Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  Copyright & Information

  Soaring

  First published in 2016

  © Jassy Mackenzie; House of Stratus 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Jassy Mackenzie to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2016 by Astor and Blue LLC

  Suite 23A, 1330 Avenue Of The Americas,

  New York, NY 10019, U.S.A.

  Typeset by Astor and Blue LLC

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  ISBN EAN Edition

  194128695X 9781941286951 Print

  1681200082 9781681200088 Kindle

  1941286968 9781941286968 Epub

  1941286976 9781941286975 Pdf

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's express prior consent in any form of binding, or cover, other than the original as herein published and without a similar condition being imposed on any subsequent purchaser, or bona fide possessor.

  This is a fictional work drawn from the author's imagination and all characters (alive or dead), places, incidents, quotations, and events portrayed herein are either fictitious, or are used fictitiously at the Authors' discretion and responsibility, including historical facts.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Jassy Mackenzie was born in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and moved to South Africa when she was eight years old. She lives with her partner Dion, and two horses and two cats. She enjoys traveling, cooking, cycling, and competes in dressage on her thoroughbred.

  She also loves the energy, danger and excitement of Johannesburg, believing there is no better place for a thriller writer to be, and wishes to share its ‘terrifying, exhilarating, essence with readers across the world’.

  From a book-loving family where TV was banned from the house, she is the second youngest of five daughters. Her mother Ann Mackenzie was a well-known short story writer, and Jassy’s sister, Vicky Jones, now living in New Zealand, is a prize-winning author of children’s books.

  As a youngster, Jassy seemingly had an uncanny knack of choosing unsavoury boyfriends who were involved in everything from cocaine dealing to smuggling. Then, she was hijacked at gunpoint outside her home, and had her car taken from her by force. This experience led to her first novel: ‘Random Violence’. She has since written several more thrillers, a ‘Jade De Jong’ detective series, and erotic romances.

  Combining her writing career with editing a ‘Hair and Beauty’ trade magazine, Jassy has also had numerous non-fiction articles on a wide variety of subjects published locally, and internationally, over the years.

  Chapter 1

  Occasionally I can glimpse what’s going to happen in the future. It’s a strange ability. It happens randomly, but it’s never been wrong. It comes in pictures and it feels as if a new memory has unfolded in my mind…except it’s a memory of something that hasn’t happened yet. It made me dizzy the first few times, but I became used to it after a while.

  The first time it happened when I was eight years old. I saw our family’s first rescue cat, a long-haired gray and white Norwegian Forest cross, before we’d met her at the shelter. I thought I was getting carsick on the drive to find an adopted pet, but then the giddiness passed, and there she was, bright and vivid in my mind, all the way down to the last whisker. I couldn’t believe she was so beautiful, and when we reached the shelter, I ran inside, turned left, and went straight to her cage. “This is our new cat,” I told my parents proudly. “Her name is Shadow.” I think Shadow had seen a picture of me, too, because she was standing at the cage door, waiting for me like she’d known all her life I was coming.

  I was in seventh grade when my friends and I went sledding on trash bags down the hill at the back of Heidi Baker’s house. Before it was Heidi’s turn, I had to sit down in the snow for a while because my head was spinning, and when I stood up again, I saw she was going to end up in the holly bush near the bottom of the slope. I told her so, but she didn’t listen. Off she went and sure enough, she headed straight for the holly, getting wedged into its branches with her backside sticking out into the snow and her scarf tangled up. It was a very funny picture; just as funny as the one I’d seen in my mind, and everyone was too busy laughing to help pull her out of the bush.

  And who did Heidi blame for that incident? Herself? Nope. The holly bush? Also nope. Me? You got it. I don’t think she spoke to me again till senior high. It would have been more helpful if I could have seen a picture of my mother having the fall that paralyzed her from the neck down when she went rock climbing on her fiftieth birthday. I remember the shock of the news vividly, and how my father and I stared anxiously at each other over her bed in the ICU as we waited to hear firstly if she was going to live, and secondly if she would ever regain the use of her arms or legs.

  She’d lived, but was forever without feeling or movement in her limbs. It was a tragedy for a lively, athletic woman like her, and the repercussions had a huge impact on our future. I hated myself for having not been able to predict her fall, and wished I could have seen a picture in time to warn her. But as I said, it’s an occasional ability, and it happens when it wants to, not when I need it.

  Anyway, I’m skipping ahead in my story, because my mother’s accident was in my future the day I boarded the business class flight from JFK to London. I was eighteen-years-old at the time, and I’d been invited to an awards ceremony in London hosted by a sports gear supplier. I was sitting up front for the journey. There were a small group of us going over from the U.S., but I was flying separately from the others, on a British Airways flight, due to scheduling issues.

  The sports gear supplier was one of the major outlets for all sorts of equipment, including everything needed for my sport, which was fencing. I’d started it a few years ago and had quickly discovered that I was very good at it. My footwork was fast, I was well coordinated, but more than that, all my coaches expressed puzzled admiration for the fact that I sometimes seemed to know in advance exactly what my opponents were going to do. My strange ability at work again? Perhaps. All I knew was that when I was in the zone, feeling one with my blade, it was as if I could foresee what the next few moments would bring. And in fencing, that gave me enough time to score points. I’d captained my college team, and I’d gone on to win junior gold in saber in the North American Cup. And now, here I was, heading overseas for the first time in my life.

  I felt somewhat overawed as I followed the flight attendant into the hushed, spacious realm of business class, wheeling my carry-on past these huge cubicles, more like hotel rooms than seats. I couldn’t help glancing into them to see who was sitting there. Who was lucky enough to fly like this all the time? Seeing as I was going to be here probably once in my life, I was curious.

  A gray-haired Indian man was in the first row, frowning down at his laptop as I passed him by, a pale drink in a crystal glass ignored on the table next to him. The next row was empty. Then I saw a woman with the glossiest, most immaculate mahogany hair—the perfect complement to her gleaming deep-red nails. She was slim and beautifully dressed, and every stitch of her clothing looked designer. I saw her watching me as I passed and I wondered if she was assessing me the same way I was her, looking at the denim skirt I’d purchased a while back from the outlet sto
re, my long sleeved top, which was a flattering turquoise in color but a no-name brand, and my nails, short and unpolished, because practicing with a saber six hours a day is not conducive to having a glamorous manicure.

  “This is your seat, ma’am. Shall I stow your bag for you?” the attendant asked.

  There was just one other person in my row, sitting across the aisle from me, and he looked up just as I glanced at him.

  I wasn’t anticipating what happened next. The shock hit me with all the force of a runaway eighteen-wheeler.

  This man was a few years older than me—in his mid-twenties, I guessed. He was extremely good looking in a powerful, yet charming way. His lean face had the most classic bone structure—defined cheekbones above a strong jaw, a sensuous mouth, a perfect nose, and eyes that seemed to light up as I looked into them. In contrast to the steely perfection of his face, his dark brown hair had wayward, tousled bangs flopping over his forehead in a way that only added to his masculine appeal.

  Gorgeous as he was, it wasn’t the sight of him which had forced the breath right out of my body.

  It was the picture which appeared, briefly, but vividly and clearly in my mind. I saw the two of us together, arms entwined, bodies pressed close. I could see the ripped, muscular definition in his left arm, wrapped around my back. We were sprawled, half-sitting and half-lying, in semi-darkness on one of these wide airplane seats, made up into a bed with white sheeting. Our lips were touching—no, not just that. They were mashing together as we kissed passionately, unstoppably. And his right hand…his hand was roaming…

  The image sent a bolt of heat right through me and I felt so dizzy, I grabbed onto the seat for support. It was shocking; so unexpected, so hopelessly erotic. I’d never, ever visualized anything like this happening before. How could it be possible? With a stranger? On a first-class flight?

  I sat down fast, scooting into the plush, private cubicle that was my seat. I was relieved that the high sides of the seat were shielding me from his gaze, because my face felt as if it was burning.

  The flight attendant offered an aperitif and I said yes to champagne without really thinking about what I was doing. While she brought it, I opened my purse and took out my compact mirror.

  My pink scarf had unwound itself from my neck and slipped down over one shoulder, dragging the neckline of my top with it, of course, so my white bra strap was peeking out. Above this disarray, I saw my startled blue eyes, my chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail with wisps curling out from either side. My full mouth was still half open from shock and my cheeks—I knew it—already crimson.

  I took off the scarf, rearranged my clothing, undid my messy ponytail and ran my fingers through my hair. I checked the mirror again, barely noticing myself, seeing only the way my fingers had been smoothing over his broad, strong shoulders.

  The champagne was sparkling on the side table where the attendant had placed it. Suddenly, I needed a big gulp of it. Of course, to reach the glass, I’d have to lean forward again, which would bring me into my handsome neighbor’s view.

  Worth the risk, I decided. I grasped the glass and, as if I couldn’t help it, my head turned to the right and I saw he was looking at me.

  His gaze felt like hot water cascading down my spine, suffusing my body with warmth. His mouth curved into a smile and I found myself smiling back, seeing his own expression warming further in response.

  I noticed the color of his eyes for the first time—a bright hazel-green with flecks of gold. Really, he was model-gorgeous, but I sensed a hardness to him, a streetwise edge that convinced me he hadn’t made his money shimmying down catwalks. And a model would probably be wearing something smarter than that well cut, but equally well worn, gray sweatshirt, with the sleeves pushed back to reveal the whipcord muscles of his forearms…

  I felt suddenly self-conscious as I realized he was staring at me with the same intensity as I’d just been devouring him with. Where was the flight attendant, to turn the plane’s AC up a notch?

  He raised his glass to me and I lifted mine in response, sipping the icy bubbles. A few seconds later, we were leaning across the aisle, speaking to each other. He introduced himself as Patrick, and I told him my name was Claire. After take-off, he came to sit with me in my cubicle, on the padded footrest opposite my chair. Our knees brushed and my heart went into overdrive.

  What did we say? I wish I could remember more clearly. Parts of our conversation are etched into my memory, but a lot of it was lost because of the tumult in my mind. I was intensely, viscerally attracted to him in a way that was making me feel nervous and excited and short of breath. When I looked at his mouth, I wanted to lean forward and kiss it, and I actually had to physically hold myself back by wrapping my fingers around my armrest.

  His voice was deep, and when he spoke to me, it felt like a caress. I couldn’t place his accent, but understood why when he told me he had been born in Ireland before moving to the U.S. when he was twelve, and that he’d lived in London for a year now, after starting up a company there.

  When he asked, I told him I was a student and a fencer, going to London to attend a sports awards ceremony. He told me that running and cycling were his passions when time allowed, which wasn’t often enough, but that he’d completed the Lake Placid Ironman last week and had stayed in New York to do some business.

  He asked me what I was studying and where I lived, and I found out about the town in southwestern Ireland where he’d grown up. It was Castle Hill, near Kenmare, a place which he said was one of the most beautiful in the world.

  “If you get the chance to go there, take it. Stay at the Park Hotel. It’s rather rundown, but its location is incredible. Right in the center of town, and the rooms on the upper floors have the most amazing view over the bay.”

  It wasn’t all about what we said, though. It was the energy that seemed to spark between us, making me realize that while my airplane neighbor was good looking, interesting and charming to a fault, our communication went beyond that. After we’d talked a while, our legs remained touching, his knee warm against my inner thigh, pressing harder as he or I leaned forward. Once or twice, our fingers brushed, and when I laughed at one of his jokes, I put my hand on his arm, my fingers briefly clasping his tanned skin and taut muscles.

  Although his eyes were mostly focused on mine, from time to time I noticed how his gaze roamed over my body, lingering on the curve of my breasts, moving down to my legs. It made me feel excited that he might be thinking of me in that way—in a sexual way, because I was beginning to realize that under that urbane veneer, Patrick was an intensely sexual being.

  I found it impossible not to take in his own body in quick, stolen glances…the breadth of his shoulders, the way his leanly defined muscles gave shape to the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, the length of his legs. And once or twice, my eyes couldn’t help straying to the crotch of his jeans, the bulk of his manhood faintly visible under the faded denim.

  When the beds were made up and the lights dimmed, our conversation tailed off into a short and slightly uneasy silence. I didn’t want him to go, but it was quiet now, people were sleeping. Even in this spacious cabin, our voices would carry and might cause disturbance.

  “Well, I’d better let you get some rest,” he said in a low tone. “It’s been great meeting you, Claire.”

  “Same here,” I said, not quite sure if my response made any sense. I couldn’t think sensibly. Every fiber of my body was screaming for him to stay, and even after saying those words, he didn’t get up to go.

  A strange thought suddenly occurred to me: what if he felt the same way as me? Could it be possible that I wasn’t the only one who had just fallen hopelessly in lust?

  “Good night,” he whispered, a shadow of a smile illuminating his face as he leaned toward me. My heart started hammering violently as I realized he was going to kiss me before leaving. A quick brush of the mouth; surely that was all it would be, and during that fleeting contact I could not dare to show
my longing for him.

  His left arm slid around my waist, pulling me close as his right hand stroked my face, gently pushing aside a stray lock of hair. I found myself touching his leg, my fingers hungrily exploring the toned steel of his thigh. As his lips met mine, the image I’d had earlier came back to me in raw, explicit detail, and I knew that there was no way this kiss was going to be brief or superficial…that the spark between us had ignited into a flame, which would sear its memory into my life forever.

  Chapter 2

  Ten years later, and as my Aer Lingus flight from JFK to Dublin began its descent, I found myself thinking obsessively of that night, that handsome stranger, who’d come into my life so briefly and then was gone again. It was strange how such a chance encounter could have left such vivid memories.

  And it had been all too brief. Early the next morning, as we’d prepared to disembark, Patrick had asked, almost shyly, if I would like to stay in touch. And I’d made a decision that I had never stopped kicking my eighteen-year-old self for. I’d said no.

  Who knew what my deranged reasoning had been? I couldn’t remember. Perhaps I’d been embarrassed or ashamed, thinking of the raw sexuality he’d briefly unleashed, a side of myself I had barely explored until then. Or maybe I’d thought staying in contact with a man who lived in London would only lead to an inevitable fizzling out—a series of increasingly terminal goodbyes.

  I could never fly without thinking of Patrick, wondering what he was doing, and where he was now. His memory would stray into my mind at unexpected moments—sometimes when I was happy, occasionally when I was sad. And I wondered if he ever thought of me, or if he might have seen me on television or read about me in the newspapers.