Missionary Position Read Online Free PDF Page A

boots, big boots, very big boots covering his very big feet.
    After a quick debate, I grabbed BOB instead of my notebook. The scene could be saved for later.
    Damn Amsterdam and its Dutch charm.
    I fell backward into the pillows, letting my hands wander as I mentally thanked Betty for adding batteries to the bag the other day.
    Where was I? Right, Norse Gods. Pirates.
    Gerhard.

    I STOOD AGAINST the back wall in the auction room—my favorite spot to watch the bidding. Some people liked to sit up front, but serious bidders preferred to be in the rear or side of the room to observe their competition. Not that I intended to bid—the estimates were beyond my price range—but I was happy to observe.
    Martha gave me a little wave from her position on the right side of the room, near the banks of phone bidders. I cautiously waved at her, making sure the auctioneer didn’t take my gesture for a bid.
    The energy in the room simmered and heated up occasionally, but it never reached anything close to the bidding wars of contemporary or modern art auctions. Today’s auctioneer charmed and worked the partially full room the best he could.
    My phone rang. The man next to me scowled despite speaking loudly in German on his own phone. Returning his scowl, I silenced the ringer and dashed out of the room to answer it.
    “Morning, Selah,” a man’s voice greeted me. I glanced at the screen where Gerhard’s name was displayed
    My mouth fought to resist breaking into a schoolgirl’s grin.
    “Morning. I’m at the auction,” I explained, even though he didn’t ask what I was doing.
    “I know. Look behind you.”
    I glanced behind me, and then returned to the auction room, scanning the crowd until I located his familiar sand colored hair sitting in the last row on the far side. Today’s suit was gray and stretched across his broad shoulders, accenting them in a way that shouldn’t be allowed in polite company.
    “What are you doing here?” I asked, standing still and making eye contact with him.
    “Come sit with me,” he whispered.
    I didn’t move from my spot.
    “Come. Sit.” He patted the empty seat next to him and ended the call.
    My feet obediently followed his command until I sat next to him.
    “Hi.” His tone was hushed.
    “Hi—” Enthusiasm made my voice too loud.
    “Shhh!” an octogenarian in the row in front of us turned and hissed. The thin, bony finger she held to her lips ended in the sharp point of her blood red nail.
    I raised my eyebrows at Gerhard, who stopped his laugh by biting his thumb. His shaking shoulders gave him away, though.
    Tempted to stick my tongue out at Madame Shhusher, I instead leaned closer to Gerhard, inhaled his spicy scent, and repeated, “What are you doing here?”
    He shook his head and wrote on his catalogue: “ Bidding .”
    I took his pen and replied: “ For work? ”
    Another shake of his head. “ For my father. He collects. ”
    Son of a collector. Not only did he make money, he came from money.
    “May I?” I softly asked, gesturing at the catalogue. He had noted the sale price for several pieces and had drawn a circle around an upcoming lot, an Ashanti comb from Ghana. A woman’s head and chest, including pert gumdrop boobs, were carved above what resembled a large hair pick. Valued in the low thousands, it was impressive. I pointed at the picture and gave it the thumbs-up.
    He smiled and flipped a couple of pages forward, pointing at a color photo of a group of sculptures of women, their breasts a fascinating depiction of the effects of gravity. He waggled his eyebrows at me.
    I snickered like a teenage girl passing notes with the cutest boy in school. Damn him.
    No hissing, but we did earn another dirty look over the shoulder, which only made me snicker again.
    Gerhard’s hand wrapped around my wrist to calm me. It had the opposite affect; my pulse fluttered.
    Madame Shhusher and the room faded away, leaving me fixated on his warm skin pressed against mine. His