From beside me, his voice is low and tight and slightly husky. “Well played, Ms. Darling.”
* * *
Before bedtime, we’re politely encouraged to visit the first class lounge—yes, they have a motherfucking lounge on the plane. I mean, I knew about plane bars…the way a person knows about unicorns and Smurfs. But to experience it? Holy hell.
I take the spiral stairs up to the top of the 747 to sit at a bar and have watered-down cocktails with my cabin mates. Even Sunshine comes along, though he stays at the fringe and orders a glass of ice water.
“They’re prepping the cabin,” an older man in a slightly rumpled suit tells me as we sip our drinks.
“For what?” I toss a sugared pecan in my mouth and take another sip of my Cosmopolitan. If you’re going to sit around in a bar-lounge at thirty-five thousand feet, you might as well go full-on Sex and the City.
He leans closer, his gaze sliding just south of my neck for a brief second. “The beds.”
“Oh, right.” I perk up. “I’m going to enjoy that.”
“The comfort and privacy can’t be beat,” he says with a nod before edging even closer. “You know, I have a single seat cabin. But it’s big enough for two.”
For a second I just stare back. “Are you actually propositioning me in an airplane bar?”
He shrugs. “Heard your seat mate raise a fuss. Sounds like a real prick. Thought you’d prefer better company.”
I’m about to apologize for jumping to conclusions when he raises a brow and leers. “But if you’d rather view it as a proposition, I’m not going to object.”
“I prefer my original seat partner,” I deadpan.
He snorts. “Shocker.”
I’m about to ask him what the hell, when a muscled shoulder edges between us. I know that arm, that scent: expensive, haughty man. Gabriel stares down his nose at the guy. It’s impressive, the amount of disdain and dismissal he packs into a look.
“Actually,” he says, “I’m more of an asshole than a prick.” He flashes a tight smile that’s really a baring of teeth, but his bored tone never changes. “Which means I’m rather an expert in dealing with bothersome little shits.”
I nearly choke on my drink.
Mr. Suit tries to hold Gabriel’s stare but fails. He slinks off with a muttered, “Asshole.”
“I thought we’d already established as much,” Gabriel says to me.
“So proud of your asshole ways.” I give him a nudge on the shoulder. “And yet here you are, saving me from lechers.”
“Hardly,” he mutters into his glass. “I was defending my own honor. And it was rather boring, at that. I thought he’d put up more of a fight.”
“Why?” I’m compelled to ask, though really I’m just surprised he’s talking to me when this is our one chance to escape to neutral corners.
He takes a sip of his water before answering. “He’s the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and has a reputation for being a relentless badger.” His lips curl in a sneer. “More like a weasel, if you ask me.”
I stare at him. “How do you know this?”
He finally turns his gaze to me, and I’m hit anew with those brilliant blues. “I just read an article about him in Forbes.”
A small, helpless laugh leaves me. I’m so not in Kansas any more. “Well,” I say, “maybe you’ll find someone to properly cross dicks with later.”
It’s his turn to sputter on his drink, though he recovers nicely. With precise movements, he sets his glass down and crisply tugs each of his cuffs back into place. “I’m fairly certain I’ve all I can handle with you at the moment.”
“Aw, a compliment.”
He looks down at me and slowly blinks, the dark sweep of his lashes nearly touching his cheek. Then he shocks me into stillness when he leans in close enough that his lips brush the curve of my ear. “Yes, chatty girl, it was.”
I’m still reeling from the low rumble of his voice—it tickles down my spine and flares along my thighs—when he moves away. “Do not drink too much or you’ll have a headache,” he advises before walking off, heading back downstairs.
I hate to admit, he takes all the excitement of being in the bar with him. Now it’s just a novelty situation that’s grown stale. I slide my half-finished drink away and hop off the barstool.
Downstairs, the seats in the little cabins have indeed been converted to beds. I hold in a squeal of joy. It’s an actual bed, with full-sized pillows and a brilliant white duvet trimmed in scarlet. A single red rose has been placed on each pillow. I swear, I’m about to hop up and down, but I catch a glimpse of Mr. Happy, who is standing at the threshold of our seating cabin, hands on his trim hips, brows knitted so tightly they almost touch.
“What’s wrong,” I ask him. “No hospital corners?”
He gives me a sidelong glare before turning his attention back to the beds. “I asked for my seat not to be converted. And the flight attendant is obviously operating under an extreme misconception.”
Glancing back, I finally notice what he’s talking about. I’d been so happy about the existence of a bed, I hadn’t realized that our two seats have been converted into one smooth double bed. There’s even a tray with an ice bucket of champagne on it.
A laugh escapes me before I can hold it in. “Honeymoon special?”
“You find this amusing?” His nostrils flare in annoyance, though he’s not looking at me, just mentally destroying the bed with his laser gaze.
“Honestly? Yeah, I do.” I kick off my shoes and crawl over the bed. It’s firm to the point of being stiff, and there’s a small ridge down the middle. But I’m not about to complain. Sitting cross legged on my side, I look up at his looming figure—he still hasn’t fully entered the compartment. “Come on. You have to admit it’s a little bit funny.”
“I’ll admit nothing,” he bites out, but then his shoulders lower and he steps into the compartment, turning to slide the doors shut with a definitive click. “And to think that woman was flirting with me.”
He sounds so disgusted, I have to laugh again. “I’m not following.”
He sits on his side of the bed and toes off his shoes, scowl still fully in place. “The flight attendant clearly assumes we’re together now, and yet just a moment ago she…” He trails off with a faint flush, which is kind of cute, almost as if he’s embarrassed. And yet.
“She hit on you in the hall?” My ire rises swift and hot—not jealousy. It’s the principle of the thing.
He grunts, glances at the bed, wrinkles his nose in distaste, and turns his back to it once more.
“That little hussy,” I say, glaring at the door.
At that he looks over his broad shoulder at me. A glint enters his eyes. “Jealous, Ms. Darling?”
“Hey, you pointed out how messed up it was!”
“Insulting it was,” he corrects. “She assumes I’m the sort to double-dip my wick. And obviously so shady, I’d do it in full sight of my current paramour.”
“Are you sure you’re not a duke?”
I can almost see him roll his eyes, though he’s facing the other way. “I’m going to ring her.”
“No, you’re not.” I get up on my knees.
He half turns, bringing one thick thigh up onto the bed. His expression is perplexed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because this bed is the coolest thing yet about this flight, and I don’t want it taken down.”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “They’ll set up a single bed for you.”
Yeah, and that sneaky flight attendant will smirk the whole time. “If you ask her to take it down, you’re opening the door for more advances.”
His eyes narrow.
“Unless, of course, you want that,” I say lightly. Nope. Not even a little jealous.
“She’s not my type,” he says with a sniff.
“You actually have a type?” It comes out before I can stop it.
“Yes,” he drawls. “Quiet, dignified, and discreet.”
“Lie.”
He turns all the way to face me. “I beg your pardon?”
I burrow under the covers. They’re just the right weight and softness. Nice. “Pardon yourself. You said that to put me in my place. But I’m not biting.”
“You’re imagining things,” he grumbles as he sits back and, with clear reluctance, brings his legs onto the bed. “And annoying.”
“You just can’t manage me. That’s what annoys you.”
I pull out the cute little sleep mask provided in my kit and slip it on with a happy sigh. I’ll just ignore him for the rest of the trip. No problem. Silence rings out, and the drone of the engines comes back full force.
His gruff voice breaks our stalemate. “Are you going to drink any of this champagne?”
“No. I’ve been nagged into refraining from drinking too much, remember?”
A soft huff sounds. Then the bed dips as he leans close and picks up the tray. A clink and another bed dip and everything settles.
“I’ve never met a person I couldn’t manage,” comes his tight reply a few seconds later.
Not bothering to take the mask off, I extend a hand his way. “Sophie Elizabeth Darling.”
A set of teeth catch the edge of my hand and nip me. I’m so shocked I yelp, snatching my hand back. Lurching up, I whip off my mask to find him staring back at me with a bland look.
“Did you just bite me?” It comes out in an indignant squeak. Not that it hurt. He only nipped me, and playfully at that. Still. Really?
“That sounds like a rather juvenile thing to do,” he says, resting his head on his pillow.
“It was a rhetorical question,” I snap. “You bit me!”
His lips quirk as if he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Best not to stick your hand in my face then.”
I gape at him for a full beat. “And you call me insane.”
His blue gaze meets mine. “Do you mind? I’m trying to get some rest.”
“I don’t like you,” I mutter, sliding my mask on.
“Lie,” he points out, mimicking my earlier tone. “You’ve told me repeatedly now that you find me blindingly attractive.”
“That doesn’t mean I like you. Besides, your brand of pretty is like a weapon. You reel victims in with it, just like a vampire does. I wouldn’t be surprised if you sparkle in the sun.”
“I cannot believe I’m arguing with a woman who references Twilight.”
“The fact that you know I’m referencing Twilight betrays you as a secret Edward-loving fanboy.”
His snort is loud and scathing. “Team Jacob all the way.”
I can’t help it, my eyes fly open, and I lift a corner of my mask to glare at him. “That’s it. We can never be friends.”
He gives me wounded look that’s entirely manufactured. “Words hurt, chatty girl.”
Muttering about asshat Brits, I turn my back to him and ignore his badly concealed snicker. And I’m a traitor to myself because I want to laugh with him. Only I fear the moment I do, he’ll slam up those walls again and make me feel ridiculous.
Gabriel Scott might not know how to manage me, but I sure as shit am clueless when it comes to him too.
With that in mind, I concentrate on my breathing and the gentle hum of the plane around me, and soon drift off.
Chapter Three
Sophie
* * *
I think it’s the “fasten seat belts” chime that wakes me up. I’m too disoriented at first to even figure out where I am, other than it’s loud and vibrating. And too dark. Then I remember my sleep mask. I pull it off and blink a few times to wake up.
The plane is shaking like an irate fist in the air, which isn’t doing my stomach any favors. The fact that I’m lying down makes it feel even stranger, almost as if I might soon achieve weightlessness.
But I heard a chime, didn’t I? Only, where are the seat belts on this bed? I grope around and come in contact with something hard. A thigh. I remember Gabriel, aka extremely bad flyer. One glance his way, and I know it’s bad. He’s lying rigid as a plank, fists at his side, his expression so blank, you’d think he was dead. Except he’s panting, and a fine sweat covers his skin.
I don’t blame him this round. The turbulence is awful. The plane rattles so hard, my butt is in danger of leaving the bed.
“Sunshine,” I whisper.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. I’m pretty sure his jaw is locked shut.
Edging closer, I tentatively touch his shoulder and find his body trembling. “Hey,” I say in a soothing voice. “It’s okay.”
The cabin drops a few feet to mock that statement, and he closes his eyes, turning his head away from me. He’s gone utterly pale, his breath coming faster. “Go. Away.”
“I can’t.” I move closer. “Look, I know you don’t want me to witness this. But I’m here. Let me help you.”
He sucks in a breath through his clenched teeth. “Distracting me with blowjob jokes won’t work right now.”
“I know.” I’m actually worried about him. He appears to be on the verge of an outright panic attack. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” I push back the covers and crawl toward him.
He snaps out of his terror, his eyes going wide. “What are you doing?”
“Cuddling,” I tell him.
If anything he grows more alarmed, and I’m sure he’d back away if he was capable of moving. “What? No.”
“Yes.” I settle down at his side. God, he’s cold. I sit up. He gives a sigh of apparent relief, but I merely pull my end of the covers over his legs before lying back down.
He squirms, making a half-hearted attempt to move away, but he’s already at the edge, and there’s nowhere for him to go. “This is highly irregular…”
“Yep. But we’re doing it.” In normal situations, I wouldn’t dare force this on a person. But he’s already focused on me instead of the turbulence, which is a step in the right direction. I rest my cheek against his biceps. The muscle is rock hard and quivering.
He clears his throat. “I don’t—”
“You’re one breath away from totally losing your shit. Accept the torment that is physical comfort.”
His arms twitch as if he’s trying not to lift them but really wants to. And then he gives up the fight and raises an arm, making room for me to come closer. Victory. I lay my head on his shoulder, wrapping my body against his side.
The contact feels good. Too good. Because, holy hell, touching him—really touching him—sends a jolt of warm pleasure through me. All the sensitive nerve endings in my body seem to perk up and pay attention. Which is wrong in this situation; I’m here to help the poor man, not get off on him.
I have no idea what he’s thinking. For a second he holds me. Or, rather, he holds on to me like a lifeline. Tremors rack his body, but it’s clear he’s fighting it.
“Shhh,” I murmur, stroking his chest. It’s a nice chest, broad and densely packed with muscle beneath the proper clothes. His heart thuds against my palm, and I feel him take a deep breath. “Just think of me as your friendly neighborhood cuddler.”
He’s quiet again before another question bursts from him. “Are you telling me you’d do this for anyone?”
I snuggle down. “No. That you’re insanely hot is a huge factor. I get to cop a feel under the guise of civic duty.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
A smile pulls at my lips. “Can it with the outrage. I know for a fact that most people would rather snuggle up to a hot dude. If it makes me shallow for admitting that, so be it.”
He grunts even as his hand slips to the top of my arm. Long fingers stroke once before stilling. “Your honesty is astounding.”
“I know. Now hush, I have feels to cop.” I run my hand just a little down his firm pec, loving the way his abs suck in with his hitched breath. I’m teasing him, but damn, he’s nicely built. I force myself to stop. Only when I do, he tenses, and the tremors return. I realize my petting actually does soothe him.
I consider this a green light. Sinking into his hold, I stroke his chest and hum under my breath. He slowly eases, his body turning more toward mine, and my breasts press into the side of his ribs. The plane continues to jump and shake, and it’s a battle to keep him calm. Every inch of ground I gain, stupid turbulence pulls it back from me.
“I think we should name our kids by number,” I tell him.
His muscles clench and shift under my cheek. I can almost hear him internally debating how to respond.
“Dare I ask why?” he says finally.
“Because we’ll have so many, numbers seem easier. We can do like the king in Stardust. Una, Secundus, Septimus…”
“That seems inordinately cruel. Think of the shit they’ll receive in grammar school.”
“They’ll be too tough to be bullied. And I see you’re warming to the idea.”
I grin when he grunts. It’s not a no—more like a you’re crazy. I can work with that.
“I hate this,” he says.
“Snuggling?” But I know what he means.
His laugh is wry and brief. “Weakness.”
“Everyone is afraid of something.”
“What are you afraid of?” he lobs back, sounding dubious.
Never being good enough. Being used up and tossed aside. I swallow hard. “Tidal waves. I have nightmares about being swept away. I blame all those disaster movies.”
“Somehow I suspect you’d be the sort who would survive.”
I smile at that.
A gust of warmth along at the top of my hair makes me realize he’s pressed his lips to my head and is breathing me in. “What color is your natural hair?” he asks, almost idly.
“That’s an awfully forward question, Mr. Scott.” Turbulence aside, our little cabin is quite cozy with the cream-colored finishings and the lights dimmed.
“Supposedly I’m fathering at least seven of your children. A fair enough question to ask.”
The plane makes a particularly nasty thump, and he sucks in a sharp breath. I nuzzle closer, my nose filling with the scent of his cologne and, underneath it, the sweat of fear.
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