seemed the best option, so Lilah took another sedative. According to her doctor, one should have worked; two would definitely knock her out.
She was rereading Lucas’s compatibility quotient, which was extremely high, her lids drooping, when a heavy crack of thunder shook the small jet. Lightning flashed. In that instant the door to the cockpit popped open. Zane Atraeus, tall, sleekly broad-shouldered and dressed in somber black, was framed in the searing flicker of light.
The jet lurched; the folder flew off her lap. The clasp sprang open as it hit the floor, scattering loose sheets. Lilah barely noticed. As always, her artist’s eye was riveted. Zane’s golden skin and chiseled face—which she had shamelessly, secretly, painted for the past two years—could have been lifted straight out of a Dalmasio oil. Even the imperfections, the subversive glint of the studs in his lobe, the faint disruption to the line of his nose, as if it had once been broken, were somehow … perfect.
She blinked as Zane strolled toward her. Her vision readjusted to the warm glow of the cabin lights. Until Zane had moved, she had not been entirely convinced that he was real. She thought she could have been caught up in one of the vivid, unsettling dreams that had disturbed her sleep ever since The Regrettable Episode two years ago.
Unlike the temporary effect of the lightning flash on her vision, the events of that night had been indelibly seared into her consciousness. “I thought you missed the flight.”
His steady dark gaze made her stomach tighten. “I never miss when I’m the pilot.”
Aware that the contents of the folder had spilled into the aisle, and that the topmost sheet which held the glaringly large title, The Wedding Plan, was clearly visible, Lilah lunged forward in an attempt to regather the incriminating sheets. Her seat belt held her pinned. By the time she had the buckle unfastened, Zane had collected both the folder and the loose sheets.
Her cheeks burned as he straightened. She was certain he had read some of the contents, enough to get the gist of what they were about. She took the sheets and stuffed them back into the folder. “I didn’t know you could fly.”
“It’s not something I advertise.”
Unlike the lavish parties he regularly attended and the endless stream of gorgeous models he escorted. Although, flying did fit with his love of extreme sports: diving, kitesurfing and snowboarding, to name a few. Zane had a well-publicized love for anything that involved adrenaline.
It occurred to Lilah, as she jammed the folder in her tote bag, out of sight, that she didn’t know what Lucas liked to do in his spare time. She must make the effort to find out.
Zane shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the arm of the seat across the aisle. “How long have you been afraid of flying?”
Lilah tore her gaze from the snug fit of his black T-shirt and the muscular swell of tanned biceps. She was certain that beyond an intoxicating whiff of sandalwood she could detect the scent of his skin.
Her blush deepened as she was momentarily flung back to the night of The Episode. Zane had suggested they go to an empty reception room so they could indulge their mutual passion for art by studying the oils displayed on the walls.
She couldn’t remember much about the garish abstracts. She would never forget the moment Zane had pulled her close. The clean, masculine scent of his skin and the exotic undernote of sandalwood had filled her nostrils, making her head spin. When he had kissed her, his taste had filled her mouth.
Somehow they had ended up on a wide, comfortable couch. At some point the bodice of her dress had drifted to her waist, a detail that should have alarmed her. Zane had taken one breast in his mouth and her whole body had coiled unbearably tight. She could remember clutching at his shoulders, a flash of dizzying, heated pleasure, the room shimmering out of focus.
If the door hadn’t popped open at that moment and Zane’s date, who was also his previous personal assistant, a gorgeous redhead called Gemma, hadn’t walked in, Lilah shuddered to think what would have happened next. She had dragged her bodice up and clambered off the couch. By the time she had found her clutch, which had ended up underneath the couch, Zane had shrugged into his jacket. After a clipped good-night, he had left with Gemma.
The echoing silence after the heady, intimate passion had stung. He had not suggested they meet again, which had put The Episode in its horrifying context.
Zane had not wanted a relationship; he had just wanted an interlude. Sex. He had probably thought they had been on the verge of a one night stand, that she was easy.
Embarrassingly, she had forgotten every relationship rule she had rigidly stuck to for the twelve years she had been dating.
Zane walking out so quickly then never bothering to follow up with a telephone call or text had been a blessing. It had confirmed what she had both read about him and discovered firsthand—that no matter how attractive, he could not be trusted in a relationship. If he couldn’t commit to a phone call, it was unlikely he would commit to marriage.
Another shuddering crash of thunder jerked her back to the present.
Aware that Zane was waiting for an answer, she busied herself fastening her seat belt. “I’ve been afraid of flying forever.”
Instead of sitting where he’d slung his jacket, Zane lowered himself into the seat next to hers.
She stiffened as he pried her hand off the armrest. “What are you doing?”
His fingers curled warmly through hers. “Holding your hand. Tried-and-true remedy.”
Nervous tension, along with the tingling heat of his touch, zinged through her at the skin-on-skin contact. There was something distinctly forbidden about holding hands with Zane Atraeus.
Illegitimate and wild, according to the tabloids, Zane had been the instant ruination of hundreds of women, and promised to be the ruination of even more in the future. She had the shattering firsthand knowledge of exactly how that ruination was achieved.
She flexed her fingers, but his hold didn’t loosen. “Shouldn’t you be in the cockpit?”
“Flight deck. There’s a copilot, Spiros. He doesn’t need me yet.”
Her stomach clenched as she was suddenly reminded that they were twenty-eight thousand feet above the ground. “How long is the flight?”
“Twenty hours, give or take. We land in Singapore to refuel. If you don’t like flying, why are you going to Medinos?”
Trying to arrange her future with a steady, reliable husband who would not leave her. Trying to avoid the Cole women’s regrettable tendency to fall victim to the coup de foudre.
Her head started to swim, and it was not just the dizzying effect of the sandalwood. She remembered that she had taken two sedatives. “Trying to get a life. I’m twenty-nine.”
She blinked. She was beginning to feel as if she was swimming in molasses. Had she actually told him her age?
“Twenty-nine doesn’t seem so old to me.”
She smothered a yawn and frowned at the defensive note in his voice.
“What did you take?”
Her lids slid
