Managed:a VIP novel(3)

A choking sound dies in her throat, and I make a pained whimper. "Put me out of my misery, tarty girl."

That does it. Her brows lift high. "Tart? Tart?!?" She bunts her nose  against mine, her eyes dark slits of fury. "Suck you off? You pompous,  arrogant-"         

     



 

"Those words basically mean the same thing, sweets."

"Dick-faced … " She trails off, rearing back a little, her gaze darting  over my face. And then she smiles. It's full-out and pleased, and I find  myself a little light-headed with the speed at which she can change  emotions. "Oh, well played, sunshine," she drawls, grinning. "Well  played. Caught on to my act, did you?"

I can't meet her eyes or she'll be on to me. This woman might be the  most obnoxious person I've met on a plane, but she's clearly  intelligent. "Was that an act?"

A scoff pushes through her lips. "You should buy me a drink now as thanks."

"The drinks are free in first class, chatty girl."

"It's the principle."

I'd get her an entire bottle of the champagne she wants if it would get  her to stop talking, but alcohol usually loosens the tongue. I shudder  at the thought of her talking even more.

At that moment, the flight attendant who's been eyeing me as though I'm  steak sways over, a glass of champagne balanced on a silver tray. She  smiles wide for me. "Mr. Scott. Your champagne."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," my chatty neighbor mutters under her breath.

Keeping a bland expression, whatever the circumstance, is rote for me at  this point in my life. But it's an odd struggle right now. Something  about my tormentor brings out the five year old in me, and I want to tug  her hair in the manner of a schoolyard brat. But I don't. I accept the  drink the flight attendant sets down before me.

"Thank you," I tell her as I pass the glass on to Chatty Girl. "However, my seatmate requested this, not me."

The flight attendant blanches. "Oh. I'm … I'm so sorry," she says to the  woman next to me-and I really ought to get her name, or perhaps not.  Further conversation isn't a good idea; she might be entertaining, but  she's still unhinged. I don't like unpredictable elements.

"I didn't realize. I thought … " The attendant trails off at an obvious loss.

"It's all right." My seatmate leans in, crowding my space as she gives  the flight attendant an understanding smile, and I'm assaulted with  another whiff of sweet lemons and warm woman. "Sunshine here got me so  flustered, I nearly pulled out my credit card and offered to pay him for  sex."

I choke on my own spit. "Bloody hell."

The flight attendant flushes magenta. "Yes. Er. Can I get you anything else?"

A parachute.

"Nothing more for me," the crazy bird to my left says, happily taking a sip of champagne.

"A club soda on ice," I say. At this point, I want to ask for a whole  bottle of gin. But alcohol makes my jitters worse on a plane. Just  breathe, relax, get through this flight from hell.

I get a sympathetic look from the flight attendant. At my side comes  another happy hum. I'm waiting for the next volley of outrageousness but  am oddly disappointed to discover my neighbor bringing out her phone  and headphones. So she plans to plug in and tune out. Brilliant. Just  what I needed. I'm thankful for it.

I pick up my magazine, stare at a picture of a red Lambo Centario. I own the same model in graphite. I flip the page. Hard.

More girlish humming ensues, just loud enough to sound over the drone of  the engines. Lovely, a singalong. The bloody woman has infected me with  a bizarre case of immaturity, because I'm tempted to needle her, point  out that she's off key, if only to hear how she'll respond. A weird sort  of anticipation fills me at the idea. Except I recognize the song.

Disappointment, and the way it washes over me, is something of a shock. I  hadn't expected it. Not this strong. Because she's listening to Kill  John, and obviously loving it. I love Kill John too. They're the biggest  band in the world right now, and they're part of me, tied up in the  very fiber of my being by way of blood, sweat, and tears.

Because I manage the band. Killian, Jax, Whip, and Rye are my boys. I  will do anything for them. But one thing I will never do is interact  with their fans. Ever.

I learned that lesson early on. Fans, no matter who they are, lose their  shit when they know I manage Kill John. I refuse to be their gateway.

Another off-key lyric comes from Chatty Girl's lips. She's bobbing her  head, her eyes closed, a look of bliss on her face. I turn away. No, not  disappointed. Relieved.

I keep telling myself this as my soda arrives and I drink it down with more enthusiasm than normal. I. Am. Relieved.





Chapter Two





Sophie







I have safely withdrawn from my sexy seat partner. I had to do it. I'd  been having too much fun pestering him, and I know the signs. I'd soon  start crushing on the prickly man; he's too hot and too stern to resist.  You'd think stern wouldn't be a turn-on, but somehow the idea of him  setting me over his knee …          

     



 

Yeah. So I did the smart thing and pulled on my headphones. Now I'm listening to music while flipping through Vogue.

He's done the same, reading his car mag before tossing it aside in favor  of his laptop. It's torture not peeking at his screen. What does a guy  like this do for a living? Maybe he really is a duke; I swear he fits  the bill. Or maybe a billionaire? But I suppose both those types of men  would have their own plane.

I lose track of time imagining Sunshine lording over some English manor,  or flying clumsy virgins in his personal helicopter, when a cart rolls  over to provide us with cocktails-apparently drunk is the preferred way  for rich people to fly-and hors d'oeuvres. And though Mr. Happy  apparently doesn't want any of it, I whip off my headphones, ready to  dig in.

"Oh, yes please," I say.

Beside me, Sunshine snorts under his breath.

I ignore him. I love food. Love. It. And this stuff actually looks good.  The flight attendant hands me a silver tray topped with a variety of  cheeses, mixed nuts, tiny little melon balls with prosciutto, and  roasted tomato compote on toasts. Awesome.

"You're missing out," I tell him when we're alone again. "This stuff is  pretty good." I pop a melon ball in my mouth and hold back a moan. I  officially hate first class. It has ruined me for all future flying.  Poor suckers in the back.

"You'll be sorry later," he tells me, not looking up from his work,  "when your stomach is full and this tin tube starts jumping about from  the inevitable turbulence." He barely suppresses a shudder.

"And it's always during dinner." I take a bite of creamy white cheese. "You ever notice that?"

"Not particularly."

"Maybe they time turbulence for coach service." I frown. "Wouldn't be surprised."

He makes a noncommittal sound.

A bowlful of laughs, this one.

"It wouldn't kill you to relax, you know."

With a sigh, he closes his laptop and tucks it away. "What makes you  think I never relax?" Those killer blue eyes of his pin me with a look.  Jesus, it really is hard staring directly at him. My breath swoops down  into my belly, and my thighs clench. Normal reaction to hotness. That is  all.

Still, it sucks that my voice sounds all sorts of breathy when I answer.  "I'm guessing those pinched lines between your brows aren't from  laughing."

Said lines deepen in a scowl.

I can't stop from smiling. "Don't worry, despite your crabby demeanor, you actually look kind of young."

He shakes his head once as if trying to clear it. "Was there a compliment somewhere in that spew?"

"Someone as hot as you doesn't need any more compliments. How old are  you, anyway?" I'm pushing it, but it's so fun to tease him, I can't help  myself.

"That's rather personal. You don't see me asking you how-"

"I'm twenty-five," I say happily.

His lips quirk, and I know he's trying to keep hold of his cool façade.  But the capitulation in his eyes is warm. "I'm twenty-nine."

"Twenty-nine going on ninety."

"You're deliberately trying to provoke me, aren't you?"

"Maybe you answer my original question. Do you ever relax, sunshine?"

"What will it take to get you to refrain from calling me that?"

His voice is too delicious-husky yet crisp, deep yet easy. I want to  find a phone book and ask him to recite it. I push away the thought.  "You'll have to give me your name. And I notice you didn't answer the  question."

His frown grows. It's kind of cute. Though he'd probably snarl if I told  him as much. The frown gives way to obvious hesitation, as if he's at  war with himself.

"Look … " I shrug, eating another melon ball. "If you don't want to tell me, that's cool. Lots of people are weirdly paranoid."

"I am not paranoid."

Sucker.