The rough hands of Renato would be the perfect contrast to the softness of my bedsheets, just like salt to tequila. He’d bring that warmth missing from my room.
I let my mind fly into a storm of fantasies. I wished the traffic jam had not cleared. Renato might have jumped to the back seat to taste my skin down to my breasts, wetted my nipples with his powerful lips, nibbled and squeezed them with his ironman hands. Our sweating bodies would slide against each other, our fluids mixed into a solution of lust and passion, a drink of goddesses.
A terrible sense of courage struck me. I should have taken him into my hands, pulled him out of his trunks, tasted his beautiful smell while he gleamed with sun rays coming through the car windows. I should have tasted him while he danced his hips up and down and juggled to remain active—postponing his final act.
Oh, I wish he had stuck his powerful tongue right between my legs, right into the place no man had ever tasted before, not even Marlon. I wanted his lips to unfold my secrets, while I wiggled and screamed and grasped his hair and pulled his face against me and his nose sniffed the most confidential smells of my body, while the tip of his tongue ventured places that had never before seen the light.
My legs shook after my body seized from a powerful wave of bliss, an intensity I didn’t remember having anywhere before. Renato had been a huge hit, a fountain of unprecedented pleasure, fueled by nothing but the sun itself.
If only he was more daunting, less mysterious, I might have given him my phone number. Or perhaps he has my phone number. Wasn’t he the one who gave me a Sim card in the first place?
Whatever. That lingering bliss faded away, my reasoning sprung back. Renato was a handsome man, but also a problem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be talking about taking risks, of living short but intensive lives. Maybe too much sun had boiled his brain.
I figured I should take another bath. Tomorrow was going to be a whole new day in this city of violence, sun, and sex, and where I’d come to write.
Chapter 6
What I learned after my first night in Praia Palace hotel was that luxury is a hell of an energy drainer. When I woke up the next morning, it seemed impossible to uncurl myself from the strong and long tentacles coming from the Angel’s Touch sheets, tentacles that seemed determined to leave me glued in bed for eternity.
Breakfast at the main restaurant in Praia Palace surpassed my already upgraded expectations. Sliced melons, watermelons and papayas, combined with bananas and other tropical fruits I didn’t know existed decorated the most unexpected spots of buffet tables. For a moment, I thought those fruits weren’t meant to be eaten. The richness of their colors seemed more related to the brushes of an adept painter than to the randomness of nature. But then another guest picked up a slice of pineapple and I did the same.
Its sweetness was a true masterpiece.
Sun heading up in the sky and delicious treats in my stomach, all contributed to a marvelous day. I sent Mother kisses on the phone, told my boss how positive I was about the business, and replied to Marlon’s message after three months. I was happy enough to forgive his cheating on me, but never to sit on his lap. But, before I stepped out of the hotel, two men appeared looking for me and my morning turned to rubbish.
They approached me while I was inside the reception lobby waiting for an Uber. My eyes eventually wandering over a window display of creams and perfumes in an expensive store.
“Excuse me. Are you Mrs. Emily Bennett?” a voice said behind me.
I turned toward the voice. A man stood there, a small suit-and-tie figure, balding, his eyes lacking proportion. He faced me with an accusing stare, as though he had accumulated years of experience in making innocent people cringe on their feet for crimes they never committed that were about to be revealed.
“How can I help you?” I said.
“Mrs. Emily Bennett, my name is Paulo Pinto. I am a police officer and I need to ask you some questions.”
He showed me his badge, which seemed pretty authentic due to so much shining. Another man, who approached on short steps, was the exact opposite version of officer Pinto: tall, tieless, hesitant and completely mute. Officer Pinto introduced him.
“This is officer Roberto Rôla, my partner. He doesn’t speak English, but is a great body language reader.”
The bespectacled body language reader appeared to be fully dedicated to capturing every minor neck twist, wriggle of arms, rubbing of hands or sweat drops that might indicate nervousness or anxiety typical to liars. His slender arms swayed to and fro from its shoulder hinges while he threw at me that cunning, untrustworthy, I-will-arrest-you expression.
“Okay . . . ” I said, “but whatever it is, I don’t have much time.”
Rôla twisted his eyebrow above the upper rim of his glasses. Had he shouted guilty inside his head? After that, both officers exchanged looks, as if willing to agree to each other’s conclusions.
“Mrs. Bennett, we are here to ask you about Renato Santos who, according to our sources, provided you a transfer service from Rio International Airport to here, yesterday afternoon. Do you confirm it?” Paulo Pinto said.
I blinked, stricken. Based solely on the words used by officer Pinto, it was obvious that Renato was the subject of an investigation. And in my overreacting mind I immediately assumed he was a drug dealer, bank robber, killer, rapist or a god damn kidnapper, as I had suspected in the beginning.
And for each second that I remained silent, trying to digest Pinto’s question, officer Rôla’s eyes bulged,
