The two men stared viciously at each other. Englebert and Enrique were, in many ways, opposites. Englebert was as tall as a hero and muscly like an ox.
He was covered in fine golden hair and always stood with his legs at least a metre apart. Enrique was the opposite.
All they had in common was their shared manliness and the fact that they had both tasted the inside of Jacqueline Hollenberry's delectable mouth.
Jacqueline sat up to witness the staring contest, but she was unable to muster the strength to prevent the inevitable duel ahead. In her heart, a battle was already raging.
Her passionate love for the fair, noble Englebert wrestled with her passionate love for the mysterious Enrique,
whose inability to speak English had only added to the intensity of their three beautiful nights in Cadiz.
Theirs had been a conversation of hot sweaty bodies, tumbling around in stale sheets taking no breaks to eat, drink or wash.
"Enrique, what are you doing here?" she asked him. He looked away from the fiery eyes of Englebert and looked softly upon the face of his beloved. Then she remembered he could not understand her.
"Sorry, I mean..." She struggled for words. "Buenos dias, Enrique. Porque? Porque?" she wheezed.
Enrique swept over to her and lifted her clear from the ground with one arm. He placed a slender finger on her pursed, pouting, pillowy lips and said:
"Though your broken Spanish is as charming as your womanly figure, there is no need for it any longer.
For I have spent my days and nights studying English so that I may finally know the workings of your inner mind."
Jacqueline gasped, like a woman who has just remembered she left the oven on. To hear Enrique speak in her own language inflamed her heart like a deadly sepsis.
She looked into his piercing grey eyes and felt the awakening of a love that had lain dormant for nine years.
"I have thought of you everyday," gasped Enrique, "ever since our forced parting at the Port of Cadiz."
"Forced?" cried Jacqueline, remembering in a sobering flash. She pushed him passionately from her bosom, which was enough to send him falling to the ground.
"You left me in Cadiz to go and marry another woman!"
"Jacqueline, Jacqueline," purred Enrique, as if soothing an enraged kitten. He stood up and looked up at her lovely face.
"Have you forgotten what I told you as I took your hand in mine, there, by the edge of the sea, as we are by the edge of the sea this very moment?"
"You said it in Spanish," sobbed Jacqueline. "But I looked up the words on Google Translate after you'd gone. It sounded like you said you had a fiancee."
Enrique took Jacqueline's soft, freckly, delicate, little hand in his own and laughed loud for almost a whole minute.
"I said 'I promise you I'll come back for you'."
Jacqueline frowned, and the lines that appeared as she knitted her eyebrows only added to her striking beauty.
"This whole time," she breathed, "I've believed that you said you were getting married. That's why I slapped you and fled from the Port, never to again return to Spain."
"It doesn't matter now," said Enrique. "I'm here, in Plymouth, fluent in English and we never need to miscommunicate again.
Now, let's taste each other's bodies like we did all those years ago in the Parador Hotel..." He massaged her magnificent breasts in anticipation.
"Wait!" Jacqueline gasped. "Englebert!"
Englebert, who had been distracted from the conversation by the appearance of an unusually greasy seagull, suddenly turned towards the pair, his attention drawn by the sound of his name.
He took in the image of Jacqueline being groped by the uncouth Spaniard and charged at them, enraged.
He collided with Enrique, whose hands were pulled reluctantly from Jacqueline's bosoms with the force of the impact.
Like clothes tumbling round in a washing machine, the two men wrestled on the dry, supple, powdery sand.
Jacqueline could only regard the fight with horror, unable to distinguish one man from the other as they became a blur of jaded, bitter violence.
Her head ached with the pain of indecision - which man should she root for? Her rugged, blonde, bulging, enthusiastic, yet visa-less American paramour? Or Enrique?
Until a few minutes ago, the choice would have been effortless; she had thought Enrique to be an honourless swine, who had betrayed her heart to wed another. Also, she was terrible at Spanish.
But now, knowing that he was an eligible bachelor yet, and fluent in her own tongue... well, that was enough to stir up old warm feelings in her conejo.
There was blood everywhere. Jacqueline couldn't tell who was winning - the sight of blood made her queasy so she had had eyes closed. But finally, things grew quiet.
She heard one of the men let out a vanquished groan, and felt the other stand and take her hand.
Gingerly, like a woman afraid to see the results of a pregnancy test, she opened her eyes to see who had won the right to claim her heart.
The person stood before her was, in fact, a woman.