by Celia Mulder
The fact that he was on a plane had been established. The why and how and where-to remained mysteries. He peered around, the hazy glow of the emergency exits his only guide. It was night. Planes didn’t turn off their lights during the day. Well done, deductive reasoning. It was night. On a plane. A private plane. Michel’s private plane, he guessed, given there were only two other passengers and the one on his right was Michel.
Michel had his seat leaned all the way back and was wearing earplugs and an eye mask. He was snoring. Lucille, in the seat in front of Brett, also leaned back, but without the sleep gear. She snored even louder.
Brett stood up to get a better look around but realized, halfway there, that he hadn’t been sitting at all; his seat was reclined as well. And he was wearing a seatbelt. He fell back with a smack and a groan that did nothing to interrupt the REM cycles of his fellow passengers. No wonder the angles are all off. He undid the seatbelt the way the flight attendants always showed him to and sat up. Dizzy. His head felt like it was floating around in another hemisphere but hadn’t bothered to invite his body along. He swung his legs over the side and stood. Wobbly, but functional. He stumbled forward, grabbing the back of Lucille’s seat. Then he turned and faced the prone figure of his best friend. Perhaps he should start saying former best friend and get used to that now.
The plane jerked and he fell backwards into Lucille’s lap. Lucille woke up with a shriek, just as Brett covered her mouth with his uninjured hand. She glared at him and nipped his palm.
“That’s not going to work on me, sweetheart. I have sisters,” Brett said. He felt Lucille close her mouth, her lips barely touching him. He lowered his hand.
“Get off me,” she growl-whispered.
“In a moment. I’m not very steady yet.” Actually, he couldn’t feel his legs. He knew they were there because he could see them, but they weren’t responding to his brain. “Where are we?”
“You’re really heavy. I can’t feel my legs.” Lucille gave him a push.
“Me neither. Scoot over, this is a huge seat.” Brett nudged her to the right side and maneuvered his own body between her and the armrest, his left arm on top. They ended up half lying next to each other, with Brett’s injured arm between them, like lovers in a hospital bed.
“Why am I doing this?” Lucille asked him.
“Because neither of our legs are working.”
“Hmm. The feeling’s coming back to mine.”
Brett felt her move her legs experimentally. She grimaced at the sting of renewed circulation. His legs felt fine already but he wasn’t going to mention that. Or move just yet.
“What the fuck were you doing?” she asked him. They were so close together he could feel her breath on his face when she talked.
“I was trying to punch Michel in the face.”
Lucille nodded a little. “Any particular reason?”
“This time? For kidnapping me and putting me on a plane in the middle of the night. Plus, the whole me-nearly-getting-murdered-in-his-house thing.”
Lucille nodded again.
Brett was on a roll. “Which, come to think of it—why was that stair loose? If Sylvia is the attempted murderess and she’s been kidnapped, who was in the house tonight?”
They were silent for a little while, not looking at each other, both thinking.
“Mino Island,” Lucille said finally, meeting his gaze.
“What?”
“That’s where we’re going. Mino Island.”
With their eyes locked together and their faces so close, their lips were inches apart. Brett swore he heard a hitch in Lucille’s breath and could hear her heart thudding in her chest. He could feel the heat of her body, not touching his but a hair’s breadth away, smelling of some sort of floral perfume. He took advantage of the situation and kissed her.
It wasn’t a graceful kiss—graceful didn’t work in their awkward position—but Brett went all in. He lifted his head a little to push Lucille back into the chair. With his good arm wedged underneath him and his injured arm useless, only their mouths touched. Which was why, a second later, Brett was unable to catch himself when Lucille shoved him away so hard he fell to the floor with a thud.
Michel stirred in his sleep, opened his eyes, glared at Brett on the floor, and closed them again.
“What”—Lucille had sat up and was now also glaring at him—“was that?”
“Sorry,” Brett mumbled, rubbing the hip he’d landed on. “Misread the moment.”
“Not really.” She still frowned, but it was softened, serious instead of angry.
It was Brett’s turn to look confused. “Okay, what?”
“You didn’t misread the situation. I’ve been thinking it would be beneficial for us to fuck. This sexual tension is only going to hold us back.” It was like Lucille was teaching a class; her voice was clinical and devoid of emotion.
“Okay.” Brett didn’t know what else to say. He’d never been propositioned so dispassionately before. Not that he’d been propositioned much. But still, he’d always thought that, when the time came, the woman would put a little more oomph into it.
“But not here. Sex on planes is awkward, gross, and probably won’t work with your injury. We’ll have to wait until we get to the island.”
Brett nodded to his commanding officer. He wanted to salute but thought better of it. Lucille wouldn’t appreciate his feeble humor. And she might rescind the sex offer. “Is there liquor on this plane?”
Lucille nodded. “Michel said there’s a bar in the back.”
“Good, that’s good.” Brett pulled his abused body off the floor. “Let’s go get a drink.”
***
It didn’t take long for Brett to start feeling more like himself. His worries were momentarily silenced, his shoulder pain had softened to a dull throb, and he was having more fun than he’d had in a long time. Lucille Anton wasn’t the stuck-up snob she pretended to be. She’d spent the last hour getting tipsy and telling him about the shit an anonymous past client had gotten into and expected her to clean up. Brett had never laughed so much in his life. His face hurt from smiling. He hadn’t even asked for the story. It was like the alcohol or the sleep deprivation or the promise of sex or something had loosened the dam of Lucille’s compartmentalized life and out had spilled this brilliant, self-deprecating comedy.
Brett reached over and poured them another glass of whiskey with his good arm. “What about this thing with that slutty pop star and the boy-band douchebag?”
Lucille arched an eyebrow at him. She was turned toward him, her elbow resting on the bar, her posture bent enough that he could see down her shirt just a bit, enough to see the crest of her breasts. If she’d been wearing that short dress she’d had at the launch, he’d be seeing a whole lot more. He tried not to feel disappointed and failed.
“You read Celebrity Goss?”
“What self-respecting failed celebrity doesn’t?”
Lucille shook her head. “Naturally. That whole thing is such a fucking mess.”
Brett gestured around him. “As opposed to the completely routine recon mission we’re on now?”
“At least Sylvia Stanton is open about attempting to murder Michel.”
Brett nodded. “And she did leave us that note telling us where she was, which was thoughtful of her.”
“Christy-Anne and Ryan”—Lucille grimaced when she said their names—“on the other hand, are the most whiny, backstabbing, cheating, self-absorbed people I’ve ever met. And I’ve dealt with cults, eating disorders, and a whole range of sexual perversions. Those two are just...” She shivered in disgust.
“What’s so bad about them? You know, so I can start emulating their behavior and become a teen pop star?”
Lucille laughed. “Yeah right, like you could ever pass for seventeen.”
“Is that how old they are?”
“No. They’re both twenty-eight. They just pretend to be younger for the media. Christy-Anne hasn’t had a birthday in
eleven years. Ryan just dyed the tips of his hair blond. If they ever actually had a child, I would not be the only one to call social services.”
“The baby story is made up?”
“Yeah, that was me.”
“What’s really going on?”
Lucille shot him a look over the rim of her glass as she took another sip. “I can’t tell you that.”
“You told me about your other client.”
“Anonymous past client. I can’t tell you about a current client. What if you sell the story to someone?”
Brett gestured to himself. “Look at me. Am I the kind of guy who would seduce a woman with alcohol, convince her to tell me all her secrets, and then sell them to the press?”
“Yes.”
“Touché.”
They were silent for a while, an uncomfortable, twitchy sort of silence. Two almost-strangers sitting there at the bar. Brett wondered if Lucille was feeling like he was, that, though there was the promise of sex between them, he had a greater urge to spill all his family history, life woes, and plans of how he was going to turn it all around in the future. It was different than before, in the bars when he’d assailed fellow customers with sob stories. He felt warm and vulnerable, like he would bubble up if he didn’t tell all his secrets right then and there. But he didn’t want to bore her or chase her away. The woman next to him was successful, wealthy, and breathtaking, and he wanted to know everything there was to know about her. His own life was so small and empty in comparison, a life that could be written up in two paragraphs on the inside flap of a book jacket. Borderline alcoholic, fails at relationships, lives alone, doesn’t talk to his family, and generally hates his life. It was depressing even in his head.
To chase the thoughts away, he asked, “So, how did you get into the celebrity spin doctor thing anyway?”
Lucille gave him a long frown. “You heard about my uncle, Simon Anton?”
Brett shrugged. “A little.”
Lucille looked down at her glass. “He started the business years ago. Well, not that many years ago; he’s actually not much older than I am. I started working with him after I graduated from college. Things were great for a while.”
Brett waited for her to continue. “Then?”
“Then I don’t know. A job went bad for Simon. I wasn’t involved; he didn’t want me to be. But I was there when the police came for him, and I had to testify in the trial and then learn about the news of his escape along with everyone else. He’s on the run somewhere, I don’t know where. He hasn’t talked to me in eight years, just left me with his houses and his business and all his problems.”
There was a bitter edge to her voice. Brett’s heart ached for her. He reached his hand out to touch her, to rub her back and soothe her, if he could. Would she accept the contact or would she throw it off? His hand hovered, debating. Finally he settled on her arm, just lying there. Her skin shivered under his touch and he swallowed, his whole body buzzing.
But he kept his voice quiet, treading this unknown territory with exceptional care. “What about your parents?”
Lucille laughed, and it was ugly and bitter. “I have no idea who my father is. How cliché is that?” She stopped talking for a long minute. “And I don’t talk to my mother.”
She shrugged off Brett’s hand. Brett drew back, stung. But he said, “I don’t talk to my family either.”
The look Lucille gave him had a second of pure, raw vulnerability. Then she was stoic once more, an untouchable beauty. She stared at him, and the corners of her mouth turned up a bit.
“What?” Brett’s heart was in his throat. All throbbing that was not relegated to his pants or injured shoulder was bursting out of his chest.
“I can’t help thinking my Uncle Simon wouldn’t approve of you,” she said with a real smile this time.
It was Brett’s turn to frown. “Oh. Why not?”
She shook her head. “It’s hard to explain. You’d have to meet Simon.”
It’s the whiskey, Brett’s brain decided. He didn’t have feelings for her, it was the whiskey. Of which he was still on his first glass, and that only half gone. The amount he’d drink when he wasn’t drinking. “Do you care?”
Lucille arched an eyebrow at him, her whole face alive with mischief. “If he doesn’t like you? Not really. I kind of like you.”
“Dear God, why?”
“Because, Brett,” she said, leaning in until her forehead rested against his, “you’re just all out there, you know? You’re like, ‘I’m a mess.’ You don’t try to hide it.”
Brett wanted to protest. He didn’t want her to like him because he was a mess. He wanted her to like him because he was...
She was kissing him now and he couldn’t, didn’t want to, think.
They made out against the bar, a hard, passionate battle of warring sexual tensions. Lucille took charge, pushing him into the mahogany and kissing him fiercely. Brett didn’t mind. With his sling, he couldn’t do much grabbing or caressing. He did get his hand under her tank top and was inching it upwards when she stopped him by biting his lower lip, hard. He gasped and froze, like a naughty child caught stealing cookies from the jar.
She released his lip and put her mouth close to his ear. He was taller than her, but the way she had him pushed back, they were close to the same height.
“Later,” she whispered. As she spoke, she slid one hand down to his straining jeans, resting there for a moment before turning and walking back to her seat for their landing.
Brett stood where he was, breathing and leaning against the wood for support. The woman was...sexy. The devil. An enigma. His personal hell and savior. There was a good chance he was more than a little bit in love with her.
Chapter Twelve
Lucille smirked as the plane began its descent. The trip was already turning out better than she’d expected. Brett barely made it to his seat before the pilot announced they were landing. He was turning out better than she’d expected, too. There wasn’t any whining with Brett; no protestations of endless love or the need to know what she was thinking. He’d asked about her business and clients but hadn’t pushed her about her family. Plus, he kissed like there was nothing else in the entire world he’d rather be doing.
Michel woke up as they roared to a stop. It was a stumbling group who exited the plane, crippled by sleep deprivation, injuries, and intoxication. A ragtag team the likes of which Disney wouldn’t know what to do with.
When they set foot on the ground and there were no campgrounds, pack mules, or outhouses in sight, Lucille exhaled. In fact, for a “primitive” island there was a hell of a lot of civilization.
“Michel, I thought you said Mino Island was rural.”
Michel looked at her, his sleep-tousled hair shimmering sexily in the mid-morning light. “It is. There isn’t a cultural scene at all, and the only theater company on the entire island has been doing variations on Hamlet for the past decade.”
“I thought you meant we’d have to travel on horseback or be camping in the wilderness and cooking our own food.” For all of her relief, Lucille felt strangely disappointed. But she hated camping and cooking, and the last time she’d ridden a horse had been when she was twelve, and she’d hated that too. Perhaps it was just indigestion.
Michel gave her a look. “If that were the case, I wouldn’t expect any of us, least of all myself, to be here.”
She turned to glance at Brett, who’d been standing behind them. He shrugged. “I guess true love has its limits.” He said it quietly so Michel didn’t hear him.
Lucille watched as the pilot unloaded Michel’s enormous suitcase. “If you didn’t pack for camping, what’s in that bag?”
“Clothes.”
“Just how long do you think we’ll be here?”
Michel shrugged. “I intend to wait as long as it takes for Sylvia to come back to me. But that does not mean I have to wear the same outfit while doing it.”
“Yeah, it takes a lot of hard work to
look that devastated,” Brett added.
Lucille bit her lip so she didn’t scream. She wanted to remind them that Matt and the police department were hot on their trail, not to mention that, unlike the unemployed celebrities, she had a job to get back to. Just as she was gearing up for a long speech about responsibilities and meetings, Brett whispered in her ear, “Look on the bright side. With Michel occupied with his appearance, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.”
When she turned to glare at him he gave her a wicked grin.
***
The island was gorgeous. A small piece of land off the coast of New Zealand, only ten miles in diameter. What served as an airport was a paved strip of ground, home to only one small two-seater and now Michel’s private jet. The bulk of the island, the part that wasn’t white sandy beaches and swaying palm trees, housed the Stanton Resort, a huge luxury hotel so exclusive Lucille had never known it existed. It was modeled after a Greek island, with white stone walls, cobbled paths, and wrought-iron railings. The atmosphere was one of exaggerated calm and obscene wealth. The perfumed air spoke of lavish floral arrangements and aromatherapy spa packages. The few guests around in the late morning were dressed in white, flowing clothing over tiny fabric-swatch swimwear. It took Lucille about ten seconds to decide she loathed the place.
It was the kind of place her clients went to when they wanted to hide, to leave their troubles for her to clean up. The type of place where no one ever got billed because they would never notice the money leaving their bank account. It was the type of place she used to dream of going to, of belonging to. Anyone could belong here, if they paid the right price.
A man wearing a three-piece suit, despite the eighty degree weather, met their white limo and welcomed Michel personally. Apparently, Michel had a suite there. Apparently, his friends were automatically given adjoining suites. Apparently, they didn’t need to check in or worry about the bill; it was all taken care of.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Brett muttered after Michel and the man walked away.
