Marrying the Manhattan Millionaire

The alarm went off at the appointed time, right after which she received a wakeup call from the hotel’s front desk. She ignored both and burrowed deeper under the covers, eager to go back to sleep. She could catch a later flight.

Now, as she sat in the first-class section of a 747, awaiting the departure of her noon flight, she flipped through a magazine and admitted that missing the red-eye had been no accident. She had not wanted to chance facing Michael again so soon.

She’d dreamed about him. Her face felt warm now as she recalled that in her dream, before the elevator doors closed, he’d kissed her, deeply, passionately. And he hadn’t stopped there. No, he’d stepped back inside, let the doors slide closed behind him and as the lift traveled to the hotel’s highest floor, he’d helped Sam off with her clothes. She’d returned the favor, every bit as eager as he. What would have happened next was obvious. But before their bodies touched, her alarm had gone off.

Sam had woken up panting and so aroused that she’d actually tried to go back to sleep and let Michael finish what he’d started. Of course, that hadn’t happened. But the mere fact that she’d wanted it to, even in a dream, had her reeling. She’d been keyed up ever since, a feeling she attributed to confusion and irritation rather than sexual frustration or a flaring of old feelings. No, no. It wasn’t either of those things. Closing her eyes she exhaled shakily.

“Nervous flyer?” a deep male voice inquired, jolting Sam’s eyes open.

She glanced up to find Michael standing in the narrow aisle, a laptop computer slung over one shoulder and a smile turning up the corners of the mouth that had once trailed its way down her neck.

Glancing away, Sam accused, “I thought you were taking the red-eye back to the city.”

“Looks like we both missed it.” He dumped the laptop onto the roomy leather chair directly across the aisle from hers and shrugged out of his sports coat.

“Looks like,” she managed as he arranged his belongings and took his seat.

“Actually, I turned off my alarm. When it went off, I was in the middle of a really good dream. I wanted to see how it ended.”

Because she knew exactly what he meant, Sam said nothing. But as Michael fastened his seat belt, she clearly recalled helping him undo the belt on his trousers in her dream. He was a tall man, surpassing the six-foot mark by at least a couple inches. In first class, however, he was able to stretch out his legs, which he did now, looking the picture of relaxation. In contrast, Sam tensed, as if waiting for a trap to spring.

It did a moment later when he asked, “So, what did you dream about last night?”

“I have no idea. I never remember anything after I wake up,” she claimed, even though that highly sensual encounter was burned into her memory.

He tipped his head sideways. “Really? Nothing? That must be a recent development. We used to lie in bed sharing our fantasies all the time.”

He was dead on, but she wasn’t going to go there. “Fantasies aren’t the same as dreams,” Sam told him matter-of-factly.

“I guess you’re right, even though you can act out both.” He smiled wolfishly.

She heaved an exaggerated sigh and reached for the magazine that was open on her lap. The flight to New York would be a very long one if Michael was determined to chat. Maybe if she pretended to read he would take the hint and stop talking to her.

Of course he didn’t. “So, you really don’t remember your dreams?” He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she planned to. He went on. “That’s a shame. I always remember mine.”

“How nice for you,” she muttered with a definite lack of sincerity.

He wasn’t put off. No. A sideways glance in his direction revealed he was grinning. Then rich laughter rumbled. “And I have a feeling the one from last night is going to stay with me for a long, long time.”

He winked at her, once again leaving Sam with the uncomfortable yet highly erotic impression that she’d played a starring role in his dreams, too.

Thankfully, the flight attendants came through then to ready the cabin for take-off. Once the plane was in the air, Sam reclined her seat and closed her eyes, determined to nap or at least feign sleep to deter further conversation with Michael. The man was getting under her skin. It was just her bad luck that part of her wanted him there.

The captain had just announced their cruising altitude and turned off the seat belt sign when she felt Michael nudge her elbow. “Hey, Sam.”

“I’m trying to sleep here,” she replied, eyes still closed.

“No you’re not. You’re trying to ignore me.”

She turned her head and allowed one

eyelid to open. “Yes, but I was being polite about it.”

“Right.” The magazine in his hand was turned to an inside page, which he held out for her inspection. “What do you think of this?”

She opened both eyes. “The perfume?”

“No, the ad for it.”

She straightened in her seat, reaching for the periodical before she could think better of it.

“The client certainly spared no expense,” she said of the full-page, full-color advertisement that featured a top-name model standing in the middle of a field of flowers and holding out an ornate bottle of perfume as if making a sacrificial offering. “Is this one of yours?”

“Does this look like my work?” He sounded insulted.

In truth, it didn’t. The composition was too stiff and staged, and the accompanying text about letting love bloom sounded sophomoric. But Sam merely shrugged. No need to feed Michael’s massive ego.

“All that money to spend and this is what they came up with. Amazing.” His voice dripped with such disgust that Sam had to chuckle.

“Are you jealous?”

“Hell yes, I’m jealous,” he surprised her by admitting. “In addition to spreads in several national publications, this same ad is appearing on billboards and the sides of buses all over the country. And there’s a corresponding television campaign under way.”

She saw the dollar signs and whistled. “Someone’s dining on steak.”

“Want to know who?”

Curiosity piqued, she nodded.

“Stuart Baker.”

The name rang a bell. “Wiseman Multimedia, right?”

“That’s him. That guy can’t spell innovation, much less employ it.” Michael snorted.

“Yes, but look at it this way. Unlike me, Stuart Baker will never be a threat to you in the Clio or Addy competitions. And the client obviously likes Baker’s work.”

“Right. Want to know what I think?” Michael asked.

“I’m waiting with bated breath,” she replied dryly.

“He’s got something on the person holding the purse strings at the fragrance company. You know, compromising photos or a lurid videotape.”

“You have a vivid imagination. More likely, the client has more money than marketing sense.”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but you have to admit, my theory is more interesting than yours.”

She shrugged and put her head back and closed her eyes, figuring the conversation was over. But a moment later Michael nudged her arm again.