Managed (VIP 2)

Right before we arrive in London, I try to get him to talk about the job, about Brenna. But he refuses, telling me he’ll let her explain everything.

The only good thing to come out of my nagging is that he’s too busy bickering with me to notice the landing.

“I’ll have my driver drop you at your hotel,” he says as we make our way out of the gate and into Heathrow’s terminal.

Since it’s late at night, and I’m in a foreign country, I’m not inclined to argue. In fact, I’m grateful and more than a little shocked by his offer. “Thank you. That’s very nice of you.”

He gives me a look as if I’m being ridiculous, but nods in acknowledgment. “I assume you have luggage?

“Of course,” I tell him, looking around at the closed-up shops that line the way. “Don’t you? Or I guess you live in London.”

“My main residence is in New York now. But I keep a wardrobe here in my London home.”

Pondering a life where I jet around the world and have wardrobes and homes waiting for me, I almost miss the escalator to baggage claim. Graceful as ever.

Gabriel, however, walks exactly as I’d expected him to: like a man accustomed to people getting out of his way. His stride is smooth, brisk, and confident.

Here on terra firma, I can appreciate the full effect he has on others. People actually do edge out of his path. It’s fascinating—they simply part like the proverbial Red Sea and gape at him as he passes.

While Gabriel’s masculine beauty is truly breathtaking, the force of him is earthier, almost brutal. Most charismatic people make you want to be a part of their inner circle, make you feel special. With Gabriel the message is much different: here is a man with whom you do not fuck.

He doesn’t talk to me while we walk but focuses his attention on his phone. Apparently he has a million and one emails to answer. His texting-while-walking skills are impressive, though I guess it helps when you don’t have to worry about running into anyone.

We halt at the baggage carousel.

“Do you see your bags?” he asks, nose deep in his phone.

Along with my carry-on, which holds my camera and equipment—there was no way I was losing sight of my babies—I have two large suitcases. I usually pack lighter, but “Brian” had suggested I pack for an extended stay should I get the job.

“Not yet.”

“Color?”

“Red.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Not surprising.”

“Let me guess,” I ask as he taps away at his phone. “Had you the need for luggage, it would be as black as your immortal soul.”

He tucks his phone in his pocket and gives me a level look. Amusement lightens his expression. “As it happens, my luggage is dark brown alligator leather.”

“I don’t know why I bother teasing you,” I mutter.

Again that hint of a smile flirts with the edges of his lips. “You are persistent. I’ll give you that.”

I spot my bags, but before I can grab them, he has a porter attending to us and we’re off again. It’s ten at night, which is unsettling since we’ve already spent an entire night on the plane. Taxies are thin, and the majority of people are being greeted by loved ones.

Travel loneliness claws at my belly. I hate landing in new places at night. It always feels as if I might be left behind and end up sleeping on an airport bench.

Not so tonight. And another swell of gratitude fills me when Gabriel guides me to the black Rolls Royce Phantom waiting at the curb, the driver already opening the door.

Gabriel gestures for me to enter. But then frowns. “You’re not going to bounce on the seats and cry who-eee, are you?”

I glare at him. “I’m not completely uncouth, you know.”

Okay, I might have done so had he not mentioned it.

“I’ve been in a plane with you for seven hours,” he reminds me as he follows me into the car.

I have to grit my teeth, because, who-fucking-eee!, the car is fine. I want to rub my cheeks against the butter soft leather and play with the array of buttons so badly my fingers twitch.

Gabriel eyes me for a long moment as the driver shuts the door with a soft thud. “Go on,” he says in a cajoling voice. “Give it a little bounce. You know you’re dying for it.”

With his heavy-lidded stare and deep rumbling tone, he makes this sound illicit. I cross my legs, and his eyes track the movement. His lids lower just a bit more, and a shimmer of unwanted heat licks under my shirt.

“I’m good,” I tell him with false lightness.

He grunts in response. The car pulls away from the curb, all smoothness and power, and I sit back in my plush seat with a sigh. Whatever happens from here on out, I’ll have this small moment of complete comfort.