ...”
“Oh, a bonfire, yes, I understand.”
“So here is your key card, Mr. Delatour. But before you go up, there is a message.”
“Yes?”
“One gentleman from the theater, important actor I believe. He is calling to say he can pick you up to show you the sights of Barcelona on this very special night.”
“Ah, well, can you call him and tell him that’s extremely kind, but I shall really have to pass on his generous offer. You see it’s been a grueling flight...”
“Of course, Sir, I tell him you pass him up.”
“Right. Yes. Thank you.”
“We hope you enjoy your stay with us, Sir.”
The boy really did have the most gorgeous puppy-dog eyes, so limpid you wanted to drown in them. If only Kim wasn’t so shattered from the direct flight from Melbourne… but no, the boy was definitely too young, and he was here to direct a play. This was a work trip.
In his room, the first thing he did was open the French doors and step out onto the spacious balcony—more of a private terrace really. The acrid reek of gunpowder assaulted him at once, causing him to fire off another few choice expletives. In answer, a loud thunderclap reverberated from just across the street, frazzling his nerves even more. It felt like they were in a battle zone! The hotel was a gorgeously renovated example of Modernisme, what they called Art Nouveau in this neck ofthe Mediterranean woods, that flowing, colorful style which had swept Europe in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. On any other night it would have been sublime. In its photos, the building had looked like a gorgeous pink and white wedding cake: an eight-story free-flowing sculpture of mosaic and stone. Wrought-iron balconies wrapped about it in that curving form the French called thecoup de fouet, or whiplash. Oh, but to be able to take a whip against whoever was letting off those high-powered explosives on the next rooftop! His room was a master suite just below the top floor, this terrace almost the size of his apartment back home. Located part-way up the mountain on which that famous tourist sight, Park Guell, was sited, the view ahead from his room looked down over the city towards the sea, while to the right he could just glimpse the mountain they called Tibidabo, with that characteristic white church crowning its summit.
The moon was up, almost full. Or was it actually full? He could never tell. It left its silver trail across the wine-dark Mediterranean, seeming to point straight to his door. Suddenly a huge flower of color blossomed above him in the night sky. Then another. And a third. These people, when they did fireworks, they really did fireworks! Personally, with the precious few weeks they had to get this production shipshape, he had little patience for such romantic twaddle. He was here to work. And how much money would be going up in smoke tonight? The government or whoever was funding it must be spending the outgoings of a small country on gunpowder. He could produce a handful of low-budget theater plays for the cost of what was exploding in the air above him. And the Barcelona company had already cut rehearsals by a week. Apparently no one does anything in this burg during August, so everything had to be ready before then. He was hardly prejudiced about other cultures’modus operandi—he’d takenThe Swanto five differentfestivals in Asia and Europe already, but hadn’t they ever heard of a work ethic here?
Tired of the view, he went inside and stripped off on his way to the shower. In the bathroom he was confronted by a floor-to-ceiling version of himself that, thanks to tasteful lighting, stripped away the travel miles so that his face and body surprisingly didn’t look too haggard. Six-two, fit and decently muscled, no extra kilos, and a nice fattish cock. A short mane of blond hair softened and framed his hard-boned features. Nose maybe a bit too large and hawk-like, but it camouflaged those pale blue eyes, deeply sunk on either side of that generous proboscis, giving him a slightly hooded air. Many’s the young actor who had misjudged that hidden gaze, thinking him weak, shy or undecided, only to be blasted shortly afterwards by the strength of his ire, locked in that cutting ice-blue glare as in a tractor beam. No one made that mistake twice.
But it was the voice that people most remembered about Kim Delatour. Velvet. Deep or light, stern or whimsical at need. Endlessly musical. Or imperative and authoritarian. He had come up, paying his way first through drama school and then financing his early ventures in directing by selling his soul to the dubbing studios. It was lucrative work if you had the right voice. And Kim’s voice was versatile. Unlike most men, he could play vocal roles from twelve-year-old boys right up to grating old geezers, generals, policemen, young lovers and stern judges. But he was especially convincing as a sweet-voiced salesman. There was something about his timbre that just seemed to bewitch people; they couldn’t get enough of it. And in the rehearsal room, Kim used every iota of its formidable power to squeeze just the exact emotion he needed from his helpless actors.
Stepping into the shower, he turned on the steaming water full blast. That was the ticket. The two things he’d insisted on for this gig werebusiness-class travel and a decent hotel. Not that he hadn’t paid his dues: the years bumping along for ten or twelve hours at a time between city and city, cooped up with the other actors in a clapped-out old van that was more than half taken up by their set and costumes. The first-class travel and perks had only begun to appear in the last few seasons. And he intended to make sure they remained in his life. He was finally learning how this shit worked, and was not about to give up these perks.
He let the pummeling water rinse away the fatigue of the long flight. Soaping himself up, he debated whether to have a wank. His hand was already stroking his thick cock, one finger tracing the ridged line of its circumcised head, the other hand cupping his balls. He certainly had enough spunk built up there over the flight, and none of the air stewards had particularly grabbed his attention. He decided to wait. He was just too tired. Turning off the water, he toweled himself off, walked out to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed and was deeply asleep within seconds.
Not more than an hour or two could have passed before Kim Delatour, world-renowned director ofThe Swan, was wrenched rudely from his slumbers. A drunken party seemed to have erupted in the corridor just outside his door. Furious at being awaken, he was reaching for the phone to complain to Reception when there was a loud banging on his door.What the sweet…!
He lurched from the bed and, disorientated for a few moments, spun slowly in the room, not quite sure where he was or what washappening. Then he caught a glimpse of himself standing there naked in the full-length mirror through the open bathroom door. Clothes. He should cover himself. The clothes he had worn while traveling were scattered sweat-stained and rumpled across the floor. And his suitcase was still locked. Looking around, the only thing in view was a pink hotel bathrobe hanging on the door. Pink? Who did they think he was, Barbara Cartland? Weren’t all hotel robes supposed to be a neutral color? Swearing, he grabbed it and donned it, tying it roughly about himself before wrenching the door open.
A cheer erupted and a small mêlée of drunk people spilled into his room.
“Cava!” one of them cried, spying the bottle on ice that the hotel had left on a side table near the sofa. He hadn’t even noticed it on his way in, so tired he’d been. A tall, high-heeled woman with close-cropped copper hair, dressed in fishnet tights and a hugging red leather jerkin, had already grabbed the bottle and was negotiating with its cork.
“Welcome to Barcelona!” another happy voice cried.
