Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ROMAN
W ith a roar of its engines, my jet hurtles down the runway, the nose lifting as it angles skyward.
Chloe sits opposite me, her face lit up as she watches out the window. Her long, moonlit-blond hair is in loose waves and she’s wearing a thin sweatshirt that’s almost slipping off one delicate shoulder. When she walked up the stairs to the plane in front of me, her heart-shaped ass in that pair of snug jeans had me curling my fingers into fists to stop myself from reaching out and touching.
Dragging my gaze away from her now, I turn to my laptop so I can go over the talking points that she put together for my keynote speech. Less than five minutes later, I find myself distracted. When my intoxicating assistant is sitting opposite me, stealing my attention, it’s fucking hard to concentrate on the dry details regarding the King Group’s expansion into sustainable developments and the share price increase we’ve obtained while fulfilling our global corporate responsibility.
She’s examining the cabin now, fingers running over the soft leather of her chair’s armrests.
I can’t resist asking. “This isn’t your first time on a plane, is it?”
She narrows her eyes a little. “I’ve been on planes before. Just not one like this. And not going overseas.”
“Would you like a drink? It might help you settle.”
She cocks her head. “Are you going to have one?”
We’ll have a long day tomorrow. If it will help her relax and sleep through the night, I’ll have a drink with her. “I’ll join you.” I press the call button, and Carrie, our flight attendant, glides into the cabin.
“Can I get you something, Mr. King?”
Her smile is professional, as it should be. When I took over as CEO, I quickly requested new staff for the jet. Unsurprisingly, Dad’s previous staff had been hired for more than their customer service skills.
“I’ll have a whiskey, and Miss Callahan will have a…” I raise a brow at her.
She touches the tip of her tongue to her top lip, sending a troubling ripple of lust through me. “Maybe I should have one of those too. Whiskey is supposed to be good for sleep, right?”
I suppress a smile. “It can be. Have you had much whiskey before?” A sleepy Chloe I can deal with. A tipsy Chloe might be tempting fate.
“No.” She studies me for a minute, those pretty eyes of hers dropping to my mouth, then my chest, before she turns to Carrie and smiles. “Can I have a chamomile tea, please?”
With a nod and a smile, Carrie heads for the galley.
“No whiskey, then?”
Chloe blinks, her cheeks turning pink. “I think maybe alcohol isn’t a good idea after all.”
I guess I wasn’t the only one concerned that the whiskey might blur the lines we’ve redrawn. But regardless of the words we’ve said, the promises we’ve made to forget, the memory of the night she watched me simmers in the air between us.
I should go back to work, but I’m too distracted by her proximity, so I close my laptop. “Does your dad mainly paint cityscapes?”
She blinks at me, obviously not expecting the question. “Yes. He has a real passion for buildings. Not constructing them”—she flashes me one of her pretty, genuine smiles—“but capturing their beauty. Their personalities. He loves showing how the city changes from day to day, hour to hour.” Her voice softens, coloring with pride. “Tourists used to buy his work as souvenirs. Locals bought it because they loved seeing the city they call home portrayed in new and beautiful ways.”
Her eyes are bright, her expression animated. I want to keep her talking. Keep her looking at me like that. “I’d like to see more of his work sometime.”
She nods, but her happiness dims a little. “When he couldn’t paint any longer, he had to sell most of them off, so he only has a few left.”
“It must be hard, not being able to do what he loves.”
“It is,” she says, clasping her hands in her lap. “But I’m hopeful that with this new treatment, he can eventually paint again, even if it’s just a little bit.”
“You said he had his first infusion on the weekend?”
Her shoulders fall a fraction. “He did. It was a little rough. They do the first one slowly to make sure there aren’t any adverse reactions, so we were at the clinic for a few hours. And he had a few flu-like symptoms after. Apparently, that’s normal.” She grimaces. “I’m glad Carol was there. She’s cared for someone with RA before, so she was familiar with the process and put us at ease.”
Carrie returns, causing us to pause our conversation. She holds my whiskey out to me, then turns to Chloe and passes her a cup with steam drifting up from it. She looks between us. “Is there anything else I can get you?”
Chloe shakes her head.
“That will be all. Thanks, Carrie,” I say.
As she returns to the front of the plane, Chloe lifts her cup to her mouth, blowing delicately on the liquid before taking a small sip.
Despite myself, I’m captivated by her lips—their softness, the delicate curve as they press against the rim of the cup. I take a deep swallow of my own drink, the burn sliding down my throat as I close my eyes, using it as a distraction. “So the new treatment will reverse his condition?”
“It can’t be reversed,” she says. “But it can go into remission. Theoretically, if we can minimize flare-ups and get his symptoms under control, that will prevent permanent damage to his joints. Once the inflammation is reduced, he might even be able to hold a paintbrush without pain.”
“How long will it take to know if it’s working?”
“His doctor said we could expect initial improvements a few weeks after the first infusion, and then hopefully significant improvements two to three months after. But to be honest”—her expression brightens even more—“I’ve noticed a difference in him even over the last few days. He gets along with Carol, and I think having someone to keep him company and take care of him through the day, not just reluctantly drop in on him, has cheered him up a lot.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
A soft, sweet smile touches her lips. “I know I’ve said it before, but thank you.”
It’s dangerous, the way she’s looking at me. It makes me want more. More of her smiles. More of her openness. More of her scent, her touch. All the things I can’t have. The things I shouldn’t want to take.
But I fucking do.
“You’re welcome,” I say, my tone brusquer than I intend. “But as I said, it makes good business sense.”
Her brows twitch upward. “I understand that.” She takes a sip of her tea, turning her face toward the window again.
Determined to busy myself with work, I take another sip of whiskey and shift in my seat.
Before I can open my laptop, though, she asks, “I assume you’ve been to France before?”
“Many times.”
“Just for business, or holidays as well?”
“These days just for business. When I was a child, my family would often visit Paris, or we’d go to the South of France for the summer.”
“That must have been nice.” Her comment is innocent, and the assumption is one most people would make.
In reality, my memories of our time in France are not ones I’m fond of.
“My brothers and I managed to have some fun, mainly when our nanny was distracted.”
Her brow creases. “Your parents weren’t with you?”
I let out a dark chuckle. “They were, but we barely saw them. Dad was busy screwing his way through whatever pretty young things he could seduce, and Mom spent most of her time in the spa or at the bar.”
Chloe’s eyes fill with sympathy, immediately making me regret my words.
“I’m so sorry.”
Dammit. Why did I open my mouth and tell her that? I never fucking share those details with anyone who works for me. With anyone at all, except my brothers on occasion, since they were there with me.
“We were rich kids vacationing in France. Not many would consider that we need sympathy.”
She tilts her head. “There are some things money can’t make up for.” Then her mouth quirks up. “I think we’ve had this discussion before.”
Ah, yes. The car ride back from the meeting with Haverscombe. Her tone is light, thank fuck, as if she’s using the memory to steer the conversation away from talk of my family.
“We have.” I arch a brow at her. “I believe we agreed to disagree.”
She laughs, and the sound goes straight to my gut. “Something like that.” Yawning, she lifts her arms above her head and stretches.
The move causes her breasts to press against the fabric of her sweatshirt, and the hem rises just enough to reveal a sliver of creamy skin. Skin that my fingers itch to stroke. I grit my teeth. All too conscious of the bedroom at the back of the plane.
“I think I might be able to get some sleep,” she says, poking at the arm of the chair she’s sitting in. “These recline, don’t they?”
“They do, but you’re better off lying down in a real bed. There’s one back there,” I say, jerking my chin in the direction of the bedroom.
Her eyes widen. “There is?”
“A big, comfortable one,” I tell her, fighting a smirk at the awe in her expression. “You should go lie down. Get some decent rest. We’ll hit the ground running. You won’t be able to give in to jet lag.”
She shakes her head. “Then you should be the one to use the bed. I’m happy to sleep here.”
“That’s not going to happen. I doubt I’ll sleep more than a few hours anyway. I can work out here and grab a quick nap before we land.”
“Roman, I’m your assistant. I can’t sleep in your bed.”
She didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but her words have my mind imagining all the things she could do in my bed that don’t involve sleeping.
By the way her cheeks flush, her mind obviously went to the same place. “I mean, you’re the CEO. It’s your plane. You should have the bed.”
I’m still caught up in the forbidden images her words have conjured. If I don’t put some space between us now, there’s a chance I’ll do something we’ll both regret. Leaning forward, I let my expression turn serious. “Chloe. If you don’t climb into my bed of your own free will. I’ll throw you over my shoulder and put you in there myself.”
Her lips part, then she swallows hard. Fuck. That only created more vivid images. “And if I try to escape?” Her voice is soft and husky.
We’re skirting a line that’s already too fuzzy. I don’t know whether it’s good or bad that I’m not the only one that’s struggling to remember why this is a terrible idea.
I can’t help but glance at her mouth before I force myself to look her in the eye. “I might just have to tie you down.” The mental image is enough to send a lick of fire blazing through me.
With a ragged breath, she closes her eyes, her lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. When she pushes out of her chair, her nipples have stiffened to hard little points, clearly visible through her sweatshirt, and all I can think about is tasting them.
“I appreciate you letting me take the bed,” she says, her voice slightly uneven. “I think I could use the rest.”
I nod, my muscles tight with the restraint it takes not to reach out and drag her to me. It’s better for both of us if she’s out of sight for the next few hours. But as she passes me on the way to the back of the plane, I can’t help but clasp her wrist. Her breath catches as she looks down at where I’m touching her.
Not letting myself think too hard about what I’m doing, I stroke her delicate skin with my thumb, relishing the flutter of her pulse. “Sleep well.”
Before she has a chance to respond, I let her go and turn back to my laptop. She hesitates for a moment, frozen beside me, but then, with a jolt, she turns and walks away.
The tension doesn’t leave my body until the door clicks closed behind her.