had a pretty good idea where this tradition was headed, so she did what she'd learned from her years at Yale: dump it on the floor and fake a chug.
The bar was packed and the back room was jumping. She was enjoying herself and getting buzzed from all the action, not the booze. She started moving to the music on her bar stool. Another round of shots. She'd lost track. She thought by now all the tequila at her feet must be marinating her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Better them than me. Someone from one of the tables came over and handed her another shot. She took it and smiled, but before she could fake her chug a hand grabbed her arm.
It was the man on the bar stool next to her. 'I wouldn't do that, miss.' He sounded serious. He looked about sixty, with blue eyes and neatly trimmed brown hair slightly graying at the temples. Handsome for his age, tanned, and if his grip was any indication, quite strong.
'I beg your pardon.' She meant it. Who the hell was he to tell her not to dump her drinks?
'Sorry,' he said, but he didn't let go. He reached over with his free hand, took the shot glass out of hers, and put it on the bar.
'I know that was very rude of me, but in Mykonos it's very dangerous taking drinks from strangers. You can't tell what may be in them if they don't come from behind the bar.'
Of course the man was right, and obviously he hadn't noticed she'd been dumping her drinks. How nice of him.
'Thank you. That was very considerate. I'll remember that.'
The man nodded and went back to his drink.
'Annika, Annika Vanden Haag, sir,' she said to him. It seemed appropriate and not offending to use 'sir' with him.
'Tom. Tom Daly. Pleased to meet you.' They shook hands. He didn't say more and kept his body facing the bar.
'So, Mr Daly, where are you from?'
'The United States. New York. And you?' He only turned his head to look at her when he was speaking. Otherwise, he kept his eyes on his drink.
'The Hague.'
'Ah, we may be distant cousins. My mother's side was Dutch — really Afrikaner Dutch. Part Greek, too, if you go back far enough.'
'I'm only half Dutch myself.' She didn't mention her own Greek roots.
'I guess that makes us two more in this world's litter of mutts.' He laughed.
She smiled. 'Are you here on holiday?'
'Sort of. I'm a painter and come for inspiration.'
'Really? Should I know your work?' She realized the question was unintentionally insulting. She probably had had too much to drink, but the man didn't seem offended.
'I don't know. One of my pieces hangs in here.'
She looked behind the bar. My God, she thought, it's one of those awful paintings from the hotel.
He must have noticed the look on her face, for he lifted his eyes to see where she was looking. He burst out laughing. 'No, not that one — lord no — that one.' He pointed behind him to a large oil painting in a place of prominence on the rear wall.
She didn't recognize his work but somehow thought she should. It was filled with nymphs and color and ancient ruins.
She decided to compliment him. 'You're him?'
'Whoever 'him' is, yes.' He nodded appreciatively.
'It's an honor to meet you, sir.'
He turned his body and put up one hand. 'Okay, Annika, don't bury me yet. Please call me Tom or else I'll never hear the end of it from all these youngsters at the bar.' He smiled and pointed toward Panos and his crowd.
'Is he giving you that 'Don't take drinks from strangers' pitch again?' Panos asked with a wink. 'He tells that to all the pretty girls. Our watchdog of virtue, we call him.' Everybody laughed.
Tom shook his head. 'Yeah, yeah, yeah,' and went back to drinking quietly.
Annika leaned over and whispered in his ear, 'Thank you,' and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled without turning his head.
Panos said, 'Annika, I'd like you to meet my son.' She turned around to look in front of the bar but saw no one who looked like Panos.
'He's behind you.'
She turned to see the dark-haired boy behind the bar smiling at her. 'My name is Yiorgos — call me George. My father said I can talk to you.' A chorus of Greek chants along the line of 'It's time for the younger generation to have a shot at her' made her smile.
'So, let's talk,' she said, and broadened her smile.
'Not here. There.' He pointed to the dance floor.
She nodded, slid off the stool, and pressed through the crowd toward the rear. He walked in pace with her from behind the bar. They met at the end. He took her hand and pulled her into the crowd. It was body upon body upon body. She felt that, here, your body was no longer your own; it belonged to the crowd. His hands were around her waist, then on her ass. They were belly to belly moving to the music. The music pulsed and he thrusted. It felt good to have a man so close.
He dropped his hand to below her skirt and touched her bare ass. She let him. He moved his hand toward where only a bit of thong protected her and she twisted away. He persisted and she pushed him back. He gave a 'can't blame me for trying' grin, and they went back to dancing. She let him grind at her crotch with his. She knew she was building expectations she was not prepared to meet — at least not tonight — but it felt so good. When he tried to move his hand inside her again she said she wanted to get a drink. He told her he'd wait for her and started dancing with another woman who appeared not to have Annika's reservations.
Her bar stool was still available. 'I watched it for you,' said Tom without looking up.
'Thanks.' She let out a deep breath and reached for the wineglass in front of her. She paused. It had been sitting open at the bar. Anyone could have put something in it.
'I watched that too.' He sipped his own wine without looking at her.
She smiled. 'Thanks,' she said, and took a drink.
'You're some dancer Annika.'
'Thank you,' she said, not quite sure what else to say.
He spoke softly without looking at her. 'I once dreamt I lived on the edge of a wild amusement park, some place where any time I wanted, day or night, I simply stepped over the edge into the midst of my deepest fantasy, enjoyed my time there, and stepped back again unharmed.'
Maybe he's had too much to drink, she thought.
'That's Mykonos — a mad fantasy. It's not real. You might think it is when you're here, but it's not.' He sipped his drink again. 'But, then again, it's not completely the place of my dream. There I wandered about invisibly, taking in only the energy I chose and returning safely and unharmed to my reality whenever I wanted. Be careful of this fantasy, Annika, for here there's definite harm afoot.'
Before she could respond, Yiorgos was next to her, grabbing her arm. 'Come, let's go.'
'Go, go where?'
He seemed in no mood for talk. 'To watch the sunrise.' He pulled at her arm.
She pulled it away. 'I'd rather stay.' Her voice was sharp.
'We're going to close soon. It's after five.' His voice was impatient.
'I still prefer to stay.'
He tugged again.
'Yiorgos, stop.' She looked around for someone to say something to him, but none of the once-so-attentive patrons seemed to notice.
He leaned over, kissed her hard, and tried to shove his hand between her legs.
She slapped his face. He slapped her back. His eyes were on fire. Still no one seemed to notice. In Greek, he called her a miserable, cock-teasing whore and stormed out of the bar.
