Managed:a VIP novel(7)

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.