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Chapter Four

By the time the car picked her up at four p.m. sharp, Blythe knew Mr. Moore’s schedule like it was her own. She had also been too curious not to do a little deeper digging on who she actually worked for.

Oh, she’d known the basics before she even went into the interview, but there had been rumors about Mr. Moore, and she’d turned to the only source she could to find out if they were real.

The internet.

Apparently, her rugged, devilishly handsome boss had a little extra on the side, although Blythe didn’t know if “Boy Toy”, as dubbed by the paparazzi, was the correct term to describe the ex-quarterback, Stellan Alfonso.

The images she found showed the two men in casual enough situations. Despite the fact Mr. Moore and Mr. Alfonso never denied a relationship together, they didn’t confirm it either. But there was no mistaking that one of the grainy, slightly out of focus pictures she found was of Dietrich gripping Stellan’s throat while he kissed him.

Blythe had been surprised by how much she enjoyed the photo. Her arousal had been intense and immediate, but it wasn’t just the fact that two gorgeous men had been kissing. It was also the clear dominance in Dietrich’s grip.

Now she was headed to another country where none other than Stellan Alfonso worked. Would she see them touch each other or heaven help her… kiss?

Before she could really draw up the naughty images in her head, the black Mercedes she was currently in pulled onto the airstrip.

The private jet owned by Moore Corporation stood alone like some kind of beast. Her door was opened only moments later, and a man in livery smiled down at her.

“Miss Winters?” He held his hand out to her, and she took it. Offering him a smile in return, she let her gaze travel back to the monstrous piece of machinery before her. “Here, let me help you with your bags.”

Blythe pulled her attention back to the man and felt her face heat. How obvious was it that this was her first time flying on a private jet? She turned and saw him grab her bags from the trunk of the car. “I’m Walter, one of Mr. Moore’s personal flight attendants.”

He gestured with his chin toward the aircraft.

“Please follow me. The flight is just over seven hours long, but with the time change, it will feel more like twelve.” He gestured for her to take the stairs first that led up to the jet.

When she stepped inside, she took a moment to appreciate the interior. The cabin had six cream-colored reclining chairs, four to her right and two to the left. A large, flat screen television was built into one of the walls, and a door separated the cockpit and galley.

“So when should we arrive there?”

“Departure is at five p.m. sharp, so as long as everything goes smoothly and we don’t run into any inclement weather, we should arrive a bit after five a.m. Lisbon time. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll bring you a glass of champagne, if that is all right?”

She was technically on the clock and didn’t know how Mr. Moore would feel about alcohol consumption, so instead, she asked for a glass of water.

“I’ll bring it right away. Mr. Moore should be present shortly.”

Blythe took a seat by the window and set her purse on the empty seat beside her. Her view wasn’t anything spectacular, but the only other time she had been on a plane was when she had gone to see her father years ago.

That had been a dreaded, horrid trip of becoming reacquainted with a man that had skipped town when she was younger. Needless to say, she had written him out of her life and had never looked back nor got on any more planes, for that matter.

The sound of doors slamming shut drew her attention to her right, and she looked out the opposite windows. When she saw Dietrich striding toward the jet, his pewter colored suit looking sharp on his tall, muscular body, her mouth went dry.

Get it together, girl. This is your boss for the next four weeks. Do not fuck this up.

He entered the cabin, and his eyes found hers immediately. The scent of his cologne filled her nose, and she felt her traitorous body light up like a damn explosion. It was even worse when he took the seat across from her.

“I take it the drive to the airstrip was without incident?” He asked just as a young female flight attendant stepped beside him and smiled appreciatively.

“Good evening, Mr. Moore. I’m Sandra and will be filling in for Rebecca during your flight. May I start you off with a glass of champagne?” How had Blythe not seen her? Her little black outfit was ridiculously tight and about three inches too short. Her cleavage was up to her neck, and her lips were so swollen, most likely from Botox, that it made it look like she got in a fight with a vacuum and lost miserably.