by Wilde, Lori
No mere vacationer, this one. Not a woman simply looking for a good time. This enigmatic lady had an agenda.
Alarm bells went off in his head. Until he knew exactly what her agenda was, Dougal was keeping a close eye on her.
Another thing that didn’t fit—she was traveling solo. Everyone else on the vacation had traveling companions, but this mysterious miss appeared to be all alone. No doting husband or fiancé or boyfriend at her elbow. No best buddy yapping her ear off. No mother or sister or cousin.
Perhaps she also worked for Eros, maybe she was an actress paid to help set the stage for the Romance of Britannia tour the group was embarking upon and it was her first day on the job. If you put her in historical garb along the lines of the ridiculous outfit he’d been forced to wear, she’d be a shoo-in.
Except that Taylor hadn’t told him about any new employees joining the group, and he’d made it quite clear that he was to be kept in the loop regarding anything to do with passenger safety. Odd, though, that while his brain and experience were warning him to watch out for her, his gut was telling him something startling and stupid.
She’s the one you’ve been waiting for.
Why the hell was he giving himself mixed messages? The last time this had happened he’d ended up with a bullet in his thigh.
The woman reached the top step of the metal mobile stairs and their eyes met. Quickly she glanced at his outfit and when her gaze found his again, a slight grin tipped her lips. She was laughing at him.
He cocked an eyebrow, gave her his best Joe Cool expression and stretched out his hand. “Welcome to Eros Airlines, where your pleasure is our only concern.”
The greeting might have been prescribed, but the emphasis was all his. Dougal didn’t know why he extended his hand as she stepped into the cabin. He hadn’t shaken any of the other women’s hands. Impulse motivated. That bothered him because he struggled so hard to control his impulses.
For the longest moment she said nothing, merely stood there staring at his outstretched hand. It was damned unnerving.
“Hello,” she murmured in a husky, breathy voice, and then turned her back on him and started down the aisle.
“Wait,” he said and touched her shoulder, stopping her. Hold up, you ’re coming on too strong. You don’t want to blow your cover. “What’s your name?”
She turned back, raised an eyebrow. “My name?”
Why was she being so cryptic? Did she have something to hide or was he too hypervigilant?
“For our exemplary customer service.” He blurted the first excuse that came into his head and manufactured what he hoped was an earnest smile. “We didn’t earn our five-star rating by calling our guests ‘Hey You.’”
There it was again, that sly, amused grin, as if she found him extremely comical. “I’m Roxanne Stanley. But my friends call me Roxie.”
“Roxie.” He extended his hand again.
“You’re assuming we’re going to be friends.”
“Not assuming, just hoping.”
The minute their palms touched, a shudder shot straight down his spine. His stomach squeezed and his balls pulled up tight against his body and he was just…rocked.
The intensity of his reaction disturbed him. Resolutely he shook off the feeling. By nature he was a guarded man. It was the way he’d been born—cautious, cagey, always on the lookout for trouble, seeing the world though the eyes of a troubleshooter. Life circumstances had added to his innate wall, one emotional brick at a time. The one time he’d opened himself up, let down his guard, chipped a few bricks off the wall and—wham!
His old bullet wound ached at the thought. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
“And you are…” Roxie tilted her head.
“Here to make your every fantasy come true.”
“Ah,” she said. “Is that so?” Her smile widened to reveal a double dimple deep in her left cheek. God, he’d always been a sucker for dimples, and look here, she had two.
Key word being sucker. Keep your testosterone in check, Lockhart. You’re on the job.
“Let’s see where you’re sitting.” Dougal leaned closer, ostensibly to read her boarding pass, but he already knew where she was sitting. He’d memorized the passenger manifest, and he recalled that Ms. Stanley was seated in the first row, near the window, while he had the aisle seat beside her. Handy coincidence.
What he really wanted was to see how she’d react to his proximity. Would she flirt like a single woman on a sexy vacation retreat? Or would she act guilty like someone up to no good?
When it came down to it, she did neither.
Instead, with an unflappable expression, Roxanne Stanley said silkily, “You’re blocking my way, Mr. Fantasy Man. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
He moved aside, but the passageway was small and he was large. She had to squeeze past him to get to her seat and in the process her hip grazed his upper thigh. It was the slightest contact, barely there, and yet Dougal’s cock stirred instantly inside those damned leather breeches as surely as if she’d stroked him.
This was crazy. He didn’t lose control like this, not with so little provocation. He took a deep breath, trying to cool his heated blood. Wanting a woman—hell, who was he kidding, he was craving her—brought risks and vulnerabilities.
Think about something else. Whatever you do, do not watch her ass as she walks away.
The woman moved past him and his gaze homed in on her ass like a heat-seeking missile. She swiveled her head and caught him staring. Her steal-your-breath blue eyes locked onto his and sucked the air right out of his lungs.
In that moment it was as if they were totally alone on the airplane. The noise of dozens of voices humming in conversation faded away and Dougal’s focus narrowed to only her.
Her gaze was steady, but he saw a faint tinge of pink color her cheeks and she lowered those long, thick black lashes. His heart knocked. She looked at once strong and extremely vulnerable, and he wondered what secrets she was keeping.
Had she been sent by one of Taylor’s enemies? An irate stockholder or a competitor? Or was it a personal agenda? Was it revenge against Taylor? Was she a straitlaced saboteur deeply offended by Eros Airlines and its sexually adventuresome vacations, or was he totally off the mark about her altogether?
Dougal couldn’t deny that his instincts were telling him she wasn’t what she seemed, but did he trust his powers of deductive reasoning? Getting close to her was the only way to find out, but something told him if he flew too near the flame of her hot blue eyes he was going to get singed.
He clenched his teeth to keep from scooping her into his arms and carrying her away to some secluded corner of the expensively decorated airplane and stripping off her clothes in a hungry effort to discover if her flesh tasted as sweet as it looked. He wanted to cup his palm around her breasts, to thread his fingers through that mane of lush black hair, to press his mouth against her ripe, rich lips.
“Is there something you need?” she asked.
You.
“No,” he answered mildly.
He could almost hear her heart thumping, could feel his own heart slamming against his chest.
“Okay, then.”
“Okay.” Behind him, the flight attendant closed the door, but he didn’t look away.
Roxie broke their stare. Ducking her head, she scurried toward her fully reclining, plush leather seat beside the window. Leaving Dougal feeling as if he was flying into the eye of a storm, and his instrument panel had just frizzed out.
2
ROXIE’S BOSS, PORTER LANGLEY, the owner and founder of Getaway Airlines, had seriously underestimated Taylor Corben. Roxie doubted that Porter realized how much money the woman lavished on her airline, nor did he have any idea that she was hiring gorgeous macho men as tour guides. Of course, that was the very reason Mr. Langley had sent her on this trip—to get the lowdown on Eros. Her boss hungered to follow in Taylor Corben’s footsteps and open his own destination r
esort in Ireland, along the lines of Eros’s version in Stratford.
The lavishness of the accommodations was the first item going into her report, after she got her hands to stop sweating and her pulse to quit pounding, following her encounter with the hunk in Renaissance attire. The way “Shakespeare” had stared at her caused Roxie to fear that he’d guessed her secret.
She was a mole.
Roxie hadn’t been happy about the whole go-spy-on-the-competition assignment her boss had cooked up, but she was loyal to the bone when it came to people who’d given her a break, plus she desperately wanted the head of public relations position that her boss had dangled in front of her. Pulling off this little piece of corporate espionage would cinch her promotion.
The job was not only one she coveted, but the bump in salary would also allow her to put her kid sister, Stacy, through college. Roxie didn’t want Stacy to end up like her, forced by circumstances and lack of money to give up on her dreams of becoming an actress.
She peered out the window. Even though she worked for an airline she wasn’t a comfortable flyer, and heading to London twisted her stomach. Crossing miles and miles of ocean held little appeal.
She blew out her breath, ran her palms over the front of her thighs and then dug her BlackBerry from her purse to distract herself. She started to type in her impression of the big man in the Shakespeare costume and the lavish interior of the plane—mahogany wood paneling, cocktail bar at the back of the plane with a gleaming granite countertop, opulent carpeting—but then he came over and strapped himself into the last empty seat on the plane.
The seat right beside hers.
Unnerved, Roxie shut off her BlackBerry and returned it to her designer knockoff handbag she’d picked up at a yard sale. She definitely did not fit with this crowd, but her childhood had taught her to be someone else whenever she was in a dicey situation. Slip under the skin of an invented character. For the duration of this trip she was a smart, sharp, infinitely calm, corporate spy. She just had to keep reminding herself of that.
Inhaling, she caught a whiff of his spicy, masculine cologne and felt herself come undone. Fear revved her pulse rate. Did he suspect she was not typical of Eros’s well-heeled clientele?
Play the game. Be the role.
To boost her confidence, she reached up to run her fingers over the gold-and-silver comedy-tragedy mask necklace she always wore. It was the last gift her parents had given her before they were killed two weeks after her eighteenth birthday.
“Hello, again.” His deep voice rumbled, rolling over her ears like a gathering storm.
She felt something shake loose in her chest, a tearing-away sensation like a boat breaking free from its mooring and drifting out to sea.
Be cool. You are an expert spy. Think Mata Hari, Antonia Ford, Belle Boyd.
“Hi,” she said casually.
“I’m Dougal, by the way. Dougal Lockhart. Sorry about stonewalling you earlier. It’s part of the flirtatious role-playing Eros requires from tour guides.”
Role-playing she understood. It was how a shy girl from Albany made it in New York City. “So I deduced. Are you sitting here for the entire flight?”
Oh, damn, her voice had come out high and reedy.
“Yep. Does that distress you?”
“You’re the one who should be distressed,” she countered. When she’d first started working for Porter he’d coached her on how to go on the offensive diplomatically whenever she found herself backed into a corner, but the skill didn’t come easily. By nature she was open, expressive, a people pleaser, and she had to fight against her tendency to be overly accommodating. It was only when she pretended to be someone else that she was able to change her behavior.
“Oh?” He cocked his head.
“I gotta warn you,” Roxie amended. “I’m a nervous flyer. I get fidgety.”
“And yet you’re traveling alone.”
“I am.”
“Vacationing by yourself?”
Was he fishing for details? Fear hopscotched through her and she dug her fingernails into her palm. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s brave.”
“I like traveling alone,” she lied. “I’m accountable to no one’s agenda but my own.”
“Touché.” His gaze skimmed over the naked ring finger of her left hand. “I take it you’re not married.”
“Astute conclusion.”
“Snarky.” His eyes twinkled. “Unexpected but engaging.”
“I’m happy I could provide you with some free entertainment.” She took a peek at his ring finger. “You don’t look married, either.”
“Astute conclusion.”
“Now you’re just mocking me.”
“Trying to keep your mind off takeoff.”
“I appreciate the effort.”
“If it would help any, feel free to grab hold of my arm,” Dougal invited.
She dropped a glance at his strong forearm, poking from the rolled-up sleeves of his puffy white shirt. His forearms were ropy with muscles and thick, dark hair. She curled her fingers into fists and forced herself to breath normally.
“I’ve got to warn you, I tend to babble when I’m nervous.” She scrunched her shoulder blades together.
“Babble away.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Not at all. I have earplugs.”
She had to laugh. Strange as it seemed, she was having fun.
The plane taxied from the gate.
“Quick,” Roxie said. “Say something to distract me. Takeoffs and landings freak me out the most. That and looking out the window when we’re over water.”
“Looking out the window freaks you out?”
“Sort of.”
“So why the window seat?”
“Because looking out the window keeps me from feeling claustrophobic.”
“You’re claustrophobic, too?”
“Only when I feel closed in.”
He laughed again, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling. “You’re funny.”
“I’m happy that you find my terror amusing.”
“It is a seven-hour flight. I have to take my amusement where I can find it.” The teasing expression in his eyes warmed her from the inside out.
The plane rushed down the runway, gathering speed, the tarmac whizzing by in a gray-black blur. Roxie gripped the armrest.
Dougal held out his palm. “I’m here if you need a hand to hold on to.”
Gratefully she took it, but the minute his fingers closed around hers, Roxie realized she’d made a grave mistake. His grip was firm, his palm calloused. His scent, a complicated aroma of spicy cologne, leather and sunshine invaded her nostrils.
Madness.
The plane was airborne, soaring.
Treetops fell away. Vehicles crawling along the freeway in rush-hour traffic glimmered like spotted stones. The early-morning sun burned orange against the clouds. Roxie jerked her gaze from the window to stare at the man beside her.
The warmth inside her kicked up to a sultry simmer. A labyrinth of emotions pummeled her. Overwhelmed, Roxie had to remind herself to breathe. What was going on here? Why was she feeling so…so…what was she feeling?
Attracted.
Yes, that was the word. She was attracted to him and the feeling scared her.
He held on tightly to her hand, and she closed her eyes so he couldn’t read what she was struggling to hide.
The landing gear came up with a bump. Her eyes flew open. The sound never failed to send her heart lurching into her throat. Dougal squeezed her hand. A sexual tingle shot all the way up to her shoulder.
Think about something else.
But that was difficult to do, considering how delicious he smelled and how his quick-witted banter reminded her just how long it had been since she’d had sex.
Roxie tried to concentrate on the luxurious surroundings. The state-of-the-art flat-screen television sets at each seat were so sophisticated they’d
make a techno geek weep with happiness. There were the elaborate meal menus that could send a gastronome into paroxysms of epicurean delight and the butter-soft, oversize leather chairs with enough legroom to satisfy the long-legged man beside her.
“How long have you been a tour guide?” She searched for something neutral to talk about, something that wouldn’t inflame the feelings burning through her. Or result in her inadvertently giving herself away.
“I just started,” Dougal explained. “In fact, this is my first trip.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“You seem so self-confident.”
“It’s all an act,” he confided. “Inside, my knees are jelly.”
“You fooled me.”
“How so?”
“You don’t look like you’re scared of anything.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” The way he said it, the penetrating expression on his face made her feel as if he’d whipped off all her clothes and she was sitting there stark naked.
“What did you do before you took this job?” she asked.
“Variety of things.”
“You seem a little old to still be finding yourself.”
“Some of us are late bloomers.”
“Late-blooming jelly knees? I’m not buying it.”
He stroked his bearded chin. “No?”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three. You?”
“Anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”
“You brought up the topic,” he pointed out.
“I guess I did. How old do you think I am?”
“That’s so not fair. If I guess that you’re older than you are, then you’ll never speak to me again and that would be such a shame because you’re definitely a woman worth speaking to. So let’s see. You’re sixteen going on seventeen?”
Okay, so she was flattered. Roxie didn’t get this kind of talk from men very often. Mainly because she avoided situations where such talk could spring. To be honest, she avoided men and any hint of romantic relationships, but she wasn’t dumb. She knew it was part of his tour guide please-the-customer shtick, so she relented and let him off the hook. “I’m twenty-eight.”
