Page 8 of No Sweeter Poison

S he spins around, words hanging from her red painted lips, when the sound of her voice dissolves, absorbed by the enormity of the room around her.

Diego, Lettie, and I spend enough time in the flat to justify investing in it and while the villa will always be home, us Narvaez siblings certainly have a taste for the finer things in life.

She drops her purse on the couch and wanders to the center of the room, eyes glued to the glass ceiling above her head. Full of wonder and awe, she soaks up the view of the glittering city from the balcony windows, traces the floor patterns with the tips of her toes, grazes the tall columns supporting the loft level with her fingertips.

A touch more modern than the villa, the flat boasts brighter, more welcoming colors. Sea greens and deep blues, hints of blush and coral red wherever Lettie can sneak in a few pieces to her liking. Most of the building’s architectural features were maintained and renovated: mainly the exterior, the balconies, indoor mosaics and flooring, and my favorite—the glass work. The dome downstairs and the one up here in the tower were in shambles when we bought this place almost ten years ago. Dad wanted to tear it all down, but I fought to keep it and I’m so glad I did.

Dahlia touches every book on the shelves, runs her hands along the pillows and chairs, laughing aloud, but I don’t ask why. She looks giddy and slightly starstruck and I can’t help but share in her admiration, my eyes tracking every move her body makes.

She moves like art; the swing of her hips and the movement of her skirt in tandem with the stroke of a painter’s brush. Long, wavy hair trails behind her and when she turns, her profile is illuminated by the moonlight. Small forehead, narrow nose, heart shaped mouth. Pretty cheekbones grazed with light blush.

At first glance, her sex appeal is concealed by modesty. Innocent eyes that cut through someone, unafraid to see people for who they truly are. Not to mention a body any man would kill to lay his hands on.

But the longer I watch her, the more I want to hear her speak. Pick apart her brain, read her thoughts like a book. She laughs to herself again and wanders into the dining room, almost out of sight. I want to know what she’s thinking but don’t dare ask for fear of shattering the illusion.

When she comes back, her hands are folded over her heart, trembling slightly.

“Oh my God,” she says. “I’ve never seen such an amazing restoration in my life.”

I lean over the bar, arms crossed to support my weight. “I invited you up here for a drink and some dishonorable seduction and you’re commenting on the restoration?”

She blushes but isn’t offput for long. “Do you have any idea how old these tiles are?” she stomps for emphasis, her heels making a satisfying noise. “And these ceilings.”

I look instinctively and watch the stars twinkle behind colorful stained-glass.

“Peak Catalan Modernism. I mean, just look at the way the dome extends upward, so that it appears almost endless.” She speaks in rushed, passionate sentences, hands moving about her face as she does. “The rest of the building is much older—those floors and that mosaic downstairs look original and were probably preserved through a series of different restoration projects.”

She notices two drinks are poured at the bar. She reaches for one, clanks it against the other glass, sips, and continues. “I’d say these glass domes were add-ons along with the two outdoor balconies. They could’ve been designed by Gaudi himself but there’s something very distinctively Montaner about this one. See how it’s designed almost to look like the sun?”

I follow the tip of her finger and nod but I’m not processing a single word out of her mouth. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“The colors start out yellow and red and then as it goes outwards, becomes light blue and green. Too close to the work Montaner did in Palau de la Música Catalana.” She tsks and shakes her head. Then turns to me. “You know, everyone says Barcelona is Gaudi’s city but I—”

She stops abruptly and I sorely miss the sound of her voice. Her shoulders droop slightly and color blooms on her cheeks, traveling down her neck and spreading across her chest. I watch her curl in on herself, as if to disappear.

“Sorry—”

“Why?”

If she’s put off by my bluntness, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she sips her drink and says, “My nerd is showing.”

“Intelligent women are extremely sexy.”

A sound bursts from her: a cross between shocked laughter and a disbelieving scoff. “Men always say they like intelligent women. I think it’s just a way to get them into bed.”

I suck air through my teeth. Meet her gaze. “Is it that obvious?”

She laughs again, this time freely, and her body trembles with the sound. I smile at her as she sets her glass down and descends into bashful giggles. She concentrates on the amber colored liquid inside, the tip of her finger tracing the rim.

“What brings you to Barcelona?”

Her gaze flickers upwards, eyes the same burning shade of amber as the liquid in her glass. Maybe she was right before, about how men call women intelligent just to get them in bed. Afterall, my invitation upstairs was nothing short of a sexual proposition. But now that she’s speaking and I have glimpses of her mind and the thoughts that live inside her I can’t stop listening. I want her to talk for hours.

“Do you want the short, polite, ‘this is just small talk until we jump into bed together’ answer? Or the honest, nitty gritty, ‘shit’s about to get real around here’ answer?”

“Honest, nitty gritty. We can jump into bed later.”

Dahlia isn’t deterred by my advances and I respect her for it. I like a woman who can keep her emotions under control. It becomes all the more satisfying later on when I finally get them to crack.