Steadying herself on his shoulder she swapped her heels for the flat, sheepskin boots. They were about a size too big but she wasn’t complaining.
“Thanks, Nick.”
“No problem.”
He turned and fled. She bit her lip and checked the screen on her phone.
I’ll call you when I get back. :-) Promise. Alex XXX
She hoped he’d be okay. He hated his parents lashing out at each other in the press. Publicity usually sent him retreating behind a wall of steely silence. Last night had been different. His barriers had come down like never before. If only she could rewind the clock and not fall asleep in his bed. What a twit!
She’d giddily tumbled into bed with Alex, a hot tangle of limbs, breath, skin. The rasp of a zip, feeling her sexy Santa dress fall to the floor, stayed fresh in her mind, even if the rest was hazy. She’d blown her budget on stockings and high heels, but not having anticipated revealing her undies to anyone, let alone Alex, they’d been on the ever-so-slightly unsightly side of things, grey from too many laundry days. Frankly her lingerie – if it qualified to be called that – had seen better days. She cringed, remembering the pause for condoms, uncertainty setting in. Having fruitlessly turned his room upside down, Alex had gone off to see if he could cadge one off a house mate. In a house shared by four guys, a stash had eventually been found. But by then, hit by a wave of embarrassment and beaten by the alcohol, she’d started drifting off to sleep. He’d held her, her hair tangled with his, her head in the curve of his neck, and they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, waking in the cold grey dawn to the realization that in a drunken frenzy they’d almost gone too far.
Except he’d kissed her again and now she was on cloud nine.
Flakes of snow swirled around her. She was having a snow-globe moment. Inside her own little bubble Nick’s words hit home. “Have a nice life.” Alex didn’t realize it yet, but as sure as lucky black cats didn’t wear white boots, the Wells twins were leaving London for good.
They wouldn’t be coming back from LA.
She’d fallen asleep and blown the only chance she’d ever have of making love to the gorgeous guy she’d been really more than a little bit in love with since the moment she’d first looked flirtily into his seductive eyes, and said, “My name’s Magenta, but my friends call me Maggie.”
Oh my giddy aunt! He’s actually on the flight!
What had possessed her when she’d accepted this last-minute styling job? Apart from itchy feet and the promise of a healthy paycheck, there was the decidedly unhealthy curiosity she still harbored over the big what-might-have-been-and-wasn’t-meant-to-be factor.
Secretly, she’d always kicked herself that she hadn’t had sex with Hot Vampire Guy when she had the chance. Frankly, she should be over all that. And she was. Really, she was.
Magenta Plumtree, fashion-stylist-on-a-mission, boarded the flight from London Heathrow to Boston clutching her cabin baggage so tight that her knuckles turned white. A British magazine had hired her to fly out and style twin celebrities, Alex and Nick Wells, in two fashion shoots scheduled to coincide with the promo for the final series of their top-of-the-ratings television show, Mercy of the Vampires. It was all very last-minute and a bit of a shock.
The flight attendant, a blonde bombshell with a candy-pink pout, checked her boarding card.
“You’ve been upgraded to Business.”
To her right, bursting at the seams, Economy buzzed with passengers stowing carry-ons.
“I have? How come?” She almost high-fived Blondie. She’d lucked in. For once. Delighted to be moving up in the world, she turned left.
Yay.
Then again. Not so yay. Of course there was a drawback. The empty seat was smack-bang next to super-sexy vampire actor Alex Wells. In this position many women would have imagined they’d died and gone to heaven. Not so Magenta. She winced. She’d braced herself for working with him in Boston. She hadn’t planned on travelling with him, or being bowled over by his fabulousness. These days he was just another celebrity clothes hanger. It was her job to pick him out some knock-out fashion items. Unusually for her she was lost for words.
He flicked her an arrogant glance up and down from behind dark glasses.
“Hey.”
She reeled. One rumble was enough to make her heart drop into her freebie, perk-of-the-job designer boots. “Hey.” Her terse echo masked intense, self-conscious attraction. With a perfunctory smile, she sat down and snapped on her seatbelt.
Big comfy seat. Masses of leg room. Nice.
They ignored each other through the spiel about life jackets and no smoking in the toilets. She picked up the emergency-procedure leaflet and gave it the benefit of her undivided attention for longer than was strictly necessary.
After take-off a star-struck flight attendant batted her eyelashes at Alex with a dose of not-so-professional allure. “Complimentary champagne, Sir?”
He removed his sunglasses. “Don’t mind if I do,” he quipped, infamous Wellsian charm much in evidence. How did he manage to pull off that cool twinkle? He turned his penetrating gaze on Magenta. “Join me?”
“No thanks.” She declined the bubbly, and the flight attendant substituted champagne with orange juice.
Alex’s eyebrows shot up. “What happened to your party-girl tendencies?”
She tried him with a couple of lame excuses. “I’m detoxing. Anyhow, alcohol and jetlag don’t mix.”
He was having none of it. “Go on. Be a devil. You used to be fun,” he joked. “A. Lot. Of. Fun.” She hadn’t seen him for donkey’s years and here he was, large as life, all flirty and fabulous. She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t about to tell him the truth, so she needed another excuse for not drinking. She could hardly claim to be a recovering alcoholic. That would be insensitive given his mother’s history of stints in rehab.
“I’ve just finished a course of antibiotics and, anyway, I’m counting calories.” She tipped her head to one side, exuding fake nonchalance.
Alex sipped from his flute. “No champagne for you, huh? That’s tough.” He checked that the flight attendant was out of earshot and whispered so she wouldn’t hear. “It’s not properly chilled. It pretty much tastes like fizzy bath water – if that’s any consolation, Maggie.”
The mini champagne bottle looked perfectly chilled. Was this Alex being considerate? She didn’t know what she’d expected from the man who’d walked away without saying goodbye, but it definitely wasn’t quips about tepid champagne.
His incendiary eyes ignited a touch paper of acute embarrassment topped off with a sprinkling of nostalgia. Her heartbeat skipped, like an awkwardly timed hiccup. She laughed, jittery. His voice was all actorly. Posh – sort of. Not marbles – more velvety, like rich, dark, melted chocolate. So much for having got over the effect he’d had on her in their student days.
He sounded kind of mid-Atlantic, half-Brit, half-American. De-lish. And altogether too smooth. What was it about that soft rumble? He made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention.
“No one’s called me Maggie since …” She stopped abruptly. Um. You did. Way back when. “… It’s Magenta now.”
“Magenta Plumtree – fashion stylist to the stars.” Did she detect a hint of cynicism?
“I wouldn’t go quite that far.” A lump formed in her throat.