Lost in Hotels Read Online Free Page A

thigh than I would have expected under a sheer top and colorful bikini cinched so tight to her ass that I could make out her even more personal silhouette. She places all her belongings on the opposite side of the lounge away from me. Her face, now covered by a hat that is fashionably large without being too big, sits above a face fully concealed by a pair of black sunglasses far more South of France than Brazilian beach.
    I straddle my lounge to sit up and pull my shorts down from their rolled-up norm that makes them look more like Speedo—the surest way not to land an American chick. The music gets louder into afternoon, a sultry mix of acoustic lounge anthems where you don’t know who sings them or even the name of the songs, but they ooze an Ipanema sensuality that makes everyone ready to let loose.
    “What brings you to Rio?” I ask in the worst of a scratchy, premeditated voice attempting to rise above the volume of the music and pool, but not so loud that the loungers of Canadians turn around in recognition or join in on the conversation.
    She removes her glasses without leaning forward or even moving her head.
    “I’m here on business,” she says, an aura of mystery that I plunge into headfirst.
    She bites the tip of her sunglasses and raises her head to reveal eyes the color of cut kiwi with a beautiful black center.
    “There are worse places,” I reply.
    “It’s definitely prettier than sitting in an office back home,” she says, her smile soft, and then she lies back under her hat.
    Her glasses are too dark to tell what she’s looking at, perhaps my legs or my shorts or my chest or maybe nothing but that amazing view that hovers on the horizon and just makes you want to savor such moments of beautiful life.
    “Funny enough, I’m here on business as well,” I intrude.
    Not even a crack of a smile emerges from her increasingly tense face. The music, the kids in the pool and the noise of Ipanema itself seem to come to a long, exaggerated silence as I wait for a reply.
    “We were actually on the same flight, I believe,” I volunteer, hoping to cut the tension and tease out a response.
    She leans forward and adjusts the towel around her waist, partially getting up to readjust her shorts or perhaps flee our conversation.
    “Yes, and in the coffee shop as well,” she adds with an asymmetrical grin as if surprised by my admission.
    “I thought I was going unnoticed as a Brit until you barged through with your perfect Portuguese.”
    “Hardly perfect, I would say. Just a few too many times not getting the cappuccino I asked for in Lisbon one summer.”
    She relaxes a moment, and for the first time since I’ve seen her, she pushes back in her lounge and adjusts the colorful straps of her bikini underneath her cover-up and drawing my eyes, even though I try desperately not to look. Obviously, many beautiful women occupy lounges at this pool, but something about her simply sucks me in and has me watching her every move.
    Silence seems to suit her better, perhaps it’s the jet lag, or feeling uncomfortable in a corner of the hotel pool to talk so openly with another man. My instincts say she’s in a relationship and quite happily. In the moment of granted silence, she relaxes enough to tug on the sleeve of her white cover-up. She lifts it over her head almost in slow motion above two perfectly molded breasts, sculpted masterfully into a bikini that’s neither too large nor too small. She tilts her sunglasses just enough to allow me to see her looking at me watching her every move like a ballet.
    With a quick push up from her lounge, and without a single word, she walks to the pool, her lower body with more of a curve than I could hope for and legs that make even the Russian models take notice. She ties her hair up without slowing in step, and then sits on the white marble ledge of the pool that retains its chill despite the muggy Rio air and warm water. Without causing much of a wake, she pushes her