Closing my eyes, I spread my hand out, pressing my palm against his abdomen where his muscles quiver. “I’m a blonde.”
“I see that,” he deadpans.
“Natural blond, I mean. I went a few dozen shades lighter this time. Last week I had blue hair.” I smile a little, imagining how he would have reacted to that.
“I’m not surprised in the least.”
“Mmm…” The tip of my finger toys with a wrinkle on his sweater vest, which is cashmere—and I still resent the fact that he looks so good in it. The hem has ridden up, exposing his shirt beneath. My fingers drift to one of the buttons.
As soon as my finger rests against the little circle, the air seems to grow thicker. My body seems heavier, somehow, as if intent has made it laden and hot.
Because I feel the firm abs beneath his shirt, and I now know a way in. What gets me even hotter? I realize he knows this as well. We both seem to hold our breath.
I pluck the button open.
It’s as if I’ve plucked a chord instead. Tension vibrates between us so strong, I can nearly hear it. Gabriel stiffens, his abs clenching, his fingers halting their exploration of my hair.
What the hell are you doing, Sophie? Stop now. My fingers don’t seem to get the message. They slip through the open space in his shirt to find the hot, smooth skin beneath.
Oh, hell. Because he is hot, his skin firm and tight, and I want more of it. My fingers barely move. As if, by being sly, he won’t notice that I’m feeling him up. Nice dream.
I clear my throat, searching for my voice. It comes out rusty. “Red hair is always fun. So many shades to work with.”
Yes, talk and you won’t come off as such a creepster perv. Brilliant idea.
I can’t seem to shut up. “Bright red. Auburn. Strawberry red.” Great, you sound like the Bubba Gump of hair coloring.
He grunts, his body stiff, unyielding, but he doesn’t protest my roaming fingers. Doesn’t say a damn word. Which speaks volumes, really. Because this guy is not the type to remain silent if he doesn’t want to.
A band of heat clenches low around my belly at the realization that he’s letting me explore.
Gently, I stroke the small patch of skin I can reach. The tip of my finger glides over smooth skin to find rough hair.
Jesus on a motorcycle, he has a happy trail.
The urge to follow that trail down is so strong, I nearly moan. I clench my teeth, take a breath. “I’ve also had purple hair. Green doesn’t do anything for me, though.”
Without my permission, my fingers slink downward to the where the next button is secured, waiting for me to open it. His whole body stills, as if he’s just willed himself not to move. But when I start to free that small button, he expels a breath and his hand comes down on top of mine.
It is warm, firm, and clearly states, no more.
And nothing is more effective at snapping me out of this madness. Because, really, what the hell am I doing? I don’t even like this guy. Well, I kind of do. Which just blows. Dead end might as well be stamped on Gabriel Scott’s forehead.
The plane has started to rattle hard again. Gabriel shudders, our awkward pause forgotten, and clings to me once more, his breathing erratic.
Comfort. Don’t grope. Just comfort.
That I can do. I think.
* * *
Gabriel
* * *
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. If anyone had photographic evidence of my current predicament, my reputation as a fearsome bastard would be dead in the water. I can almost hear the snickering now—the great, implacable Scottie wrapped around a woman as though she was his woobie.
Killian would never let me hear the end of it. I don’t even want to imagine the shit I’d get from Brenna.
In some ways, plummeting to my death would be preferable.
That was a stupid thing to think. Terror arcs through my body, making my insides swoop and my limbs tingle. And I find myself clinging just a bit more tightly to the strange, softly rounded woman at my side. Perhaps this truly is a nightmare; nothing seems real or makes much sense.
I do not engage in continued conversations with strangers, especially ungovernable, chatty, irreverent women. And I most certainly do not cuddle. I cannot remember the last time I held a woman. The sensation is so foreign, yet pleasurable.
My entire body seems to be straining for greater contact, my skin sensitive and hot beneath my clothes. I want them off with a fierce agitation. I want to feel skin on skin, the warmth and plush give of her flesh.
I will not think about the fact that she snuck her fingers beneath my shirt to stroke my abdomen. The phantom of her touch still burns like a brand on my skin.
The second she played with the buttons of my shirt, I went intensely and painfully hard. I very nearly let her find that out. And if she had? I’d have begged her to give it a squeeze, a friendly stroke and tug. I’d probably have promised her anything if she’d only continue to touch me.
Alarming to say the least. I haven’t a clue what this woman will say or do from one moment to the next. For a man whose life revolves around exerting control over all things, this flicker of attraction is unwanted and unsettling.
Yet for all that, it’s preferable to the well of mindless fear I’d been in before Sophie Darling latched onto me like a limpet.
I take the opportunity of our close proximity to really observe her. At first I thought her pleasant to look at, but nothing remarkable. I was mistaken.
Her profile, clear against the gray of my vest, is a study of graceful curves, gentle swoops, and delicate lines—not merely pleasant but sweetly pretty. However, it is her skin that captures my attention.
I’ve been with women of all skin colors—from deep rose brown to the palest milk white—and that never factored beyond being a basic framework of the woman’s overall beauty. In short, skin as a singularly attractive feature never entered my mind.
But Sophie Darling’s skin is a thing of beauty. Because it’s luminous, extremely smooth, and fine, not a blemish in sight. Its buttery golden hue reminds me of shortbread biscuits. Then again, everything about Sophie reminds me of some sort of sweet treat: tempting but ultimately bad for one’s health.
Doesn’t matter. The longer I look at her skin, the more I want to touch it just to see if it’s as satiny as it appears. I think of Marilyn Monroe—the way she looked on screen, flawless and glowing. But that beauty came from makeup and good lighting. I’m close enough to tell Sophie isn’t wearing foundation or powder.
Without my permission, my hand drifts up her arm, and I trace the curve of her shoulder, heading toward her bare skin. She holds very still, as if she’s tracking the progress. I am too, my heart pounding against my ribs. I can almost hear the beat shouting, stop, stop, stop. But I don’t.
Just one touch. That’s all. I’ll satisfy my curiosity and move on.
The tip of my finger skims the edge of her collarbone. And I close my eyes, fighting a groan. More delicate than satin. Softer than velvet. Smooth, warm. I suck in a deep breath and slowly release it. My hand falls to the safety of the bed.
It’s too quiet, and this damn plane is still shaking.
Keep talking. About anything.
I have no capacity for small talk. Which means I’m in deep shit.
“Why are you going to London?” I blurt out. “On holiday?”
Frankly I’m surprised a woman like Sophie is traveling alone. She seems the type who needs companionship, someone with whom to share her experiences. The idea of her roaming London on her own doesn’t sit well with me, which is ridiculous. She’s a grown woman.
As if to punctuate that thought, she makes a noise of wry humor. “Actually, I’m traveling on business.”
“Really?” Surprise laces my voice, unfortunately.
And she snorts. “Yes, the fluffy-headed woman with big tits has a brain.”
Christ, don’t mention your tits. It’s hard enough ignoring them against my ribs. “What does
breast size have to do with brains?”
Her cheek slides over my shirt, and I know she’s looking up at me. “You actually sound affronted.”
I peer down my nose at her, taking in her wide brown eyes and red lips. “I am. You implied that I’m sexist. I am not. Though I do agree with the fluffy bit. I cannot picture you serious about anything.”
Her pert nose wrinkles as she frowns, and the pointy tip of her finger pokes my ribs. I just manage not to yelp. God help me if she realizes I’m ticklish.
“Funny,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder once more.
Bloody hell, that feels far too good.
Her voice drifts up, distracting me. “But I guess I earned that one.”
She’s earned my gratitude and saved my arse from utter humiliation yet again. I sigh and allow my hand to settle on the crown of her head. There’s no excuse for making her feel less than. “Tell me about your job.”
We’re pressed so close, I can feel her body tense up.
“Ah, well, there’s not much to tell.”
When I don’t say anything, but merely look down at her, waiting, her round cheeks flush, and she clears her throat. “I’m interviewing for a position.”
“And you’re squirming around like a fish on a hook right now because?”
Her nose wrinkles again. I have the mad urge to kiss the tip. Likely it’d shock the hell out her, and turnabout is fair play. But I hold on to my dignity. Because she starts to babble.
“Well, I don’t really know what the position is. I mean, I have some idea, but if you want details, I have nothing really to offer—”
“Do you mean to tell me you’re traveling to another country to interview for an unknown position?” My voice has raised a few octaves. This girl. I have no words. “Do you even know with whom you are meeting? Tell me you didn’t spend all your money on a first class ticket without knowing exactly why you were going.”
“Hey.” She pokes me. “Don’t go all duke on me again.” A sigh escapes her as she sags into me. “No, I don’t know who I’m meeting. I have a name and a few references from mutual people we’ve worked with. And no, I didn’t spend all my money—”
“Well, that’s a—”
“They’re paying my way.”
“Sodding hell.”
Her head lifts, white blond strands pooling on my grey vest. “What? Why is that so bad?”
“I assume you’ve heard the phrase ‘the more you know’? If someone offers to pay for your international flight for the sole reason of interviewing, it would behoove you to know exactly why they’re willing to pay for the opportunity and what exactly is expected of you.”
“Oh, I know why they offered to pay.”
“I shudder to hear it.”
Another poke, this one too close to my ticklish spot. I twitch.
“Because I’m the best at what I do,” she says.
“And what is it that you do?” Please don’t say stripper.
All right, perhaps I am sexist.
Pride infuses her tone with steel. “Social media marketing and lifestyle photography.”
“Ah, yes. That I can see.”
Her eyes narrow. “You were totally thinking paid escort, weren’t you?”
“Nothing of the sort.”
It’s rather impressive how a woman who has the sweet face of a kewpie doll manages to glare with such effectiveness. I have to bite back the urge to confess all. I raise a brow and give her a counter look.
Her eyes narrow further. I swear, it’s like High Noon on a plane.
“Social media is an essential component of most businesses today,” she tells me.
“Ms. Darling, untwist your knickers. I am in complete agreement with you.” In truth, the band could use a few lessons in improving their social media presence, and I’ve been after Brenna to make that happen for months.
It’s not that they lack a following, but when Jax attempted suicide, the band withdrew from the spotlight, leaving their fans, and the industry, to fill in the blanks and make the wrong assumptions—something that bothers me on a personal level. Kill John is so much more than what the world thinks of them.
Sophie is still looking at me with a dubious expression, as if she’s often received criticism for her choice of profession. That someone would try to stamp out the hopes and dreams of this vivacious and intuitive woman is a crime.
I make an effort to soften my tone. “Perhaps you ought to start at the beginning.”
“Not if you’re going to lecture,” she says with a sniff.
“I promise nothing.” I give a lock of her hair a small tug. “Talk, chatty girl. It’s all we have in this hell tube.”
She purses her lips. Her fire-engine red lipstick has faded, leaving only a faint stain. She looks softer for it, vulnerable in a strange way. A small scar cuts through the outer corner of her top lip. The faded silvery line is diabolical in its placement, a tiny taunt: suckle right here, mate. My fingers curl into a fist to keep from reaching out and touching. Get a grip on yourself, Scott.
“All right,” she says, snuggling back down with the efficiency of a cat. I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of her voice. “For the past year, I’ve been working as a social media liaison, helping people write creative content for Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, and so on.”
“You teach them how to be witty.”
“That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“It was.”
The sound of her light laugher goes straight to my gut. “Two in one night? Oh, the shock. I may never recover.”
I give her hair another tug. The strands slide cool and soft around my fingers. “Go on.”
“Yes, I teach them how to highlight their personalities and gain new followers. I got lucky landing my last client.” She tells me the name of the rising television star Brenna and I had drinks with in New York a month ago. The smallness of the world can be a strange thing.
Sophie’s long lashes shadow her cheeks as she focuses on some distant spot. “Anyway, with him, I upped my game, taking photos as well. It’s funny—they were totally staged, arty, that kind of thing, but his followers love them and believe they’re candids.”
“We see what we want to see,” I murmur.
“Yes, and we build sandcastle dreams around celebrities. All we need is a window into their lives to start.”
“Which is what you’re providing.”
She nods, her cheek rubbing my chest. “So anyway, I got an email from my client, saying his acquaintance wanted to interview me for a big job in Europe. He put us in contact, and I was asked to come to London, all expenses paid. I’m guessing it’s someone pretty famous; I was told they’d give me details in person in order to protect the client’s privacy.
“The whole first class thing was a happy surprise. I got to the ticket counter, and they told me I’d been moved to first class.”
“Did the airline specifically say you were bumped?”
She frowns in confusion. “I was expecting coach. I mean, who sends an interviewee first class?”
“Depends on the interviewer. Perhaps your ticket was always for first class,” I point out. “Though I still don’t understand why they gave you my extra seat.”
“Still crabby about that?”
“It was never personal,” I tell her quietly. Regardless of what people believe about me, I don’t go out of my way to be a bastard.
The press of her palm against my abdomen grows heavy. “I get it,” she says. “You didn’t want any witnesses.”
Perceptive girl.
She smiles a little. “For the record, though. I’m glad I’m here.”
I am too.
When I don’t say anything, she gives me a nudge. “Admit it. I made it better.”
“No other flight I’ve been on can compare,” I tell her truthfully. “Security precautions aside, surely this company gave you a name.”
“Yes, I have a name.” She gives
me a bright smile as if this is supposed to ease my trepidation. “I’m to meet Mr. Brian Jameson at the— Why are you turning green? Shit, are you going to be sick?”
I might very well be. I almost laugh, full-out unhinged, oh-fuck-it-all laughing. I’m not even surprised it’s “Brian” she’s interviewing with. It almost feels inevitable, the cherry on top of this strange encounter with this chatty girl.
At my side, Sophie comes up on her elbow, and the nimbus of her moonlight hair seems to glow around her concerned face—though really it’s cheap airplane lighting and my overactive imagination. She’s just a girl with bleached hair and a talent for small talk.
Lie. She’s more than that. She’s untouchable.
“Sunshine, you’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry,” I say, retreating. “I’m simply adjusting to the fact that I’ve been tucked up with a potential employee.”
Chapter Four
Sophie
* * *
It’s fairly stunning how quickly and effectively finding out you’re wrapped around a man who works with your potential boss will kill the mood. Not that I’d expected anything from the stuffy but oh-so-hot Gabriel Scott. I was under no illusions that we wouldn’t part ways as soon as the plane landed.
And, really, that would be for the best. I have sworn off hookups, as I’ve concluded they’re bad for my mental health. I’ve dealt with too many dick biscuits to continue with casual sex. Even if I hadn’t, Gabriel isn’t exactly offering. I’ve never met a more standoffish, prickly man.
I’d wonder if he’s simply arrogant—a perfectly formed man who doesn’t deign to mix with average women like me. But it’s fairly clear he’s this way with everyone.
So, yes, leaving this beautiful being behind at the tarmac has always been part of the plan. Maybe that’s why I’ve felt so free to be utterly myself with him. What does it matter if he finds me lacking when we’re nothing more than strangers forced to endure each other’s company for one night of travel?