Faster Harder Read Free

man I’ve never seen before in
my life has his eyes locked onto me. The intense intimacy of his gaze takes me
totally off-guard. Those are bedroom eyes if I’ve ever seen them. And the face
that houses them doesn’t make it any easier for me to keep myself composed.
    My admirer’s features look like they’ve been carved out of
stone. His razor sharp jaw line, full lips, and aquiline nose are the picture
of perfection. But it’s his eyes that really snag me. They’re the perfect sky
blue, crystal clear and deep as the sea that stretches beyond Barcelona’s
shores. But it’s the intent, straightforward nature of those gorgeous orbs that
piques my interest. This is clearly a man who’s well practiced in getting the
things he sets his sights on. And right now, it would seem that his sights are
set on me.
    “Here you go,” Charlie chirps, holding out a glass of wine.
A twinge of annoyance crosses my watcher’s face, and I have to swallow a
chuckle.
    “Thanks,” I say, taking an eager sip. Charlie and I sit
together in comfortable silence as the club moves around us. I lose track of my
ardent admirer in the crowd, and feel a tug of regret. I’d never make the first
move with a guy like that. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.
    “You OK Siena?” Charlie asks, “You seem kind of far-off.”
    “What?” I reply, “Oh...Yeah. Just thinking about the race, I
guess.”
    “You don’t need to worry about that,” Charlie tells me,
laying a friendly hand on mine, “Enzo’s going to be great.”
    I pull my hand away as politely as possible. “I know,” I
say, “But I can’t help but be a little nervous for him.”
    “I get it,” Charlie says, sipping his wine, “It’s not like
F1 is the safest sport in the world. But Enzo’s a careful driver. He knows his
vehicle, he knows how to take smart risks on the track. You don’t have to be
scared for him.”
    “I’m not scared,” I say, “I’m realistic. Accidents happen.”
    Before Charlie can respond, a smiling waiter appears at my
side. I peer up at him questioningly, noting the frosted glass in his hand.
    “For you,” he tells me, holding out the glass, “From the
gentleman at the bar.”
    I peer around the waiter and spot my handsome watchman. He’s
leaning against the bar, grinning like we’re sharing the juiciest of secrets.
His dark denim jeans are cut perfectly for his body, and he manages to make a
plain black tee shirt look like the epitome of high fashion. Sleeves of tattoos
stand out on his well-defined arms, intricate patterns and pictures that I
wouldn't mind getting a closer look at. Muscles strain at the fabric of his
clothing, stretching the material taut across his chest and shoulders. He runs
a hand through his short dirty blonde hair as I stare at him unabashedly,
giving me a devious little wink.
    “She already has a drink,” Charlie says curtly, crossing his
arms over his polo-shirt clad chest. “Thanks anyway.”
    “With all due respect,” the waiter replies in a delicious
Spanish accent, “My friend over there suggested that the lady might prefer a real drink.”
    I bite my lip as a flush rises to Charlie’s cheeks. He’s one
of my closest friends in the world, but it’s still good for him to have his ego
checked once in a while.
    “Thank you,” I tell the waiter, taking the glass from his
hands.
    “You can’t drink that,” Charlie hisses as the man walks
away, “It could be drugged, for all you know.”
    I dismiss Charlie’s protestations and lock eyes with my
tattooed benefactor. He raises his own glass to me, and I take a sip of my
cocktail. The unmistakable taste of tequila entices my taste buds. How did this
guy guess that I was jonesing for a margarita? I have to admit, I’m rather
impressed.
    “It’s not a good habit to get into, accepting drinks from
strange men at bars,” Charlie says sullenly.
    “He doesn’t look so strange to me,” I reply.
    “Oh please,” Charlie laughs, “He’s so not your