Sinclair Duet

Chapter 2

Gabriella

With my grilled chicken salad mostly consumed, my phone buzzed. Looking down at the screen, I saw the notification that my new flight was about to board. With perfect timing, the bartender came my way. Her smile shone at full voltage.

She lowered her voice. “I haven't told him yet. Here's your receipt."

“You're the best." I laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter for a tip.

“So, is there a history?"

I only smiled.

“Have pity on me. I work all day making up stories about customers in my head. The real story would be better."

I shook my head. “I doubt it. Do your made-up stories ever end in homicide?"

Her eyes opened wide. “Oh, now this will keep me up at night."

“Let's just say, what's in the past belongs in the past."

The bartender nodded. “Okay, I've got you. I'll give you a minute to leave before I break the news to Mr. Good-looking."

A quick look across the bar and I saw the bewilderment in Damien's expression. That image alone was enough to make my day. Maybe the gate agent was right: today was my lucky day. Gliding down the hallway with my luggage and garment bag, I stepped onto the moving sidewalk, for the first time in a long while, floating on air.

It wasn't often I had the opportunity to outplay a player. Picking up his tab for two beers and a chicken sandwich wasn't exactly the power move of the year, but getting even one over on Damien was enough to fuel my good mood.

Well, that, and I was about to fly first class.

Making my way to gate A-7, I let myself think about the man I'd tried to forget.

Damien was a shark in the sea of pharmaceuticals. In a world where big conglomerates ruled, he took over as CEO and made a name with a small company in Indianapolis. Small was a relative term when it came to the pharmaceutical sphere. Sinclair Pharmaceuticals was primed and ready with a cutting-edge compound to treat PTSD. Damien had taken a risk, and it paid off. The sky was the limit for the future of Sinclair.

I could claim to have learned a lot from my employment as his executive assistant. I had.

I'd also made the biggest mistake one could make when trying to build a career.

I fell for the devil.

Demanding and abrupt, Damien was a force of nature—the beauty of a sunset over a sparkling ocean, yet capable of unleashing the power of hurricane-strength winds. Being in his presence, watching him work, and hearing his advice was empowering. Being in his arms and bed was pure ecstasy like I'd never dared to imagine.

I wish I could say that since our breakup, I'd succeeded in finding a man with greater skills, but I'd be lying. The only way to get over a man like Damien was to move forward. Replacing him was out of the question. It would be like finding a substitute for a Picasso. Indianapolis wasn't without its share of eligible bachelors. Nevertheless, Damien was in a class by himself.

No, I didn't want to replace Damien. I wanted to move on—to leave him behind.

Inside the airport bathroom, I splashed cool water on my face and stared at the woman in the mirror. In a matter of a minute, my balloon of bubbling elation had popped.

That was the way it was with seeing Damien for the first time in over two years—a roller coaster of emotions.

Shock.

Awe.

Jubilation at one-upping him.

The painful reawakening of the void he'd left.

The ache was real, causing my eyes to burn. As if visible, I felt the fissures splintering, one by one, demolishing the dam I'd constructed around my heart. Unwanted memories flooded my thoughts.

Holding back the onslaught of emotions, I peered into my own blue eyes and reminded myself that Damien Sinclair didn't leave me. I left him. Gathering my courage, I'd walked away. It wasn't because I didn't love him. It was that loving him was too consuming. There was the sense that, with him, I ceased to exist. Damien's fondness for the hunt made the game enticing. Once the pursuit was over, I felt my worth shrink. I wanted more out of life than to be a man's accessory.

“You're stronger for it," I said softly to the woman in the mirror.

It didn't matter that the woman at the next sink gave me a strange look. I turned her way and feigned a smile. “Have a great day."

“Yeah, you too."

Inhaling, I replied, “I will. It's my lucky day."

Back out to the gate, I stood in line as we inched toward the gate agent standing guard at the ticket stand by gate A-7.

It wasn't until I was up to the counter that it occurred to me I could have jumped the line. I had a first-class ticket.

That's right.

Lucky day.

My mind steered away from my brush with the past to the present—tonight's gala. I thought about the biography of the award winner I needed to read. The man had risen from nothing to create an empire. Now he was spending some of his fortune to improve the health of others. In the four-plus hours of my upcoming flight, I planned to learn more. Tonight, we'd be face-to-face.

Once the plane was airborne, I'd open my laptop and brush up on not only the award winner, but the other attendees of the dinner. Nothing elated a donor's ego more than remembering their name and asking specific questions about them. Throw in a story or anecdote about them, and their wallets magically opened.

Stepping from the jet bridge to the plane, I smiled at the attendants and lifted my garment bag. “Is there a place where this can be hung?"

The attendant took my garment bag and motioned me forward.

I scanned the front section of the plane. All the seats were occupied except one. My heart rate went from sixty to one hundred and sixty. A quick look at my boarding pass told me that one empty seat was mine. Despite the line of passengers behind me, as the temperature of my skin elevated, I was incapable of moving forward.

The empty seat in the third row near the window would be perfect for a long flight were it not for one thing.

One person.

One man.

Damien's midnight-blue gaze sparkled as our eyes met.

Inhaling, I moved to the third row. “That's my seat," I said, hoping my voice wouldn't give away my unease.

Unsnapping his seat-belt buckle, Damien stood.

My mouth went instantly dry as all six feet, four inches of muscle, surrounded in a cloud of intoxicating cologne, unfolded in front of me. It was impossible not to remember what it was like being in his strong arms.

With his customary suit coat and tie missing, he had his shirt collar opened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. As my gaze moved lower, I scanned his long legs covered in expensive slacks and shoes that no doubt were imported Italian leather.

“Let me," he offered as I began to lift my carry-on to the compartment above.

“I have it." As I pushed the carry-on into the space, my sweater lifted, revealing my stomach.

When I turned back, Damien's stare moved upward as he grinned.

Trying to avoid contact, I held my satchel between us as if the large leather bag could protect me from the magnetism of this man. With my shield in place, I scooted past him to the seat near the window.

“I should thank you for my lunch," Damien said as he took the seat beside me again. “It must be my lucky day."

Obviously.

My luck had run out.