she was every bit as seductive.
Why did everything she learned about Malcolm have to be so blasted appealing?
Celia had worked during the whole helicopter ride to find a flaw in him, and the more he shared about how he’d spent his life since he left Azalea, the more she found to admire about him.
She pulled her eyes off his handsome profile as the helicopter began landing at his friend Troy Donavan’s beach house on the Florida Gulf Coast. Apparently the Robin Hood Hacker allowed choppers to land on his lawn, as well.
What an unexpected friendship. Malcolm had been so straitlaced as a teenager. Although the tabloids certainly painted him as a partying Romeo now.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about his saying he’d chosen the reform-school option for his mom rather than fighting the charge. Without question, Celia knew he’d never touched drugs. And she also knew him to be very prideful of how hard he’d worked. To swallow his pride and accept a plea bargain had to have been horribly difficult for him.
This decision to go with Malcolm to Europe grew more complicated by the second—and more enticing. What other secrets might she discover about him? What other nuances were there to the adult man he’d become?
A man who flew a helicopter as adeptly as he played the piano.
The chopper touched down lightly on the lawn with a simple kiss to the earth. The blades rotated overhead, sea grass bending with the rotor gusts. A uniformed guard opened her door and offered a hand to help her out. She snagged her floral tote bag and stepped free, the ground buzzing beneath her feet.
Before she could blink, Malcolm was at her side. His arm looped around her waist, warm and muscular, guiding her not toward the stucco beach mansion but toward a small private airstrip with a Learjet parked and waiting.
She felt as if Alice had just slipped a little farther down the rabbit hole. Her father traveled first-class, and even periodically rented a Cessna, but nothing on as grand a scale as this.
Seconds later, Malcolm palmed her waist as she stepped inside the luxury aircraft, where another couple waited in the cabin of white leather and polished brass.
A red-haired woman with freckles stood, her hand extended. “You must be Celia. I’m Hillary, Troy’s wife.”
The wife of the Robin Hood Hacker.
Hillary appeared down-to-earth, blessedly normal, wearing jeans and a T-shirt—no doubt designer given how perfectly they fit. But still, no fake boobs or platinum-bleached hair. Just genuine red hair and freckles with a natural smile.
Already, Malcolm had moved past her to shake hands with a man she recognized from newspaper articles—Troy Donavan, quirky computer mogul who’d once used those skills to breach the cyber walls of the Department of Defense.
She overheard Malcolm’s familiar Southern drawl. “Sorry we’re late. The drive out took us longer than we expected.”
“No worries, brother.” Troy led him to a row of computer screens at a corner-office console in the tricked-out jet. “I’ll give you a quick update while my wife keeps our lovely guest occupied.”
Her eyes lingered on the broad expanse of Malcolm’s shoulders, the strong column of his neck exposed as he leaned over the computer.
Hillary touched her lightly on the arm to regain her attention and gestured to a seat. “You look shell-shocked. I’m guessing he didn’t take much time to explain. But covering his trail from the press, the fans and whoever has been bothering you had to happen fast.”
Celia sank onto the leather sofa and patted along the seat for the belt. They were leaving now? No packing, no passports? No telling her friends … What the hell had she agreed to?
Her gaze tracked back to Malcolm. Who was this man she’d just agreed to leave the country with?
Hillary sat beside her. “We’ve heard a lot about you from Malcolm.”
She looked up quickly, warily. “What did he say?”
“That you’re old friends and you’re having trouble with a stalker. So he’s helping you out.”
“He is. I’m lucky,” she conceded to Hillary and herself just as the Learjet engines buzzed to life.
The captain’s voice piped over the intercom, welcoming them all. All four of them. Not just Malcolm’s friend, but Donavan’s wife, as well. She hadn’t expected Hillary to come along. Did the woman’s presence here—the whole “group” outing—mean the romantic signals she’d been getting from Malcolm were wrong?
No wonder he hadn’t acted on the kiss.
She should be grateful. The pressure was off since he wouldn’t be tempting her. She could tamp down the crazy desire to jump his bones and just chalk it up to nostalgia. She kept right on repeating that to herself as they climbed into the sky, heading for the first stop on Malcolm’s European tour.
Except, no matter how many times she told herself otherwise, she couldn’t deny the truth. She wanted more, more of Malcolm’s kisses. More of him.
And there wasn’t a chance in hell she could afford to act on that desire.
The trip across the Atlantic to France passed in a blur for Celia as the time change plunged them into the night. But then her flights usually consisted of delayed connections, long layovers and lost baggage, followed by finding a cab in the heat, rain or snow.
Thanks to Malcolm’s influence, she’d experienced superstar posh luxury and speed. Even sending in her grades had seemed surreal as she’d sat at a decked-out business center on the plane, with a cabin steward bringing her tea and fruit.
Now the Learjet was parking at the terminal at the Paris–Charles de Gaulle Airport, the first stop on Malcolm’s European tour—with his friends along.
Surprisingly, though, she’d enjoyed getting to know Hillary during the flight, and bottom line, she should be grateful for the distraction. Distraction? Okay, the chaperone who would help Celia hold strong in her resolve not to plaster herself against Malcolm again in some impulsive moment.
And there were at least a few hundred other chaper-ones outside waiting under the halo of halogen lights. She glided her fingers down the glass of the window, showcasing legions of fans waving signs that were both handmade and professional.
I heart Malcolm.
Marry me.
Je t’aime.
Police and airport guards formed a human wall between the fans and the carpet being rolled out to the Learjet. Screaming, crying females threw flowers and …
Panties? Ew. Gross.
The gentle hum of the plane stopped, and everyone unbuckled as the steward opened the door. Noise swelled inward, high-pitched cheers, squeals and screams. The words jumbled together, but their adoring enthusiasm for Malcolm Douglas was unmistakable. He was this generation’s Harry Connick Jr. and Michael Bublé—times ten.
Chuckling, Troy scooped up a fedora and dropped it on his head. “Dude, I think there’s a woman out there who wants you to autograph her breasts.”
Malcolm scowled, shrugging on a blue jacket with his jeans and button-down. “We’ll just have to tell her I forgot my marker.”
Hillary held up her leather portfolio and said with a wicked glint in her eyes, “I’m sure I have one in here you could borrow.”
“Not funny.” Malcolm smiled tightly.
Celia agreed. The thought of women climbing all over him made her ill.
Troy clapped