Veiled Fantasies - Anna Lowe Page 0,3

make of her? A bilingual American living in London. Traveling home from Australia, alone. A woman with a hungry mind and a storehouse of energy. He was almost tempted to start a conversation. Too bad he didn’t have the time for anything but work. He crooked his neck from side to side, trying to concentrate.

What was it about this flight?

What was it about her?

His eyes floated over his laptop screen. If Martin were here, and five or ten years younger, he’d be checking her out. This American was just his brother’s type. Martin the clown, Martin the charmer. If Martin was here, he’d be getting up his nerve to go talk to this woman. Recruiting Erik to help with some set up, something to get her attention. A spilled drink, maybe. A casual question or comment: Gabriel Garcia Marquez! My favorite author!

He couldn’t help but break into a smile, imagining the scene. How often had he been pressed into assisting Martin in one scheme or another? Sometimes, it was Martin who fished Erik out of trouble, but more often, it was he who had to cover for his older brother. His accomplice through so many childhood misadventures.

Then the spotlight shifted to other memories, and the smile slowly faded until he just stared into empty space.

* * *

Movement helped ease the stiffness, helped her relax. Jill stretched up onto her toes and rolled her shoulders back, vowing to never take a flight as long as this one again. At least not alone. Which was pretty much the same as never.

She’d grabbed her chance to stand up when she could. Though the Fates had assigned her a seat right beside Gorgeous, there was only so long she could fake nonchalance. The past hours had ticked by like a marathon yoga session devoted entirely to breath control. Long inhale, long exhale. Reading was a lost cause, so she’d concentrated on sitting, very, very still, with Mr. Perfect only inches away.

Oh, my.

Even the I’ll-just-check-out-for-the-next-twelve-hours look on his face couldn’t mask how good-looking he was. Casual business attire but rugged hands that did more than just hit computer keys. Fingers…no ring. But what about the perfect wife? Maybe it was a girlfriend or a fiancée. No way could a guy like him be single.

Not that Jill had been peeking or anything. No, no. Not her. Just sitting there innocently, trying not to gape or drool.

What was he thinking about? Work? His girlfriend? Was he Australian, heading on a trip to Europe, or European, heading home? The latter, she decided. His skin didn’t have the burnished tan of an Australian who’d spent his three decades roasting in the sun. He was the type who could fit in anywhere, though, from a fancy casino to a rugged outback farm.

She worked up the nerve to look sideways, intent on the view out the window. Her last glimpse of Australia. And Mr. Perfect? He was looking out, too. Thinking about what?

Not about her, that was guaranteed.

He turned back before she did and caught her eye. She froze. He smiled politely, then reached for his briefcase.

And all she’d gotten out was a faint “hi.”

Well done, Jill. Hi, not even hello. She’d had her chance and that was all she could squeeze out. The entire impression she would ever make on him was one syllable, two letters—hi.

He opened and closed the briefcase, giving her a glimpse of a family photo showing him, the perfect wife, or almost-wife, whichever, and two smiling kids. Just a glimpse, but enough to make Jill’s stomach contract. Taken. Why are all the perfect hunks always taken?

Because they’re prefect hunks. Duh.

But no wedding ring. What did that say?

Maybe he wasn’t married. Just in one of those modern partnerships that didn’t need documentation to prove its depth.

Sigh.

She sat and she sat until the chance came to stand up. Just what she needed: a little distance, a quick breather. Movement, that would help. She paced the aisle then stopped to stretch.

The passengers were all hushed, each in their own bubble of apathy as minutes and miles slipped by. Watching movies, reading, dozing. A thin man was clicking through the channels on his screen in what seemed to be an endless loop. A child tugged at his mother’s seatbelt, not quite ready to let her sleep. An older woman buried her nose in a paperback with a rose and thorn on the cover. Everyone in their own little universe, tuning out the dull drone of the aircraft’s engines, intoxicated by