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room lit by tiny yellow sconces buried into the wall like a medieval dungeon. She fixed her lipstick and slithered the sheath dress down over the curve of her hips, trying to get a smidge more coverage. And was wiggling away, admiring how the dress made her body look MTV hot, when the black glass reflection behind her shivered as the stall door was thrown open and he came out. The gorgeous alpha  did a double take and looked on fascinated at Indie's hands smoothing across her pelvic region.
    “What the hell are you doing in here?” Indie blurted, flaring red with embarrassment.
    “Same as you, I guess. This is mans and woman’s washroom,” he said in that liquid gravel french accent. “We are not so uptights like Americans here.”
    “Good for you.” Yeah great, bozo. Do you usually get you what you're after by insulting a girl? Actually I bet you do. He could probably get any girl he wanted. Her discomfort wasn't backing down, thanks to the barely covered mound between her thighs, sparking off with eager tension at the guy's sheer sexual magnetism. “Excuse me.” She walked past, careful not to brush against him as he set his bulk without moving aside for her and left him gazing into the black mirror, sure he'd be there for an hour.
    Back at the bar, another full flute was placed before her.
    “I will get that one, Sebbo.” There he was again, edging his way between the crowd at the bar to stand pressed up close beside her, leaning over her, trapped on the high stool.
    “Don't bother,” she said. “My friend knows the owner.”
    “That's okay.” He nodded his instruction at the bartender. “I know the owner too.” Not like she does, Indie thought. “Who's your friend?” Indie told him, sure he wouldn't know her.
    “Ah yeah, the wife of that big German?”
    “Er yes, do you know her?”
    “I've seen her water-ski, she's good. So how long are you staying in Mauritius?”
    “I arrived today and my return flight is in three months.” Fuck, I can hardly speak the way he's looking down at me, his mouth is barely inches from mine. Th e press of the crowd forced them closer and was making her so hot it was hard to draw a breath. The crush was making her heart pound, maybe she'd suddenly developed claustrophobia or something.
    “That's a very long vacation,” he said. “Maybe we'll get to know each other better.” In your dreams .
    “So what do you do?” Indie asked, wriggling on the stool pretending to adjust her dress to get some distance from him. He gazed down hungry with admiration at the shift of her shapely legs.
    “I, er, work in a hotel,” he replied, still staring at the naked thighs with a satisfied grin. Eyes up asshole.
    “That must be interesting, meeting people, um, hard work?” Shit, she shouldn't have let him buy her drink. Hotel staff made almost no money. Her gorgeous hunk of busboy had just blown a day's wages for nothing.
    “Hard work, yes, I don't know about interesting- people are always leaving. You didn't tell me your name yet.”
    “No I didn't.” Indie gazed back into his plundering eyes, determined not to be swept off by the needy pulsing deep in her core. Yes, he was gorgeous and her heart was doing a tango in her chest from having him press just a little too close to her in the crush, but he was way too sure of himself and she was way too sore at men to feel like taking on a handful like- “You didn't tell me yours either.”
    “You first.” Indie raised her eyebrows like; 'That's all you got?'
    “Okay. Hi, Monsieur Mystery, I'm Indiana.” She reached her hand out for a formal introduction.
    “Indie-Anna, like Polly-Anna?” He took her hand in both his large ones and the tango in her chest dipped a deep lunge.
    “Yes, exactly like Pollyanna. Most people call me Indie, sometimes India, and can I have my hand back?” He had no idea how much she was about to be the Pollyanna.
    “Sorry, I was getting comfortable holding on to it,” he said, dark eyes