The trip
1059 Words
Licking her lips as he stepped forward, she pulled the suitcase up and planted it at her feet—a barrier between their bodies.
"You got a head start on me," she said. Her voice was throaty and thin, betraying the calm she tried to project.
He eyed her lips. They were burnished a silky pink today, inciting a sudden, sharp urge to taste them. "I apologize. I had some last-minute work out of the office."
Taking a slow breath, he jerked his chin toward the long table down the hall. It was laden with coffee, cookies, and napkins—all the domestic details Elizabeth liked to fuss over. "Fix yourself something to eat if you want. We’ll be boarding in a few minutes."
"And you? Coffee?"
He shook his head somberly. He couldn't help but notice the subtle sway of her hips as she left her compact black suitcase with him and walked away. He was fascinated by her—by the sweet, alluring package of Elizabeth Stone. Five feet six inches of reality acting as a pretend lover.
Cursing under his breath, he snatched her suitcase handle and rolled the bag toward his spot by the window. The pilots were already storing his luggage, which included several new bags from Christian Dior.
He crossed his arms as he waited for their signal. The file the infallible Matthew Smith had given him the previous night provided more than enough ammunition to persuade Marie to sell. Yet, even the knowledge of his impending victory didn’t make this particular task any easier. You could crush a bug in your fist, but that didn't mean you’d enjoy the sensation. Still, Gagnon Autos—a company on its last breath and flailing for help—now had his name on it.
It was his to rescue, or to destroy.
Elizabeth drew up beside him. Henri went rigid, acutely aware of her proximity. She was a subtle, scented, stirring presence. Without moving his head, he let his eyes venture to the front of her sweater. The fabric clung to the small, seductive swells of her breasts, and a sudden wealth of tenderness flooded him. She had come dressed for her role as an assistant: the sweater, a typical knee-length gray skirt, and simple closed-toe shoes with no personality.
"I’m afraid this won't do," he murmured.
A smile danced on her lips as she tipped her face up in bewilderment. She seemed animated today, a far cry from the worried siren who had been begging for his assistance the night before.
"What won't do?"
He looked at her perfect oval face and that elegant, bow-shaped mouth. It seemed easier to stop breathing than to continue saying no to those velvet-soft lips.
"The sweater," he said quietly, signaling the length of her body with a wave of his hand. "The skirt. The sensible shoes. It won’t do, Miss Stone."
She set her coffee cup and napkin on a side table, then tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "I did pack a few dresses."
"Did you?" His eyebrows furrowed as he surveyed her pearls. "Designer dresses?"
"Why, no."
He raised his hand to her necklace. "How attached are you," he whispered, trailing his finger across the glossy bumps, "to wearing these?"
She watched him for a moment, a telling wariness in her eyes. "They were my mother's."
"Pretty. Very pretty." The pent-up desire blazing inside him textured his voice, making it grate. "You see, my lover... might wear something else." He knew he was playing with fire, but he didn't care. "My woman"—he plucked a pearl between two fingers—"would wear diamonds. Emeralds."
Her eyes danced. "Are you afraid I won't look presentable?"
He dropped his hand and shot her a dead-serious look. "I’m afraid you will look too much like my assistant and not enough like my lover."
But she kept smiling, enchanting him. He frowned. "Understand me, Elizabeth. If I had wanted to be seen with my assistant, I would have brought Mrs. Warren."
This made her gasp, but the sound didn't make his scowl vanish. He nodded toward the Falcon jet. "Your new wardrobe is on the plane. There is a room in the back. Change."
Of all the high-handed, arrogant bosses in the world, she had to be in debt to Henri. He was, undoubtedly, the most complicated man she had ever met.
While the jet motors hummed, Elizabeth slipped into a slinky patterned dress inside the windowless room at the back of the plane. Damn him, she thought. She had agreed to his request, but how was she supposed to handle these autocratic commands? Worse still, the clothes were divine. She couldn't stay truly annoyed at a man with such exquisite taste—her knight in shining armor.
Enthralled by how slight and satiny the fabric felt, she ran her fingers down her hips, wishing there were a mirror so she could see herself. How is this necessary to his plan? she wondered.
Gathering her courage with a steady breath, she forced herself to step out into the cabin.
Throughout the wood-and-leather interior, the air crackled with his presence. Henri’s head was bent; his powerful frame seemed to overwhelm the plush brown leather seat. His hair—mussed where he’d run his hands through it during the flight—gleamed in the sunlight as he read through a massive leather-bound tome. Clad in black, his short-sleeved polo revealed strong, tanned forearms. Watching him—big, proud, and silent—she felt a sudden urge to sigh.
With a quick mental shake, she walked down the wide aisle, noting the screen embedded in the paneled wall. The electronic map showed the plane just a few dashes away from the little dot marking Lyon. At least one more hour.
As she eased between the seats to take her place across from him, one large hand shot out and manacled her wrist. She spun around, gasping. There was no prying her gaze away from his, no shield from the scorching possessiveness flickering in their depths.
"No," he rasped, his voice hoarse from the long silence of the flight.
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