Gavin had arrived from Geneva earlier in the day, but he wanted a breather and had a lot of paper work to go through before the Cyprus reunification talks he was moderating for the UN began on April 1st. Therefore, he'd booked for the night into a five-star beach resort, the Four Seasons, west of the airport on the southern coast, at Limassol. He would go up to Nicosia, the country's capital, located in the center of the island, the next day. These negotiations were his big chance to move ahead in the UN Secretariat. He knew it was a test of his ability and diplomatic dexterity. There was little hope of the Greeks and Turks coming to a reunification settlement, although the need for inclusion in the EU was a stronger incentive to reunify now than ever before and the two sides had been inching toward each other ever so imperceptibly over the last decade.
His job—like that of the representatives of the divided communities sharing the island—was to show some progress and to make anyone but his own side responsible for any lack of progress. If he were lucky enough to have been involved in forging any form of greater agreement in the process, his career as an international negotiator would take off.
He'd been told that both the Greeks and the Turks were masters at these turf wars and he'd have to be masterful himself to remain above and balanced in the fray. The talks would start in a week at the old Ledra Palace Hotel, which had gotten locked in the no-man's land between the Greek and Turkish sectors of the island, where the armed dividing line ran through the center of the capital city of Nicosia, in 1974. This line had been softening for a few years and the movement from one sector to the other was becoming easier.
It had been particularly hard for Gavin Collins to develop his career in the UN Secretariat, as he was known to be actively gay. It was all discreetly handled, but it still was a worry to his superiors and as much a question of what might upset the balance of his objectivity as having holdings in international corporations would be in any international economic negotiations he might be involved in as a moderator. It was just an added issue in his suitability to rise in the Secretariat. In this case, his situation was exacerbated because an up-and-comer Brazilian, Eduardo Alvarez, had been assigned as assistant moderator and already was here and on the job in Nicosia. Gavin had never before seen the younger Eduardo as competition, but it lately had dawned on him that he should be seeing him as competition.
It didn't mean, by any means, that Gavin was remaining celibate to counter worries about his sexual preferences and practices, however. Just his arrival at the Larnaka airport and the drive west to the Four Seasons resort had been enough to whet his sexual appetite, as all of the Greek men he observed and encountered were alluring hunks. He'd only come from Geneva, but it was snowing in Geneva, and all the men were bundled up and had been for several months. Cyprus was a land of sun, sea, and Speedos. He had checked out the weather on the island and knew that, even though it was only late March, he could swim in the sea and lay out in the sun. But he also could ogle and be ogled—he was sure he was objective in believing he was presentable enough to be ogled—and he had dreams of hooking up with a Greek hunk.
And, speaking of Greek hunks, one rose up—literally, from the Mediterranean Sea in front of him—early that afternoon as he was stretched out on a beach lounge bed, in a Speedo and an unbuttoned and flared cotton shirt and was going through background papers for the coming Cypriot negotiations.
The man was relatively young, at least ten years younger than Gavin's thirty-eight, with a man's muscular body, but he was in splendid shape. He was olive skinned, enhanced probably by being tanned by the Mediterranean sun, had black curly hair—not just on his head, but also swirling around a bit on his pecs and flat stomach and on his forearms and thighs—long, curly lashes, without appearing the least bit effeminate; pale blue eyes; and a glorious smile. He was beautiful, but he also was rugged-jawed all man.
As he emerged from the sea in a skimpy black, shiny Speedo, he leaned down, scooped up a beach towel, leather sandals, a couple of magazines, and a pair of sunglasses from the sand, and walked, in confident strides, but like a male model on the catwalk, toward where Gavin was stretched out on his lounge bed.
Gavin's eyes went from the man's face to his magnificent torso to his basket, and he sighed. Then he almost hyperventilated when the man picked out the lounge bed next to his to lie on. There were more empty ones than occupied ones fanned out where the grass met the sand across the hotel's seafront, but the man picked the one next to Gavin's to stretch out on.
When he was settled on it, on his back, the back of the lounge bed raised, he put his sunglasses on, turned his head to Gavin and smiled, and then lit up a cigarette from a pack, matchbox nestled between cellophane and pack, blew a couple of puffs with a sigh of satisfaction, and opened one of the magazines.
The magazine was a gay male skin magazine, and the man made no attempt to hide that fact.
Was he putting a make on Gavin, the UN diplomat wondered. If so, it was working. Gavin, always discreet when he could be, ran the risk factors over in his mind. He couldn't discern a single problem. He wasn't expected in Nicosia until tomorrow. No one had met him at the plane; his itinerary indicated he was arriving tomorrow. And he hadn't prebooked the hotel. He'd checked the beach resorts out earlier and had come here by rental car from the airport, taking his chances a room would be available, and one was. They'd taken and copied his passport, but that wasn't something that was going to be reported to the UN High Commission office in Nicosia.
He had a free day on a Greek island—or an island that was half Greek, and he'd heard good things about the Turkish men on the Turkish side of the island as well. He had plans to go over there for a discreet hookup or two, just as he'd had in the back of his mind the possibility of a hookup on this side—today. Well, not in the back of his mind—in the front of his mind. He wouldn't have taken the trouble to establish a free, out-of-sight, day on the Greek Cypriot coast if he hadn't planned on spending part of that day being laid by a Greek Cypriot.
"Is that a good magazine?" he asked, deciding there was no time like the moment to check out possibilities.
"A very good magazine, yes," the man said. His English was good, albeit accented. "I needed to check out something," he added.
"Checking out if you're in there?" Gavin asked in a playful tone. "Because you could be," he added.
"Nice of you to say so, but did you see what kind of magazine this is? Maybe you would not mean what you say if you knew what was in this magazine."
"Yes, I saw what kind of magazine it is," Gavin said. "I got the impression you wanted me to see it and wanted to know something about me."
The man shrugged and smiled, lifting his sunglasses so that Gavin could see the sparkle in his eyes.
"I will agree to that point. My name is Niko," he said. "Niko Constandinos. I am Greek, from Athens." He looked at Gavin expectantly.
"I'm Craig Smith. Canadian," Gavin answered. Of course he wasn't going to give his real name. He was happy to say he was Canadian, though. That was neutral enough and didn't have the problem of whether or not the other man liked Americans or Brits. Canadian also, for some reason, helped in establishing preferred position. It was taken as a good possibility of a submissive; just as saying you were Australian left the impression you'd be a dominating top.
