His grin widened even further, creasing his cheeks with long vertical gouges. “I don’t know if scavenge is the right word.”
“It’s totally the right word,” I assured him. “You’re like a paperback carrion-eater.”
“Well I can’t just leave them there, now can I? Like orphans? I think I’m probably more of a fiction-avenging Mother Theresa.”
“No I think I like carrion-eater better. It’s more manly,” I asserted.
“Carrion-eater, huh,” he chuckled. “But you totally want the book, now don’t you.”
I pressed my lips together and peered at the homely, tattered paperback in his hands, leaning forward slightly, trying to see if he got cuter as I got closer. Oh, holy hell. He smelled like sex and coffee. My belly gnawed at itself in either desire or hunger, I couldn’t quite tell which. Would it be too much to just lick his jaw to be sure? Probably.
“I kinda do,” I admitted, but then threw up my hands and shook my head. “But you know what, if you’re all about saving abandoned paperbacks, I don’t want to swoop in and re-orphan the fiction you just heroically rescued.”
“No, take it… Take it!” he said generously, thrusting it toward me.
“Are you sure?” I asked timidly. “Really, really sure?”
“Yes, please do. You’re helping me out. Making room for the next kitchen tool instructions or Japanese manga I find in a men’s room stall.”
“Gross.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well OK,” I agreed, plucking the book from his hand and flipping it over to check out the back cover. A grinning picture of Zac blared up at me next to the enticing selling point: color photos inside!
“I’m just doing this for you,” I informed him.
“Understood.”
I stared hard at the back cover, trying to make the sentences flow through my addled brain in an orderly fashion, but it was no use. The combination of man, hangover, and hunger had fogged my brain into non-compliance. Nothing was getting through, no matter what.
Letting my long, dark hair fall over the left side of my face, I took the chance to peek at him through the fringe. Blue eyes. Dark, shiny hair in a thick tousle that swept back from his unlined forehead. Expensive, dark-washed jeans and richly gleaming leather loafers. A simple belt that I could probably undo with my teeth.
Oh, holy hell, I thought for the hundredth time.
“Say, you’re not Jackson Burke are you?” I said with a bit of a cringe, wanting him very much to say: “No, I am another totally unrelated art collector that you just happened to bump into and then shamelessly flirt with in a private airfield in the San Francisco Bay. What luck!”
His face broke into a confused, polite smile.
I squinted and wrinkled my nose, wishing desperately I’d kept my seat on the other bench and hadn’t just gone all schoolgirl-flirt on this man, the one I was supposed to be professionally ferrying.
“I didn’t, like, recognize you or anything,” I said, artlessly trying to convey I wasn’t a stalker. “I just sort of figured… Oh never mind. Bridget sent me to escort you to LA? I’m Margo Trask?”
“Oh!” he said, piecing the information together. “Well, that’s great… That’s great…”
I nodded politely and tried to reorganize myself into a less trampy position. “Right! It’s great. Well I guess I don’t have to have you paged to the white courtesy telephone now.”
“Absolutely not. Here I am,” he said plainly, looking at me with his supernova-style smile.
Not possible, I reminded myself sternly. This man is your client. Keep it in your panties, girl.
He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and glanced at the face, then reached over and zippered his bag closed.
“I think they’re ready for us?” he said politely, hesitating for a moment to let me stand first.
Oh Jesus, check out the manners. I may die before we get airborne.
“Do you have a bag?”
I shook my head and grabbed my purse from the seat. “Just me… Have purse, will travel.”
He held his arm out. “OK. After you, Margot.”
I smiled and walked ahead of him, supremely conscious of my butt cheeks jiggling under the flimsy, melon-colored fabric. Keeping my weight on the balls of my toes, I prayed for grace and a barrier-free stroll across the tarmac while I replayed the sound of him saying my name over and over.
Margot.
Margot.
Margot.
It sounded much cooler when he said it than when Bridget was hissing Maarrrrrrgohhh over the phone line at me.
The sky was low and close, and a brisk wind gusted across the wide, white concrete. I held my skirt to my thighs and walked quickly to the open door of the cream and burgundy jet that rolled to a stop at the end of the airstrip. Every breeze threatened to either undress me or to chill me to the bone. The rapid weather change highlighted the folly of my impromptu trip and lack of forethought.