by Arlene James
She felt a pang of grief for that little boy and wondered aloud, “How old is he?”
“Six.”
“It must be difficult, traveling so much with a young son to care for.”
He nodded but said, “I am fortunate that my mother is devoted to his care.”
“He must miss you, though.”
A shadow moved across his eyes, wistful but also accepting. “Not as much as I miss him.” He seemed to shrug off a touch of melancholy then and leaned closer to say, “I’ve never found any blessing in her death, but I’m no longer angry, and I’m glad to be with my son.”
Avis nodded her understanding of that, feeling a deep empathy. “How did she die?”
“Such a simple thing,” he said, spreading his hands. “A tumble down a ski slope. At first I thought she was playing. It was like her, always teasing, and she looked fine there in the snow, so pretty and peaceful, as if she was just gazing up at the blue sky. I could not believe that she was gone.” He snapped his fingers. “It happened like that.”
Avis shook her head. “My husband died inch by slow inch. Cancer.”
He reached for her hand. The heat of those long, golden fingers shocked her, and she realized at that moment how cold she was. She shivered, and he pulled the blanket from the corner of her seat, shaking it out over her. It seemed an oddly intimate thing to do, and she glanced around warily. To her surprise, all the other occupants of the cabin seemed to be sleeping. Checking the window, she saw only black. They had been talking for hours!
“I’m glad Althea did not suffer like that,” he said, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. His dark gaze, sooty black, touched hers and clung. Slightly breathless, she could only think that he had the darkest eyes and longest eyelashes she had ever seen. His hands tarried at their work a moment longer, then he sat back. “So you’re going to London for a vacation.”
She nodded, but she didn’t want to talk about why she was vacationing alone, so she turned the tables on him. “And you for business. May I ask what type of business?”
He shrugged. “In this case, shoes.”
“Shoes?” She shook her head doubtfully. “Somehow I can’t see you as a shoe salesman.”
He smiled lazily. “I am something of a—how shall I put it?—a freelance business manager.”
She shifted in her seat, her scepticism lingering. “A freelance business manager?”
He chuckled and tapped a fingertip consideringly against his lips. Very fine lips they were, too, sculpted and firm. “Let us say that someone, a designer, perhaps, has a talent for creating things that others want to buy, but he has no talent for marketing those things, even though they practically walk off the shelves on their own. He is such a poor businessman, in fact, that no matter how wonderful his designs are, sooner or later he will find himself working for nothing, all his money going everywhere but into his own pocket. That’s when I take over, show him how to make profit for both of us.”
“You’re a corporate raider,” she accused softly, frowning.
“Sometimes,” he conceded, “and sometimes a savior, sometimes a venture capitalist. Other times a simple banker, whatever the circumstance requires.” He shrugged again. “I was invited into this situation, as it happens.”
“Does it happen that way often?” For some reason the answer seemed important.
“Yes. Though sometimes I suspect it’s rather like inviting the fox into the hen house.”
“I’m sure it is,” she muttered, realizing that real money had to be involved here.
He laughed, completely unrepentant.
“What?”
“That’s a very sexy drawl you have there.”
Flattered despite her better judgment, she replied, “I’m not the only one with an accent.”
He grinned at her. “I’m afraid in that you hear my mother who is Greek in every sense of the word.”
“And your father?”
“American, of course, born and reared in San Francisco. He died when I was twenty-two. My own childhood was divided neatly between California and Greece.”
Interesting. “What’s it like there?”
“San Francisco or Greece?”
“Both.”
He looked down at her. “Each is close to the ocean, and in many ways defined by it, but San Francisco is soft and green, unlike Greece, which is hard and golden. In my mind, they are opposite sides of the same coin.”
She shook her head, enthralled by the poetic manner in which he often spoke. “You’re an odd man.”
“Perhaps. I like to experience a moment fully.”
“Some things you can’t know fully.”
“And those are the best things,” he said, leaning close. “Consider. The things that are easy to know are fleeting, but those which engage and hold us, that is the stuff of life. No?”
She thought for a moment, then decided that she didn’t want to think. If she thought too much, she would think of a reason to push him away, and he was too entertaining, too interesting. Besides, once this flight landed and they went their separate ways, she would undoubtedly never see him again. What harm could come of enjoying his company now? Relaxing somewhat she teased, “You’re a philosopher, too, I think.”
He grinned. “Of course. I am half Greek, after all.”
“Genetics.”
“Always. Everything living is about genetics, everything human, certainly. Especially sex.” She blinked at him, and found herself snared, suspended in an instant of frighteningly delicious awareness. Then he smiled and added, “Don’t you agree?”
She couldn’t breathe, let alone form cogent arguments, and she burned from the inside out with a sensual perception that frankly embarrassed her. After a moment, he chuckled lightly, crossed his legs and lifted a hand, pressing his thumb and first two fingers together for emphasis.
“Consider. My aunt Chloe makes the finest baklava in the world. It’s not a secret. She’ll give the recipe to a stranger passing on the street. She’ll take you into her kitchen and walk you through it step by step.” He lifted his forefinger. “But hers will be better than yours.” He spread his hands and shrugged. “Genetics. It’s a gift she inherited from her mother, and, alas, one she will take to her grave, for she has only sons, and like their father they can barely feed themselves. Good men, you understand, but not cooks.”
Avis laughed. He was so very entertaining. “And you, I take it, did not inherit the baklava gene?”
“Of a sort.” He slapped his flat middle, proclaiming, “I am genetically predisposed to eat as much of Aunt Chloe’s baklava as I can before it’s too late.”
It was a bald-faced lie. He was as fit as an athlete, toned, tanned, muscled, but she was laughing too hard to reprove him, delighted when she should have been wary. Charmed. So much so that when he casually asked a few minutes later where she would be staying in London, she told him as easily as he made her smile. He looked pleased.
“Truly? I am as well.”
A horribly thrilling suspicion swept through her. “You aren’t. Really?”
“I am,” he said. “I am staying in the very same hotel.”
“My goodness.” She felt the width of her own smile with weak dismay.
He reached across the aisle and helped himself to a small pillow from the seat. “I think we should both get some rest. It will be morning when we arrive.”
She nodded and sank back into the corner of her seat. Reaching up, he turned off the small light which they had been sharing and let his seat back. Avis closed her eyes. Was he pursuing her? She had been pursued before, of course, and had been helplessly flattered, but this…this felt so much more dangerous. What a terrifying thought that was!
But she was being foolish. The man lived in California, for pity’s sake. Even if she saw him again what difference would it make in the long run? She willed herself to relax and soon felt herself drifting toward sleep, but one thought stayed with her even as she sank into sleep. Lucien Tyrone w
as staying at the very same hotel as she. What that might mean she dared not consider, even in those unguarded moments of slumber.
The stewardesses wheeled out breakfast. Lucien kept his seat next to Avis. He had not slept beyond snatches that were inevitably interrupted by wildly erotic dreams and the natural result. Avis had managed a couple hours rest, though. He had watched her for a time, wondering what it was about her that so compelled him. She woke looking slightly rumpled and a little confused, but the confusion dissolved almost instantly into a smile. A quick bout with the hairbrush and a touch of lipstick left her as polished as before.
She ate everything on her breakfast plate except the bacon, starting with the fruit. He noted that she took her toast dry and her coffee with a drop of cream. He passed his melon to her, but she only nibbled at it, comfortably quiet. When he’d eaten his fill, he reached into his case for an electric razor and toothbrush, then excused himself to visit the minuscule lavatory.
“Won’t be long now,” he assured her, resuming his seat beside her. She smiled, and he resisted the urge to tell her how very beautiful she was.
The stewardess had passed out declaration cards while he was out of his seat, and Avis held hers up, asking, “What do I do with this?”
“Forget it,” he said. “It’s for those returning to London. You’ll get another when you go home. All they really want to know is how much you spend.”
“I see. Wouldn’t it make more sense to hand them out just to those who need them?”
He smiled. The things were no doubt printed hundreds to the penny. “Maybe someone should suggest that to the customs department.”
She caught the light condescension and flicked the flimsy card at him good-naturedly. He laughed, feeling energized. They shared a monitor to watch a day-old news report, which closed with the current exchange rates. A troubled expression clouded her eyes.
“I didn’t think to change money before I left.”
He reached into his suit coat for his wallet. “I’d be glad to—”
“No,” she said, and the soft implacability of it stilled his hand. “No, thank you.”
So, there was steel beneath all that soft femininity. Oddly pleased but also a little amused, he said, “I’ll just show you where to make the exchange then. There are kiosks at the airport.”
She smiled and nodded, then rose to take her turn in the rest room. As she was returning to her seat, the pilot announced their approach, and the seat belt sign dinged on. Luc rose until she was seated, then sat back down in the seat beside her and made ready for their arrival. Glancing in her direction, he noticed the white knuckles curved around the end of her chair arm. Covering her hand with his, he studied her with some concern, but he found only excitement.
“You can’t understand,” she told him. “You’ve traveled your whole life, but this is a grand adventure for me, much more than I ever expected really, and the great shame of it is, I’m here because I’m running away from someone.” She looked chagrined at that.
It would be, of course, a man. He gripped her hand a little tighter, prepared to marshal his considerable resources. “Who?”
“My stepson.”
He almost recoiled, inexplicably shocked. “You don’t care for children?”
“Of course, I do. But Ellis isn’t a child. He’s thirty.”
“Thirty?” Luc blurted. “Your stepson is thirty years old?”
“My husband was a lot older than me.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not often that the spouse is younger than even the stepchild.”
“Oh, but I’m older,” she confided, adding shyly, “Just by two years.”
He would have guessed her to be about twenty-eight, but thirty-two was fine. “I’m thirty-six myself.” As if it ought to matter.
Yet, it must have, for she smiled brightly and confided, “I knew you were young.”
Young. He’d have called himself mature, experienced. Maybe even a little jaded. When had he stopped thinking of himself as young?
The engines geared down, and suddenly her hand turned beneath his. She gripped him tightly, palm to palm, and caught her breath as the aircraft started its final descent. He grinned, not so jaded, after all, and rode the fine blade of delight all the way to the ground.
Avis felt her stomach flip as the wheels touched down, but the jolt of contact was surprisingly minimal. The whole thing seemed rather anticlimactic, until the engines abruptly throttled down and she found herself thrown back against her seat, the enormous aircraft hurtling down the runway. Then, suddenly, they were sitting on the tarmac at Gatwick Airport, rain spattering softly against the window.
Luc rose before the seat belt sign went off and began gathering their things. The stewardess showed up with a tan trench coat for him. He immediately requested Avis’s wrap as well. Avis ducked her head as the stewardess flashed her an irritated look and hurried away. Luc donned his coat, passed her briefcase to her and escorted her to the exit ahead of everyone else. The stewardess appeared with her cloak, which he draped over her shoulders, pulling up the hood to shield her against the lightly spattering rain.
Steps had been rolled up to the plane, and they descended them quickly. At the bottom, they were whisked into a van, along with their luggage and driven toward the terminal. Avis stared through her window at the rain.
“Tomorrow should be warm and sunny,” Luc told her, “at least in the afternoon. Or so the weather reports said before I left California.”
“Good for sightseeing, then.”
“Just be sure to keep an umbrella handy. It is London, after all.”
Smiling, she breathed in deeply and purred, “London.” She couldn’t quite believe she was here. He flashed a look across her face, his gaze coming to rest briefly on her mouth, then he abruptly looked away.
“A porter will be waiting at the gate for our bags,” he said. “We’ll follow him or her to customs. Just a formality. Is your passport handy?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll want to exchange some money. Afterward, I’ll get you into a cab.”
“A cab? I was told I’d have to take a train first.” Gatwick was, in fact, a good distance from the city.
He smiled blandly. “Not this trip. The cab will take you to the hotel. It’s a little slower, but you won’t have to get yourself from Victoria Station to Kensington this way.”
She nodded, perplexed. Apparently they wouldn’t be sharing transportation to the hotel. Perhaps he had other business to attend first. She dared not ask.
Fixing her attention on her surroundings, she determined to focus on her adventure, not the dangerously attractive man beside her. Lucien Tyrone was no part of her plans, after all. It would undoubtedly be best if they did not bump into one another again on this trip.
Still, she knew, deep down inside where her most private fears and sharpest guilt lay buried, that she would be terribly disappointed if they did not. Which was all the more reason to avoid him.
Glancing at the sky, she found it dreary and gray.
Chapter Three
Avis felt much relieved when Lucien Tyrone handed her down into a clean, comfortable cab some forty or so minutes after they had landed, closed the door with a smile, waved through the window and calmly walked away. At least that’s what she told herself. Determined not to think of him, she avidly observed the landscape as she rode in the back of the modern taxi.
The roads were narrow and, it seemed, a little overgrown, but traffic moved quickly, even without the breakneck speeds that made her so nervous in the pavement-rich Dallas/Fort Worth area. Houses and shops stood close together in crazy rows that zigged and zagged without any seeming rhyme or reason, and though never truly pastoral, the setting gradually became more and more congested. She noticed one particular oddity from the beginning. The buildings all seemed to be constructed of several different types and colors of brick. Eventually, she found that she had to ask the driver about it.
“Oy, well now, o
n account ‘er the war. With all the damage of the Blitz, they didn’t have time to match brick, did they?”
Oh. The damage done by the German military during the Second World War. Of course. “I see. Thank you very much.”
He nodded, a balding, somewhat beefy man, thirty or forty years old, dressed in a T-shirt and slacks. “First time?” he asked jovially. His accent added vowels to all of his words so that it came out sounding like foist toim.
She had to smile. “In London? Yes.”
“Business, is it?”
She shook her head. “As a matter of fact, I’m on vacation.”
“Where you from?”
“Texas.”
“Oy, I might ‘er guessed. Me sister’s a nurse in Houston.”
So it went, until the car pulled up in front of the surprisingly modern hotel tucked into a corner off a street lined with a mixture of businesses and residences housed in what had once been rows of very expensive homes. Somehow, the buildings had managed to retain their dignity. The chatty driver turned, hooking an elbow over the back of his seat.
“I hope you enjoy yourself in the city.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I will. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, Miss. The bloke, that gent back at the airport, he took care of it.”
“Oh.” The door opened at her elbow just then. “Well, thank you again.”
“My pleasure, Miss.”
She slid out of the vehicle and stood to smile at the uniformed doorman.
“Registration is to your left,” he told her, moving quickly to hold open the heavy glass portal to the lobby. “We’ll take care of your luggage.”
She felt an instant of disappointment in his cultured accent, which was far less colorful than the cabby’s, but which turned out to be the norm. “Thank you.” Avis moved past him into the small, opulent lobby with its dark, rich woods, glossy marble, thick carpets, brass and a profusion of fresh-cut flowers.
Check-in went smoothly, but the room was not yet ready.
