Playboy Pilot

I nodded. As long as she already thought I was a little off, I might as well jump in with both feet. “Did…the pilot sing Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds last night to the cabin?”

She chuckled. “Sure did. Sings it on every night flight. Not sure why.”

“That’s a little strange.”

“That’s Captain Clynes for you. A little crazy, but a whole lot gorgeous and fun.”

“The other flight attended alluded to him being fun.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of flight attendants who would tell you how much fun he is.”

“But not you?”

She shook her head slowly. “Men like that aren’t usually my thing.”

Feeling deflated, I had to agree. “Mine either, I suppose.”

Something in her face changed, and she inched closer. “You know what is my thing?”

“What?”

“Petite little blondes with big blue eyes and pouty lips. We have a full two- day layover in Rio, if you want some company.”

What in the lord’s name? Was everyone crazy on this plane? Maybe the oxygen was too thin flying around at thirty-five thousand feet all the time. “Umm…thanks. But, I don’t…ummm…just no thank you.”

She smiled politely and folded up her paper. “Shame. But enjoy your trip anyway. I have to serve breakfast in steerage before we land.”

When our plane finally touched down on the tarmac, I stalled while the rest of first class disembarked, waiting for the cockpit door to open. I’m not even sure why I did it, or what I would have done if it had opened, yet I felt compelled to see Carter at least one last time. Wasn’t he at least curious if I was on the plane?

That answer became abundantly clear ten minutes later. Pretty much the entire plane was already off, and I was still sitting in my seat like an idiot stealing fleeting glances at a cockpit door that never opened. “What the hell is wrong with me?” I grumbled to myself. I’d met a random man in the airport lounge, whose first words to me were an invitation to go home with him, he then made my blouse see-through and talked about my boobs. So, of course, I did the only logical thing any woman in my place would have done—bought a three thousand dollar first-class ticket to follow him to Brazil. My actions pretty much went with the current fucked-up state of my life. This was supposed to be a trip about finding my own answers (and maybe finding some great shoes along the way), not about being a notch in the bedpost of Captain Freelove, no matter how fuckably handsome he was.

Standing, I picked up my Louis Vuitton Venus bag, smoothed down my crumpled top, and took a deep breath.

Later, Captain Clynes.

IT TOOK MORE THAN an hour to find my luggage and wait on the taxi line. The heat outside was oppressive even though it was supposed to be winter in Brazil, and I felt beads of sweat beginning to form on my back. I needed a cool shower, gigantic cup of iced coffee (vanilla or hazelnut might be nice), and possibly a ninety-minute massage at a hotel spa. When it was finally my turn at the front of the line, I couldn’t wait to slip inside the air-conditioned taxi while the driver packed my bags into the trunk then joined me.

“Ola. Onde gostaris de ir?”

Shit. “No habla Portugese.” Wait…was no habla the same in Portugese as it was in Spanish?

The driver turned to face me. “You speak English, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. You tell me where you want to go, understand?”

“Oh. Sorry. Give me a second.” I quickly typed luxury hotels with spa in Rio into Google. The Internet connection was slow, but eventually I began to scroll through hotels looking for a chain I was at least familiar with. My search was interrupted by the cab door opening.

The driver began to shout something in Portuguese. The way his finger was wagging, I assumed he was telling the person that the cab was full. But the passenger didn’t listen. Next thing I knew, I was sitting next to someone in the back seat.

Someone wearing a uniform.

Captain Carter Clynes in the flesh.

He turned to face me with a wicked grin on his face. “My layover just got more interesting.”

Damn. He seemed to have grown that stubble overnight.