destiny.” Then with that parting advice, Avery turned and scurried away. Quickly, the crowd swallowed her up.
Jorgie stood frozen, her heart pounding madly. The gate agent looked at her expectantly, hand outstretched to receive her boarding pass.
She locked eyes with the woman and the life-changing events of the last few weeks washed over her. Getting dumped by Brian for essentially being too timid, getting passed over for a promotion at work because she wasn’t aggressive enough (a direct quote from her boss), the decision to take Avery’s advice and sign up for an erotic fantasy vacation, unexpectedly meeting Quint Mason and then discovering he was on her flight. Was it kismet? Was serendipity at work here? Had the universe converged to plant her in this spot at this time under these conditions for a reason?
Jorgie wasn’t fanciful. She was an accountant. A cruncher of numbers. She liked things that made sense, and this romantic notion of destiny defied logic. And yet, here she was with the cosmic dominoes all lined up. Did she have the courage to knock them down?
“Miss?” the gate agent asked. “Are you boarding?”
It was now or never. Time to prove she could be bold and daring, or forever accept her fate as a shy, conventional woman who could never attract the attention of someone like, say…Quint Mason.
Jorgie raised her chin and slapped her ticket into the gate agent’s hand. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”
2
Keep your heart unfettered and your fingers nimble
—Make Love Like Casanova
WELL, WELL, WELL, little Jorgie Gerard had grown up quite nicely.
From his seat in the back of the plane, Quint Mason watched her board the Eros Air Bombardier CRJ200. She moved up the aisle, her carry-on bag clutched in her hand. His gaze tripped lightly over her lush curves. She hadn’t possessed a body like that thirteen years ago. He would have remembered.
Spellbound, he simply stared. The front of her silky, powder-blue blouse dipped, revealing just a hint of cleavage, but it was enough to cause instant sweat to bead on the back of his neck in the confines of the expensively decorated aircraft. She stopped a few rows ahead of him and looked down to double-check her seat assignment, and then she looked up again.
A ray of sunshine slanted through the open portal window, casting her in a bright surreal splash of yellow. For a whisper of a second, he could have sworn he heard harp music and the sound of angels singing. The woman who used to be his best friend’s shy little sister was bathed in a whole new light.
Her straight, chestnut-brown hair—swept back off her neck in a demure ponytail—glinted with red highlights. His fingers itched to reach up and pull that band from her hair and watch it tumble about her shoulders. She wore a knee-length skirt that was a darker shade of blue than her blouse and blue, matching sandals decorated with pink flowers. She looked like exactly what she was—the girl-next-door all grown up. The kind you took home to meet your parents. Marriage material. He’d do well to steer clear.
But even as the light shifted, dimmed, Quint couldn’t take his eyes off her and he didn’t know why.
Familiarity. She reminds you of a simpler time. That’s all. A missive from your past.
Still, his heart skipped a beat. That was odd. Usually the only time his heart misfired was when he drove his Corvette too fast or danced the tango or made love all night long. She was pretty, hell yeah, but certainly nothing extraordinary. Nothing to make him feel like this.
Still, there was something about the way she carried herself that clutched his gut and narrowed his focus to only her. She possessed a quality that called to something primal inside him. One thought snapped through his head hot as electricity.
Gotta have her.
Stupid, that impulse. It could lead nowhere but to big trouble. Quint lowered his eyelids, smiled slowly.
She sucked in her breath. He heard it all the way down the aisle. Quickly, she turned, reached for the overhead bin. In this private jet the bins were more lavish than on commercial liners, but she struggled to get her suitcase stuffed in.
Quint hopped from his seat. In one long-legged stride he was beside her. “Here, let me help you with that.”
For a second, she looked as if she might argue with him, but when he reached for the handle, she let go just as his fingers touched hers. He caught a whiff of her delicate perfume. And he was jonesing for something sweet.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft as a caress.
He was aware of a humming noise inside his brain, fraught with sexual energy. He stared at her lips, full and pink and shiny with gloss. His heart skipped another beat. What was the deal here? Was he developing a heart condition?
Frowning, Quint ripped his gaze from her distracting lips and fell into the pool of her deep blue eyes. He just stood there staring, her suitcase raised over his head, the bag braced against the cargo bin and his forearms.
Snap out of it, Mason. A woman hadn’t left him this thunderstruck since high school.
“Is there a problem?” She lifted a hand to push back a tendril of hair from her face, the pink bracelets at her wrist jangling as they brushed against each other.
“Um…” Do something, don’t just stand there. The aisle was clogging up behind her. Immediate, he shoved her suitcase into the overhead bin and clicked it closed.
“Thank you,” she said, then sat down and snapped on her seat belt. She picked up the in-flight magazine and started flipping through it.
Not knowing what else do, he mumbled, “You’re welcome,” and went back to his seat.
Still feeling a bit off balance by the intensity of his attraction, Quint settled into his seat and mentally pried his mind off Jorgie and put it where it belonged.
On his job.
He was an air marshal on private security detail for the Lockhart Agency. For the last ten weeks, he and his fellow air marshals had been on assignment for Eros Airlines and Fantasy Adventure Vacations. The company’s catchphrase was Something Sexy In The Air, and they specialized in catering to a high-end clientele that didn’t mind spending money indulging their passionate sides.
But over the course of the past several months, the airline’s owner, Taylor Milton, had gotten anonymous threatening letters at the same time someone had been sabotaging her four international resorts. She’d been reluctant to take her problems to the police and risk adverse publicity. To keep things discreet, she’d hired the Lockhart Agency to protect her interests.
The air marshals were undercover, both on the planes and at the resorts. Quint’s cover identity was an instructor at the Venetian resort, teaching a daily course in How To Make Love Like Casanova. This was his third stint at the assignment. Quint had to admit he’d had a helluva good time, instructing men on how to be great lovers and flirting with the ladies to show off his skills. The only major drawback to the setup was the morality clause he’d been obligated to sign. No sex with the guests. For a sensualist like Quint, that was something of a challenge.
The sabotages had been fairly minor, mere inconveniences than anything
