The Brightest Star - Fern Michaels Page 0,74

given her. In text message format, she was told to buckle up as they were preparing to taxi. She didn’t hear the engines start up, not a single sound. Maybe these walls were soundproof. She located her seat belt in the swivel chair, clicked it in place, and a second chime from the phone gave a detailed map with instructions on how one must exit the plane in case of an emergency.

“Amazing,” she said to herself. She’d bet the bank her dad would get a kick out of this, regardless of how he felt about the World Wide Web.

Surprisingly relaxed, Lauren kicked off her heels and tucked her feet beneath her. This was how she liked to travel. Maybe it wasn’t the actual flying part that had always frightened her but the closeness, the feeling of being cramped. Stuck. In here she could get up, walk around, nap, take a bath, watch a movie. The choices were endless, though she’d stay seated until they reached altitude. She assumed this rule applied to private aircraft as well. Comfortable, and totally without fear, she relaxed so much that she drifted off. A tap on the door startled her awake.

“Lunchtime,” Felicia announced, pushing a rolling cart into the lounge area of the suite. “You doing okay? Nervous?”

“Actually, I dozed off for a few minutes. No nerves whatsoever.”

“Perfect, now let’s get you fed, then go from there. I have the dining room all set up.” She pushed another button, revealing a dining room that seated at least twelve people.

“You’re kidding,” Lauren said, stunned by the sheer opulence.

“No, it’s the real deal. Mr. G hosted his family Thanksgiving dinner here last year.”

Lauren asked, “Where do I sit?”

“Your choice, as you’re the only passenger,” Felicia said, then started to remove plates from the cart.

Lauren sat at the head of the table, as it made sense. “This smells divine.” She was hungry even after consuming that large stack of pancakes at breakfast.

“I’ll make sure to tell Jean Simone Laurent. He’s our head chef, from France, and he’s the best. He’ll introduce himself when it’s time for dessert.”

A French chef, too?

She didn’t have a reply because who would question having a French chef preparing their lunch on a flight to Seattle?

Lauren relished the chilled briny oysters. It had been forever since she’d had any. It was not something on the menu at Ruby’s Diner. Next was poached salmon, cooled and served with tender greens, fresh tomato, hard-boiled egg, and capers. The food literally melted in her mouth. “I don’t think I’ve ever had salmon prepared this way. It’s delicious.”

“I’ll tell Jean Simone Laurent, and he’ll give you his recipe, if you ask.”

“Not sure I could re-create this, but I would love to try his recipe at home,” Lauren said between bites. She felt a bit intimidated, as Felicia stayed with her while she ate, but if this was the way Mr. G operated, then so be it.

As soon as she finished, Felicia removed her plate and refreshed her ice water. “We have red velvet cake for dessert. I had a taste earlier. It’s to die for, like most everything Jean prepares.”

“I don’t think I could eat another bite, but maybe later. With coffee?” she asked, knowing her wish would be granted. Lauren didn’t think it would be too much trouble getting used to fancy meals like the one she’d just consumed.

“Then I’ll leave you to roam the aircraft, have a look around, or take a nap. I’m just a touch away,” Felicia said.

“Thank you so much. I’m going to roam, see if I can walk off a calorie or two.”

“Like you need to,” Felicia teased. “I, on the other hand, could afford to lose weight. Three babies almost back-to-back takes a toll on a girl’s figure.”

“Really? I mean three babies? I don’t mean that in a bad way, you just look”—Lauren paused—“so polished, and well put together.”

“Trust me, when I’m home, the hairdo and makeup disappear, but I do love those little ones,” Felicia said, clearing away the last dish. “Eight, ten, and twelve. All boys.”

Lauren laughed. “Well, I think you’re lucky. I adore kids. I’ve always wanted children.” She rarely voiced that and surprised herself when the words came out of her mouth.

“You’re young; you have plenty of time.”

“Not so much. I’m thirty-five.”

“No way! You definitely don’t look it,” Felicia said.

“Thank you. I think.” She laughed. “I get a lot of that because of my size. Up close, the wrinkles are there, trust me.”

“Well, regardless, you’re a