A Warlord's Lady Read Free

curled slightly just above his collar. I felt myself blush. Not a good thing for a Chameleon to do, as I tend to turn a rather unflattering crimson red which seems to put most guys off. I took a gulp of my cocktail to cover my embarrassment. Was it just me, or was this drink stronger than the others? I found myself staring googly-eyed at the handsome guy again, but thankfully my blush stayed down. He offered me a long, lazy wink and raised his glass of beer in a cocky salute. I suddenly became aware of the artistic sculpture of muscles beneath his snug shirt. I really wanted to have a holiday fling. No, actually, if I dare to be uncouth — I was gagging for a shag. It had been months since I’d been with a man; I didn’t like it and nor did my body. My pulse began to race at the mere thought of touching the hard muscles that moved so enticingly beneath the white of his shirt. He must have read something in my eyes, and he smiled quickly, offering a flash of wolfish teeth. Something swooped inside me and I found myself barely able to suppress a gasp.
    Let it be said, I am not modest, but I’m not a beauty by any means, not in Australia and certainly not in Laos, where the girls all seemed pretty and petite. Yet the look in the man’s eyes was appreciative and dare I say it — bordering on desirous? Perhaps he was just a gigolo? Did they have such things in Laos? They’d certainly had them in Thailand as we’d toured through. Then a thought came unbidden: did I want to become another western notch in a cocky bar-boy’s belt, for a paltry hundred thousand kip? Yes, actually, I rather liked the idea. The notion of handing over the equivalent of 20 Australian dollars to get my rocks off seemed like a better idea than returning to Perth sexually frustrated as well as single.
    However, I am not bold by nature, and the distance between our table and his could have been a million miles because I simply didn’t have the gumption to walk it. At this point I was drowning in lust and swampy humidity. The smell of Asian perfumed cigarettes hung around me, dizzying and exotic.
    ‘He’s been eyeing you off since you got here.’ Maggie nudged my arm with hers, startling me. She threw a coquettish glance at a German-looking bloke seated not far from us. She lifted her cigarette lazily to her pursed lips in a sensuous salute.
    I ran a sweaty palm down my top, all too aware that I wasn’t cutting a sensual figure like Mags. Wearing a loose cotton thing, which was practical for the weather but not all that flattering, suddenly felt like an oversight — I looked like a typical tourist. The only thing beautiful about me, according to most — is my eyes. Smooth steely grey, people say they’re almost hypnotic. The handsome guy gave me another appraising glance and I felt his gaze, heavy as lead, linger on the line of my unfortunately sweaty cleavage. I felt myself blush again, realising ruefully that I looked not only clammy, but red-faced as well. I took another frantic swig of my cocktail. The bitter tang of strong vodka almost made me gag, but I swallowed it purposefully down.
    ‘Why don’t you go over to him? You deserve a little bit of fun.’ Mags nudged me again, smudging out her cigarette with red painted fingertips.
    I swallowed and my throat felt constricted. I glanced at her for confirmation. ‘You think?’ I croaked, watching Maggie’s prematurely aged face for any signs of jest. At 45, and a heavy smoking and drinking divorcee, Maggie was a blast, but I didn’t exactly trust her judgment.
    ‘Sure, why not?’ she replied, digging about in her fake Louis Vuitton handbag for another ciggie. ‘Get yourself a little rumpy-pumpy. Why not?’ She grinned at the enormous blond German man and he crooked a slimy finger at her, sleazily urging her to come to his side. ‘I’m going to.’ She smiled, displaying her white capped teeth.
    Suddenly I was alone at my table and I watched, fascinated and awed, as Maggie’s rear