Page 2 of Veiled Fantasies

A chiming noise sounded, and the PA system came on. “First call, Sydney to London via Dubai.”

* * *

Erik Bergstrom hitsendand clicked the phone shut, allowing himself a slight smile. That secretary was such a flirt. He indulged her mainly because she had the magic touch when it came to booking unbookable flights, unavailable rental cars, and sold-out hotels. Other than the fact that she couldn’t get him business class for this flight, she was a real gem. The woman was also safely locked away at the other end of a phone line. Just a voice, not a real person who would ever intrude into his well-ordered world. No contact meant no disappointments, no misunderstandings. No threat.

He glanced up at the departure board. Sydney to…where? Where was he going? Right, the meeting in London. There’d been too many stops on this trip, and it wasn’t over yet. At least the flight was beginning to board. He would find his seat, read that report, and finally catch some sleep.

Sleep. Wouldn’t that feel good? But what if sleep didn’t come?

One drink, that would ease the way. He’d read the report, have one drink, and wake up just in time to land. Simple.

If only his mind weren’t so restless, so haunted. The creases on his brow deepened. Maybe it would be better to work straight through. A drink would help with that, too. Words and numbers on the screen were almost as good as sleep, anyway. And they would save him from having to make conversation with anyone in the plane.

Work was the key. When he worked, he could forget.

He’d read the report, put together his summary, start that presentation. A quick stopover in Dubai and on to London—in business class, thankfully. He checked his phone for the flight information. How long was the stopover?

Only two hours. Then he’d be back in the air and tired enough to sleep. Just a quick, uneventful transfer in Dubai.

Chapter Two

Erik eased himself into his window seat and unfolded his legs. Even the newest A380 felt a little cramped in economy class. At least a window seat meant other passengers wouldn’t be crawling over him. The man over by the aisle looked quiet enough, but who knows who might appear in the empty seat between them. Hopefully not some chatterbox.

No matter. After the quick stopover, he’d have business class to look forward to, the rest of the way to where ever it was he was going.

Right, London.

He looked out the window, watching suitcases ascend a conveyor belt, then closed his eyes and willed his mind blank. When the space next to him stirred with a new arrival, he kept his eyes firmly shut. Closed eyes sent a clear signal to anyone thinking they might chat the flight away.

Whoever it was, he or she was quiet. A few seconds of shuffling, organizing the tiny space allotted to them, and that was all. Good. Someone sensible enough to leave him in peace.

Erik tried to settle back into a brief time-out from the world, but something teased at the edge of his senses. A very faint scent. Something fresh. Mild. Unexpected.

Nice.

Flowers. Flowers like…like the ones that bloomed around his grandparents’ cabin in summer. The yellow flowers around the back, the ones that danced along the path to the lake. Engulfing it, at times. A slew of memories came with that scent—fresh cut grass and the clack-clack-clack of the rusty hand mower his grandfather insisted on using, the wind in the trees, the sun on his face and voices, laughter. Innocent times, endless summer days with a purer form of exhaustion. The kind that meant you’d had a full, satisfying day and could look forward to another, then another.

Something fell, and the woman leaned down. Her hair brushed his knee—long, silky strands. Erik breathed that in, too.

The man in the seat in front of him shifted heavily, and Erik’s eyes flicked open, then shut.

Open.

Shut.

Open.

His eyes stayed on the seat ahead but it was the periphery of his vision that commanded his attention. Her khaki slacks extended a long way into the leg space. Hands, tan, wiry, unadorned by jewelry, sorted through a stack of reading material. A blue diary and a cheap thriller, plus some kind of sports magazine. She’d planned ahead for the long flight, obviously. The hands placed a second book on top, a thick one. His eyes slid over the cover. Gabriel Garcia Marquez.Cien Años de Soledad. One Hundred Years of Solitude—in Spanish? But the other book and the magazine were in English.

Interesting.

The next thing she produced was a plastic water bottle with an abstract Eifel Tower:Paris Marathon. Now that would explain the legs and the slightly raised veins, a faint road map hinting at a very busy circulatory system. Her hair was a sun-tinged light brown, the fair complexion Northern European. A Brit?

The hands reached for the in-flight magazine and leafed to the world map. She was studying their route. Erik recalled the excitement of his early flights, of watching countries and mountain ranges slide beneath him. That heady feeling of being an astronaut, like he used to dream of as a kid. Before all the travel had melted together into an endless succession of foreign airports and cookie-cutter hotels.

And now, yet another long flight, surrounded by strangers. He closed his eyes and thought back to summer once again.

* * *

---