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CHAPTER THREE
ALESSIO
I’m on my way home when I happen to see Uncle Leo at the Calypso Hotel with what must be a group of his conference attendees. The conference has become famous in certain circles, for bringing tourists who seem more interested in the history of Malta than in its beaches. They tend to want to see all the usual tourist spots, but they’re generally known for asking good questions, picking up their own rubbish, and leaving with more of an appreciation for the island and its inhabitants than our usual party-focused Carnival tourists.
That’s not to say that they don’t occasionally drink like the uni students they teach and become overly impressed with Carnival. They do, sometimes. They’re just usually more polite, even the Americans.
That one woman who caught my gaze, I’d guess she’s American. Perhaps Canadian. Her hair is dark and long, with red highlights, and her skin tone was light, so it’s hard to tell her ethnic background. That suggests North America. Her plain black dress and simple black flats don’t scream American tourist the way that baseball caps and jeans and trainers would, so perhaps I’m wrong.
It doesn’t really matter. She caught my eye for all the wrong reasons, or at least the dangerous ones. She was pretty. She wasn’t shy. There was a look in her eyes when she looked at me that I felt in my backbone and my belly, and in my dick, as if her eyes on my face were actually a hand at my groin. I haven’t been this interested in a woman in years.
I should have asked her name.
Perhaps I’ll call Uncle Leo later.
Perhaps not. There’s a limit to the amount of meddling I can take from my grandmother, and if I should ask Uncle, she’ll hear about it.
Perhaps I will simply arrange to join the tour at some point during the week. They will visit the Cittadella tomorrow.
Yes. That.
Meanwhile, I had promised my friend Stefan to stop by his wine bar later tonight, after the parade starts. I change my mind and head there now. One meal of snacks won’t alarm my mother, and it’s certainly easier than cooking for myself. I get a bottle of Stefan’s local red and some ftira sandwiches and get stuck in, watching the large Carnival floats and the dance troupes running through their routines. I people-watch: locals I’ve known all my life, children on the street to watch the parade, bright-eyed and shrieking with excitement. Tourists who are grinning from ear to ear, and tourists for whom this family-friendly festival is too tame.
The parade has been underway for an hour when I see her: the woman from Uncle Leo’s group. She’s still in a conservative black dress, with a cardigan against the evening chill, with a purse across her torso like a good tourist. She’s laughing at a passing dragon float, and her hair still spills down her back, all wavy and soft.
I have the immediate desire to grasp it in my hand and tug it gently as I’m behind her, and then that gives me a mental image that has me instantly hard as stone inside my trousers: this woman, naked and on her knees in my bed, back arched and generous hips tilted back toward me, spitted on my dick.
Holy shit.
I shake my head at myself. It must be too long since I had a sexual partner…except that I see beautiful women frequently, and I don’t normally have this kind of reaction. And she looks nothing like Sukie, the blonde English girl I once thought I was in love with, so…
So, what then? I don’t know. But it’s something.
Her two companions consult a cell phone and say something to her, motioning away from the parade, but she smiles and shakes her head. As I approach, I hear her say, “No, I’ll stay here a little longer, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Before I can get to her, a rowdy handful of men—also tourists, by their clothing—shove past her, roaring out something in Italian about wine and prostitutes. She stumbles. I make a mad rush across the street, but they’re long gone by the time she can start to pick herself up, aided by a couple of nunnas in the street. The lovely girl with the open, pleased face doesn’t seem hurt, but I’m still determined to help. “Are you all right?” I ask, grasping her elbow gently.
“Ah, English,” the nunnas say, giving me smiles.
The girl looks up into my face, lips parted—and says nothing.
I say nothing because this close, I’m struck nearly blind by her beauty.
The nunnas cackle, and it startles me into speaking. I let go the girl’s arm. “I am Alessio Azzopardi. I saw you at the hotel with my uncle.”
“Yes,” she says.
“I did not catch your name.”
“Maren. Maren Gregory.”
“You are American, yes?”
She nods.
All this time we have not looked away from each other. We have not blinked, but then she blinks, and her eyelashes are long and feminine. I can feel myself hardening inside my trousers again.
She looks away, then back to my face. “I’m not hurt. Startled, mostly. I think they were just drunk.”
