He nods as we climb out and wishes us a safe trip.
Nick guides me ahead of him when we reach the female attendant waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. She wears a midnight blue uniform consisting of a vest and skirt and a crisp white blouse. Her smile is both warm and professional as we approach.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Baine. Good afternoon, Miss Ross.”
“Hello, Pamela.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that she knows my name. After all, Nick thinks of everything. And he’s clearly clued in everyone but me as to what this trip is about.
With his palm a warm, reassuring presence at the small of my back, he urges me up the stairs ahead of him.
Trying to mask my awe would be impossible, so I simply stare in astonishment at the elegance of the immense, beautifully appointed cabin and its soothing, neutral palette.
“Wow.” I glance back at Nick. “This is incredible. I could live here.”
He chuckles. “There have been times when it feels like I do. Since I spend so much time flying back and forth from the States to my other business locations and clients, I prefer to do it in comfort. Would you like to look around before we take off?”
“Sure.” I arch a brow at him. “So, are we going to be in the air for long?”
“Nice try.” His hand comes down with a firm swat to my backside, his look pure wicked amusement. “Come on, let me show you around.”
Before we get started, Pamela returns to offer us cocktails or champagne. I opt for the latter and Nick requests sparkling water. With our cold drinks in hand seconds later, he leads me through the spacious home with wings.
Creamy leather sofas with pale gray accent pillows and cocktail tables in a sleek, glass-topped cube design comprise one section of the main cabin. A large, polished wood conference table surrounded by eight chairs is the focal point of another area. Toward the rear of the jet is a wall-mounted, large-screen television with a matched grouping of leather recliners in front of it.
Behind that is a short hallway that terminates at the open doorway of what appears to be an impressive stateroom.
“Saving the best for last?” I ask him playfully as he takes my hand and we stroll into a bedroom that’s got to be twice the size of my entire old apartment in Brooklyn.
As soon as we enter, he wraps his free arm around my back and draws me against him. His lips take mine, possessive and consuming, making my blood quicken and my core clench with heated desire.
Somehow, he manages to remove my champagne glass from my hand and sets it down on a nearby bureau along with his crystal tumbler of water. Then his hands are in my hair, disheveling the loose twist I’d worked on for fifteen minutes to get right, but I don’t care.
I don’t care that we’re far from alone right now, with the flight attendant somewhere in the cabin outside and with probably mere minutes before we’ll be directed to take our seats and prepare for departure.
I don’t care about any of that.
All that matters is his touch, his kiss . . . us.
I am panting when he pulls away from me, my vision hazing over with desire. So much so, that at first I don’t register what I’m seeing on the other side of the stateroom. A single work of art has been granted the entire wall.
It’s far from remarkable.
Just a simple self-portrait—amateurish in my opinion—yet it hangs there like a cherished treasure.
“Nick . . . “ I swivel my head toward him, stunned. Confused. “That’s my painting.”
It’s the first one I’d ever done when I came to New York. The first—the only—piece that sold out of all of the work I’d had on display at Nick’s gallery. Which means he’s had it for more than a year.
Including the nearly five months we’ve been together.
“You’re the one who bought it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I have to ask. At the time, he hadn’t held my art in very high regard. “You said you didn’t like my work.”
“This piece was different. It wasn’t like the others.”