Chapter Three

"What do you want from him?" A woman wearing the same costume as Robin the harlequin stands in the hotel reception with her arms crossed and glares at me. Her English is good but with a heavy Spanish accent.

After looking for Robin at his show and finding him gone, Mira-Me asked personnel at the venue for help. They directed us to a hotel not far from ours, but the receptionist refused to give us a room number. We thought we were lucky when a female version of him appeared in the reception to buy a soda from a vending machine, but she doesn't seem very friendly. Or rather, she seems to know exactly who I am and downright resents me.

She must be good at reading thoughts, too. "You're all over YouTube," she spits, her yellow-brown tiger eyes sending me darts of contempt. "You should read what people say in the comment sections. The hate level is through the roof."

I can feel defeatism sneaking into me. What the hell am I doing here? It's creepy enough standing in an obscure hotel late at night, all dark, ancient wood and cracked stone floor from another century, with the acrid smell of old lacquer making my nose twitch … but to be the recipient of another person's hostility when I'm tipsy and overtired is a different story.

I turn to Mira-Me with a deep sigh, ready to give up and bolt.

She proves to be a smooth talker. She pulls a hundred-euro bill out of her purse and waves it in front of the female harlequin's face. "He's here to apologize. As for me, you saw me inviting Robin into the limo, right? And taking pics with him? It was so much fun." She flashes a white-toothed smile.

After a short stare down, the woman snatches the bill. "It's this way."

She leads us out of the reception and up three spiraling, creaking flights of stairs so narrow you have to climb one at a time. The third landing is a balcony, its wood floor squeaking and dancing under our feet as though suspended from the high, tower-shaped ceiling of monochromatic sheet glass above our heads. As depressed and suicidal as I can be sometimes, I hope this isn't the last day of my life.

At the end of the balcony, the female harlequin knocks on a thick, wooden door. The space is unlit, so when the door opens, a sudden flood of light blinds me. Mira-Me pushes me inside a cramped interior reeking of musty, old carpet and dust. I blink to adjust my vision.

A human figure disappears behind another door. "I was about to have a shower. Just got back from the show." An American accent! Our harlequin is even more intriguing. A quick pulse beats in my neck. Who is this guy? And what is a fellow American doing here in the Spanish pampa ?

The woman and Mira-Me push me further in so they can fit inside and close the door behind them. The tiny room has just enough space for a small-sized double bed and a chestnut side table with a vintage lamp on top. But not an additional three people. Mira-Me and I stand awkwardly at the foot of the bed making ourselves small while the woman raps on the bathroom door. "They're here to apologize!"

A muffled, "What?" comes through the wood pane before it opens again. There's Robin the street harlequin in full circus galore, makeup and costume and all, but looking very human with thin eyes indicating tiredness and sweat beads down his temples leaving traces in the white paint. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"He—" The woman turns to point at me. "That guy over there, he wants to apologize for his rude behavior."

Oh, yeah, I'm the center of attention. Three pairs of eyes fix on me, waiting. I wish I hadn't had those beers earlier, so my head was clearer now that the moment has arrived for me to man up and apologize. I take a deep breath and splay my fingers. "Well, I'm sorry I bullied you. I went over the line."

Robin nods, but the two women stare at me as though my apology is too short or something.

I tell them with a frown, "I didn't mean to be a brute, okay? I was stressed, but it's not a reason to—"

Robin raises a hand and smiles. "It's all right. No harm done. Thanks for coming." He indicates the bed. "Why don't you make yourselves comfortable?"

You don't need to ask Mira-Me twice. She lies on the mattress like it's her own, leans against the bedstand, and pulls out her phone. "This is so cool. I gotta post it to my story."

Robin tilts his head. "As long as you don't take pictures of me."

"Or me." The female harlequin plops down beside her with a yawn, using the remaining bed space to spread her long limbs. "I'm beat. The last show was a killer."

Her facial makeup makes it impossible to guess her age, but judging from her flat boobs, slim waist, and hips that can't possibly have carried a child, she must be in her late twenties, early thirties. Oh, and judging from her behavior, so at ease on Robin's bed, she must be his girlfriend. The smallest hint of jealousy teases me, but I ignore it like most times that I see a hot guy and know he's taken.

Well, this leaves me to stand a bit alone in the tiny hallway. I lean cross-armed against the wall and watch Robin as he turns back inside the bathroom with the door left open.

He takes off his pointy clown hat, revealing dark, sweaty curls plastered to his head. He sets the hat on the toilet seat and proceeds to remove the makeup. The mirror reflects the image of him using cotton pads to slowly uncover his real face, the person behind the mask. But just one side—before suddenly looking at me in the mirror and giving me a broad smile.

Okay, caught me staring. But it doesn't bother me. I'm amused. Even now when he is tired, he plays the clown and I find it charming. Half his face is tanned skin covering high cheekbones, with a Roman nose over full lips and a glowing emerald for an eye. A feline eye but void of danger. His gaze exudes warmth. And humor. And depth of soul. Mesmerizing.

He says to me in the mirror, "You didn't answer my message."

"Where?" I blink. It takes me a second to process the memory. "On Facebook? That was you?"

A nod. "You read it but didn't reply."

I slap my forehead. "I just saw the first words, then Mira-Me interrupted me." I nod my chin to the girl on the bed. She's still texting, but her eyes are heavy with sleep. "I'm sorry I didn't reply."

"It's okay. I thought you were angry with me and I wanted to apologize."

"You? Apologize?"

A smile. "Yeah, for pulling your leg. I went over the line, too. I should've stopped when I saw how upset you were becoming. I should've understood and let you go. But it was too tempting, with that fancy limo of yours and all."

I grimace. "It's hers. She's the boss." Kind of an odd thing for a grown man to say about a young girl. If I wasn't so thick-skinned and careless about my life, our opposed roles could very well be an embarrassment.

"Figures, from how you two behaved." He picks up a cotton pad and removes the other side of his face paint, little by little uncovering handsome, manly features.

I can't say I'm not impressed. My heart thuds in my chest and I don't want to tear my eyes away from the mirror.

When he's done, he rubs his face in a towel and sends me a look. "Do you recognize me?"

I frown. There's something in the back of my mind saying I've seen him before, but it's the same as with his name—which I can't even remember now (you know me and my beer brain). I can't place him. I've seen a lot of people in my thirty-eight years, especially during the time I was a cop.

He gives a sad shake of his head. "You don't."

"Where from?"

Instead of replying, he pulls on his shirt and struggles as sweat glues the fabric to his torso. He stops pulling when half the shirt is over his head with his arms stuck. It's actually quite funny. He stumbles out of the bathroom unable to see anything and groans a curse. "You mind giving me a hand?"

This is out of my league. We're strangers. I send his girlfriend a questioning glance.

She pulls a face. "Um, no. That thing is drenched. Eww. "

"Come on," he insists, groaning. "I'm stuck."

Killing a smile, I step forward and pull at his wet shirt until he's able to peel it off over his head. When his arms finally slip out of the sleeves, he straightens and blows a puff of relief, displaying his naked chest. What a fit man, with neat muscles in all the right places and an amazing washboard for a stomach. He must be working out regularly, I refuse to believe otherwise, but he's not pumped up like weightlifters because his muscles look lean and natural. His tanned skin glows from sweat and fills the intimate space between us with wet heat and the ensnaring scent of musky maleness. Black hairs over the waistband of his stretch pants glue to his stomach.

To say he's sexy is an absolute understatement. I am hereby sexually assaulted, and my body reacts accordingly, my cock coming to life and my breath hitching. I hope he doesn't notice, but on some crazy level I don't really care—or maybe I even hope he does notice. Then what?

I send a new glance to the bed. Mira-Me has fallen asleep, head lolling to a side, mouth open. The female harlequin shows she has a good side, too, brushing hair away from Mira-Me's eyes with a motherly smile.

Thank fuck, having to take care of my protégée means I've got a reason to step away from Mr. Sex on Legs. Besides, I don't want to create a problem between him and his girlfriend. The last thing I need is for this couple to accuse me of harassment in addition to the previous bullying situation.

He follows my look and asks, "What are we going to do with her?"

"I'll wake her up and we'll go to our hotel. It's not far from here."

His girlfriend counters, "No, she's just a child. Leave her be. She can sleep in my bed."

Her bed? Do they have separate bedrooms?

Before I can think this through, she slips her hands underneath Mira-Me and lifts her into the air like she weighs nothing. She passes me with the girl in her arms, presses the door handle, and goes out onto the dark landing.

"Need any help?" Robin calls.

"Nope. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, guys," she throws over her shoulder with a wink and leaves.

I'm majorly impressed by what that slim, young woman just did. When the door closes, I burst out, "She's incredibly strong!"

Robin nods. "We exercise every day. She can carry my weight."

I widen my eyes. "She what?"

"We do acrobatics. Come to our show and you'll see. She lifts me and I lift her."

"That's insane."

He gives a loud sigh. "Well, I really need a shower." He returns to the bathroom, sits on the toilet seat, and proceeds to peel off his stretch pants, which stick to his skin. Looks like he uses all his strength, arm muscles bulging, to pull the pants down his thighs—and these thighs are equally muscular. Long and firm, not too hairy.

That's it, I've seen enough. The man's extreme sexiness confuses the hell out of me.

I retreat and have a breather on a miniature balcony. The roofs of the block buildings are connected to each other, forming a square, inner court, with moss covering the ancient, seamless terracotta tiles. It's dark, the city lights creating ghostly shadows. Sleeping pigeons aligned on a rooftop are silhouetted against a tableau of a thousand blinking stars in the night. A chilly, humid draught creeps up from below. The balcony's cast-iron fence looks solid enough, but I dare not lean over it to look down to the ground.

Now would be a good time to have a cig, but I've quit and need to keep my promise. The booze, however … just from thinking about it, the thirst invades me, and I know my efforts to ignore it will be fruitless.

Every hotel has a minibar, no? The fucking craving grows, unquenchable, bad, and ugly like a beast. I hurry back inside. Through the now-closed bathroom door drifts the sound of running water splashing on tiles. I don't know if it's my cop nose or what, but I instantly locate a small door in the closet section that indeed holds a fridge with a nice selection of mini-bottles. I pick a gin, down it, and wait for the effect to hit me. It always takes some time, so the clue is to wait patiently.

Eh, but that's another thing about me, I have no patience. I uncork a mini-whiskey and swallow it in one go. Still no effect. The producers ought to work on that problem, increase the alcohol percentage or something.

"You should wait a bit," Robin's voice says from behind me.

Startled, I swivel on my feet. Was so busy drowning my thirst, I didn't hear him open the door.

He stands in the doorframe, his body the stunning beauty of a Greek god, with only a towel tied around his waist. "I know," he says with a sad voice. "I've been there."