“A pimp?”
“Do you see me laughing?” she asked frostily. “You’re not funny.”
“You’ve never had a sense of humor,” I said, pounding the button to hurry the elevator along.
“Perry McDougall is the top expert in Regency and Georgian-”
“Wait, you’re working for Perry McDougall?”
“Yes,” she said smugly, apparently mistaking my horror for admiration. “He specifically requested me to be his assistant this week.”
I was speechless. Knowing Perry actually thought this Goth twit was capable of even a smidge of competence in the workplace lowered my estimation of Perry even further, if that was possible.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she said.
“Wowie?”
She smiled tightly. “You’re just jealous.”
“Better not screw up,” I said. “I’ve heard that Perry stuffs incompetent assistants into his haggis and eats them for breakfast.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“I’m just telling you what I heard.” The elevator doors opened and I gratefully walked inside alone.
“I’m warning you right now,” she said, slapping her hand against the side of the door to keep it from closing. “Stay out of my way.”
I held up both hands in surrender. “I’m trying, but you can’t seem to let me go.”
“Bitch,” she said viciously.
“Ouch,” I said as the doors closed. I couldn’t believe I’d run into her before I’d had time to recover from jet lag. I sagged against the wall as the lift climbed to the third floor-second floor, to those in the UK -and dropped me off.
I’d requested the lowest floor available for two reasons. First, I could always take the stairs if the lifts were too busy, as they invariably were during a crowded event like the book festival. And second, living in San Francisco had given me a healthy respect for earthquakes. The last one I went through wasn’t even that powerful, but my sixth-floor loft apartment had felt like it would topple over if the rumbling and shaking had lasted much longer. I had no idea when the last earthquake had hit Scotland, if ever, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
A housekeeping cart was set up next door to my room and a young blond maid in uniform was knocking on the door.
“Housekeeping,” she announced in a chirpy, high-pitched accent.
I was thankful she was turned away from me, because she seemed like the friendly sort and I was no longer capable of making small talk. I opened the door to my room, slipped the Do Not Disturb sign to the outside of the door, then shuffled inside, kicked off my shoes, set the alarm and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
Four hours later, the alarm woke me up. I was disoriented and groggy but I knew I needed to get up right then or I’d sleep for another twenty-four hours. I hated jet lag, and the beers hadn’t helped my cause, but if I had it to do over again, I would’ve imbibed anyway.
I turned the spigot in the shower and was shocked to see a healthy stream of water pour down. I’d been steeling myself for the usual dribs and drabs of British showers, but now I hopped in and almost sighed with pleasure. The warm water felt wonderful, and, unbidden, the events of much earlier that day flashed through my mind.
I’d boarded the plane in San Francisco and taken my seat in first class. I’d never flown in the first-class section before, so I’d felt a little self-conscious. But now that I had some extra money, thanks to Abraham, I’d decided to live large and upgrade.
Settling into the wide leather seat, I’d pulled a magazine out of my bag and shoved the bag under the seat in front of me. The cheerful flight attendant asked me if I would like coffee, tea, juice or champagne, plus a croissant or muffin. I placed my order for coffee with cream and she brought it in a real cup and saucer. With real cream in a porcelain creamer.
Then she handed me a menu and asked me to select my breakfast, which would be served once we were in the air.
Okay, I’ll say it: First class is really nice. Besides all the amenities and great seats, the flight attendants are a lot perkier.
“Ah, you’ve beaten me to it, I see,” said a man with a British accent. I would’ve known that smooth voice anywhere.
Derek Stone? Here? On my plane? Impossible.
I looked up and stared into his gorgeous blue-eyed gaze. I had to stifle a ridiculously immature sigh.
“Don’t you look fresh and pretty?” he said. The simple words sounded unbelievably sexy when spoken in that debonair British accent of his. I’d managed to grow rather fond of that accent during Abraham’s murder investigation. Despite the fact that Derek had first accused me of the crime, he’d changed his tune and we’d become quite friendly by the time the killer’s identity was discovered.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” I said.
He grinned. “There’s that little ray of sunshine I’ve missed so much.”
I felt my cheeks redden. “Sorry, it’s still a little early and you’ve caught me by surprise.” To say the least.
“I know, so I forgive you your pique.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“You’re welcome.” He threw his coat over the seat, then opened his briefcase. “Won’t we have a lovely flight together.”
“You’re sitting here?”
“I most certainly am,” he said with an amused smile. He pulled a newspaper out of the briefcase, then stowed the case and his coat in the overhead luggage compartment and sat down next to me.
The flight attendant hurried over and Derek ordered coffee, which she brought immediately.
I continued to stare stupidly at him. Despite the aroma of freshly roasted coffee, it was Derek’s scent that permeated my brain. I imagined a rain-washed forest mixed with spicy citrus and a hint of-oh, dear God-leather. Was I really going to have to fly halfway around the world with those smells assaulting me every time I inhaled? I wanted to bury my face in his soft wool sweater. He was the sexiest, most masculine creature I’d ever met. And the most annoying. What was wrong with me?
“Isn’t this cozy?” he said, grinning as though he could read my admittedly transparent mind.
“You could’ve warned me we’d be on the same flight.”
“And deny myself the pleasure of seeing your expression of stunned joy? Never.”
“I plan to sleep for the next eight hours or so.”
“Cozier and cozier,” he murmured.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant cleared away the coffee service and the plane pulled away from the gate. Derek grabbed my hand and held it securely as we taxied down the runway.
“I’m not a nervous flier,” I said.
He shifted closer so we were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, then gazed into my eyes. “I am.”
I shut off the shower and just as sternly shut off the memories. Grabbing a towel from the wonderfully warm towel rack, I dried off. I pulled a can of Pepsi from the minibar and popped it open, hoping the caffeine would help perk up my system. I blew my hair dry, put on some makeup and dressed for the chilly evening outdoors in warm tights, jeans, boots and my short down jacket.
I left my room and stepped into the empty lift to go downstairs. Despite much mental protesting, my recalcitrant mind dragged me back to earlier that day.
We landed at Heathrow and disembarked. Derek and I walked down the breezeway toward customs, holding hands. I was slightly disoriented from the flight but happy and laughing at his droll commentary. When we reached the long line, he wished me good luck at the book fair, then warmly kissed my cheek and said good-bye. A British citizen, he didn’t have to wait in the long passport section with us poor tourists. I waved as he walked away, then watched him stop, think for a moment and turn back.
“This is unacceptable,” he said as he came up close, tugged me even closer and kissed me for real. My brain shut down and my senses took over. All I could feel was heat, pressure, electricity. The kiss was hot, thorough, openmouthed. My heart stumbled in my chest as I dropped my bag and wrapped my arms around him.