Managed:a VIP novel(8)

"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?

But now everything is upside down and sideways. I will be seeing him in  England. He works with Brian Jameson, which he informs me is actually a  false name for Brenna James, who runs the PR department for his  organization.

Why Brenna James needed to give me a fake name is beyond me, but definitely piques my interest.

Gabriel spares no time extracting himself from my hold and putting as  much space between us as possible. The turbulence has died, so there  isn't an excuse to linger anyway. We spend the rest of the flight in  awkward silence.

Right before we arrive in London, I try to get him to talk about the  job, about Brenna. But he refuses, telling me he'll let her explain  everything.

The only good thing to come out of my nagging is that he's too busy bickering with me to notice the landing.

"I'll have my driver drop you at your hotel," he says as we make our way out of the gate and into Heathrow's terminal.

Since it's late at night, and I'm in a foreign country, I'm not inclined  to argue. In fact, I'm grateful and more than a little shocked by his  offer. "Thank you. That's very nice of you."

He gives me a look as if I'm being ridiculous, but nods in acknowledgment. "I assume you have luggage?

"Of course," I tell him, looking around at the closed-up shops that line the way. "Don't you? Or I guess you live in London."

"My main residence is in New York now. But I keep a wardrobe here in my London home."

Pondering a life where I jet around the world and have wardrobes and  homes waiting for me, I almost miss the escalator to baggage claim.  Graceful as ever.

Gabriel, however, walks exactly as I'd expected him to: like a man  accustomed to people getting out of his way. His stride is smooth,  brisk, and confident.

Here on terra firma, I can appreciate the full effect he has on others.  People actually do edge out of his path. It's fascinating-they simply  part like the proverbial Red Sea and gape at him as he passes.

While Gabriel's masculine beauty is truly breathtaking, the force of him  is earthier, almost brutal. Most charismatic people make you want to be  a part of their inner circle, make you feel special. With Gabriel the  message is much different: here is a man with whom you do not fuck.

He doesn't talk to me while we walk but focuses his attention on his  phone. Apparently he has a million and one emails to answer. His  texting-while-walking skills are impressive, though I guess it helps  when you don't have to worry about running into anyone.         

     



 

We halt at the baggage carousel.

"Do you see your bags?" he asks, nose deep in his phone.

Along with my carry-on, which holds my camera and equipment-there was no  way I was losing sight of my babies-I have two large suitcases. I  usually pack lighter, but "Brian" had suggested I pack for an extended  stay should I get the job.

"Not yet."

"Color?"

"Red."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Not surprising."

"Let me guess," I ask as he taps away at his phone. "Had you the need for luggage, it would be as black as your immortal soul."

He tucks his phone in his pocket and gives me a level look. Amusement  lightens his expression. "As it happens, my luggage is dark brown  alligator leather."

"I don't know why I bother teasing you," I mutter.

Again that hint of a smile flirts with the edges of his lips. "You are persistent. I'll give you that."

I spot my bags, but before I can grab them, he has a porter attending to  us and we're off again. It's ten at night, which is unsettling since  we've already spent an entire night on the plane. Taxies are thin, and  the majority of people are being greeted by loved ones.

Travel loneliness claws at my belly. I hate landing in new places at  night. It always feels as if I might be left behind and end up sleeping  on an airport bench.

Not so tonight. And another swell of gratitude fills me when Gabriel  guides me to the black Rolls Royce Phantom waiting at the curb, the  driver already opening the door.

Gabriel gestures for me to enter. But then frowns. "You're not going to bounce on the seats and cry who-eee, are you?"

I glare at him. "I'm not completely uncouth, you know."

Okay, I might have done so had he not mentioned it.

"I've been in a plane with you for seven hours," he reminds me as he follows me into the car.

I have to grit my teeth, because, who-fucking-eee!, the car is fine. I  want to rub my cheeks against the butter soft leather and play with the  array of buttons so badly my fingers twitch.

Gabriel eyes me for a long moment as the driver shuts the door with a  soft thud. "Go on," he says in a cajoling voice. "Give it a little  bounce. You know you're dying for it."

With his heavy-lidded stare and deep rumbling tone, he makes this sound  illicit. I cross my legs, and his eyes track the movement. His lids  lower just a bit more, and a shimmer of unwanted heat licks under my  shirt.

"I'm good," I tell him with false lightness.

He grunts in response. The car pulls away from the curb, all smoothness  and power, and I sit back in my plush seat with a sigh. Whatever happens  from here on out, I'll have this small moment of complete comfort.

We sit in silence as the car heads toward London. I can't look out the  windows without being disoriented; it's just wrong to be driving on the  left side of the road. I keep expecting to crash into an oncoming car.

Gabriel is already back on his phone. This time he's talking to someone  named Jules, peppering him or her with questions-is his house ready,  have certain contracts arrived, and so on. The cool-yet-even tone of his  voice soothes me in the cozy quiet of the car.

I lean my head back and let my eyes close-until I hear his last line of  questioning: Is the hotel room ready and sufficiently prepared for Ms.  Darling?

Hearing him discuss my lodging arrangement drives home the fact that I'm  truly interviewing for his company. And I can't decide if I'm  disappointed or excited. Perhaps a bit of both.