Zara
The interior of the private jet is quietly luxurious, all soft colours and polished wood and dim lighting. There are several large comfortable leather chairs and, towards one end of the plane, a conference table with more chairs. Beyond that is a bar behind which a smartly dressed flight attendant is preparing more coffee. The surface of the conference table is inlaid with the Ocean’s Curl logo, the letters O and C fused together in different shades of blue, a curling wave echoing the curve.
I try not to gape at everything. But this is about as far from economy class to Mykonos as I can imagine. I lean back in the padded leather chair, my seatbelt still tight across my hips. We levelled off a little while ago, but I’m always a bit nervous on planes.
Myles is making me nervous, too. Again. He’s wearing tailored linen trousers in a pale colour, highlighting his long legs and lean waist. His shirt is open-necked, also linen, dark navy and slightly rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, a chunky expensive-looking watch around one wrist. He smells like summer and the beach. I can’t stop looking at him, though I’m trying not to. It’s why I insisted on taking my own car to the airport. I needed time to prepare myself, to put on my office-Zara armour. I reach into my bag, pulling out my laptop. This is a work trip, and I need to work.
“Um, so, the car will be waiting for us at Agadir airport,” I say, opening the travel itinerary. “Are you sure you don’t want a driver?”
Myles, who is bent, arms braced, peering out one of the windows, straightens up. “No,” he says. “I prefer making my own way.”
“Fine.” I continue to scroll down the list. “We’re expected at La Coeur, where we have two apartments reserved, and then?—”
“Zara.” Myles comes and sits in the chair opposite mine, pushing my laptop closed. “I already know all this. What I want to know is more about you.”
His steel-grey eyes meet mine, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. “Me?”
The flight attendant comes over with our coffees. She’s blonde and petite, her hair in a perfect French twist. She puts my coffee down with a smile, then places Myles’s next to him so that she has to lean over him. She seems to take a while to do this. I raise my eyebrow, then hastily drop it. But Myles has noticed and is grinning at me.
What the hell? At least I knew how to deal with grumpy Myles. I’d figured that once we got to Morocco I would get him sorted out with his various appointments, make restaurant bookings and whatever else he needed, then, hopefully, be left to my own devices. But this smiling version of Myles, apart from making my heart flutter, has me utterly confused.
Once the flight attendant is gone he leans forward. The open neck of his shirt reveals a hint of muscular chest, lightly dusted with dark hair. I try not to stare. “Have you ever been to Morocco before?”
I shake my head. “No. But I’ve always wanted to visit.”
He nods, looking pleased. “Good. Why?”
“Why… have I wanted to visit?”
He waits, his eyes on me, his mouth curving at the corner. Oh, I am not going to be able to deal with a week of this.
“It’s just always seemed like a magical place,” I say, finally, with a shrug. I don’t look at him anymore. I can’t.
“It is,” he says. “Okay. Now you can ask me a question.”
I glance at him, surprise blooming in my chest. “What?”
“That technically counts,” he says, with another grin. “But I’ll give you another chance. You sure you don’t have anything else you want to know?”
“Um…” I cast around frantically for something to say. “Oh, I know. For the meeting on Tuesday, I wanted to ask?—”
“Not work-related.” He shakes his head, stern now, but still with that flicker of a smile lurking. “Third and final chance. And then you’ll have to pay a penalty.”
I almost say “a penalty?” before realising that would be a third question. I’m not sure I want to know what the penalty would be. I gather my scattered thoughts as best I can, but all I can come up with is, “How many times have you been to Morocco?”
God. So lame.
But Myles looks thoughtful for a moment, leaning back and crossing his arms so the muscles flex.
“I don’t know, to be honest. Twenty times? At least. It’s one of my favourite places in the world.” He pauses. “I’m glad I get to show it to you.” His voice roughens for a moment, then he gets to his feet and walks away.
I stare at his broad back for a moment then, slowly, open my laptop. I start working through emails, but part of me is thinking of the look in his eyes, the heat and softening in his gaze. There’s still an answering heat in my chest. Thank God we have separate accommodation on this trip.
I remind myself of Dean and what he did to me, reaching for that crackle of heartbreak. Build up my walls, remind myself that Myles, for all that he’s being nice to me now, doesn’t seem to like me much. And that he has a girlfriend.
I need to keep my distance.
ChapterTwelve
