I took a deep breath and tried to focus on my happy place while the economy passengers filtered off the plane. The flight was necessary and after twenty-four years of travelling, I should have been used to the bump and grind of air travel.
In theory, I was. Before every flight I waited calmly in the endlessly snaking line to check my bags, greeted the attendant with a genuine smile and agreed that yes, I would have a pleasant flight. It wasn’t until I was on the plane, secured in my seat by the tenuous hold of the belt, that the fear kicked into supercharge. I was intensely grateful to my younger brother Sebastian for loaning me the money for the first class flight. At least now, if the plane went down, I would have a bigger seat to cushion the fall.
“You still look a bit green, cherie.” The middle-aged gentleman beside me leaned forward and offered me his unopened water bottle. “The worst is over, though. I hope someone is picking you up in Mexico, you are in no shape to drive after all of…” He waved politely at the remaining travel sickness bags the flight attendant had passed to me twenty minutes into our flight.
I managed a weak smile for Pierre. He was a fifty-year-old bachelor, quite distinguished really, with steel grey hair and cunning brown eyes. And maybe, under different circumstances, he would have propositioned me. As it was, he had offered to pay someone to switch seats with him when he discovered how sick I was. Failing that, he had settled in with relatively good grace and lectured me on the tricks of international trade law to distract me. Everything considered —I had managed to drool on his Hugo Boss blazer while I dozed between throwing up —I was grateful to him.
“No, but I’ll catch a taxi to the resort.” At the moment, I wasn’t looking forward to my enforced vacation. All I wanted was to step off the plane back in my familiar Paris and slip into the small wrought iron bed in my studio apartment in St-Germain-des-Prés.
Pierre nodded, and shot me a sidelong look. “Are you going to be alright now?”
He was getting off now to visit his daughter and newborn grandson. He didn’t like North America, and I got the feeling he was lingering just to eke out a few more words in his native tongue before switching to English.
I nodded meekly but before I could respond the deeper voice of someone behind us spoke, “If you will allow me, I think you are leaving her in capable hands.”
I opened my eyes when Pierre nudged me indelicately with his elbow and cleared his throat. Immediately, I blinked.
The man who stood before us dominated the entire aisle. His dusky golden skin stretched taut over his strong features, almost brutally constructed of steeply angled cheekbones and a bladed nose. I had only the vague impression that he was tall and lean because his eyes, a deep and electric blue like the night sky during a lightning storm, held me arrested. The way he held himself, the power of his lean build, and the look in those eyes reminded me of a wolf, caged within the confines of civility but eternally savage.
“I’m sure she would be delighted.” Pierre sent me a barely concealed look telling me to pull it together.
I smiled hesitantly at the gorgeous stranger, aware that I was a mess of clammy skin and melted make-up. “I’m fine really.”
He nodded curtly, his eyes devoid of any real sympathy. “You will be.”
Pierre hesitated, his eyes searching my face for reluctance. I smiled at him and took one of his hands between my clammy palms. “Merci beaucoup pour tu m’aides. J’espere que tu passes un bon temps avec ta fille.”
I was rewarded with broad grin before he hastily collected his things and moved towards the front of the plane. I watched him go instead of focusing on the stranger as he took Pierre’s abandoned seat but after a few moments with his eyes hot on my face, I turned to him uneasily.
His thick hair was the colour of polished mahogany and curled, overlong, at the base of his neck. My fingers itched to run themselves through the silken mass but instead, I smiled.
“There really is no need to look after me, Monsieur,” I continued in French. “I am quite well now.”
I squirmed in my seat when he didn’t immediately reply. “It’s silly really, I’ve been afraid of planes since I was young.”
“Oh?” He crossed his hands and I noticed that he didn’t wear a watch, that his fingers were long and nimble. The freckles on the backs of those strong hands surprised me and I found them strangely appealing. I wanted badly to dig into the bag before my feet for my sketchpad.
Because I was uncomfortable, I nodded empathetically. “I was four when we moved to Puglia for a year and I don’t remember the logistics of the move very well but I remember the plane.” I looked at him from the corner of my eye and he nodded encouragingly, his hands steepled in front of his beautifully drawn lips. “It was with some budget airline and the plane itself was barely held together by rusty bolts. I think the captain might have been drunk because we dropped and dipped the whole way through.”
“Which airline?” His voice was silky and cool, like the brush of a tie against my skin.
“I don’t remember now.” I frowned at him. “Why?”
He waved my question out of the air with those deeply blue eyes still intent on my face. “Tell me more.”
Those are magic words to hear from a man, I think. It unfurls something hidden deep within a woman, something that is habitually scared and insecure. Tell me more. It was somehow intimate to hear those words, even from a stranger, especially from this stranger.
“My father was in debt so we were basically fleeing.” I shrugged but the sharp ache of terror still resounded in my chest when I thought of my mother’s despair, my brother’s desolation. “Maybe I had caught the flu, or maybe I was scared, but I spent most of the flight losing the contents of my stomach. Needless to say, it wasn’t a pleasant trip. Since then, I’ve travelled a lot, but the feeling never goes away.”
“Ah, but flying is a pleasure.” He did not smile, and I had the sense he rarely did, but his eyes grew dark with pleasure. “Close your eyes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Close your eyes.”
I pressed myself to the back of my chair when he leaned into me slightly in order to reach the button on my armrest. My chair tilted back and I found myself looking up into his lean face, his shoulder still warm against my front.
“Close your eyes,” he repeated firmly.
I swallowed twice before doing so. I didn’t know his name, where he came from, anything personal to mark him with. But somehow, it was thrilling. To be in the hands of a perfect stranger, to trust him enough to surrender my sight, to allow him to make even the simplest decision for me.
So, I hardly flinched when a blanket covered my chilled feet and was pulled up under my chin. His fingers, ridged with slight callous, brushed against the tender skin of my neck as he tucked me in.
“You are flying,” he said quietly but it felt as though he spoke the words against my ear. “And if you relax, let every muscle loosen, and breathe deeply, there is nothing more soothing than being in the air.”
Instead, the pit of my stomach coiled and I found myself wishing that I was another kind of person, someone who flirted with handsome strangers, who would lean into that firm mouth and take it without a qualm.
“We aren’t in the air,” I pointed out. “We are in a machine made out of metal that has no business being in the sky.”
“Ah, it is the machine that frightens you.” I wondered where he sat, if he remained leaning over me. “Let it be a bird then, a swan.”
“Okay,” I mumbled, suddenly exhausted. “But only because swans are mean.”
I smiled at his husky chuckle but fell asleep before he could say anything else.
* * *
When I woke up, it was to the delicate tapping of rain against the window and the brisk click of fingers on a keyboard. Deeply rested and disorientated, I moaned and stretched myself across my seat before righting it. Blinking away sleep, I looked up and met the searing eyes of my stranger.
“You had a goo
d rest,” he noted, and for some reason, I flushed.
He was even more handsome than before, if that was possible. In the darkening night, his hair was mostly black, kissed red by the artificial overhead lights. He seemed like some creature of the night, something dark and too sexy to be true.
“Yes, thank you.” We were speaking in English now and I couldn’t remember if we had switched over before I fell asleep. His voice was smooth and cool, perfectly enunciated with just a hint of French charm.
“We land in twenty minutes.” He watched my surprise and handed me a plastic cup of sparkling liquid. Our fingers brushed as he passed it off and a current of electricity made my grip on the cup shaky. Quickly, he righted it with his other hand and pressed both of my hands to the plastic. “You’ve got it?”
I nodded and flexed my fingers under his hold but he remained holding the cup, holding me, for a beat too long. He stared at me with a slight frown between his thick brows but I couldn’t begin to discern if it was out of displeasure or surprise. I had never been so attracted to a man in my life, and I wondered if I was imagining the thickening tension between us. My tongue darted out to coat my dry lips and his eyes followed its path intently. Abruptly, his hands were gone and he was sitting back in his seat, his fingers flying on the keyboard of his Blackberry.
I blinked and slowly sank back into my chair. Obviously, I had misread the signs. I took a sip of the sparkling liquid and discovered with delight that it was Ginger Ale. Sipping it slowly to savour the sweet pop of bubbles on my tongue, I turned my attention to the early evening turning into twilight the colour of a bruise outside my window. The sparkling lights of Los Cabos could already be seen ahead of us and instead of wondering about the intrepid stranger beside me, I focused on my excitement. I had one week of paradise before I met with reality in New York City.
After five years in Paris and only a handful of visits in that time, I would finally be reunited with my family. The last time we had all lived under the same roof I had been nineteen years old. My twin siblings Cosima and Sebastian had been the first to leave, Cosima when she was seventeen in order to model in Milan and Sebastian months later to England, with Cosima’s money in his pocket and a fierce determination to become an actor. I had lived with my mother and eldest sister Elena after that before journeying to Paris.
I squeezed my eyes shut and refused to think about those years. It had been nearly five now since I had left our small life in Napoli to attend L’École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. Though I was close to my family, it had been good for me to spend these years apart from them. I was returning home to them a better person than I had been when I had hastily fled and I was both excited and anxious for them to see that.
“What are you smiling at?”
His question was faintly brusque, as if he was irritated with me. When I turned to him though, his eyes were on the glowing screen of his phone.
“I haven’t been home in a long time, I’m looking forward to seeing my family again.”
“Your husband?” he asked tersely.
I laughed and it felt so delightful after hours of sickness and sleep that I laughed some more. He watched me with twisted lips, as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t understand why. “Was that funny?”
“Oh, not really.” I leaned forward conspiratorially. “But one needs a boyfriend to get married and I haven’t had one of those in years.”
“Now, that is funny.” He put his phone back in his pocket and I felt a flash of triumph that he was once more focused on me. “It is incomprehensible to me that you would be single.” His eyes sparkled as he leaned forward, and a lock of that overlong hair fell across his golden forehead. “Tell me, other than your obvious fear of flying, what’s wrong with you?”
I laughed. “We’re almost in Los Cabos, I don’t have time to list all my flaws.”
“I have a feeling there aren’t many,” he murmured, and stared at me in that way I was discovering he had, of looking through me and at me all at once. “But perhaps it’s better that you don’t tell me. A woman of mystery,” his voice was low and smooth, so captivating I didn’t register the pilot ready the plane for landing, “is a seductive thing.”
“You had better tell me about yourself then.” I leaned back in my seat as the plane began its steep descent into the city. “You’re handsome enough already.”
His loud chuckle surprised both of us. It was husky with disuse and his expression, though inherently beautiful, was almost pained. When the sound tapered off, it left him frowning. “What would you like to know?”
“Something repellent,” I demanded cheerfully.
“Repellent? That’s a tall order.” Though normally I was uncomfortable under the eyes of another, those baby blues against my skin invigorated me and I beamed back at him. “When I look at you, I can only think of,” his fingers found a lock of my auburn hair and he rubbed it between his fingers to release the scent, “Lavender and honey.”
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “Happily, we are talking about you.”
His grin was wolfish as he leaned back in his seat again. “I make a very good living.”
“Ah, you’re one of those.” His silver cuff links shone even in the dim light of the descending plane. “That helps, I’m more the starving artist type.”
“Hardly starving.” His eyes raked over my curves even though I wore a modest cotton shift.
Despite myself, I flushed. “No, but an artist all the same. Let me guess, you work with money.”
“In a sense,” he said, and his eyes danced. “Is this Twenty Questions?”
I laughed. “I haven’t played that since I was a kid.”
“Not so long ago.”
“Long enough,” I corrected and shot a look at him from the corner of my eye. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-one. I’m also 6’1 and I’ve broken my right arm three times.” His small smile was a boyish contrast to his sharp, almost aggressively drawn features. I wanted desperately to trace the exaggerated line of his jaw and dip a finger into the slight hollow beneath his cheekbone.
“Twenty-four.” I pulled the bulk of my wavy hair to one side in order to show him the tattoo behind my ear.
When I didn’t explain its significance, he frowned. “What is it?”
“A mark,” I said simply.
I jerked slightly when his fingers brushed over the swirled ink. “I like it.”
“Thank you.” My voice was breathy as I draped my hair once more over my shoulders.
“What brings you to Mexico? I take it your family doesn’t live here.” A finger ran down my arm lightly, highlighting the paleness of my skin.
“My family is much more exotic than I am.” I thought of Mama and the twins with a slight grimace; years of hero worship were hard to completely eradicate. “My best friend booked the trip but couldn’t make it. I was only too happy to take her place.”
He nodded, his eyes intense as he contemplated me. The connection between us thickened and hummed like the air during an electrical storm. Disturbed, I shifted away from him to look out the window as we swooped low over the ground above the runway. Strangely, I did not feel my usual apprehension as the plane tentatively brushed the tarmac once, twice, before smoothly landing.
We didn’t speak as the pilot came on the overhead system announcing our arrival and it was only when we came to a slow stop at the terminal that I turned back to him. He faced forward, a furrow etched deeply between his brows and his mouth was firm with concentration. I wondered what he thought of me, of this strange meeting.
Sensing my gaze, he said, “I’ve been trying to decide if I should see you again.”
“What makes you think I would want to?” His eyebrow arched and I gave into his silent reproach with a little shrug. “What’s stopping you?”
The seat belt sign turned off and we both stood at the same time, suddenly almost touching, the slim space between us charged with electricity the colour of his eyes. He looked down at me,
his deep chestnut hair softening the dangerous edge of his features. “I have never wanted someone the way I want you.” His hand skimmed over my hip and sent a deep, throbbing shock through my system. “But I don’t like the idea that you could very well change my life.”
My heart clanged uncomfortably against my ribcage and though I desperately wanted to say something, I couldn’t find the words to untangle the jumble of hormones and desires I had been reduced to. So instead, I watched a serious smile tilt one side of his closed lips as his eyes scraped over my face one last time and then, without a word still, he left.
I first started writing about the Lombardi family when I was sixteen years old. The idea for Giselle and Sinclair’s story (The Evolution of Sin) came to me like a lightning strike, quickly followed by the thunderous roll of a plot for Cosima.
But it’s interesting how things develop over time. Not much changed about Giselle and Sin’s story as I rewrote it years later, but Cosima and her story changed darkly and inexplicably as I wrote her side plot through their trilogy.
Originally, Cosima was a fashion model who became ensnared with a fashion house magnate. It involved infidelity and it was written in a much lighter tone.
Now, Cosima is still a model but she is slave to a completely different man. One who is cunning beyond understanding, ruthless to the point of cruelty and deeply defiant. Alexander Davenport crashed into the story and completely changed this narrative just as he completely changed Cosima’s entire life and that of her family.
I love that the creative process is constantly growing and changing, hardly an ever-fixed mark on the horizon, but something elastic within each writer that grows and expands over time. Just as I can never fully finished exploring each writer I create, I can never fully understand the own mechanics of my creative brain, and I love that about this artistic expression.
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