Page 2 of Seasons of Sin

Her companion raised a brow but wisely said nothing. Instead, he shifted his weight in the chair, so that he was a little closer to her. He smelled good. Something unrecognizable spiraled through Saphire’s gut and it quickly gave rise to reluctant curiosity. He was so different to Jordan; Jordan, a high-flying lawyer and the son of a distinguished politician and a supermodel, was handsome, polite, wealthy, and oh so very civilized, in a sort of uptight way.

This man was … she frowned. He was all those things too. Certainly the former. Gorgeous, virile, obviously wealthy if his suit, watch and the fact he was in the same first class cabin as she was, could be any guide. But there was a sort of feral animalism to him; something uncontained and restless that was at odds with his urbane demeanor.

“Where do I know that name?” She pondered, her brain a little too fogged by champagne and grief to sort through the information she had stored at her fingertips.

“Which name?” He prompted. His voice was like honey and caramel, thick and rich with a satisfying spice in the crispness of his vowels.

“Konstanides.”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of the airline,” he prompted with an air of unconcern that was almost definitely assumed.

“Yes!” She jabbed a finger at his broad chest and smiled proudly. “You have the same name as this …” she waved her hand around the cabin, “As this plane person. People.”

His smile was sardonic; it sent a shiver trembling down her spine. “Fancy that.”

“The people who own the plane, I mean.”

“Not just this plane; presumably they own the airline too.”

She nodded. “Yes.” Again she jabbed at his chest. “That’s strange.”

He hid a laugh. “Indeed.”

She lifted the scotch to her lips. She hadn’t drunk the liquor in a long time but she had a small taste now and didn’t hate it. She was numb, of course. Ordinarily it would have sent her retching to the bathroom. She had another mouthful.

Her companion’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “You drink like someone wanting to forget.”

“Do I?” Saphire was shocked. Was it so obvious? Or was this man just unfathomably astute? She took another sip hoping to hide the flush in her cheeks. “Maybe I just drink like someone who wants to get drunk.”

“In my experience, it’s the same thing.”

“Do you have a lot of experience with drunk women on planes, then?” She asked, blinking her eyes innocently. They were a startling shade of blue; they reminded him of the AegeanSea on a bright summer’s day. The effect, in her pretty face with bright red lips and dark brown hair, was stunning. Literally, he had found it difficult to wrench his eyes off her.

“No.” He did his best to avoid talking to strangers, particularly beautiful, obviously troubled, hiccoughing, sobbing, champagne-sledging women such as this. And yet here he was, staring at her as though she held the secret to eternal life.

“Who are you?”

She dropped her gaze to the drink and ran her finger over the rim distractingly. “No one.”

Her reticence infuriated him. He told himself to sit back against the seat and ignore her, but how could he? She was the one drinking like a soldier but the intoxication was wrapping right around him. He cradled his scotch without bringing it to his lips. “No one, huh?”

“Why do you care?” She snapped, squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a shaky breath. It smelled of scotch. Her eyelashes were the longest he’d ever seen. He wondered, briefly, if they were fake, but immediately discounted the notion. There was nothing fake about this woman. From her inky hair and pearly complexion to those full, cherry-red lips and perfect breasts that were pushed up to reveal a heaving cleavage, she was all-woman and all-real.

His eyes were drawn to the creamy color of her décolletage and lower still to the round orbs that would be more than a handful, even for him. Her nipples were peaking against the fabric. He wanted to touch them. To touch her.

The certainty arrested his thoughts like a blade.

What the hell had gotten into him?

His eyes flashed to her face and he caught her, startled and aware, her lips parted and her cheeks flushed. She’d seen his lazy inspection and she’d understood. Attraction was a flame that burst between them. Desire unfurled in his gut.

“What?” She whispered, though she knew. She knew what he was thinking. She knew what he wanted. And the knowledge was a lightning bolt of much-needed confidence to her bruised ego. This man, this gorgeous, handsome stranger, was attracted to her.

Stuff her idiot husband, who made calm, sensible love to her every few weeks. This man was wild and untamed, she could tell just by looking at him, and he wanted her!

Without alcohol, she probably wouldn’t have realized, and she certainly never would have acted on the feeling. But now, rejected by the two people she was closest to on earth, pushed out by her best friend and her husband, she sought the flattery and attention of a man she knew nothing about.

His validation had become, instantly, desperately, essential to her being.