Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Myles
I t’s dark, the sun just a flicker of pale gold on the horizon.
Heathrow Airport is already busy, I’m sure, beyond the quiet walls of the private lounge.
My hands clench and unclench, and I wipe them on my linen trousers for what feels like the hundredth time, sitting forward in the comfortable chair. Where the hell is she?
I check the time again. She’s not hugely late, but it’s unlike Zara to not be punctual. I wonder whether she’s got cold feet. I hope she hasn’t. I check my phone, but there’s no message.
“Excuse me, Mr Brandon.” I turn to see one of the young women from the front desk of the lounge, an expensively perfumed dream girl, all sleek black hair and dark eyes.
“But there’s someone here. She says she’s travelling with you but we wanted to make sure…
” Her brows draw together slightly, her lips pursing.
What the hell? I jump to my feet and push past her, heading for the lounge reception area.
Zara, beautiful and looking slightly bewildered, is standing there, a small shabby suitcase next to her.
She’s wearing a pale blue knee-length skirt, a white T-shirt tucked into it.
It’s more fitted than the clothes she usually wears, and I pause for a second, taken by her small waist, the full breasts and slender calves.
Fucking hell. It’s three and a half hours to Agadir, and I wonder whether I’ll make it through the flight without trying to kiss her.
“Myles?” Her voice is soft, hesitant, her brown eyes wide and worried.
“Are you all right?” I hasten towards her. If anyone has given her a hard time…
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” She looks even more worried, as if I might snap her head off. I suppose she has cause. “I was here on time, but then they made me wait at the FastTrack while they checked everything out, and then I couldn’t find the lounge, and then…”
“Is there a problem?” I say to the other woman on reception. She’s eyeing Zara’s passport with a frown.
“What?” She looks up, seeming flustered. “Oh no, Mr Brandon. Not at all. It’s just… we have to check everyone who tries to get in here. We can’t let just anyone in.” Her gaze flicks, just for a moment, to Zara’s suitcase.
“Well, you can stop checking her right now,” I snap.
“She’s with me.” I glare at the receptionist, anger sharp in my chest. So what if Zara just has one case, and it isn’t designer?
Who gives a shit? Better than someone like Katya, who would have brought at least four Louis Vuitton cases for a one-week trip.
“Of course, Mr Brandon.” The woman is all smooth professionalism again, handing Zara’s passport back to her with a smile. But I’m still pissed. How dare they look Zara up and down like that? I want to put my arm around her, kiss the frown from her soft brow. But instead, all I do is smile at her.
Her eyes widen, then she smiles back. Tentatively, but a real smile. A dimple appears in her cheek. I groan inwardly. How am I going to get through this week without screwing everything up?
“Come on,” I say. “Get yourself a drink, and some breakfast if you need it. We leave in forty-five minutes.” I nod towards the nearby breakfast buffet, a barista hovering near the coffee machine.
I grab Zara’s case and take it back to where I was sitting. A few minutes later she joins me, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a plate with several pastries.
“I brought extra,” she says in her soft voice. “In case you want any.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Curt again. But as I sit back and start scrolling through my phone, relief floods through me, warm and relaxing as water. She’s here. I glance at her, just as she glances at me.
Yeah. This is fine. It’s all going to be fine. I hope.
Zara
The interior of the private jet is quietly luxurious, all soft colours and polished wood and dim lighting.
There are several large comfortable leather chairs and, towards one end of the plane, a conference table with more chairs.
Beyond that is a bar behind which a smartly dressed flight attendant is preparing more coffee.
The surface of the conference table is inlaid with the Ocean’s Curl logo, the letters O and C fused together in different shades of blue, a curling wave echoing the curve.
I try not to gape at everything. But this is about as far from economy class to Mykonos as I can imagine. I lean back in the padded leather chair, my seatbelt still tight across my hips. We levelled off a little while ago, but I’m always a bit nervous on planes.
Myles is making me nervous, too. Again. He’s wearing tailored linen trousers in a pale colour, highlighting his long legs and lean waist. His shirt is open-necked, also linen, dark navy and slightly rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, a chunky expensive-looking watch around one wrist. He smells like summer and the beach.
I can’t stop looking at him, though I’m trying not to.
It’s why I insisted on taking my own car to the airport.
I needed time to prepare myself, to put on my office-Zara armour.
I reach into my bag, pulling out my laptop.
This is a work trip, and I need to work.
“Um, so, the car will be waiting for us at Agadir airport,” I say, opening the travel itinerary. “Are you sure you don’t want a driver?”
Myles, who is bent, arms braced, peering out one of the windows, straightens up. “No,” he says. “I prefer making my own way.”
“Fine.” I continue to scroll down the list. “We’re expected at La Coeur, where we have two apartments reserved, and then?—”
“Zara.” Myles comes and sits in the chair opposite mine, pushing my laptop closed. “I already know all this. What I want to know is more about you.”
His steel-grey eyes meet mine, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. “Me?”
The flight attendant comes over with our coffees.
She’s blonde and petite, her hair in a perfect French twist. She puts my coffee down with a smile, then places Myles’s next to him so that she has to lean over him.
She seems to take a while to do this. I raise my eyebrow, then hastily drop it.
But Myles has noticed and is grinning at me.
What the hell? At least I knew how to deal with grumpy Myles.
I’d figured that once we got to Morocco I would get him sorted out with his various appointments, make restaurant bookings and whatever else he needed, then, hopefully, be left to my own devices.
But this smiling version of Myles, apart from making my heart flutter, has me utterly confused.
Once the flight attendant is gone he leans forward. The open neck of his shirt reveals a hint of muscular chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. I try not to stare. “Have you ever been to Morocco before?”
I shake my head. “No. But I’ve always wanted to visit.”
He nods, looking pleased. “Good. Why?”
“Why… have I wanted to visit?”
He waits, his eyes on me, his mouth curving at the corner. Oh, I am not going to be able to deal with a week of this.
“It’s just always seemed like a magical place,” I say, finally, with a shrug. I don’t look at him anymore. I can’t.
“It is,” he says. “Okay. Now you can ask me a question.”
I glance at him, surprise blooming in my chest. “What?”
“That technically counts,” he says, with another grin. “But I’ll give you another chance. You sure you don’t have anything else you want to know?”
“Um…” I cast around frantically for something to say. “Oh, I know. For the meeting on Tuesday, I wanted to ask?—”
“Not work-related.” He shakes his head, stern now, but still with that flicker of a smile lurking. “Third and final chance. And then you’ll have to pay a penalty.”
I almost say “a penalty?” before realising that would be a third question. I’m not sure I want to know what the penalty would be. I gather my scattered thoughts as best I can, but all I can come up with is, “How many times have you been to Morocco?”
God. So lame.
But Myles looks thoughtful for a moment, leaning back and crossing his arms so the muscles flex.
“I don’t know, to be honest. Twenty times? At least. It’s one of my favourite places in the world.” He pauses. “I’m glad I get to show it to you.” His voice roughens for a moment, then he gets to his feet and walks away.
I stare at his broad back for a moment then, slowly, open my laptop. I start working through emails, but part of me is thinking of the look in his eyes, the heat and softening in his gaze. There’s still an answering heat in my chest. Thank God we have separate accommodation on this trip.
I remind myself of Dean and what he did to me, reaching for that crackle of heartbreak. Build up my walls, remind myself that Myles, for all that he’s being nice to me now, doesn’t seem to like me much. And that he has a girlfriend.
I need to keep my distance.