clicked. The sound came from Emma’s direction. He glanced her way.
She held on to the barf bag with one hand and a wipe with the other. Her hands shook. Her face looked deathly white.
AJ’s chest tightened. He needed to do something. “I’ll call Camille.”
“I’m fine.” Emma’s words sounded strangled. She stared at her lap.
“You need help.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, washed her face, then tossed the wipe into the barf bag. “I’m doing better.”
Emma removed another wipe from her bag and cleaned her hands. No hesitation, no wasted movement, no hunching her shoulders trying to disappear.
“You’re doing great under the circumstances,” he said.
Her self-sufficiency and resiliency intrigued AJ. She was no damsel in distress waiting to be rescued by a handsome prince. Not that he was a prince. More like a black knight or the devil himself, according to his father. “But please let Camille assist you. That’s her job.”
“My job is to assist you, not cause anyone extra work.”
AJ studied the woman. Emma Markwell was not unattractive, in spite of her pallor. He would call her...unfinished, an artist’s sketch on a piece of canvas waiting to be painted. Her braided hair accentuated her heart-shaped face and clear complexion. Smart-girl glasses hid a pair of wide-set bluish-gray eyes and rested on a straight, pert nose. Tight lines hovered at the corner of her full lips.
Of course they did. She’d thrown up breakfast. But the way she handled herself impressed him. AJ had judged her too quickly and she was earning his respect now. He’d gotten seasick on a boat when he was younger and not handled himself nearly as well. Maybe she was up for the job.
A woman who dressed practically would be a refreshing change from stilettos and tight pencil skirts. The nanny was pretty. If Emma unbraided her brown hair and wore makeup to highlight her cheekbones and lips, she could be beautiful. She lacked the sophistication and worldliness of most women he knew, but a nanny didn’t need to dress to impress and show off flawless beauty. He imagined that Emma’s fresh young face and prim appearance earned her more jobs than looking like a sexy supermodel. She might not be a high-flying businesswoman, actress or socialite, but she reminded him of the women in his family—down-to-earth, practical, strong. So far she’d been less nosy than his grandmother, mom or sisters. He hoped Emma’s lack of interest in his personal life continued.
She tucked another wipe into the airsickness bag, folded the ends, then secured the flap with wired tabs.
Competent and capable. Resilient with an underlying toughness. Those traits would serve her well.
He wondered if she’d been disappointed by someone she loved. Perhaps someone she’d trusted had failed her. AJ’s skill at assessing staff had been key to his success, and he understood her qualities from his own experience. Setbacks made you stronger, if you didn’t allow them to win. And he knew how to help her. By putting what she needed within reach.
“It’s obvious you’re fine, but is there anything Camille can bring you? A glass of water? Ginger ale?”
Pink tinged Emma’s cheeks, the blush bringing much-needed color to her face. “No, thanks. The plane’s no longer climbing. I’m going to go to the lavatory and put myself back together.”
She sounded confident, but she hadn’t looked him in the eye since being sick. She might not be as in control as she appeared. “The bathroom is at the front of the jet.”
Emma’s gaze met his. Her vulnerability would have knocked him flat on his ass if he were standing. She was twenty-six, the same age as Libby, but Emma looked younger, like a naive college freshman away from home for the first time.
A protective instinct welled inside him. “Em...”
“Thank you, Mr. Cole.”
Her polite tone jerked him back to reality. She didn’t want pity. But he wasn’t offering that.
She unbuckled her seat belt. He did the same. “Don’t feel bad. Libby warned me you didn’t like flying. I’m assuming she spoke with Camille about adding airsickness bags to the seats.”
“I appreciate Libby’s foresight. She’s a good friend who knows me well. I’ll do my best to fill her shoes. In spite of the past few minutes, I’m up to the task.” Emma stood. She placed the strap of her large purse over her shoulder and held on to the barf bag. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
AJ jumped to his feet. She walked past him toward the front of the plane. His gaze followed, zeroing in on the sway of her hips and the purse bouncing against her thigh. Nice. Feminine. Sexy.
Whoa. What was he thinking? He didn’t want anything to do with Emma except to comfort and reassure her. He considered employees assets, efficient resources, not playthings. Besides, she reminded him of the girls back in Haley’s Bay, rather than the glamorous women he dated in Seattle, San Francisco or wherever else he might be working. The next-door neighbor types weren’t the kind of women he was attracted to now. Not that he found Emma...okay, he found her attractive, which surprised him.
With a towel in hand, Camille stood next to his seat. “Emma said she was sick.”
“Yes, but remarkably neat about it.”
Camille checked the seat and floor anyway. “Libby was right.”
“She usually is.” He glanced toward the front of the plane. “Make sure Emma is okay.”
“Of course.”
The cat screeched.
Camille shook her head. “Not your typical uneventful flight.”
“No.”
Things might not be uneventful until AJ was back home in Seattle. Five days. Five days until his visit would be over. Five days until he would say goodbye to Haley’s Bay for another decade. He couldn’t wait.
* * *
Emma couldn’t wait to get off this airplane. Hitting rock bottom less than fifteen minutes after meeting a new boss had to be a record. But at least things couldn’t get worse.
Unless the plane crashed.
She returned her toothbrush to her toiletry bag. Given her luck so far this morning, that was a distinct possibility. But the odds against crashing after throwing up had to be astronomical, right?
Surveying her reflection in the mirror, she tucked stray strands back into her braid. Her Goth-white complexion had disappeared. Good. She would rather look human than like a vampire wannabe.
She pinched her cheeks to give them more color. Reapplying the makeup she’d wiped off was beyond her. But she looked better, passable, no longer green.
She straightened her glasses, wanting to present a confident, unflappable air. Mr. Cole never needed to know she was dying of embarrassment. Neither did Camille, who kept knocking every minute and a half to see if Emma needed help. She opened the lavatory
