Managed:a VIP novel(4)

"Sure. I get it. I might be an international hacker of renowned skill,  just waiting to tap into your private business. All I need is a name to  get started."

"I was going with escapee of some sort," he says before drinking up the dregs of his glass and scowling down at it.

"Just call her and get your cocktail on," I suggest.

Instead, he reaches for one of the complimentary water bottles we have  in our little personal bars. A decisive twist of the wrist, and he's  guzzling down water like he's just crawled out of the desert. I  absolutely do not watch. Much. That throat. How does a throat become  that sexy? He must take pills or something.         

     



 

I stuff a roasted tomato compote toast in my mouth and chew with vigor.

"Gabriel."

His sudden answer has me looking back at him. He's facing straight ahead  as though he hasn't spoken, but at my stare, he turns. "My name. It's  Gabriel Scott."

I've never seen someone so uncomfortable with giving his name in my life. Maybe he is a spy. I'm only half kidding.

"Gabriel," I repeat, not missing the way he sort of shudders when I do. I  don't know if he's uncomfortable or something else, but I feel as  though I've been let in on a dark secret.

The champagne must be getting to me. I push it aside and reach for my own water bottle.

"I'm Sophie," I tell him, unable to make full eye contact for some reason. "Sophie Darling."

He blinks, and that tight, strong body moves a fraction closer before  halting as if he's become of aware of his action. "Darling?"

I've lost track of the men who've tried to make my name sound like a  come on. He doesn't do that. In fact, his tone is downright skeptical,  but somehow it sounds like an endearment just the same. No, not an  endearment. It's not sweet, the way he says it. He makes it sound  illicit, as if my own name is caressing my skin with heavy hands.

Shit on a toothpick. I cannot be crushing on this dude. He's a dick. A  hot dick, but still. Even if I could overlook that, he'll be gone and  out of my life as soon as we land. I imagine sprinting will be involved.  Dignified sprinting, of course.

"That's me," I tell him with false levity. "Sophie Darling."

Another noise rumbles in his throat. This one sounds like, "God help me."

I could be interpreting that incorrectly, though.

"Well, Ms. Darling," he says, going back to the crisp, stern voice I  imagine he uses to tear wayward underlings a new one, "to answer your  previous question, you are correct; I do not, in general, relax."

"Wow, you went right ahead and admitted you're a stick in the mud."

"Stick in the mud makes absolutely no sense. Who comes up with these  ridiculous idioms?" He steals a tomato toast from my plate. "And I think  you can do better."

I watch as he pops the toast in his mouth and munches away. The corners  of his eyes crinkle. It's so slight, I doubt many people would notice.  It feels like a full-fledged, smug-ass grin right now.

"You want me to insult you?" I manage.

"At least be a little more creative when you do." He pulls his laptop  back out, dismissing me. "Give me something I haven't already heard."

Something about this guy activates my lizard brain in the worst way,  because I find myself leaning forward to murmur in his ear. "I'm  thinking you're the poster boy for Rough Roger. And one day, that hand  of yours isn't gonna cut it."

His head jerks up as if I've goosed him. I hear the small intake of  breath, and refuse to be turned on. Even if his heady scent is wafting  over me. The leather armrest creaks under my elbow as I retreat.

He gives me a sidelong glare. "Rough Roger?"

"You've got internet working. Look it up, sunshine."

It's my turn to smile smugly and bury my nose in my magazine.

The drone of the engines fills the silence between us, and I hear the  distinct click of his keyboard, followed by a strangled sound in his  throat.

My grin grows. I know he's read the definition of a guy who jerks off so  much and so desperately, he's rubbed his cock raw. Unfortunately, that  image is far too sexually disturbing for my comfort.

From beside me, his voice is low and tight and slightly husky. "Well played, Ms. Darling."







Before bedtime, we're politely encouraged to visit the first class  lounge-yes, they have a motherfucking lounge on the plane. I mean, I  knew about plane bars … the way a person knows about unicorns and Smurfs.  But to experience it? Holy hell.

I take the spiral stairs up to the top of the 747 to sit at a bar and  have watered-down cocktails with my cabin mates. Even Sunshine comes  along, though he stays at the fringe and orders a glass of ice water.

"They're prepping the cabin," an older man in a slightly rumpled suit tells me as we sip our drinks.

"For what?" I toss a sugared pecan in my mouth and take another sip of  my Cosmopolitan. If you're going to sit around in a bar-lounge at  thirty-five thousand feet, you might as well go full-on Sex and the  City.

He leans closer, his gaze sliding just south of my neck for a brief second. "The beds."

"Oh, right." I perk up. "I'm going to enjoy that."         

     



 

"The comfort and privacy can't be beat," he says with a nod before  edging even closer. "You know, I have a single seat cabin. But it's big  enough for two."

For a second I just stare back. "Are you actually propositioning me in an airplane bar?"

He shrugs. "Heard your seat mate raise a fuss. Sounds like a real prick. Thought you'd prefer better company."

I'm about to apologize for jumping to conclusions when he raises a brow  and leers. "But if you'd rather view it as a proposition, I'm not going  to object."

"I prefer my original seat partner," I deadpan.

He snorts. "Shocker."

I'm about to ask him what the hell, when a muscled shoulder edges  between us. I know that arm, that scent: expensive, haughty man. Gabriel  stares down his nose at the guy. It's impressive, the amount of disdain  and dismissal he packs into a look.

"Actually," he says, "I'm more of an asshole than a prick." He flashes a  tight smile that's really a baring of teeth, but his bored tone never  changes. "Which means I'm rather an expert in dealing with bothersome  little shits."

I nearly choke on my drink.

Mr. Suit tries to hold Gabriel's stare but fails. He slinks off with a muttered, "Asshole."

"I thought we'd already established as much," Gabriel says to me.

"So proud of your asshole ways." I give him a nudge on the shoulder. "And yet here you are, saving me from lechers."

"Hardly," he mutters into his glass. "I was defending my own honor. And  it was rather boring, at that. I thought he'd put up more of a fight."

"Why?" I'm compelled to ask, though really I'm just surprised he's  talking to me when this is our one chance to escape to neutral corners.

He takes a sip of his water before answering. "He's the CEO of a Fortune  500 company and has a reputation for being a relentless badger." His  lips curl in a sneer. "More like a weasel, if you ask me."

I stare at him. "How do you know this?"

He finally turns his gaze to me, and I'm hit anew with those brilliant blues. "I just read an article about him in Forbes."

A small, helpless laugh leaves me. I'm so not in Kansas any more.  "Well," I say, "maybe you'll find someone to properly cross dicks with  later."

It's his turn to sputter on his drink, though he recovers nicely. With  precise movements, he sets his glass down and crisply tugs each of his  cuffs back into place. "I'm fairly certain I've all I can handle with  you at the moment."

"Aw, a compliment."

He looks down at me and slowly blinks, the dark sweep of his lashes  nearly touching his cheek. Then he shocks me into stillness when he  leans in close enough that his lips brush the curve of my ear. "Yes,  chatty girl, it was."

I'm still reeling from the low rumble of his voice-it tickles down my  spine and flares along my thighs-when he moves away. "Do not drink too  much or you'll have a headache," he advises before walking off, heading  back downstairs.

I hate to admit, he takes all the excitement of being in the bar with  him. Now it's just a novelty situation that's grown stale. I slide my  half-finished drink away and hop off the barstool.

Downstairs, the seats in the little cabins have indeed been converted to  beds. I hold in a squeal of joy. It's an actual bed, with full-sized  pillows and a brilliant white duvet trimmed in scarlet. A single red  rose has been placed on each pillow. I swear, I'm about to hop up and  down, but I catch a glimpse of Mr. Happy, who is standing at the  threshold of our seating cabin, hands on his trim hips, brows knitted so  tightly they almost touch.

"What's wrong," I ask him. "No hospital corners?"

He gives me a sidelong glare before turning his attention back to the  beds. "I asked for my seat not to be converted. And the flight attendant  is obviously operating under an extreme misconception."