The Wedding Fling

“So we can go?”

“We can.” He led her down the long aluminum dock. The plane was small, its bottom half painted a cheerful aqua, top half gleaming white and emblazoned with the name The Passport.

Leigh’s unscrupulous pilot looked over his shoulder. “The rumor mill at the resort said this is your honeymoon.”

“It is.”

“Think you may have forgotten to pack your husband. Or did he get misplaced in transit?”

She smiled to cover the pang she felt. “Change of plans.”

WHEN THEY REACHED the plane, Will took Leigh’s bag and stowed it in the cabin. She traveled light, for a celebrity. He pictured her faceless fiancé back in L.A., sitting on a bed beside a pile of clothes and swimsuits that also hadn’t made the cut. Poor bastard.

Will hopped back down to the dock. “Just you and me, so you have a choice—sit back here or play copilot.”

“Which is better?”

“Tough to beat the view in the cockpit.”

Tough to beat a chance to have her as his captive audience, as well. He might not get many chances like this again, and he was secretly pleased when she said, “Okay. Sure.”

He secured the cabin and she followed him to the front, fumbling her way up the short ladder that connected the float to the cockpit. She settled into the far seat, taking in the console and instruments. When Will buckled himself in and donned sunglasses, she followed suit. She squinted at his license, displayed in a plastic frame mounted above the windshield.

“William Burgess.”

“Captain William Burgess,” he corrected officiously. “But Will is fine.”

“Leigh Bailey.”

He offered his finest pilot’s handshake, decisive and confident, qualities a person ought to value in a man charged with transporting her across sea and sky.

As Will prepped for takeoff, Leigh reached out to touch the panel of a gauge on the console. Scowling, he snatched her hand away and set it firmly on her knee.

“Don’t get handsy,” he said, pulling a cloth from a compartment and buffing away whatever fingerprints Leigh may have left on the glass. He might not dress like a captain, but this plane was more than his meal ticket—it was his baby. And he didn’t let strangers poke and prod and leave smudges on his baby.

Leigh frowned, looking annoyed. “Sorry.”

After a brief safety spiel, Will started The Passport, and soon enough the beaches of Barbados were slipping by from several hundred feet up. He wondered what she was thinking, given her intent gaze. Maybe the same things he always did—all that sand, all that water. All this, all to herself.

He spoke over the drone of the engine. “You didn’t need to bribe me, you know.”

She frowned again.

“It’s your name on the ticket. Doesn’t bother me if your old lady’s got her panties in a twist about what you’re up to.” He flashed her a grin, one that made her cheeks flush from discomfort, he guessed. “Want your money back?”

“Nah. You earned it.” Her casual tone was a put-on, Will could tell.

“Must be nice to be able to take or leave a hundred bucks.”

“I suppose.”

“Nice to be able to take or leave a husband.” It was a mean jab, he knew, but bound to earn him a response, a bit of information about his passenger. Maybe a sound slap, had he not been operating a plane. “So which did you do?” Will prompted. “Take him or leave him?”

“I left him,” she said coolly.

“Good for you. Hope you’ve got a lovely settlement coming to you.” An even lower blow, but Will had accepted a generous offer to collect information on this woman, and he didn’t like the thought of tweezing it out with some sympathetic, smooth-talker act. He’d goad it out of her. At least that way he wouldn’t be exploiting some false confidence.

Her face burned and she turned to glare at him. “That’s a really rude thing to say.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it’s really rude.”

“Good thing I don’t fly for tips.”

She blinked, clearly incredulous, and shook her head. All that friendliness she’d showed him in the terminal fell away, surely sinking deep beneath the waves below.

“Not too late to swim, if you’re offended by the service.”

“No, thank you. Though I suspect I’ll be sitting in the cabin on the way back.”

“Probably wise. My old man was a cabbie in New York. My gifts of customer service are purely genetic.”

“A very rare and malicious disorder, I’m sure. Thank goodness you’re not contagious.”

He grinned, rather enjoying the dig.

“And since you’re so nosy, you may as well know there’s no settlement, because I didn’t get married.”

Will swallowed. “Duly noted.” He’d expected to feel some kind of triumph at such an informational coup, but he didn’t. It actually felt bad, a nauseous little twist in his gut.

“I was just teasing, you know.” Will met her eyes as much as was possible through two pairs of shades. “Taking the edge off?”

“More like sharpening it.”

“Not my intention.”

“I hope your landing approaches are smoother than your social ones.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t make an effort to sound especially sorry. Nausea notwithstanding, the tactless approach was working. “I’ve never had a runaway Hollywood bride in that seat before.”

She pursed her lips. “Do you know who I am?”

Enough to know some sleazebag back in L.A. will pay good money to hear what you’re up to. “There’s only a few types who vacation at this place, and when they’re women coming from Los Angeles, I can usually narrow it to actress or model or Hollywood wife. And we’ve ruled out wife.”

Leigh held her tongue.

“Not that I need to know,” Will said with a theatrical sigh of disinterest. “I’m just the chauffeur.”