Breaking Him (Love is War 1)

But this was not the time for cute.

I switched out my shoes in record time, stepping into five-inch red platform stilettos with a peep toe.

My uniform was simple and sleek.  A black pencil skirt, white dress shirt, black vest and tie.  I’d had every piece custom tailored to fit to perfection, accentuating my figure to its best advantage.

Add to that a sexy pair of red stilettos, and I knew I looked like a million bucks.

I stashed my bag right as Leona returned to the galley.

“I handed out menus, but the champagne could use topping off,” she informed me, dashing back into her galley to prep for takeoff.

That was fine.  I was ready.

I grabbed the opened bottle of champagne and strutted out into the cabin.

Under my breath I was humming Seven Nation Army.

My battle anthem.

Because this was war.

I faltered slightly when I spotted him, but recovered between one step and the next.  His face was downcast, eyes pointed away from me, thank God, so at least he hadn’t seen it.

His looks had always devastated me.

I was a shallow thing, with a weakness for the superficial.  Even now, with all we’d put each other through, his beautiful face moved me.

He was just how I remembered.  Every gut-punching, heart-wrenching inch of him.

He’d always struck me as a handsome villain.  He had wicked good looks, with golden hair, ocean eyes, and a perpetual, darkly shadowed jaw.  His coloring was interesting, eye-catching, with his brows a few shades darker than his hair.  His features were even and sharp, with slanted eyes and a lush mouth.  You couldn’t look at him without words like sinister or dastardly coming to mind.

Or maybe that was just me.

He was extremely tall, enough so that it was apparent when he was sitting down.  If he stood, even in my killer heels he’d tower over me.

He was broad shouldered, muscular, but he was lean enough to pull off looking elegant in the ungodly expensive suits he wore on a regular basis.

Physically, he was just my type.  I was a sucker for a sinister looking man.

Another thing that was all his fault.

“Dante,” I crooned with a smile when I reached him.  “To what do I owe the honor of your disagreeable, unwelcome presence?”

He’d been looking down at his phone when I’d approached, and he sucked in a deep breath at the sound of my voice.

He held it there for a long moment before letting it out and waited another beat still before letting his ocean blue eyes travel up to meet mine.

Ah, sweet torture.

This was the part I dreaded the most.

When our eyes clashed, and everything, every horrible, wonderful, painful, ugly, beautiful, torturous, ruinous, gory bit of us came back to me.

It was bad enough when I didn’t have to look at him.

But when I did—exquisite torment, with a touch of pleasure so concentrated, so brutally pure it had ruined my life.

Broken my heart.

Eviscerated my soul.  I’d scraped what was left of that pathetic soul out myself, sawed it into little pieces and left it somewhere far behind.

What you’re seeing is what was left.

“Hello, Scarlett,” he returned, in that beautiful voice of his that I utterly detested.  It was the deepest timbre and compelling to an unusual degree.

Compelling to the point of controlling.

When it warmed, I warmed with it.  When it cooled, I went cold.

His voice was a dirty trick.

An unfair weapon.

I wanted to wrap my hands around his throat just to disarm it.

Well, if I were honest, I wanted to choke him for numerous reasons.  Several came to mind, not the least of which that the thought of it turned me on.

“How flattering that you’d deign to fly commercial just to ruin my day.”  My tone dripped with venom.

“How flattering that you’d put on your favorite red lipstick just for me,” he returned with his own bloodthirsty smile.

Fuck.

Point to The Bastard.  He must have gotten a glimpse of me before I’d applied it to notice the difference.

His eyes shot down to my feet and a ghost of a smile lingered on his lips.  “And the shoes.  I’m more than flattered.  Your efforts never go unappreciated, angel.”

Another point.

If I was fair, it was two.

Because angel.  The Bastard.

I barely held my ‘eat shit and die’ smile.

He didn’t call me that because I was angelic.

Obviously.  He was being ironic.

He thought I was the devil, and as far as he was concerned, I sure as hell was.

But that wasn’t why it burned.  It burned because it was a very old nickname, from back in the day when we were just dumb kids in love and he’d actually meant it.

Once upon a time, I’d been his angel.  The reminder was yet another reason I’d have loved to wring his neck.

“More champagne?” I asked him, holding up the bottle, wondering if the other passengers would notice if I quietly poured it over his head.

He looked away, and I saw his lip curl up in disdain.

That made me grind my teeth.

It was shitty champagne, cheaper than he was used to, and he couldn’t hide his distaste.

God, he was a snob.  It was one of the things I hated most about him.  At the top of a very long list.

“Oh.  The brand too low class for you?  You poor baby.  You should put it up on your blog:  spoiledrottentrustfundbrats.com.

Here was the part where he was supposed to make a biting crack about me being from a trailer park, or pointed out how far I’d fallen that I was slinging drinks on an airplane, or asked archly about how my failed acting career was going.