We were in San Pedro’s ritziest cocktail bar, by which I don’t mean anything resembling the Met Bar. It was a bit early for strong liquor but I needed some alcohol in my system to get over the shock of being tracked down when on an impulsive, where-shall-I-go-tomorrow type of trip. Not to mention to calm the seismic shifts my sex muscles were undergoing at the sight of the dark, delectable Carlos in jeans and T-shirt, the fluorescent whiteness of the latter being the only thing distinguishing him from your bog standard traveller. I’d forgotten how seductive that wide, thin-lipped smile was, with just a hint of tongue and tooth showing. ‘You told me where you were planning to go, remember? It’s not hard to work out how long you’re likely to spend in each place. I bet there are people here you’ve met before.’ He had me there. ‘So how did you know which guesthouse I’d be in?’ I demanded suspiciously. He shrugged. ‘Deduction. Not rock-bottom cheap, but fairly basic, pleasant, courtyard ideal for a girl travelling on her own.
