CHAPTER ONE
Joanie
I took a big breath in and let it out in a short burst, hands on my hips, Superwoman style. My aunt once told me that it’s a power pose, that people perk up and listen when you have an air of command.
But no such luck. The pose didn’t make me feel any more confident. In fact, it made me feel weird and uncomfortable because I was interviewing for a job as a flight attendant, nervous as hell.
Being a stewardess wasn’t my first career choice, not really. But for several reasons it ended up being a good option. I just had to nail my first interview in order to get my career started. No biggie, right?
But my first appointment wasn’t going well. An older woman greeted me with a tight French twist and pruney, pursed lips. She looked me over like she was reviewing a modeling portfolio. If the lady hadn’t been sixty and female, I might have felt ogled. Well, age and gender notwithstanding, I felt pretty ogled anyways.
The woman’s eyes were sharp, not missing any details.
“Just the right size for a flight attendant,” she noted, scribbling something on my application form. That was a weird comment for sure. I mean, flight attendants can’t be super tall because of the ceiling height in commercial planes, but still. Speaking your thoughts out loud was strange.
Plus, the way her eyes sized up my figure was a little disconcerting. Again, I think there are weight restrictions for stewardesses, but with this kind of once over, I felt like a prize cow at the County Fair. Not a great feeling.
Because I’ve never been a skinny girl. With Double D breasts and ample hips, sometimes squeezing through the narrow aisles of a plane can be tough. There’s more than a little junk in the trunk back there, and half the time I was afraid I’d hit some poor passenger’s head.
But dieting doesn’t work for me. I tried that whole South Beach thing, but it was a bust. Food has always been my go to, and the more I tried to diet, the more nervous I got. The more nervous I got, the more I ate. Go figure.
But the interviewer had no idea. She looked me up and down again, eyes narrow, missing nothing. And then with a harrumph, she pronounced, “You’re hired.”
I gasped.
“Really? No-no questions for me?” came my stammer.
The lady looked down at her clipboard, reviewing my application once more.
“Everything on here is accurate, isn’t that so?” she asked. “You signed a statement certifying its validity.”
I nodded dumbly. That was true. But what interviewer doesn’t ask questions?
The woman merely nodded again, clearly impatient.
“Welcome to Elite Air,” came her clipped words. “Uniform fitting will be on Monday. Come back to the conference hall and the tailors will set you up.”
I nodded dumbly. Hey, I was gonna get a paycheck, and it seemed wise to keep my questions to a minimum. But one small one escaped my lips.
“Um, should I try to slim down?” I asked hesitantly. “For the uniform fitting? I can lose a lot in a week,” were my rushed words, although that was patently untrue. “I know the aisles on the plane must be narrow.”
The woman lowered her brows, frowning
“Absolutely not,” was her declaration. “There’s plenty of space on board, you’ll see.”
Thunderstruck, my head nodded. I thought airplanes were regulation sized. We’d practiced on a bunch of models during stewardess school, and there wasn’t a lot of room on any of the commercial aircraft.
But nodding again, I agreed.
“Okay,” came my soft voice. “Monday it is then.”
And dazed, I stepped outside onto the sidewalk, the glare on the sidewalks blinding. Who was Elite Air? Or what was it? I’d done some googling but there wasn’t much information on-line. The website said it was a private fleet catering to billionaires and famous people. Wow. Like Elon Musk or handsome George Clooney types? That sounded great.
But real life isn’t filled with George Clooneys. You’d be lucky to meet even one George Clooney in your lifetime. More likely, it was seventy year old gazillionaires who had dozens of grandchildren. That was okay. I don’t mind families at all, and kids have always made me smile. And besides, there was the paycheck. The annual salary and benefits were amazing, almost double that offered by other airlines. It’d be ridiculous to pass up this opportunity.
So the next Monday, I showed up again. And sure enough, a seamstress was on hand, taking my measurements, nodding here while pinning there. And after ten minutes, we were done. I was dressed in my first uniform, ready to fly.
But this wasn’t your regular stewardess outfit, with a dowdy cardigan and knee length skirt. Instead, it was seriously cute. Even sexy, come to think of it. The navy dress was form fitting in all the right places, with a modest décolletage that showed off my ample bust. There was an adorable matching pillbox hat, and a blue scarf with red dots to tie around my neck. The whole look was retro and jaunty and I fell in love with it immediately.
My interviewer, Helena, materialized out of nowhere, scrutinizing me in the dress. No hello, no how are you’s. Instead, she addressed her words to the seamstress.
“Perfect,” came her clipped voice. “The men will love it.”
The men?
What did that mean?
But I guess it was possible. There are certainly more male billionaires in the world than female.
And with that, I was done. Ushered into a large hangar, my breath caught. Because holy moly, the G6 was nothing like the planes we’d practiced on during stewardess school. It was sleek and aerodynamic, gleaming in the giant warehouse space.
And inside, things got even better. There was no narrow galley kitchen or cramped economy seats upholstered in polyester weave. Instead, the kitchen was full-size, complete with an oven and microwave. And there were no economy seats on this flight period. Instead, six plush chairs stood inside the cabin, upholstered in spotless white leather, creamy and inviting. If it were me, I’d be afraid to sit in them, sure I’d spill something somehow.
But that’s my job.
I’m an elite air hostess.
I don’t spill things anymore.
Not champagne, not nuts, and definitely not on the customer.
So I looked around, trying to calm my heart. But it was hard because the plane was just so luxurious. A flat screen TV rose from the floor, a bouquet of fresh flowers adding to the air of luxury. And if my eyes weren’t mistaken, there was closed door leading to a bedroom in back, complete with en suite fixtures.
Wow. Holy smokes. This was way beyond my wildest dreams. Slightly trembling, I made my way back to the front of the cabin. Ah ha, this was more like it. The staff restroom behind the cockpit was small and utilitarian, but even that was nicer than average. I thanked my lucky stars. What did I do to deserve this job? This was going to be cakewalk. All I had to do was wait on some rich people on a nice plane, rather than dealing with the masses on an aging commercial aircraft.
But there was no time to waste. Time is money in this industry, so I sprang to work, getting the warm nuts and champagne together. This was a job worth keeping, and I wanted to make a good impression my first day.
My eyes studied the manifest as the almonds warmed. Hmm, a man named Damien Dawson was our only passenger on today’s flight. My head shook with disbelief. Some people were so rich that they took solo flights, uncaring of the cost. Incredible.
And suddenly, voices sounded below, deep and melodious. Oh no, Mr. Dawson was here. But it was okay, everything was ready. The nuts were ready in their ramekin, the bubbly poured. My belly rumbled a little with nerves, but I slapped a professional smile onto my lips. Appearances mean everything when you’re flying elite.
And suddenly, he appeared. My breath caught because all the air exited the small plane, my lungs squeezed for oxygen. Unbelievably, Damien Dawson was better looking that George Clooney. Tall. Huge. With a head of perfect black hair and crystal blue eyes. The kind of eyes that could make a girl forget how to use real words,
which unfortunately, was happening to me now.
But something made it out of my throat, even if I sounded like a strangled frog.
“Welcome aboard,” came my words. “Welcome, Mr. Dawson. I’m Joanie. I’ll be your flight attendant today.”
The man didn’t appear to hear. Well, he did, but only with the slightest nod my way. No matter. I’d been warned that our clientele consisted of the powerful businessmen, and they were busy guys. Mr. Dawson was probably busy thinking of his next acquisition, or his next takeover and not some meek, shy flight attendant.
No problem. They were handling billions of dollars, whereas my greatest worry was if the nuts were the right temperature. There was no need to be offended if they ignored me.
After all, a job is a job.
As the billionaire fastened his seatbelt, I stepped forwards carrying the almonds and a glass of champagne. The man declined them both with a wave of his hand and a strange gleam in those blue eyes.
“Can I get you a newspaper then?” I asked sweetly, smiling my best smile.
“No,” came that terse word.
Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.
“Okay,” I replied graciously. “I’ll check back in as soon as we get to cruising altitude.”
And soon, we were off. The bird rose into the sky smoothly, sleekly, like it was propelled by a gust of wind and not jet fuel. Wow, money really made a difference. This G6 was amazing.
But once we leveled off, I stood and made my way to the kitchen. Curiously, the service light was already on. The king was calling.
And solicitously, I made my way over.
“Sir,” I said, bending over slightly, a modest expanse of décolletage revealed. “You called? Can I get you something?”
Those blue eyes missed nothing, sweeping over the creamy flesh and making me flush.
But the billionaire was unperturbed.
“I’d like some nuts after all,” Mr. Dawson growled. “And a newspaper.”
“I’d be happy to assist you,” I replied, scurrying off to scoop some of the nuts from the warmer into a ceramic ramekin bearing the Elite Air logo. Everything around this place matched.
But big surprises were coming because when I leaned over to sit the tray down on his table, the billionaire put a hand on mine, warm and hard.
My eyes flew up to his, questioning.
But that smooth face was impassive.
“What did you say your name was?” he rumbled again.
“I’m Joanie,” I choked out on a strangled breath. But it came out sounding like Jo-Joanie, so I tried again.
“I’m Joanie,” I repeated again with a professional smile. “Joanie MacAllister at your service.”
The alpha flashed a white smile then.
“Well, Joanie, how long have you been working for Elite?”
I blushed. Had I done something wrong? Did he sense that I was a newbie?
“Actually,” I murmured, cheeks pink. “This is my first day. So if I did something wrong, sir, please let me know. I just got out of flight school.”
One black eyebrow raised.
“Flight school, hmmm?” he pondered. “I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
I blushed again.
“It’s not flight school for pilots,” were my fumbling words. “Not like Top Gun or anything like that. It’s flight school for stewardesses, folks like me who want to be air attendants.”
Those blue eyes gleamed my way.
“And what did you learn?” he asked smoothly. “What did they teach you?”
I blushed. Why was Mr. Dawson asking me all these questions? It was so awkward, the air growing steamy and hot as the billionaire took me in. Did they have the fan circulating in this place?
Because there was something in that gaze.
Something hungry.
Filled with secrets.
And the man gestured for me to sit across from him then.
“Oh no, I shouldn’t,” came my demurral. “The seats are for passengers only.”
But Mr. Dawson merely raised his brows again. And mesmerized, my plump form slowly lowered itself into the white leather chair. Oh wow. This thing was like a cloud, soft and cushiony while still providing support. I could fall asleep here.
But not with Damien Dawson looking at me like that. The alpha quirked an eyebrow again.
“So what did they teach you?” he asked in that smooth growl. “What did you learn?”
I blushed.
“Well, they taught me about emergency landings,” I said slowly. “How to inflate the life vest. How to direct panicked passengers to the nearest exit, that kind of thing.”
He nodded thoughtfully, steepling his hands.
“What else?” that low voice rumbled.
I fumbled. This was weird. Really weird. But I had no choice but to go with it. Maybe they evaluated all the new girls this way, doing a pop quiz to test our knowledge.
“They taught us how to lay out silverware,” I said slowly. “The knives facing inwards, bread on the left, and drinks on the right.”
The billionaire nodded thoughtfully.
“Getting closer,” came that smooth drawl. “And what else? What else relating to silverware?”
Was he fishing for something? I stared at that big form momentarily, but then caught myself. The first rule of service is that the customer is always right. So no matter how weird this was, I had to respond.
“They taught me how to serve,” I said slowly. “How to open the tray table gracefully, how to place each dish in the right place so that it makes for a harmonious presentation of food.”
“Good,” he drawled. “Very good. I see that you had elite training, the kind reserved for the best of the best.”
I nodded. That was true. During flight school, they’d pulled a couple of us aside for extended classes. I hadn’t realized it was for the best of the best, I’d thought it was because I was clumsy. But thinking back, maybe that had been wrong. Maybe it was because those girls showed promise and the ability to deliver a higher class of service?
Who knew? I was so mixed up at this point.
But Mr. Dawson wasn’t confused at all.
“So what else did they teach you about serving?” he drawled again.
My cheeks colored, mouth opening momentarily.
But I couldn’t think of anything to say. So following the golden rule, I blurted the only thing that popped into mind.
“The customer is always right,” was my blurted reply. “Always.”
And with that, those blue eyes flashed.
“Exactly sweetheart,” Mr. Dawson complimented. “I can see that you were a good student. And now let’s put those skills to use.”
My mouth opened and closed once more without sound, like a fish out of water.
“I’m sorry?” came my flabbergasted voice. “How? What- what should I do?”
And the gleam in his eyes hardened.
“Serve them to me,” he commanded.
I looked around. The only thing I could possibly serve was the nuts.
“Th-this sir?” I stammered, gesturing to the ceramic ramekin. “This?”
He smiled lazily, that big form relaxed.
“That’s it exactly,” he drawled.
But how? What was I supposed to do? Feed them to him?
That was ludicrous. Absolutely insane.
But maybe that’s what rich guys expected on private flights. Maybe they expected the stewardess to feed them peeled grapes, just like aristocrats in ancient Rome.
So with a trembling hand, I picked up the small dish and took an almond out, raising one hand towards his lips. Oh god. This was weird, and yet I was strangely turned on. Could this really be happening?
But we were seated too far apart, so I leaned forward in my chair, reaching once more towards those sculpted lips.
“Stop,” came that deep voice.
I stopped immediately, hand still raised. Oh god, oh god, had I screwed up
entirely? Had I completely messed up? Was I going to be fired on my first day?
But his voice was silky, those eyes filled with intense blue fire that made me burn from the inside out. In betrayal, my body flushed, insides going wet and warm. Oh god. I hadn’t done things wrong, but the alpha wanted something else.
And a corner of that beautiful mouth pulled up cruelly.
“Feed them to me off your tits,” he commanded.
I couldn’t move for a moment. What? Had I heard right? What in the world?
Those blue eyes never left mine.
“You heard me,” came that silky voice. “Now do it. Feed. The almonds. To me. Off your tits.”
A gasp escaped my mouth.
“What?” was my breathless cry. “What? How?”
Why was I even asking how, like it was a possibility to be entertained? There shouldn’t have been a how.
But the billionaire merely smiled lazily again, that big form relaxed yet poised to strike.
“Undo your dress,” he commanded in a raspy voice. “Let those tits out. Press them together so they’re like a shelf, and then scatter the nuts on top. I’ll snack on them as I see fit.”
What? My cheeks were scarlet now, burning with fire.
Because he wanted me to use my boobies like a platter. A white serving dish that he’d caress with his fingers each time he brought a nut to his mouth.
Claiming His Virgin In the Pool Page 24
