a serious case of wanderlust, he knew pointless queues were a necessary evil of air travel. But he’d had a six a.m. wake-up call, despite being up till two at his hotel to meet a deadline on a piece for Time magazine, to allow for the queue at security—which still loomed large, and no doubt even longer, in his future. So this sodding queue was above and beyond the call of duty.
Halle strode through one of the terminal’s revolving doors, followed by a mini entourage that consisted of a woman talking on her smartphone and an older man pushing a trolley with far too many suitcases on it. Luke’s boot stopped in mid-tap, as did the dictation in his head of his letter of complaint to the moron who thought two measly bag-drop staff was enough.
From the parade of double takes that followed Halle and her mini entourage through the terminal, it was clear several people recognised her. No one approached her, though. Not surprising, given those bugger-off vibes she was radiating with every crisp, purposeful stride.
She looked immaculate, and invincible, her hair swept up in a style that left her face bare, but for the few teasing tendrils dangling down her neck. The intimidating light blue power suit and heels were probably some pricey designer brand, a matching set to the outfit she’d worn in Paris. The hum of attraction kicked off in his crotch, annoying him the same way it had when he’d swung round at her gasp in Café Hugo.
Ruthlessly coiffured and expertly styled dominatrix types were not his thing. He preferred a woman who didn’t look as if she were about to conquer Poland. But that hadn’t stopped him having to stifle all sorts of inappropriate urges while sitting opposite her in Hugo’s, mostly involving plucking the pins out of her hairdo and watching the honey-blonde curls bounce off her shoulders.
Funny to think how sunny and unassuming she’d been when they were kids. Young and open and ridiculously naive. Of course, she’d been sixteen going on twenty then, and an exceptionally bad judge of character. Or she wouldn’t have attempted to hand him her heart on a platter.
Halle’s brows rose as she spotted him, but her gaze remained cool and impersonal.
The composed assessment should have been a welcome relief from the radioactive glare she’d lasered at him three weeks ago over croissants and millefeuille. But it felt more like an anticlimax.
He’d been expecting fireworks. Had prepared for them, ready to offer her a quick apology for what had happened sixteen years ago, thus knocking the hefty chip she still appeared to be carrying around off her shoulder.
The blank look wrong-footed him.
‘Hi, Hal.’ The tension in his shoulders relaxed despite his disappointment. At least she’d shown up. ‘You made it.’
‘I made you a promise. And I keep my promises.’
Right. ‘Good thing I saved you a place in the queue, then,’ he said, deflecting the deliberate dig with a certain amount of gratification.
Maybe not fireworks, then, but definitely a sparkler or two. Sparklers he could work with.
‘Aren’t we in business class?’
Her proprietary question lit a few sparklers of his own. ‘This is the business queue. The economy one stretches all the way to Madagascar. I guess they didn’t get the memo that business people don’t queue.’ Or celebrities, apparently.
‘Mel, could you go over to the first-class check-in and see if we can arrange an upgrade?’ she instructed the woman beside her.
The perky assistant nodded and headed for the empty first-class desk. The old guy followed suit with Halle’s bags, leaving them alone—if you didn’t count the ten thousand people in the queue.
‘You sure you want to waste an extra five grand just to avoid a queue?’ he asked, even though he guessed she probably never travelled anything but first now.
The thought lit another sparkler.
‘I was up last night until one trying to design a cake decoration inspired by free condoms that didn’t actually involve making little foil packets out of modelling paste. So yes, the five grand is well worth it. I need to sleep on this flight.’
They did beds in business. The business class flights he’d paid for out of his own pocket so he could get his apology over and done with. But he refused to let her snotty attitude or the juvenile reaction in his groin triggered by the word ‘condoms’ get to him. ‘Sounds tasteful, what’s the cake for, a stag do?’
‘You’d think, but no,’ she said cryptically.
The assistant returned looking pleased with herself. ‘I’ve got you an upgrade to first. Derek’s loading the bags.’
‘Wonderful, thanks, Mel.’ Halle turned back to him, her relief palpable for a second, before she covered it with a polite smile. ‘I guess I’ll see you in Atlanta.’
He frowned after her as she marched off to the first-class check-in.
OK, what was that about? Because the hairs on the back of his neck were going haywire, a sure sign he’d been played.
He did what he always did when his journalistic radar was telling him a source wasn’t being entirely truthful. He examined the evidence.
Halle had always been super frugal when they had been together. Pinching every penny—especially the ones they didn’t have. And while she had money now, probably more money than she knew what to do with, Lizzie frequently moaned about her mum’s penny-pinching ways. So splashing the cash still wasn’t her style. Why, then, had she bumped herself up to first, when she could sleep just as easily in business without paying five grand for the privilege?
He watched Halle say goodbye to her crew and head towards the departure gates. She didn’t look back at him. His journalistic radar went into meltdown.
Son of a bitch. In business she’d be next to him.
Was that it? She was still trying to stonewall him?
Bugger that. He swung his leather holdall over his shoulder and crossed to the first-class desk. He wasn’t into unnecessary expenditure, either, but she’d spent sixteen years not talking to him. Five grand didn’t seem like too much to pay to stop her buying him off for another ten hours.
Here endeth the silent treatment.
Ushered through the boarding gate, Halle clutched her carry-on luggage, stocked with anti-nausea medication, antacids and the Xanax—which she’d dosed up on in the car on her way to the airport.
She was over Luke. She just wasn’t over him enough to spend nine hours and forty minutes in a plane freaking out while he sat beside her being composed and competent and annoyingly buff.
The quest for closure could wait until she was good and ready to deal with it.
And after the hours she’d put in last night finishing off the Kane redesign, the five grand it had cost her for ten extra hours of karma was a totally justifiable expense.
Especially as the Xanax didn’t appear to be working yet. Which had to explain why spotting Luke standing in the bag-drop queue in battered jeans and a leather jacket, with his hair dishevelled and his jaw covered in stubble, had made her body hum as if she’d been plugged into an electric socket.
