Kept At The Argentine's Command

He didn’t mind shy—he could work with it fine.

Sure enough, her gaze swung upwards again, back for another look, a little bolder this time, and her lavish rosebud of a mouth quivered with the beginnings of a smile.

He returned her smile—the barest tilt of his mouth, because he was out of practice with the gesture. She responded by blushing and ducking her eyes back to the little screen.

He was hooked.

He was also barely in his seat before she gestured for assistance from a flight attendant. He watched in bemused interest as for the next twenty minutes Brown Eyes kept the cabin crew on their toes with a steady stream of what appeared to be trivial requests. Glasses of water, a cushion, a blanket... It was only when she began whispering furiously to the by now harassed female flight attendant that the points she’d scored with him for being pretty to look at flew out of the window.

‘No, I really cannot move!’ Her raised voice—demanding and shrill, despite the sexy French accent—had Alejandro putting down his tablet.

When the flustered flight attendant came up the aisle he leaned out and asked what the problem was.

‘An elderly gentleman is finding it difficult to make the trip to the facilities, sir,’ she explained, ‘and we were hoping to relocate him to a closer seat.’

She didn’t mention the intransigent Brown Eyes. But she was hard to miss.

Alejandro grabbed his jacket and reached up to the overhead locker.

‘Not a problem,’ he said, flashing the flight attendant a smile. She blushed.

Re-seated further towards the rear of the plane, he reopened his tablet, forgot about the brunette and gave his attention to the screen.

The morning papers on his tablet didn’t offer much encouragement about his destination.

When one of Russia’s richest oligarchs tied the knot with a sprightly red-haired ex-showgirl in a Scottish castle it was news, and from what Alejandro had heard from the groom himself the press had already set up shop in the surrounding town and area for long-lens shots of the ‘who’s who’ guest list.

Being one of the ‘who’s who’ himself, he’d decided not to make a splash entering the country. In Alejandro’s opinion, if you didn’t want the attention, you shouldn’t act as if you were somebody who needed it. Which meant he was flying commercial and driving the four-hour trip from Edinburgh to the coast a day early. The route would reportedly take him through some picturesque countryside, and he intended to cruise into Dunlosie under the radar.

Still, the hullaballoo he was surely headed for didn’t inspire encouragement that this was going to be anything other than a weekend to endure.

Impatiently Alejandro tossed aside his tablet and angled his wide-shouldered frame out of his seat. He’d never been able to sit still for long.

And that was when a little cough sounded to his left and he looked down.

It was Brown Eyes.

She’d taken a few trips up and down the aisle to the ‘facilities’. Either she had a little bladder problem or, more likely, she was looking for some attention.

He surveyed her coolly. Possibly not the attention she wanted.

With each trip up the aisle her step had become more rolling and he suspected she was a little drunk.

She was also considerably tall for a woman. He took a look down and found the culprits: a pair of very high-heeled turquoise shoes, ridiculously encumbered by ribbons that frothed around her trim ankles.

She in turn was gazing up at him, all brown eyes and carefully cultivated curls. Irritatingly, she was as pretty as ever.

‘Pardon, m’sieur.’

Her voice sounded a little slurred. Definitely drinking.

Unimpressed, he murmured, ‘Maybe you should go easy on the free liquor, señorita, and do us all a favour.’

She blinked. ‘Pardonnez-moi?’

‘You heard me.’

For a moment she seemed to be utterly lost for words. Then she screwed up her nose and stamped her foot.

It took a great deal of his self-control not to smile.

‘Why don’t you move out of the way instead of bullying people?’ she demanded, her French accent doing an excellent job on the precise English she used.

He ran his gaze insolently from the top of her shiny curls to the ribbons cascading over her pointy shoes and back to everything in between.

The in between was rather sweetly distributed...

She backed up a bit, but he wasn’t letting her get away scot-free.

‘You’re quite a piece of work, aren’t you, chica?’ he drawled.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There are fourteen people in First Class today,’ he spelt out. ‘Your name isn’t written on the plane and the cabin crew aren’t your personal galley slaves. How about cutting us all some slack?’

Her eyes fell away from his. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she mumbled. ‘Now, move, why don’t you?’

It was all he needed. ‘Make me.’

Her chin came up and her rosebud of a mouth dropped open.

He was slightly surprised himself. He didn’t, as a rule, hassle women. Especially silly little girls who needed to grow up.

For a moment he thought those big brown eyes were going to fill with ready tears. She certainly seemed on the brink of something.

So he moved.

Just.

She made a very French ‘ouf’ sound of disapproval, averted her face and stalked back to her seat. Once more in charge of herself. Self-interest on two legs.

Only then she ruined it with an almost furtive look back over her shoulder, as if to make sure he wasn’t following her.

The first finger of doubt touched his shoulder.

He’d made a few hard conclusions drawn from not much.

But life had taught him to pay attention to what people told you by their actions, not their words.