“The Titanic disaster could have been prevented, and Poseidon is fiction.”
“Well, a lot of plane crashes could probably have been prevented, too, but with my luck I’m going to be on a flight that goes down in a fiery blaze of glory. Or simply disappears from radar, never to be seen again.”
For some reason, she amused him. One minute she was all mocking and happy-go-lucky, and the next she seemed like a frightened teenager. Whatever she was, she wasn’t boring.
“Why did you come all the way to Paris if you hate flying?”
“For work.”
Her breathing had started to grow easier as they continued chatting, and that brought Jackson surprising pleasure. He liked that he was calming her, that the conversation they were having was taking her mind off her fears. Jackson performed billion-dollar deals on a regular basis. Deals of serious import and excitement. Calming a frightened woman wasn’t in his job description and shouldn’t matter to him in the least. But the fact was that it did matter.
“What kind of work?” he asked.
She tensed again.
“Nothing important,” she said, then added, “I’m Alyssa, by the way. Alyssa Gerard.”
She held out her hand and he looked at it as if it were a snake. With a strange reluctance, he held out his hand and clasped her fingers. He should have known better. As their fingers brushed together, a vibration of awareness rocketed right through him. That was all it had taken, one simple touch. This woman was dangerous.
Good thing he liked danger.
Just then his phone rang and he lifted it, his eyes not letting hers go. After a moment of listening, he gave a curt “No comment” and hung up. Damn reporters!
“Excuse me.”
Without looking back at her, he stood and moved purposefully through the throng of eager passengers. Jackson always purchased two seats when he was forced to fly commercially. The last thing he wanted was to end up sitting on an eight- to twelve-hour flight next to some annoying stranger. In this case, his extra seat was an advantage.
“I want Alyssa Gerard moved to the open seat next to mine,” Jackson said, handing over his boarding passes.
He always booked himself into the last row of first class, giving himself even more privacy. This trip, which hadn’t begun well, was shaping up to be a lot more pleasant now that he had a sexy companion to pass the time with.
A predatory smile transformed his features, making the agent helping him blush. Now that was the reaction Jackson was used to receiving from women.
When Alyssa was called to the counter as preboarding was announced, she wondered what possibly could be going wrong now. Maybe her seat assignment had been lost or given away and she would be stuck in Paris forever.
Instead of being anxious, though, she turned her thoughts back to the stranger who’d bolted. But, today of all days, why was she thinking twice about the man? Maybe all the trauma had made her lose her mind, and it would be a mental ward she landed in instead of New York.
Having men lust after her was something Alyssa was used to. Most guys wanted to sleep with her, that was for sure. But it wasn’t because they were in love with her. They either wanted to use her because they liked what they saw—not her, just her looks—or figured that it was a fashion model’s duty to warm their beds.
It was almost inevitable in the world she’d been a part of. Modeling certainly hadn’t brought her the life she’d expected. Her young dreams of fame, fortune, and glamour had earned her sackcloth and ashes, and she hadn’t done anything wrong.
When she’d refused man after man, whether a coworker or a boss, she’d struggled in her career. Why should they deal with her when their working world abounded with exotic beauties who would do anything to further their careers?
It had taken her much longer to get the big break she’d been looking for, and then the ride hadn’t lasted long. The one person she’d trusted . . .
A shudder ran through her. She refused to think about Carl Avone, her ex-boyfriend and manager. He was scum and wasn’t worth the precious brain cells it would use to think of him again.
“Ms. Gerard, you’ve been upgraded to first class. Here’s your new ticket.”
Alyssa stood there in disbelief and stared at the agent, not moving to take the ticket. “Are you sure you have the right person?” she finally asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman didn’t blink as she pushed the ticket closer.
“Seriously, I’ve had a hell of a week, and if I get on the plane in this seat and then they boot me out, I’m probably going to end up causing a riot,” she warned the woman. She was impressed when the agent kept her smile in place.
“I assure you, Ms. Gerard, that the upgrade is legitimate.”
Still suspicious, but not willing to appear ungrateful, Alyssa grabbed it and looked at the seat number with the words de première classe—“first class”—written in bold letters across the bottom.
Since she was left with virtually nothing, her parents had bought her a ticket to get home. There was no way they could afford a last-minute international first-class ticket. Feelings of guilt assailed Alyssa as she stepped away from the counter.
What if she was stealing someone’s seat? Her name was printed on the pass, but how could she have been upgraded? She didn’t even have a frequent-flier number. Her manager had always booked all her flights. Once in a blue moon she’d been placed in business class, which was heaven itself. But she’d never, ever flown first-class. It was a luxury she’d always wanted to enjoy.
First-class passengers were offered preboarding, and with only a small amount of hesitation she joined the line, feeling frumpy in her worn fitted jeans, wrinkled blouse, and baggy sweater. She’d been in a hurry to leave her small apartment and catch her flight home, and she had dressed quickly, packing the rest of her clothes for the journey.
Since she’d shared a place with several other models, it had been depressingly easy to move out; she owned only what she carried in her suitcases. Being a model, she had worn a lot of borrowed clothes to promote companies, and she played down her everyday appearance—she hadn’t wanted to be recognized when not on the job.
None of the furniture had belonged to her, and she’d hung nothing on the walls. Sadly, she hadn’t had so much as a single trinket in the apartment. The more she thought of her life as a model, the more she was grateful it was over. It just would have been nice if her exit from the business had been her choice. She would have come to the same place eventually, but she should have had a nice nest egg to fall back on.