Page 3 of Veiled Fantasies

He checked his watch to find that four hours had gone by. Good. He’d made a good dent in his work. He reached for his glass, only to find it empty.

A whole vodka, gone so fast? No, the vodka was earlier, before the gin. But now that was gone, too. Where was the stewardess?

The man in the aisle seat had gone to the restroom, and the woman sitting next to Erik stood, too, using the chance to stretch out a little. He watched her stride up the narrow aisle, turn back, then pace away.

Trim, leggy, lithe. A runner, remember? Late twenties, maybe. She was pretty in a natural, undecorated kind of way, like the girls back home. Not like the corporate types, dressed to kill—and with attitudes to match. No, this woman was different. Her purplish-blue blouse brought out the intense color of her eyes. Loose and airy, it gave her lots of room to move. So she chose comfortable and practical over showing off what had to be a great body. Why that? Maybe she didn’t like feeling hemmed in.

Or maybe she was simply here to get from A to B, not to make an impression on anyone. Just like him.

Fine. Now that he’d figured her out, he could focus on work.

He adjusted the angle of his laptop but found his eyes wandering back. Unlike most of the passengers on the flight, she didn’t seem tuned out. Her eyes were wandering, taking everything in. All the while moving, stretching. Boy, did she have energy. A lot of pent-up energy with nowhere to put it.

Or did she? He thought of the Eifel Tower water bottle, the stack of books, her worn backpack. No, this was a woman who found ways to blow off that energy. He disciplined himself not to go too far imagining all the ways she might do this, given a different setting.

He was very good at disciplining himself. Denying himself. Like a soldier. He was a rock, fully armored for maximum protection. He knew just what he wanted; to be left alone, to get this project wrapped up. So what the hell was he doing, day-dreaming?

His eyes couldn’t resist another peek. Her diary lay face down on the table, an address scribbled across the back. Jill Bowden, Blackheath, London.But her accent was American, he was sure of that after hearing her exchanges with the stewardess.

What to make of her? A bilingual American living in London. Traveling home from Australia, alone. A woman with a hungry mind and a storehouse of energy. He was almost tempted to start a conversation. Too bad he didn’t have the time for anything but work. He crooked his neck from side to side, trying to concentrate.

What was it about this flight?

What was it about her?

His eyes floated over his laptop screen. If Martin were here, and five or ten years younger, he’d be checking her out. This American was just his brother’s type. Martin the clown, Martin the charmer. If Martin was here, he’d be getting up his nerve to go talk to this woman. Recruiting Erik to help with some set up, something to get her attention. A spilled drink, maybe. A casual question or comment:Gabriel Garcia Marquez! My favorite author!

He couldn’t help but break into a smile, imagining the scene. How often had he been pressed into assisting Martin in one scheme or another? Sometimes, it was Martin who fished Erik out of trouble, but more often, it was he who had to cover for his older brother. His accomplice through so many childhood misadventures.

Then the spotlight shifted to other memories, and the smile slowly faded until he just stared into empty space.

* * *

Movement helped ease the stiffness, helped her relax. Jill stretched up onto her toes and rolled her shoulders back, vowing to never take a flight as long as this one again. At least not alone. Which was pretty much the same as never.

She’d grabbed her chance to stand up when she could. Though the Fates had assigned her a seat right beside Gorgeous, there was only so long she could fake nonchalance. The past hours had ticked by like a marathon yoga session devoted entirely to breath control. Long inhale, long exhale. Reading was a lost cause, so she’d concentrated on sitting, very, very still, with Mr. Perfect only inches away.

Oh, my.

Even the I’ll-just-check-out-for-the-next-twelve-hours look on his face couldn’t mask how good-looking he was. Casual business attire but rugged hands that did more than just hit computer keys. Fingers…no ring. But what about the perfect wife? Maybe it was a girlfriend or a fiancée. No way could a guy like him be single.

Not that Jill had been peeking or anything. No, no. Not her. Just sitting there innocently, trying not to gape or drool.

What was he thinking about? Work? His girlfriend? Was he Australian, heading on a trip to Europe, or European, heading home? The latter, she decided. His skin didn’t have the burnished tan of an Australian who’d spent his three decades roasting in the sun. He was the type who could fit in anywhere, though, from a fancy casino to a rugged outback farm.

She worked up the nerve to look sideways, intent on the view out the window. Her last glimpse of Australia. And Mr. Perfect? He was looking out, too. Thinking about what?

Not about her, that was guaranteed.

He turned back before she did and caught her eye. She froze. He smiled politely, then reached for his briefcase.

And all she’d gotten out was a faint “hi.”

Well done, Jill.Hi, not even hello. She’d had her chance and that was all she could squeeze out. The entire impression she would ever make on him was one syllable, two letters—hi.

He opened and closed the briefcase, giving her a glimpse of a family photo showing him, the perfect wife, or almost-wife, whichever, and two smiling kids. Just a glimpse, but enough to make Jill’s stomach contract. Taken. Why are all the perfect hunks always taken?

Because they’re prefect hunks. Duh.

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