“No,” she waved it away with a smile, “the box is fine.”
“Thought so.” John came back over with the silverware. “You don’t seem like a fancy-pants kind of woman.”
“What if I am?” Layla joked, opening her box to find a delicious hangar steak inside with a salad and red potatoes from one of her favorite restaurants on the Hill, the Smith Pub. Of course, Adrian Rhakvir would know her favorite spot and her favorite dish there, just like he knew her favorite drink. She tucked in, watching John as he dug into his chicken with a salad, sans potatoes.
“Nah, you’re not a prima donna.” John shook his head as he took a bite. “You’ve got class, but you don’t need fancy. Some ladies like all the fancy. You like the real.”
“I do like the real,” Layla agreed, realizing that John was far more astute than regular hired muscle. “I hate it when I discover someone isn’t being real with me.”
John paused in the middle of his next bite, eyeballing her. Then continued eating, a curious expression on his face.
“What?” Layla asked.
“Can you tell when someone isn’t being real with you?” He asked, straight-up.
“Most of the time.” Layla munched a bite of salad. “I have a fairly acute bullshit-meter.”
“And what does your bullshit-meter say about me?” He asked with a lopsided grin.
“That you’re pretty straight-up,” Layla commented, “despite working for a cagey international business mogul.”
“Have to be straight-up working security,” John commented as he tucked back in to his chicken. “It’s what I do.”
But suddenly, something inside Layla tingled. She set her utensils down, watching him. And then she knew what it was. “No. That last sentence was wrong. It’s not what you do. You don’t just work security for Adrian, do you?”
John paused, watching her, then straightened. Setting his utensils down also, he gave her a level gaze. “No. Not so much. Adrian uses me for a lot of things. Heading up his security team is only part of it. There are other parts that I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
“Illegal parts?” Layla eyeballed him severely.
He shrugged. “I’m not a merc, if that’s what you’re asking. And Adrian tries to be transparent with his business deals. But he has a lot of shady customers come at him under the radar, especially in foreign countries. He uses me to get to the bottom of things. Quietly.”
“Are you telling me you assassinate people?” Layla didn’t know how to respond to any of this, and her stomach turned over, worried.
But John chuckled, shaking his head, and there was no lie in his brown eyes. “I’ve never had to assassinate anyone, no. But I’ve had to help Adrian out of some pretty tight spots, and people got hurt. Off the radar.”
Layla sat back and regarded John, crossing her arms and digesting that information along with her meal. It was clear that Adrian Rhakvir was constantly in and out of tight spots, and suddenly Layla wondered what she was getting into. Glancing around the jet, she could feel that they were the only passengers, but she still didn’t trust everything about the situation. Rising, she glanced at the closed partition in the rear of the plane. “What’s back there?”
“Sleeping area,” John responded, gesturing to the partition. “Go ahead.”
Layla stepped toward the rear of the plane, with a glance back. John was finishing his meal, watching her, casual. She reached out, sliding the folding partition aside – to find an elegantly lit space occupied the rear of the plane, complete with built-in mahogany dressers, bedside tables and a low king-sized bed in the middle of it all. A small bathroom was off to one side, the lights inside low, a modest closet with a rack of suits next to it.
Something in Layla breathed easier, realizing that she and John were actually the only two passengers on the plane. Some part of her had almost expected Adrian himself to be back there – as if this was all a test, getting his security guard to butter her up while he listened in or something. As if that thought had summoned him, Adrian’s cinnamon and desert-spice scent suddenly wafted up around her, and Layla realized it was coming from inside the room – from the bed and the rack of fine suits lined up in the small closet.
Movement sounded behind her and Layla turned to see John leaning in the doorway, his bulky arms crossed. “This area is yours for the flight. It’s usually Adrian’s when he travels, but he’s got the other jet right now. Don’t mind the suits, he keeps spares on both jets just in case. We’ve got a number of hours until Paris. If you’re done with dinner, you should sleep a while.”
“Where do you sleep?” Layla eyeballed him.
“The chairs out front fold down nice,” John grinned, showing his very white teeth. “Here, I’ll get your bag.”
He disappeared, then reappeared with Layla’s suitcase, rolling it into a nook beside the built-in rack of suits, then set down a number of what looked like clothing shopping bags next to it. “For when we arrive at the Hotel in Paris. First impressions matter.” He winked at her, then moved toward the doorway. “I’ll come get you when we’re one hour out from landing, Ms. Price. Try and get some rest. Your first days at your new position will be demanding.”
With that, Adrian’s security chief took his leave, sliding the partition shut and leaving Layla alone in the rear of the plane. Glancing around, she admired the opulence of the space. Adrian’s plane was decadent in its details, though the overall impression was of cleanliness and modernity. Mother-of-pearl inlay was set into the wood fixtures and elegant track lighting with overhead brushed-steel spotlights made the space seem like a fancy hotel. Even a slim planter of tiger-orchids sat under the cabin window to the left. Layla moved to it, realizing with a mild shock that the orchids were real and not fake. Leaning over, she smelled the ornate brown and yellow-striped blossoms, finding their fragrance delicate.
But it wasn’t that scent which had caught her attention when she walked in. Moving to the suits, she slid a finger up their silken, elegant material. Leaning in, she inhaled, smelling Adrian’s cologne lingering upon them. She could almost smell his skin; spicy, heady, hot. An answering flare of heat rose in her body, throbbing out from her wrist beneath the hamsa cuff and rolling through her – as if just the scent of him could arouse her body to heady pleasure all on its own.
Flushed and thinking delicious thoughts, Layla turned toward the bed, gazing at it. She hesitated, then stepped over, unzipping her boots and crawling on. Pulling back the white duvet and black silk sheet, she lowered down, smelling Adrian’s pillows. It was a strange, animal thing to do, but she found his scent lingered there too. Layla soon found herself easing to her belly, running her nose over his pillow and opening her lips to catch his faint, musk-heady fragrance.
A wave of heat rolled through her. Her heart pounded from her reaction to Adrian’s scent as an image of the palatial Moroccan residence from her dreams surfaced in her mind, elegant and decorated with tiled archways. Greenery rustled in a soothing desert evening-scape, with the sound of fountains splashing in a blue courtyard. The skin of Layla’s wrist throbbed with a pleasant ache, matching a throbbing now between her thighs as she opened her lips to his pillows again – letting the scent flood her with desert mirages, with sand and silk and wind.
