pinched herself once more. Last year he’d made the list of the top twenty hottest male executives in America. Though, from her current vantage point, it could easily have been a list of one.
The jet engines whined, and the aircraft jerked to rolling, turning sharply to make its way to the runway. While they waited their turn in the lineup, the steward served the drinks—champagne for Jack and Hunter, and the mimosa for Kristy.
Jack immediately raised his glass. “To successful ventures.”
Hunter coughed.
Kristy followed Jack’s lead, toasting then taking a sip of the tart, effervescent concoction.
“SO, TELL US about your business, Kristy,” said Jack, about three hours into the flight.
She placed her second mimosa on the burnished cherrywood table between them. Then she took a deep breath, organizing her well-rehearsed pitch. “We’re a fashion design company—”
“We?” asked Jack, cocking his head.
“Me,” Kristy admitted, slightly rattled by the swift interruption. “It’s a sole proprietorship.”
Jack nodded.
When he remained silent, she picked up the thread of her pitch. “A fashion design company specializing in high-end ladies wear, specifically evening gown—”
“And what was your bottom line last quarter?”
Kristy hesitated. She’d hoped to gloss over her order volume and income, along with the modest size of her company. Although she’d been fighting for years to break into the New York fashion establishment, she’d yet to secure a retail contract, and her private sales were a whole lot less than stellar.
“I’m looking forward to the opportunities Cleveland can offer,” she said, instead of answering directly.
“I’ll bet you are,” said Jack.
“Excuse my cousin,” said Hunter. “He doesn’t know when to stop talking business.”
“I’m just asking—”
“Do you like basketball, Kristy?” asked Hunter.
Kristy turned to him and blinked. “Basketball?”
He nodded, taking a sip of his champagne.
“I … uh … don’t know much about it.”
“Cleveland loves basketball,” Jack put in.
Kristy turned her attention back to Jack. “I’m afraid I don’t watch sports.”
“Hmm,” Jack nodded sagely, his brow furrowing.
“Is that a problem?” She glanced at Hunter and then Jack, trying to read their expressions. Was it like corporate golf? Was Osland family business conducted at a basketball court?
“Would you recommend …” she paused. “I mean, should I learn something about basketball?”
“I would,” said Jack.
“Jack,” said Hunter.
“Well, I would.”
Kristy took a big swallow of her mimosa. Okay. Basketball. She sure wished she’d known about this earlier. She could have taken in a game, watched some ESPN or read a sports magazine.
Then she had an idea. “I don’t suppose you two would share …”
Jack grinned. “Sure. He’s a Lakers fan. And I wouldn’t mention the Clippers if I was you.”
Hunter jumped in. “I have tickets to the Lakers Sonics game on Friday, if you’d like—”
“Bud Reynolds is his favorite player,” said Jack, shooting Hunter a glare. Then his more normal expression quickly returned as his attention shifted to Kristy. “The Budster is up for player of the year. He’s ten for thirteen on threes from the straight away.”
“And seventeen for thirty-five from downtown,” said Hunter. “You should really join me at—”
“Kristy doesn’t like basketball,” said Jack.
She fought a moment of panic. “I never said I didn’t—”
“She might change her mind,” Hunter put in.
“I could learn,” Kristy offered. If basketball truly was the golf game of the Osland corporate world, she was more than willing to give it a try.
Jack’s mouth thinned as he spoke to Hunter. “Dating Kristy is not the answer.”
Dating? She glanced from one man to the other. Dating? What had she missed?
“It’s nothing but a basketball game,” said Hunter.
“Drop it,” said Jack.
Then a voice interrupted from the plane’s intercom. “Mr. Osland?”
Jack pressed a button on his armrest. “Yes, Simon.”
“Just to let you know, we’re reading an indicator light up here.”
A muscle in Jack’s temple twitched, and everything inside Kristy went still.
“I’ll be right up,” he said.
“No need,” Simon responded with a static crackle through the small speaker. “I’d like to have air traffic control divert us to Las Vegas to check it out.”
Jack shot Hunter a glance.
Kristy tried to interpret his expression. Were they out of gas? Out of oil? Losing an engine?
He pushed the intercom button. “Your call, Simon.”
“Roger that, sir.” The intercom went silent, and Kristy’s throat turned paper-dry.
Neither of the men spoke.
“An indicator light?” she rasped.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” said Jack.
Kristy waited, expecting him to say more.
“That’s it?” They were at thirty thousand feet, and something was wrong with the plane. She picked up her mimosa and took a healthy swallow.
“The jet is in perfect running order,” said Hunter.
Her voice rose. “Except for the indicator light.”
Her thoughts flashed to her sister. Sinclair had begged her to postpone the trip until after the holidays. But Kristy hadn’t wanted to risk losing Cleveland’s interest. So she’d insisted on rushing to California.
If
