A Tycoon to Be Reckoned With

‘No, I really cannot move!’ Her raised voice—demanding and shrill, despite the sexy French accent—had Alejandro putting down his tablet.

When the flustered flight attendant came up the aisle he leaned out and asked what the problem was.

‘An elderly gentleman is finding it difficult to make the trip to the facilities, sir,’ she explained, ‘and we were hoping to relocate him to a closer seat.’

She didn’t mention the intransigent Brown Eyes. But she was hard to miss.

Alejandro grabbed his jacket and reached up to the overhead locker.

‘Not a problem,’ he said, flashing the flight attendant a smile. She blushed.

Re-seated further towards the rear of the plane, he reopened his tablet, forgot about the brunette and gave his attention to the screen.

The morning papers on his tablet didn’t offer much encouragement about his destination.

When one of Russia’s richest oligarchs tied the knot with a sprightly red-haired ex-showgirl in a Scottish castle it was news, and from what Alejandro had heard from the groom himself the press had already set up shop in the surrounding town and area for long-lens shots of the ‘who’s who’ guest list.

Being one of the ‘who’s who’ himself, he’d decided not to make a splash entering the country. In Alejandro’s opinion, if you didn’t want the attention, you shouldn’t act as if you were somebody who needed it. Which meant he was flying commercial and driving the four-hour trip from Edinburgh to the coast a day early. The route would reportedly take him through some picturesque countryside, and he intended to cruise into Dunlosie under the radar.

Still, the hullaballoo he was surely headed for didn’t inspire encouragement that this was going to be anything other than a weekend to endure.

Impatiently Alejandro tossed aside his tablet and angled his wide-shouldered frame out of his seat. He’d never been able to sit still for long.

And that was when a little cough sounded to his left and he looked down.

It was Brown Eyes.

She’d taken a few trips up and down the aisle to the ‘facilities’. Either she had a little bladder problem or, more likely, she was looking for some attention.

He surveyed her coolly. Possibly not the attention she wanted.

With each trip up the aisle her step had become more rolling and he suspected she was a little drunk.

She was also considerably tall for a woman. He took a look down and found the culprits: a pair of very high-heeled turquoise shoes, ridiculously encumbered by ribbons that frothed around her trim ankles.

She in turn was gazing up at him, all brown eyes and carefully cultivated curls. Irritatingly, she was as pretty as ever.

‘Pardon, m’sieur.’

Her voice sounded a little slurred. Definitely drinking.

Unimpressed, he murmured, ‘Maybe you should go easy on the free liquor, señorita, and do us all a favour.’

She blinked. ‘Pardonnez-moi?’

‘You heard me.’

For a moment she seemed to be utterly lost for words. Then she screwed up her nose and stamped her foot.

It took a great deal of his self-control not to smile.

‘Why don’t you move out of the way instead of bullying people?’ she demanded, her French accent doing an excellent job on the precise English she used.

He ran his gaze insolently from the top of her shiny curls to the ribbons cascading over her pointy shoes and back to everything in between.

The in between was rather sweetly distributed...

She backed up a bit, but he wasn’t letting her get away scot-free.