Managed: A VIP Novel Part 4

His laugh is wry and brief. "Weakness."

"Everyone is afraid of something."

"What are you afraid of?" he lobs back, sounding dubious.

Never being good enough. Being used up and tossed aside. I swallow hard. "Tidal waves. I have nightmares about being swept away. I blame all those disaster movies."

"Somehow I suspect you'd be the sort who would survive."

I smile at that.

A gust of warmth along at the top of my hair makes me realize he's pressed his lips to my head and is breathing me in. "What color is your natural hair?" he asks, almost idly.

"That's an awfully forward question, Mr. Scott." Turbulence aside, our little cabin is quite cozy with the cream-colored finishings and the lights dimmed.

"Supposedly I'm fathering at least seven of your children. A fair enough question to ask."

The plane makes a particularly nasty thump, and he sucks in a sharp breath. I nuzzle closer, my nose filling with the scent of his cologne and, underneath it, the sweat of fear.

Closing my eyes, I spread my hand out, pressing my palm against his abdomen where his muscles quiver. "I'm a blonde."

"I see that," he deadpans.

"Natural blond, I mean. I went a few dozen shades lighter this time. Last week I had blue hair." I smile a little, imagining how he would have reacted to that.

"I'm not surprised in the least."

"Mmm..." The tip of my finger toys with a wrinkle on his sweater vest, which is cashmere-and I still resent the fact that he looks so good in it. The hem has ridden up, exposing his shirt beneath. My fingers drift to one of the b.u.t.tons.

As soon as my finger rests against the little circle, the air seems to grow thicker. My body seems heavier, somehow, as if intent has made it laden and hot.

Because I feel the firm abs beneath his shirt, and I now know a way in. What gets me even hotter? I realize he knows this as well. We both seem to hold our breath.

I pluck the b.u.t.ton open.

It's as if I've plucked a chord instead. Tension vibrates between us so strong, I can nearly hear it. Gabriel stiffens, his abs clenching, his fingers halting their exploration of my hair.

What the h.e.l.l are you doing, Sophie? Stop now. My fingers don't seem to get the message. They slip through the open s.p.a.ce in his shirt to find the hot, smooth skin beneath.

Oh, h.e.l.l. Because he is hot, his skin firm and tight, and I want more of it. My fingers barely move. As if, by being sly, he won't notice that I'm feeling him up. Nice dream.

I clear my throat, searching for my voice. It comes out rusty. "Red hair is always fun. So many shades to work with."

Yes, talk and you won't come off as such a creepster perv. Brilliant idea.

I can't seem to shut up. "Bright red. Auburn. Strawberry red." Great, you sound like the Bubba Gump of hair coloring.

He grunts, his body stiff, unyielding, but he doesn't protest my roaming fingers. Doesn't say a d.a.m.n word. Which speaks volumes, really. Because this guy is not the type to remain silent if he doesn't want to.

A band of heat clenches low around my belly at the realization that he's letting me explore.

Gently, I stroke the small patch of skin I can reach. The tip of my finger glides over smooth skin to find rough hair.

Jesus on a motorcycle, he has a happy trail.

The urge to follow that trail down is so strong, I nearly moan. I clench my teeth, take a breath. "I've also had purple hair. Green doesn't do anything for me, though."

Without my permission, my fingers slink downward to the where the next b.u.t.ton is secured, waiting for me to open it. His whole body stills, as if he's just willed himself not to move. But when I start to free that small b.u.t.ton, he expels a breath and his hand comes down on top of mine.

It is warm, firm, and clearly states, no more.

And nothing is more effective at snapping me out of this madness. Because, really, what the h.e.l.l am I doing? I don't even like this guy. Well, I kind of do. Which just blows. Dead end might as well be stamped on Gabriel Scott's forehead.

The plane has started to rattle hard again. Gabriel shudders, our awkward pause forgotten, and clings to me once more, his breathing erratic.

Comfort. Don't grope. Just comfort.

That I can do. I think.

Gabriel

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. If anyone had photographic evidence of my current predicament, my reputation as a fearsome b.a.s.t.a.r.d would be dead in the water. I can almost hear the snickering now-the great, implacable Scottie wrapped around a woman as though she was his woobie.

Killian would never let me hear the end of it. I don't even want to imagine the s.h.i.t I'd get from Brenna.

In some ways, plummeting to my death would be preferable.

That was a stupid thing to think. Terror arcs through my body, making my insides swoop and my limbs tingle. And I find myself clinging just a bit more tightly to the strange, softly rounded woman at my side. Perhaps this truly is a nightmare; nothing seems real or makes much sense.

I do not engage in continued conversations with strangers, especially ungovernable, chatty, irreverent women. And I most certainly do not cuddle. I cannot remember the last time I held a woman. The sensation is so foreign, yet pleasurable.

My entire body seems to be straining for greater contact, my skin sensitive and hot beneath my clothes. I want them off with a fierce agitation. I want to feel skin on skin, the warmth and plush give of her flesh.

I will not think about the fact that she snuck her fingers beneath my shirt to stroke my abdomen. The phantom of her touch still burns like a brand on my skin.

The second she played with the b.u.t.tons of my shirt, I went intensely and painfully hard. I very nearly let her find that out. And if she had? I'd have begged her to give it a squeeze, a friendly stroke and tug. I'd probably have promised her anything if she'd only continue to touch me.

Alarming to say the least. I haven't a clue what this woman will say or do from one moment to the next. For a man whose life revolves around exerting control over all things, this flicker of attraction is unwanted and unsettling.

Yet for all that, it's preferable to the well of mindless fear I'd been in before Sophie Darling latched onto me like a limpet.

I take the opportunity of our close proximity to really observe her. At first I thought her pleasant to look at, but nothing remarkable. I was mistaken.

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 b.u.t.tery 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 d.a.m.n plane is still shaking.

Keep talking. About anything.

I have no capacity for small talk. Which means I'm in deep s.h.i.t.

"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 t.i.ts has a brain."

Christ, don't mention your t.i.ts. 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 s.e.xist. 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. G.o.d help me if she realizes I'm ticklish.

"Funny," she says, resting her head on my shoulder once more.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, that feels far too good.

Her voice drifts up, distracting me. "But I guess I earned that one."

She's earned my grat.i.tude and saved my a.r.s.e 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 h.e.l.l 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 cla.s.s 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 h.e.l.l."

Her head lifts, white blond strands pooling on my grey vest. "What? Why is that so bad?"

"I a.s.sume 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 s.e.xist.

Pride infuses her tone with steel. "Social media marketing and lifestyle photography."