Leonie wants a romance with the Baron - стр. 4

The guide was once again that same attractive man—in an elegant jacket, with a bow tie and neatly styled hair… He looked as if he were headed to a banquet rather than to meet a group of tourists. He could appeal to anyone—and he knew it. And, wasting no time, he used his charm, flirting with girls who couldn’t care less about the tour itself.

For the fifth time, I ended up in his group. The fifth time—in just two weeks.

“Miss, I’ve seen you here five times already… Maybe it’s time for you to start leading the tours yourself?” he suddenly said and, smiling, flashed his perfectly whitened teeth.

Why is he asking? I’m on vacation, after all. I have every right to be here. Or does he, heaven forbid, think I’m here because of him? …Of course! He thinks I’m chasing after him! What a conceited type!

“Or maybe you’re trying to embellish something?” he added slyly, and I realized he wasn’t just smiling—he was smirking.

I couldn’t reply—the first thought clouded my mind so much I couldn’t focus on anything else. My face turned murderously shy.

Suddenly a lady, at whom the guide had just been trying to make a pass, stepped in for me.

“Come on, John, leave the girl alone! Don’t embarrass her!”

“Oh, not at all,” John spread his hands. “I only meant to offer the young lady a private tour. Including the wine cellar and the attic full of ancient junk—since she should know those aren’t part of the standard program… But if…”

“I’ll go!” I blurted out, surprising even myself with such sudden boldness.

Now it was his turn to freeze. And in the very same instant, I asked myself: why did I just do that? Am I really going to follow this guy through dark cellars and dusty attics?

“Okay, miss. Here’s my card with my phone number. Though… tomorrow at four, I’ll be waiting for you at the main entrance.”

“Four in the morning?” I asked, staring blankly at the card.

“In the evening.”

“But the museum is closed tomorrow.”

“Not for me. I’ll be waiting.”

“You know… I’m actually a student,” I began hurriedly, trying to excuse my impulsiveness by making it sound like all of this was strictly “for work,” but he cut me off:

“Classes tomorrow?”

“No. I’m, you see… writing my thesis… on a topic… well, related to this. And from that perspective, I’m very interested in digging around the cellars… taking a look at the cellars, attics, and everything else up there.”

My mother works at a travel agency. After classes at the university, which is nearby, I always drop in to see her. If the director happens to be sitting at the desk opposite my mother, I pretend to be a client. The director, as you can imagine, considers me a regular but terribly unprofitable visitor: I waste her time with questions, never buy anything, yet constantly praise her employee. I usually say to her, as if in passing, “Your young employee explains everything so clearly—she’s a true professional!”

And if the director ever dares hint that I shouldn’t come around “just like that” anymore—I’ll write in the complaint book all the things that have been simmering inside my mother for years.

“It’s as hot and stuffy as the jungle. And my brother’s flying in from Africa tomorrow. From Tunisia. And what’s there? The Sahara,” my mother said—not to get an answer, but to test me once again, and, should I not know, to supply the answer herself and add to my store of knowledge.