Wicked Heat

She held her breath as the tires skipped across the crumbling asphalt runway, the wings flexing far more than anything metal ever should. A flock of feral chickens scattered into the thick brush, necks extended in alarm, the rooster frantic to keep up with his ladies.

The pilot hit the brakes on the twin engines, and the momentum thrust Ella forward in a seat designed to be comfortable for individuals still mastering the fundamentals of addition and subtraction. With her hands gripping the armrests, she gritted her teeth and rode out an arrival more in line with a dirt runway in remote Wyoming rather than her actual destination: Bora Bora, French Polynesia.

The Cessna puttered down the short airstrip before turning sharply and taxiing to the private airport. Two visibly harried baggage handlers tended the luggage. One crouched in the belly of the plane at the next gate over and tossed luggage out the plane’s belly button while the other caught said luggage and created a small pile on the tarmac. To the side of it all stood a lone airport representative in a starched white uniform sporting several leis draped over his arm.

The plane was small enough that the pilot didn’t use the intercom but instead emerged from the cabin. He opened the front exit at the same time a rolling ladder hit the side of the plane, a metallic clank resonating through the cabin.

Then the pilot stood—as much as he could in the compact space—and addressed the passengers in the eight-seat cabin. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Parkaire Field in beautiful Bora Bora. If you’ll gather your personal belongings, your baggage will be available at the foot of the stairs, where you or your driver may retrieve it.”

Seated in the second row from the front, Ella decided to wait out the minirush of fellow travelers anxious to be off the puddle jumper. She watched people contort their bodies into amusing shapes in an effort to retrieve their luggage and make their way to the front. A man who’d sat in the row opposite her tugged with ferocious intent on the handle of the large briefcase he’d shoved under the seat in front of him. The handle gave way and the man lunged ass first into the aisle, plowing into another traveler who stood beside Ella’s seat.

The assaulted passenger lurched sideways, flailing as he tried to regain his balance...but failed. Not just failed, but failed. He tumbled into her lap, all long arms and longer legs. A button from his suit jacket popped free and skipped across Ella’s forehead. Paperwork scattered as the stranger’s messenger bag was upended and a laptop landed on top of her foot.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” the assailant repeated as he retrieved his briefcase and clutched it to his chest with one hand, mopping his forehead with the other.

“No worries. It’s bound to happen in such cramped quarters.”

Without offering to help Ella up, the pardoned man shuffled the few steps to the front of the plane and down the stairs.

“Right,” the stranger on her lap mused in a proper British accent, amusement saturating each word. “Because it’s certainly de rigueur to hip-check fellow passengers.” He twisted around to look down at her, mischief darkening his gaze. “Is it not?”

She shouldn’t engage with him—she knew she shouldn’t—but he was so damned attractive, sitting there in her lap flirting, with the challenge in his eyes so open, that she couldn’t stop herself. Tilting her head in a coquettish manner, she met his gaze head-on. “I suppose it depends, really.”

“Oh?”

She nodded somberly.

One corner of his mouth twitched. “Pray tell, what does it depend on?”

She sat up a little straighter just as he leaned in. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she spoke. “I suppose it all comes down to one thing. Is your ass in the habit of assaulting laps?”

“I’ll be honest. I’ve been considering it as a side job.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously?” he said on a choked laugh.

The stranger twisted and turned as he tried to free himself from the narrow alleyway created by the seat in front of her and her upper body. He managed, but not without accidentally brushing the outer edge of her breast.

His touch made her draw in a sharp breath.

The man cleared his throat and eyed his laptop bag, which rested between her legs.

She wasn’t going to help him retrieve it. Nope. Not any more than she’d stop him from retrieving it.

He considered her for a second before reaching for the bag, twisting a bit more than necessary. The result allowed the back of his free hand to skate down her bared calf.

He might have shivered, but she couldn’t be sure given her own reaction.

She looked him over then let her eyes linger on his face as she answered. “You’re clearly in need of additional funds. The charity shops in your neighborhood must have stopped carrying the best quality Hermès socks or Rolex watches like they used to.” Her gaze landed on his, and eyes the color of dark chocolate stared back with unerring intensity.

If I were a strawberry, I’d totally dip that.

The thought made her grin.

The stranger grinned back. “Penny for your—”

“Not even for a hundred thousand pennies, but thanks.” She barely managed to stifle a sigh. Of course, he had a British accent. Her personal kryptonite.

Ella smoothed her hair, fighting the urge to fan her face. “You know, if you told me this was your first lap dance, I’d have said you were doing pretty well...right up until you broke that no-touch rule.”

“My first? Ha.” He pushed a lock of errant hair back into place. “You’re perfectly aware that this is precisely how these things go. I impress you with my moves on the first dance. The first is always gratis, by the way. Then you’re enticed to pay for the second dance, wherein I employ my signature moves and render you speechless. And trust me, my lady,” he all but purred, “I’m highly skilled at keeping things professional. Everything is part of a job, even pleasure.”

She chuffed out a laugh, gathering her own things. “Signature moves. You think pretty highly of yourself, Oxford.” Man, he smelled good—cologne that smelled like windblown shores laid over the warm wool of his suit and heat from his skin that carried the essence of him. Drawing a deep breath, she briefly closed her eyes before glancing up to meet his gaze. “I would imagine you’ve had ample opportunities to perfect those moves. Particularly the keep-it-professional routine.”

He tilted his chin down and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “Pay up and find out,” he said in a soft but unquestionably suggestive tone. “For your convenience, I take all major credit cards—even Diner’s Club. Cash as well. Lady’s preference.”

Her mouth twitched, and she blinked with slow suggestiveness. “I save my bills for tipping.”

“Lucky me,” he murmured.

From the front of the plane, the pilot cleared his throat, clearly fighting laughter.

Ella shot the stranger a sly look. “It seems we’re causing a scene.”

“This is hardly a scene.”

“No? You’re an expert, then?”

He leaned close enough that, this time, it was his lips a whisper from her ear. “A bona fide professional.”

A moment of sheer hysteria ensued. What if this guy actually was a gigolo? Wouldn’t that be the icing on the wedding cake she had yet to design.

Patting the man’s outer thigh in dismissal, she shook her head. “Unfortunately, I’m scene averse. Time to go.”

“Pity, that.” He gave a short nod toward the small messenger bag in the overhead bin. “Yours?”

“Yep.” She straightened her skirt and moved to stand only to find he’d retrieved the bag and held it for her.

He looked at her then, no pretense. No artifice. No sexy banter. It was that look, hunter to hunted. “I’ll see you to the bottom of the stairs. It is, after all, the least I can do.”

“Thanks,” she managed, the sheer sexual pull of his person making her fight the urge to rub her thighs together. Nothing like starting the most critical job she’d ever had by engaging in seriously unprofessional behavior with a gorgeous man.

And she was here for a job. No, not a job. The job—the one that would revive a career that had been on life support ever since her business partner, Rob Darlain, had bailed on her.

Rob had taken their pitch for a TV show to a local cable network. They’d offered him the gig, which catapulted him to regional fame. Then the national network had come calling. Ella had been left to plan children’s birthday parties and bar mitzvahs instead of the exclusive, high-end events for which she and Rob had become recognized. And it didn’t help that he’d claimed to be the exclusive coordinator/designer while labeling Ella the help. The contract she had in her bag was her shot to not only prove her ex-partner wrong but to really, truly make a comeback. This event would park her business, her name, at the top of the list of event planners favored by society’s upper echelon.

Ella preceded the stranger to the exit, hunched over due to the low ceiling made lower by her heels’ height. Every woman had a list of things she refused to cut corners on, from the brand of her coffee to the skin care line she used to the gym membership she ate noodles to afford. For Ella, her shoes were near the very top of that list. The heels she’d worn today had been a careful choice. They were her only pair of Louboutins, and she’d saved for months to buy them when times had been good. They were her power shoes, her I-can-do-anything-I-set-my-mind-to shoes. They were ass-kicking, name-taking shoes. She saw them as her personal totem, her symbol of power and control. Some might find her foolish. But those people didn’t fuel the voice in her head, the voice that demanded she be the best at what she did.