Managed (VIP 2)

I nearly choke on my drink.

Mr. Suit tries to hold Gabriel’s stare but fails. He slinks off with a muttered, “Asshole.”

“I thought we’d already established as much,” Gabriel says to me.

“So proud of your asshole ways.” I give him a nudge on the shoulder. “And yet here you are, saving me from lechers.”

“Hardly,” he mutters into his glass. “I was defending my own honor. And it was rather boring, at that. I thought he’d put up more of a fight.”

“Why?” I’m compelled to ask, though really I’m just surprised he’s talking to me when this is our one chance to escape to neutral corners.

He takes a sip of his water before answering. “He’s the CEO of a Fortune 500 company and has a reputation for being a relentless badger.” His lips curl in a sneer. “More like a weasel, if you ask me.”

I stare at him. “How do you know this?”

He finally turns his gaze to me, and I’m hit anew with those brilliant blues. “I just read an article about him in Forbes.”

A small, helpless laugh leaves me. I’m so not in Kansas any more. “Well,” I say, “maybe you’ll find someone to properly cross dicks with later.”

It’s his turn to sputter on his drink, though he recovers nicely. With precise movements, he sets his glass down and crisply tugs each of his cuffs back into place. “I’m fairly certain I’ve all I can handle with you at the moment.”

“Aw, a compliment.”

He looks down at me and slowly blinks, the dark sweep of his lashes nearly touching his cheek. Then he shocks me into stillness when he leans in close enough that his lips brush the curve of my ear. “Yes, chatty girl, it was.”

I’m still reeling from the low rumble of his voice—it tickles down my spine and flares along my thighs—when he moves away. “Do not drink too much or you’ll have a headache,” he advises before walking off, heading back downstairs.

I hate to admit, he takes all the excitement of being in the bar with him. Now it’s just a novelty situation that’s grown stale. I slide my half-finished drink away and hop off the barstool.

Downstairs, the seats in the little cabins have indeed been converted to beds. I hold in a squeal of joy. It’s an actual bed, with full-sized pillows and a brilliant white duvet trimmed in scarlet. A single red rose has been placed on each pillow. I swear, I’m about to hop up and down, but I catch a glimpse of Mr. Happy, who is standing at the threshold of our seating cabin, hands on his trim hips, brows knitted so tightly they almost touch.

“What’s wrong,” I ask him. “No hospital corners?”

He gives me a sidelong glare before turning his attention back to the beds. “I asked for my seat not to be converted. And the flight attendant is obviously operating under an extreme misconception.”

Glancing back, I finally notice what he’s talking about. I’d been so happy about the existence of a bed, I hadn’t realized that our two seats have been converted into one smooth double bed. There’s even a tray with an ice bucket of champagne on it.

A laugh escapes me before I can hold it in. “Honeymoon special?”

“You find this amusing?” His nostrils flare in annoyance, though he’s not looking at me, just mentally destroying the bed with his laser gaze.

“Honestly? Yeah, I do.” I kick off my shoes and crawl over the bed. It’s firm to the point of being stiff, and there’s a small ridge down the middle. But I’m not about to complain. Sitting cross legged on my side, I look up at his looming figure—he still hasn’t fully entered the compartment. “Come on. You have to admit it’s a little bit funny.”

“I’ll admit nothing,” he bites out, but then his shoulders lower and he steps into the compartment, turning to slide the doors shut with a definitive click. “And to think that woman was flirting with me.”

He sounds so disgusted, I have to laugh again. “I’m not following.”

He sits on his side of the bed and toes off his shoes, scowl still fully in place. “The flight attendant clearly assumes we’re together now, and yet just a moment ago she…” He trails off with a faint flush, which is kind of cute, almost as if he’s embarrassed. And yet.

“She hit on you in the hall?” My ire rises swift and hot—not jealousy. It’s the principle of the thing.

He grunts, glances at the bed, wrinkles his nose in distaste, and turns his back to it once more.

“That little hussy,” I say, glaring at the door.

At that he looks over his broad shoulder at me. A glint enters his eyes. “Jealous, Ms. Darling?”

“Hey, you pointed out how messed up it was!”

“Insulting it was,” he corrects. “She assumes I’m the sort to double-dip my wick. And obviously so shady, I’d do it in full sight of my current paramour.”