I just hired Dougal and his team to augment my security staff. I just received another threatening letter. This one targeting my air fleet.”
“Oh?” The general canted his head.
“I’ve started my own private air marshal service, sir,” Dougal explained.
“Ah.” Miller nodded. “Applying the lessons you learned about security after that mess in Germany.”
Was that a personal dig? The man’s tone made Dougal squirm in memory over what had happened. “Yes. And I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that Eros Air stays safe.”
“See that you do,” Miller said curtly. “See that you do.”
“HEY, HANDSOME, YOU CAN SHAKE your spear over here anytime you want.”
In light of that sexy remark, Dougal forced himself not to roll his eyes as a group of women filed onto the Bombardier CRJ200, chatting, giggling and finding their seats. The majority of them were young, rich and attractive. The red-haired woman who’d cracked the suggestive comment briefly met his gaze, then lowered her eyelashes, licked her lips and murmured, “Yummm-o,” before moving down the aisle.
It didn’t help matters that Dougal was dressed like Joseph Fiennes from Shakespeare in Love right down to the artsy, beatnik beard he was itching to shave.
After all, this was Eros Airlines and Fantasy Adventure Vacations and Taylor’s company’s catch phrase was Something Sexy in the Air. Other than the pilot and copilot, who were both pushing sixty, Dougal was the only male employee aboard. He felt like the last cut of prime beef in the meat market on the Fourth of July.
He was going to have to talk to Taylor. The puffy-sleeved shirt and skintight leather breeches were bad enough, but the facial hair simply had to go. Resisting the urge to scratch his jaw, Dougal greeted each guest with the requisite smile, welcoming them aboard with an affected British accent. It was going to be a long two weeks.
Look at the side benefits. You stand an excellent chance of getting laid.
Except he and his men had signed a contract with a morality clause. While they were encouraged to flirt with the guests, sexual contact was strictly prohibited. Dougal watched a provocative young woman with a great ass wiggle away and he hissed out his breath.
Damn that morality clause.
That was the moment Dougal spotted her.
The last one to board.
The one who didn’t belong.
She stood out like a single red rose in a field full of dandelions, all genteel and otherworldly, an escapee from the pages of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. He half expected to see unicorns and songbirds and butterflies trailing after her.
Her hair was raven’s-wing black, her skin pure alabaster, her eyes a stunning shade of ice-floe blue. She must be wearing contact lenses; no one’s eyes were that color naturally. She was dressed in a butter-yellow sundress made out of some soft, frothy material that caused his mouth to water. Dougal could taste the sugar-coated marshmallow bunnies and chickens his mother had put in his Easter basket when he was a kid.
Unbidden, he found himself imagining what she looked like underneath that springtime sundress. Did she have on white cotton panties with a sensible underwire bra? Or would he find a delightful surprise? Maybe a wicked scarlet bustier and G-string panties?
Dougal tilted his head. No, he decided. Pink satin tap pants and a matching camisole. Sweet yet sassy. A good girl longing for adventure but nervous about reaching out and grabbing what she desired.
And yet it was more than her ethereal beauty that set her apart from the others, and Dougal was trained to notice subtle differences. It was the serious, “all-business” slant to her slender shoulders and the determined set to her chin, as if she had something to prove. It was the perceptive expression in her eyes, the purposeful way she moved and the manner in which she was sizing him up just as intensely as he was measuring her.
No mere vacationer, this one. Not a woman simply looking for a good time. This enigmatic lady had an agenda.
Alarm bells went off in his head. Until he knew exactly what her agenda was, Dougal was keeping a close eye on her.
Another thing that didn’t fit—she was traveling solo. Everyone else on the vacation had traveling companions, but this mysterious miss appeared to be all alone. No doting husband or fiancé or boyfriend at her elbow. No best buddy yapping her ear off. No mother or sister or cousin.
Perhaps she also worked for Eros, maybe she was an actress paid to help set the stage for the Romance of Britannia tour the group was embarking upon and it was her first day on the job. If you put her in historical garb along the lines of the ridiculous outfit he’d been forced to wear, she’d be a shoo-in.
Except that Taylor hadn’t told him about any new employees joining the group, and he’d made it quite clear that he was to be kept in the loop regarding anything to do with passenger safety. Odd, though, that while his brain and experience were warning him to watch out for her, his gut was telling him something startling and stupid.
She’s the one you’ve been waiting for.
Why the hell was he giving himself mixed messages? The last time this had happened he’d ended up with a bullet in his thigh.
The woman reached the top step of the metal mobile stairs and their eyes met. Quickly she glanced at his outfit and when her gaze found his again, a slight grin tipped her lips. She was laughing at him.
He cocked an eyebrow, gave her his best Joe Cool expression and stretched out his hand. “Welcome to Eros Airlines, where your pleasure is our only concern.”
The greeting might have been prescribed, but the emphasis was all his. Dougal didn’t know why he extended his hand as she stepped into the cabin. He hadn’t shaken any of the other women’s hands. Impulse motivated. That bothered him because he struggled so hard to control his impulses.
For the longest moment she said nothing, merely stood there staring at his outstretched hand. It was damned unnerving.
“Hello,” she murmured in a husky, breathy voice, and then turned her back on him and started down the aisle.
“Wait,” he said and touched her shoulder, stopping her. Hold up, you ’re coming on too strong. You don’t want to blow your cover. “What’s your name?”
She turned back, raised an eyebrow. “My name?”
Why was she being so cryptic? Did she have something to hide or was he too hypervigilant?
“For our exemplary customer service.” He blurted the first excuse that came into his head and manufactured what he hoped was an earnest smile. “We didn’t earn our five-star rating by calling our guests ‘Hey You.’”
There it was again, that sly, amused grin, as if she found him extremely comical. “I’m Roxanne Stanley. But my friends call me Roxie.”
“Roxie.” He extended his hand again.
“You’re assuming we’re going to be friends.”
“Not assuming, just hoping.”
The minute their palms touched, a shudder shot straight down his spine. His stomach squeezed and his balls pulled up tight against his body and he was just…rocked.
The intensity of his reaction disturbed him. Resolutely he shook off the feeling. By nature he was a guarded man. It was the way he’d been born—cautious, cagey, always on the lookout for trouble, seeing the world though the eyes of a troubleshooter. Life circumstances had added to his innate wall, one emotional brick at a time. The one time he’d opened himself up, let down his guard, chipped a few bricks off the wall and—wham!
His old bullet wound ached at the thought. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
“And