Managed:a VIP novel(3)

By: Kristen Callihan



He flashes a wide—albeit fake—smile, revealing a dimple on one cheek, and I’m breathless. Double damn it.

“Wow.” I give a dreamy sigh. “It’s even worse when you smile. You really should come with a warning, sunshine.”

His smile drops like a hot potato, and he opens his mouth to retort, but the flight attendant is suddenly by his side.

“Mr. Scott, would you like a preflight beverage? Champagne? Pellegrino, perhaps?”

I’m half surprised she didn’t offer herself. But the implication is there in the way she leans over him, her hand resting on the seat near his shoulder, her back arched enough to thrust out her breasts. I can’t blame the woman. Dude is potent.

He barely glances her way. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Maybe a coffee? Tea?”

One brow rises in that haughty way only a Brit can truly pull off. “Nothing for me.”

“Champagne sounds great,” I say.

But the flight attendant never takes her eyes from her prey. “I really do apologize for the mix-up, Mr. Scott. I’ve alerted my superiors, and they shall do everything in their power to accommodate you.”

“Moot at this point, but thank you.” He’s already picking up his magazine, the cover showcasing a sleek sports car. Typical.

“Well, then, if there’s anything you need…”

“I don’t know about him,” I cut in, “but I’d love a—hey! Hello?” I wave a hand as she saunters away, an extra sway to her hips. “Bueller?”

I can feel him smirking and give him a look. “This is your fault, you know.”

“My fault?” His brows lift, but he doesn’t look away from his magazine. “How on Earth did you come to that conclusion?”

“Your freaky good looks made her blind to all but you, sunshine.”

His expression is blank, though his lips twitch. “If only I could strike women speechless.”

I can’t help it, I have to grin at that. “Oh, I bet you’d find that marvelous; all of us helpless women just smiling and nodding. Though I’m afraid it would never work on me.”

“Of course not,” he deadpans. “I’m stuck next to the one afflicted with an apparently incurable case of verbal diarrhea.”

“Says the man who is socially constipated.”

He stills again, his eyes widening. And then a strangled snort breaks free, escalating into a choked laugh. “Christ.” He pinches the bridge of his nose as he struggles to contain himself. “I’m doomed.”

I smile, wanting to laugh too, but holding it in. “There, there.” I pat his forearm. “It will all be over in about seven hours.”

He groans, his head lifting. The amusement in his eyes is genuine, and a lot more deadly because of it. “I won’t survive it—”

The plane gives a little shudder as it begins to pull out from the gate. And Mr. Sunshine blanches, turning a lovely shade of green before fading into gray. A terrified flyer. But one who clearly would rather the plane actually crash than admit this.

Great. He’ll probably be hyperventilating before we level out.

Maybe it’s because my mom is terrified to fly as well, or maybe because I’d like to think Mr. Sunshine’s horrible behavior is fear-based and not because he’s a massive dickweasel, but I decide to help him. And, of course, have a little more fun while I’m doing it.



* * *



Gabriel



* * *



I’m in hell. It’s a familiar place: a long, narrow tube with wobbly wings. A death trap with five hundred seats, stale air, and droning engines. I’ve been here frequently. Only this time, the Devil herself is my seat partner.

I’ve been in the entertainment industry long enough to know that the Devil always appears in an attractive package. Better to lure in unsuspecting sods. This particular devil looks as though she’s stepped out of the 1950s—platinum blond hair swirling around her cherubic face; big, pansy brown eyes; red, red lips; and an hourglass figure I’m trying my best to ignore.

It isn’t easy ignoring those tits. Every time she talks, those plush mounds seem to bounce as if they have a mind of their own. Given that this strange, gobby girl never shuts up, I’m in danger of being mesmerized by a fantastic rack of what are surely double-Ds.

God, and she keeps on chattering. Like some nightmare Jabberwocky intent on driving me insane.

“Look, you—” More bouncing tits, red mouth pursing… “I know your game, and it isn’t going to work on me.”

I pull my gaze up. “What?”

“Don’t you whhhat me with that proper British accent and think I’ll fall for it.” A thin finger waggles in front of my nose. “I don’t care how sexy your voice is, it won’t work.”

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