She performed a caminada, coming up to me, and when she was in slapping distance, she did, in the face. Burning cheek, my head ratcheted to my right, and then sighted back in on her. She stared at me, into me, her mouth a succinct line of daring. I noticed nothing but her face, the glare, the straight on look. We were of the same height, the high heels she wore (which I had noticed as she approached, as they were attached to long sensuous legs, encased in lace stockings, that led up to a clinging thigh high black dress, containing a slender cut glass figure of perfect curvature, to the off the shoulder expanse of pure white skin that was framed by red flowing hair) being the perfect adjustment.
My heart beat fast. The music inside began.
I experienced her aura, a sphere of light playing with my senses. She was beauty. My milonguita. She raised her hand to stroke the not so burning cheek, and running her hand smoothly down my cheek, to the jawline, down the side of my throat-but pausing, fingers with nails of blood read roses, and her thumb slowly pressing into my windpipe-and then down, until her hand was on my chest, over my heart. She left it there, pressing in harder with each passing heart beat.
Standing still, unsure if it was my turn, or if I even had a turn, she slinked around me in a pattern of eternity, first forward then back. I eyed her fully when I could, and followed her with soft focus as she moved around. I did not turn my head. Parada. Behind me. Standing still, her breaths coming short, hard and quickly. I felt her nails through my shirt back, tracing the contours of muscle and bone.
I turned quickly, unexpectantly, and caught her hand in mine, her claw like hand in mid trace. She smiled just a touch, more with her eyes than her mouth. Pulling her hand away, slowly, she inclined her head down and to the right. Her ocho cortado: rushing into me, arms flung around my neck in a reverse strangle hold, she pressed her beating body into mine.
I pivoted, using my hips and feet to throw her off balance. She slide down me, resting on one knee as she again pierced me with her look. She was a cut of smoothness as she rose, standing, boleo: her leg shooting out, around my knee, and felling me. She smiled fully now.
I half raised myself, waiting. Turning to her left, I thought she would walk away. My milonguita, she swung her leg around so fast. The side her very hard, very sharp high heel shoe caught my jawline, sending blood shooting forward as I danced backward, throwing me prostate on the ground.
“You killed my father, Mr. Tempest. Bad or good man, I do not care. You killed him. Good or bad, I will kill you. Just…not now,” she said, as she stood next to the guard, by the only door to the room. A Heckler and Koch MP7 was aimed in my direction, daring me to say anything more, let alone move.
“This is not an empty threat. I have a use for you. One use. When that is done, you will be the dead man you already are.” She turned and left me alone with the guard. I bled more on the floor, staunching what I could.
My cheek burned again. “milonguita...,” I whispered.