Читать книгу Crazy, Undercover, Love - Nikki Moore - Страница 9

Now

‘Miss?’ The air hostess pops up next to me.

‘Argh!’ I jump, wrenched from the past, hand jerking around the glass on the tray. A wave of cold water sloshes over the rim into my lap. Yelping, I make an ‘ah–ah–ah’ sound as the icy liquid soaks through my trousers. It can only be this freezing because all the ice has melted. How long was I brooding for?

Alex frowns at me and I fall silent with a self-conscious grimace, standing to mop up the mess.

The stewardess shakes her head, pointing out the window. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to wait until we’ve landed. I’ll bring you a towel to sit on. Can you fasten your seatbelt please?’

‘Huh?’ I glance out the narrow cabin window, gobsmacked to see it’s night time, thousands of twinkling lights appearing as the plane banks to the right.

She brings me a thick navy towel. ‘Thanks,’ I murmur, tucking it under me. I watch as she takes a seat by the emergency exit, trying to ignore the flutter of panic in my stomach. I absolutely hate landing, always worrying the plane won’t brake in time and will overshoot the runway or that despite being strapped in I’ll get tossed around the cabin somehow. I may have watched too many disaster movies but it’s the first episode of Lost I blame, when the plane crashes on the mysterious tropical island and the beach is awash with broken fuselage and torn bodies.

Compared to the stress of being near-destitute, landing should be easy, but rationalising doesn’t stop me moulding my body into the damp seat, or my short bitten nails from digging into the slick leather armrests.

‘Once we’ve disembarked it’s a twenty-minute drive to the hotel,’ Alex says curtly, powering down his laptop.

I nod, staring at the headrest of the opposite chair and smarting from his tone. I don’t know what his problem is but he’s going to have to get over it. And I’m going to act like the strong independent woman I was before Tony bowled into my life. I will deal with Alex head-on … if I get off the flight alive.

The plane begins its descent. Screwing up my eyes, I start counting inside my head. The engines slow and my breathing comes in short, sharp bursts through my nose, jaw clamped tight. We hit an air pocket, dipping down, then up, and I let out a quiet squeak, ears popping. Please don’t crash, please don’t crash, please do not crash.

There’s a muffled protesting squawk from the stewardess and I sense movement but dare not open my eyes. What if the crew are preparing for an emergency landing? I’ll freak out completely. Better to stay in blissful ignorance.

I get a shock as long warm fingers curve round mine in silent comfort. I tilt my head and squint out of one eye and find Alex beside me, a serious expression on his face.

‘We’ll be fine,’ he whispers close to my ear and I shiver. ‘Just keep breathing.’

I didn’t have him down as the compassionate sort, but the thoughtfulness and his comment make me smile. Does he think I’m so scared I’ll stop breathing? That’d be a great front-page headline. Woman hyperventilates to death on plane, too wimpy to cope!

‘Okay,’ I murmur, ‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’

His deep-blue long-lashed eyes stare into mine. My chest squeezes my heart into my throat, or at least that’s what it feels like. The connection of our hands brings us close enough that our arms are aligned, his shoulder against mine.

‘You’ve already dropped your end of the deal,’ he remarks.

‘Pardon?’

‘Oh good, you are still breathing. For a second there I wasn’t sure.’

Smart-arse, I think and can’t stop another smile from erupting. I shift away a bit. Maybe if we’re not so close … ‘Landing might present a challenge but I’m pretty sure I can cope with drawing breath.’ Is the shadow of stubble on his jaw getting darker? God, he’s sexy.

He cocks an eyebrow, a bit Sean Connery as James Bond. ‘From the shade of white you’re currently sporting I wondered how much oxygen was making it to your brain.’

‘Gee, thanks!’ Mouth dropping open, I go to wrench my hand away.

His fingers tighten, stopping me. ‘Relax! I’m kidding. You really are anxious about flying aren’t you?’ He nods to the towel peeking out from under my legs. ‘Is that why you spilt your water?’

‘Yes.’ No, it’s because I’m clumsy as hell when I forget to pay due care and attention. ‘It’s not the flying, though, it’s the landing bit. I really don’t like the transition from air to ground.’

‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

‘I need this assignment.’ I pause. ‘And we couldn’t exactly boat across.’

He’s not quick enough to hide his smile. ‘No, but I would have tried to make it easier for you if I’d known.’

An automatic response would you really have cared? almost breaks free but he’s showing he cares now. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say lightly, ‘but thank you.’

‘So how do you usually cope?’ he asks after a moment, a deep line appearing between his dark eyebrows. ‘When you go on holiday?’

‘Er.’ I glance around the spacious cabin, avoiding eye contact. Then peek at him. ‘Don’t laugh.’

‘It can’t be that bad. What is it?’

‘I drink.’

‘So? Other people drink to calm their nerves.’

‘No, I mean, I drink. Three or four vodkas usually help achieve the right sort of numbness.’

‘Three or four? Over the course of the flight?’

‘Um, not exactly.’ Please don’t let him think I’m an alcoholic. ‘First one is when the seatbelt lights blink on.’ Does he know he’s stroking my knuckles? It’s making my insides go hot and funny. ‘Second one is when the plane starts banking for approach. Third is usually as we start our descent and I might slip a fourth in during descent.’

‘How do you get away with it?’

‘Miniature bottles,’ I admit shakily, as the stroking of my fingers gets faster and a waft of his sexy aftershave invades my nose. ‘I swig them quickly and discreetly.’

‘I see,’ he deadpans. ‘Well, it’s medicinal I suppose.’ He pauses. ‘It, ah, must be interesting for your boyfriend trying to get you off the plane standing upright.’

‘I don’t go on holidays with boyfriends, only friends,’ I blurt. Why did I tell him that? ‘And I’m usually a little relaxed, but they know the score and help me through passport control. It takes about twenty minutes to really hit anyway. By that time we’re on the coach and I nap until we get to the hotel.’ Does he know our knees are touching? My leg feels like it’s on fire. I edge it away discreetly.

‘Sounds like you have it all figured out.’ He squeezes my fingers, looking concerned. ‘But why not just ask your doctor for sedatives if it’s that bad?’

‘Like I said, I’m okay with taking off and being in the air, it’s the end part. I don’t see any point in being knocked out for the whole flight.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Why would I want to waste my time asleep when I could be doing something else instead?’

He tilts his head towards mine, getting so close I start going cross-eyed. ‘Like what?’

‘Reading, watching a film, talking to my friends. You know, normal leisure stuff.’

‘Right.’

He says it like I’m talking about a foreign concept. Doesn’t he get any time off at all?

He shakes his head. ‘Interesting.’

‘What? You did ask.’

‘Not that.’ He leans over and points out the window. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek and shiver. ‘We’ve landed.’

‘Really?’ I look out the Perspex. He’s right. There’s a vast expanse of tarmac visible in the night outside, peppered with landing lights and a control tower. ‘Oh, yes.’ So involved in our conversation, I hadn’t noticed. It’s a first – the Earth and I reacquainting ourselves without the benefit of alcohol. ‘Thank you so much,’ I beam.

He pauses, staring at my mouth then glancing down at our entwined fingers. A strange look crosses his face and he releases my hand quickly. ‘No problem. Besides, it would hardly be good publicity if a member of staff suffered an anxiety-driven heart attack on my private plane. I also need you fully functioning tonight so we can have a proper briefing session. You can’t do that drunk.’

‘But I haven’t had anything to drink! That’s why I was getting anxious.’

He doesn’t answer, busying himself with straightening his tie and undoing his seatbelt.

‘Alex?’

‘Time to get off,’ he snaps. ‘Come on.’

‘Fine,’ I say stiffly. Undoing my belt I bolt from the chair, feeling unexpectedly stung by his briskness. How could I have forgotten who I was talking to? Why was I deluded enough to think he was being sweet and compassionate, even friendly? Why would I even want him to be? He’s not my friend, he’s my temporary boss, ensuring he’s upholding his duty of care. I can’t make the same mistake again; get too close to someone I work with, even if last time it was accidentally. Been there, done that, got the diamanté t-shirt.

Grabbing my handbag and coat from under the seat, I stride over to the exit, where the crew have gathered.

‘Have a pleasant stay in Barcelona.’ The blonde attendant smiles.

‘Thank you.’ Doubtful. ‘Bye.’

Picking my way down the metal stairs, I can’t see a transport bus, so set off towards the airport buildings, assuming our luggage will follow. It’s milder than London but an unkind wind still whistles along the concrete so I pull my coat tighter.

‘Charlotte,’ Alex calls behind me. I carry on walking. He can tell me what he wants to when he catches up.

‘Charley. Charley!’ he yells.

Stopping with a sigh, ‘Yes?’ I try not to let frost coat my voice.

He runs up. ‘No. Over there.’ He gestures back over his shoulder to a car I hadn’t noticed parked twenty feet or so behind the plane.

My eyes widen at the gorgeous lines of the black low-slung sports model. ‘Seriously?’ I breathe, skirting round him to start back.

‘Yes.’ Falling into step, Alex raises an eyebrow. ‘You like it?’ Frowning, ‘Or is it the status thing?’

Legs eating up the distance, I stop next to it, running my hand along the smooth bonnet. Something about the car reminds me of Alex. Powerful. Slick. Sexy. ‘Status? No. It’s not that. Cars aren’t my thing but … well, it’s kind of beautiful.’ Like him. No. Stop it!

‘My kind of woman,’ he murmurs appreciatively before looking horrified at his comment. ‘I mean, I like the way you think. I mean – never mind.’

Smiling inside, I dip my head to study the Maserati badge, amazed to see Mr CEO so uncomfortable. It doesn’t fit with the smooth, self-contained persona. I like the slip, it makes him seem more normal, more approachable.

I know he’s staring at me but stay silent, waiting for him to unlock the car. A pinging sound erupts from his suit jacket. Taking out his phone, he swipes a tanned finger over the screen and reads something, face tightening and draining to white. Whoever sent him the text should run and hide. Now. He looks dangerous.

‘Excuse me.’ Moving away, he touches the screen again and holds the phone to his ear. ‘I need to speak to you,’ he barks. ‘I need some advice.’

He tilts his head whilst listening to the caller and the sound of something cracking in his neck carries over the space between us. Ouch, tense.

‘She just texted me,’ he lowers his voice, ‘saying I need to agree to the latest demand or I can’t see her.’

Whoever she is, I wonder what her price is. I can’t imagine blackmailing a man to stay with me. Is that how the mega rich run their relationships? Fascinated by the idea, I edge closer. Unfortunately Alex notices and scowls, pointing a beeper at the car and gesturing with his chin for me to get in.

Flushing, I open the door and slide into the bucket seat. Bugger, caught out.

Respect the boundaries, Charley. Be professional at all times.

Easier if the man concerned wasn’t so contradictory – and so bloody intriguing.

He joins me in the glamorous car as I’m sliding my hands over the blue and black interior, fiddling with buttons and admiring the inbuilt SatNav. Caught in the act, I tuck my hands under my legs and bite my lip.

‘It’s fine,’ he growls.

The compact front seat means there are only a few inches between us. Too close for comfort, both for my wild hormones and if he’s going to have a go at me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I offer, when he simply starts the engine with a low purr and says nothing. ‘For overhearing, I mean. Is everything – are you okay?’

Raising an eyebrow, probably at my description of what was actually blatant nosiness, he fastens his seatbelt. ‘Fine.’

Which means no, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. The quiet spins into an elongated silence but thankfully there’s distraction in the vibrancy and colour of Barcelona as we leave the airport. Damp greenery and concrete roads give way to high-rise towers and numerous heaving shops as we enter the city centre. The street lights are like strobes in the night as Alex accelerates through, but I see that some of the trees have twinkling lights threaded through their bare, twisting branches, possibly the remnants of Christmas. It would be nice to be able to explore the city, but I’m not anticipating much downtime.

I glance at Alex, handling the Maserati like a pro, apparently comfortable with driving on the right-hand side. The confidence is attractive. I’d be a quivering wreck at the thought of driving this car; it’s probably worth about five times my old salary. Though I guess when you’re a billionaire the cost of a high-spec luxury vehicle is like buying a pack of chewing gum.

For distraction I whiz down the window and stick my head out, breathing in smoke and the faint tang of cooking food. Normal city smells, not much different from London, although there is one huge difference – the temperature. Jess might disagree with what I’m doing but she still cares, texting earlier to warn me not to pack thick jumpers because, according to the internet, the average temperature in Barcelona for this time of year is twelve degrees. Practically tropical compared to the minus numbers on the thermometer in our home city.

My attention flickers back to Alex as we stop at some traffic lights. He seems less stressed, idly caressing the steering wheel as he waits to pull away. Would he do the same to me if I asked him? No. Stop it. Stay focused. Business. Then I completely ruin it. ‘You really like this car.’

Broad shoulders loosening, he flashes me a wicked grin, kind of wolfish. ‘Wrong.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I don’t like this car, I love it.’

‘I can tell.’ Pausing, ‘I didn’t think you’d drive.’

‘Why, because I have Evan?’ He shrugs, long legs flexing on the pedals as he changes gear effortlessly and pulls away. ‘It makes sense to have a driver back home because I can handle calls and send emails, but on shorter journeys I prefer driving. It’s relaxing.’

‘Even on the wrong side of the road? Do you come to Barcelona often?’ I cringe as soon as it’s out there. It sounds like a cheesy pick-up line.

He doesn’t notice. ‘A few times a year, maybe.’

‘Do you travel a lot for work?’ Curiosity kindles. What’s life as a CEO really like?

‘I’m based in London and Corfu and spend about sixty per cent of my time travelling.’

‘That must be inconvenient for your wife or girlfriend.’ It just slips out.

‘What makes you think I have one?’ Alex throws me a questioning glance.

‘Well, someone like you is bound to.’

‘Someone like me? Elaborate.’

Dangerous territory, back away. ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’

‘It does. I want to know what you were going to say.’

I puff out a breath, fringe ruffling up with the expelled air. Keep it simple. ‘You know,’ I shrug casually. ‘Rich, powerful, professionally successful.’

Alex lets out a harsh laugh. ‘Is that all you think I am?’

I’m not sure what he means. ‘Isn’t it enough? They’re attractive … attributes to some women.’

‘You sound like a politically correct adviser from a dating agency.’

‘Well, what would you have me say?’ I flash. ‘Top Ten Things to Look For in a Guy?’

‘If it’s the honest answer.’

‘Fine.’ I straighten, as much as I can in the tiny seat. ‘For some women—’

‘You included?’

‘What does that matter?’

‘I’m interested,’ he shoots back, ‘humour me.’

I sigh. ‘Okay. For some women those things would be essential, but I think sharing common ground, experiences and beliefs is more important. And I’m more impressed by intelligence, ambition and a good sense of humour than power or money.’

‘Isn’t ambition the same as power?’

‘No. Ambition is about making yourself a better person, wanting to get somewhere. That place doesn’t necessarily have to be somewhere you’ll hold power. What about people who study to become teachers?’ I think of Jess. ‘They’re ambitious enough to get a degree and qualified teacher status but it’s not necessarily about working up to a head teacher post, it’s being passionate about educating children, getting them ready for life.’

‘If you say so.’ He chuckles. It’s not a kind sound. ‘Still, going back to the things you value, you sounded more like an employment agency looking for staff than a woman looking for a man.’

‘You asked for my opinion, I gave it.’ I cross my arms. ‘Besides, I’m not looking, so it doesn’t matter.’

‘My apologies, how dare I suggest it.’ He glances in the rear-view mirror, signals and changes lane. ‘We’ll talk theoretically instead. If you were looking, you’re expecting me to believe those qualities would have priority over a man having a good job and fat wallet?’

Turning to him, I open my mouth to spit out an answer. His eyes are narrowed, bitterness twisting his mouth. He’s obviously had a bad relationship, and it’s made him cynical. I can’t help wondering what happened, who she was. The woman who texted him?

Whatever. It doesn’t mean he’s entitled to make assumptions about me. Breathing in deeply, I do my best to stay calm. ‘I’d rather be with someone who respects me and supports me pursuing my goals and who’s a struggling artist, than be with someone who showers me with gifts but has a massive ego and demands complete control.’

‘Is that a fact?’ he drawls as we roll to a stop at a junction.

‘Yes!’ I sigh again. ‘Maybe we should change the subject.’

‘No, come on, I’m interested.’ He glances both ways before signalling and pulling out with a low roar of the engine. ‘Not many people are so generous with their opinions.’

Crap. Rapid back-pedalling required. ‘If I’ve spoken out of turn Mr Demetrio—’

He cuts me off with a sideways look. ‘It’s Alex, remember? And you haven’t. So, are you saying money doesn’t matter at all? If you met two men, liked them both and the only difference was one was rich and one wasn’t, you wouldn’t pick the one with the money?’

There’s no right answer. Given his cynicism, I will look like either a gold-digger or a liar.

‘See,’ he mutters, ‘you can’t deny it. You’re as motivated by money as the next woman. The only difference is some admit it.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I shoot, shaking my head. ‘And I won’t admit to something that’s not true. The money would be a bonus but it wouldn’t be the deciding factor. I’m not one of those women who go out with the intention of bagging a billionaire.’ Attempting to lighten the mood, ‘Although if I were looking, a man with the ability to buy me a few more pairs of shoes wouldn’t be completely unwelcome.’

‘So it is important then.’

‘I was joking! It’s not about the money.’ But I’m a hypocrite. Part of the reason I’m here is cold hard cash. Though it’s got no link to any attraction I feel for him.

‘If you say so.’ He accelerates and I’m pressed back into the seat. ‘Let me put it another way. If you won the lottery, you’d take it?’

‘That’s not the same and you know it,’ I retort. ‘I’d be an idiot not to claim the money … and FYI I’d probably share it with my family.’ Crossing my arms. ‘Fine, you’ve got me. In the grand scheme of things, money is important, especially when you haven’t got any. Not that you’d know anything about that. But I’m talking about being able to pay the mortgage and put food on the table, not spending thousands of pounds on one item of clothing or blowing silly amounts on lavish parties.’

Alex nods as we pull up outside the hotel, yanking the handbrake on and cutting the engine. He shifts in his seat to look at me. ‘Not all of us draw huge salaries or are stupid about spending,’ he surprises me by saying, ‘but well done, very passionately delivered.’ He searches my face for something, then the shutters come down. ‘I could almost believe you.’ Climbing gracefully from the car, he leaves me frozen in my seat, mouth hanging open.

Did he just call me a liar?