He spun to confront a pair of striking almond-shaped green eyes above a prominent set of grinning white teeth. Set as they were in such a beautifully proportioned, olive-skinned face, only the young man’s close, dark stubble kept him from appearing too boyish, conveying just a hint of danger and mystique. His thick black hair was shaved short at the sides but erupted into a mass of tight curls on top of his head that flowed down behind his scalp as well. The mullet cut was back. Kim estimated mid-twenties. He was dressed in a net top, through which his slender yet muscled torso showed off dark curling chest hair and two large dark nipples. His legs and a clear bulge were encased in body-hugging, stylishly torn, black jeans, cinched by a thick leather belt, its large buckle designed as a golden sun.
“I’m Dídac. We’ll be working together onThe Swan.”
So this was Dídac. Dídac Amat: Catalan matinée idol, upon whom the Barcelona company had insisted in order to secure enough bookings to guarantee the show’s success. As if his show needed that. He noticed how the guy took in his pink bathrobe—he would kill the hotel manager or whoever was responsible—but made no comment, except for a slight brightening around his eyes. Arrogant prick.
A glass of bubbles was pushed into his hand.
“No, I can’t do champagne! I’ve been…”
“This isn’t champagne,” Dídac snapped. “It’s Catalan cava, better than what the French do, in my opinion.”
“Salut!” the copper-haired woman cried, chinking glasses with him. “Welcome to Catalonia. I’m Laia. I’ll be your assistant on this production.”
He found himself drinking despite himself. And yes, it was good. The small group who had burst into his room numbered four. There was Dídac, Laia, and a couple—two women it looked like—who had already taken their glasses and ensconced themselves on his terrace, leaving the doors wide so that more of the gunpowder stink was floating into his suite.
“That’s Elena and Joana,” Dídac said, waving his glass towards them. “We met on my last film. Elena does make-up and Joana’s an actress.”
“Actor,” Kim corrected unconsciously.
“What? She’s a woman.” Dídac said.
“An actor is a person who acts, man or woman. Actress is a sexist term, replete with its connotations of casting coaches and what have you.”
“Well, she calls herself an actress,” Dídac defended. “I think she has a right to define herself.”
“Whatever.” Of all the nerve! The smarmy git was now correcting his English. “Listen, thank you for the welcome party, but I’ve been traveling for over thirty hours and I really need to sleep…”
“Kim! You can’t—!”
“Mister Delatour!”
Dídac’s face blanched at the fury in Kim’s tone.
“Oh, well… Mister Delatour… I was going to say that you can’t sleep on a night like Sant Joan. This is a night to watch the sun come up!”
“I assure you, since I left Melbourne a good thirty-five hours ago now, I’ve seen the sun come up at least twice through the plane window. What I need right now is sleep!”
Dídac looked down at his own barely touched glass of cava. He walked over and placed it on the table next to the ice bucket.
“I’m… We’re sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Delatour. We’ll be going.”
He called out in staccato Spanish, or probably Catalan—Kim knew enough to know that was what they spoke here—to his friends. Kim had no idea what he said, but the whole party suddenly looked guilty. The girls came in from the balcony, slugging back their glasses. They smiled ingratiatingly at him and said almost in chorus:
“So nice to have met you, Mr. Kim.”
“Mr. Delatour,” corrected Dídac, with only the faintest trace of scorn in his voice.
Laia smiled at him with what he felt was sincerity—the only one in the group.
“I’m sorry we got off to a bad start, Mr. Delatour. I hope we’ll be able to patch things up on Monday.”
She offered him her hand, which he shook. All four traipsed out of his room. Only Dídac stopped at the door, turned back and looked athim. Kim thought he was going to say something, but with a slight shake of his head, he simply reached for the door and closed it quietly behind him, leaving Kim alone.
2
Atickling on Dídac’s cheek brought him floating up towards the world, hard as he tried to stay down there in that beautiful dreamland. Something like a wet file began to rasp at his beard and soon small paws were kneading his chest, tiny claws pricking him through the ragged tee-shirt he used as a pajama.
“Not now, Dragon, five minutes more.”
