Managed: A VIP Novel Part 5

"Ah, yes. That I can see."

Her eyes narrow. "You were totally thinking paid escort, weren't you?"

"Nothing of the sort."

It's rather impressive how a woman who has the sweet face of a kewpie doll manages to glare with such effectiveness. I have to bite back the urge to confess all. I raise a brow and give her a counter look.

Her eyes narrow further. I swear, it's like High Noon on a plane.

"Social media is an essential component of most businesses today," she tells me.

"Ms. Darling, untwist your knickers. I am in complete agreement with you." In truth, the band could use a few lessons in improving their social media presence, and I've been after Brenna to make that happen for months.

It's not that they lack a following, but when Jax attempted suicide, the band withdrew from the spotlight, leaving their fans, and the industry, to fill in the blanks and make the wrong a.s.sumptions-something that bothers me on a personal level. Kill John is so much more than what the world thinks of them.

Sophie is still looking at me with a dubious expression, as if she's often received criticism for her choice of profession. That someone would try to stamp out the hopes and dreams of this vivacious and intuitive woman is a crime.

I make an effort to soften my tone. "Perhaps you ought to start at the beginning."

"Not if you're going to lecture," she says with a sniff.

"I promise nothing." I give a lock of her hair a small tug. "Talk, chatty girl. It's all we have in this h.e.l.l tube."

She purses her lips. Her fire-engine red lipstick has faded, leaving only a faint stain. She looks softer for it, vulnerable in a strange way. A small scar cuts through the outer corner of her top lip. The faded silvery line is diabolical in its placement, a tiny taunt: suckle right here, mate. My fingers curl into a fist to keep from reaching out and touching. Get a grip on yourself, Scott.

"All right," she says, snuggling back down with the efficiency of a cat. I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of her voice. "For the past year, I've been working as a social media liaison, helping people write creative content for Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, and so on."

"You teach them how to be witty."

"That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."

"It was."

The sound of her light laugher goes straight to my gut. "Two in one night? Oh, the shock. I may never recover."

I give her hair another tug. The strands slide cool and soft around my fingers. "Go on."

"Yes, I teach them how to highlight their personalities and gain new followers. I got lucky landing my last client." She tells me the name of the rising television star Brenna and I had drinks with in New York a month ago. The smallness of the world can be a strange thing.

Sophie's long lashes shadow her cheeks as she focuses on some distant spot. "Anyway, with him, I upped my game, taking photos as well. It's funny-they were totally staged, arty, that kind of thing, but his followers love them and believe they're candids."

"We see what we want to see," I murmur.

"Yes, and we build sandcastle dreams around celebrities. All we need is a window into their lives to start."

"Which is what you're providing."

She nods, her cheek rubbing my chest. "So anyway, I got an email from my client, saying his acquaintance wanted to interview me for a big job in Europe. He put us in contact, and I was asked to come to London, all expenses paid. I'm guessing it's someone pretty famous; I was told they'd give me details in person in order to protect the client's privacy.

"The whole first cla.s.s thing was a happy surprise. I got to the ticket counter, and they told me I'd been moved to first cla.s.s."

"Did the airline specifically say you were b.u.mped?"

She frowns in confusion. "I was expecting coach. I mean, who sends an interviewee first cla.s.s?"

"Depends on the interviewer. Perhaps your ticket was always for first cla.s.s," I point out. "Though I still don't understand why they gave you my extra seat."

"Still crabby about that?"

"It was never personal," I tell her quietly. Regardless of what people believe about me, I don't go out of my way to be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

The press of her palm against my abdomen grows heavy. "I get it," she says. "You didn't want any witnesses."

Perceptive girl.

She smiles a little. "For the record, though. I'm glad I'm here."

I am too.

When I don't say anything, she gives me a nudge. "Admit it. I made it better."

"No other flight I've been on can compare," I tell her truthfully. "Security precautions aside, surely this company gave you a name."

"Yes, I have a name." She gives me a bright smile as if this is supposed to ease my trepidation. "I'm to meet Mr. Brian Jameson at the- Why are you turning green? s.h.i.+t, are you going to be sick?"

I might very well be. I almost laugh, full-out unhinged, oh-f.u.c.k-it-all laughing. I'm not even surprised it's "Brian" she's interviewing with. It almost feels inevitable, the cherry on top of this strange encounter with this chatty girl.

At my side, Sophie comes up on her elbow, and the nimbus of her moonlight hair seems to glow around her concerned face-though really it's cheap airplane lighting and my overactive imagination. She's just a girl with bleached hair and a talent for small talk.

Lie. She's more than that. She's untouchable.

"Suns.h.i.+ne, you're freaking me out."

"Sorry," I say, retreating. "I'm simply adjusting to the fact that I've been tucked up with a potential employee."

Chapter Four.

Sophie

It's fairly stunning how quickly and effectively finding out you're wrapped around a man who works with your potential boss will kill the mood. Not that I'd expected anything from the stuffy but oh-so-hot Gabriel Scott. I was under no illusions that we wouldn't part ways as soon as the plane landed.

And, really, that would be for the best. I have sworn off hookups, as I've concluded they're bad for my mental health. I've dealt with too many d.i.c.k biscuits to continue with casual s.e.x. Even if I hadn't, Gabriel isn't exactly offering. I've never met a more standoffish, p.r.i.c.kly man.

I'd wonder if he's simply arrogant-a perfectly formed man who doesn't deign to mix with average women like me. But it's fairly clear he's this way with everyone.

So, yes, leaving this beautiful being behind at the tarmac has always been part of the plan. Maybe that's why I've felt so free to be utterly myself with him. What does it matter if he finds me lacking when we're nothing more than strangers forced to endure each other's company for one night of travel?

But now everything is upside down and sideways. I will be seeing him in England. He works with Brian Jameson, which he informs me is actually a false name for Brenna James, who runs the PR department for his organization.

Why Brenna James needed to give me a fake name is beyond me, but definitely piques my interest.

Gabriel spares no time extracting himself from my hold and putting as much s.p.a.ce between us as possible. The turbulence has died, so there isn't an excuse to linger anyway. We spend the rest of the flight in awkward silence.

Right before we arrive in London, I try to get him to talk about the job, about Brenna. But he refuses, telling me he'll let her explain everything.

The only good thing to come out of my nagging is that he's too busy bickering with me to notice the landing.

"I'll have my driver drop you at your hotel," he says as we make our way out of the gate and into Heathrow's terminal.

Since it's late at night, and I'm in a foreign country, I'm not inclined to argue. In fact, I'm grateful and more than a little shocked by his offer. "Thank you. That's very nice of you."

He gives me a look as if I'm being ridiculous, but nods in acknowledgment. "I a.s.sume you have luggage?

"Of course," I tell him, looking around at the closed-up shops that line the way. "Don't you? Or I guess you live in London."

"My main residence is in New York now. But I keep a wardrobe here in my London home."

Pondering a life where I jet around the world and have wardrobes and homes waiting for me, I almost miss the escalator to baggage claim. Graceful as ever.

Gabriel, however, walks exactly as I'd expected him to: like a man accustomed to people getting out of his way. His stride is smooth, brisk, and confident.

Here on terra firma, I can appreciate the full effect he has on others. People actually do edge out of his path. It's fascinating-they simply part like the proverbial Red Sea and gape at him as he pa.s.ses.

While Gabriel's masculine beauty is truly breathtaking, the force of him is earthier, almost brutal. Most charismatic people make you want to be a part of their inner circle, make you feel special. With Gabriel the message is much different: here is a man with whom you do not f.u.c.k.

He doesn't talk to me while we walk but focuses his attention on his phone. Apparently he has a million and one emails to answer. His texting-while-walking skills are impressive, though I guess it helps when you don't have to worry about running into anyone.

We halt at the baggage carousel.

"Do you see your bags?" he asks, nose deep in his phone.

Along with my carry-on, which holds my camera and equipment-there was no way I was losing sight of my babies-I have two large suitcases. I usually pack lighter, but "Brian" had suggested I pack for an extended stay should I get the job.

"Not yet."

"Color?"

"Red."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Not surprising."

"Let me guess," I ask as he taps away at his phone. "Had you the need for luggage, it would be as black as your immortal soul."

He tucks his phone in his pocket and gives me a level look. Amus.e.m.e.nt lightens his expression. "As it happens, my luggage is dark brown alligator leather."

"I don't know why I bother teasing you," I mutter.

Again that hint of a smile flirts with the edges of his lips. "You are persistent. I'll give you that."

I spot my bags, but before I can grab them, he has a porter attending to us and we're off again. It's ten at night, which is unsettling since we've already spent an entire night on the plane. Taxies are thin, and the majority of people are being greeted by loved ones.

Travel loneliness claws at my belly. I hate landing in new places at night. It always feels as if I might be left behind and end up sleeping on an airport bench.

Not so tonight. And another swell of grat.i.tude fills me when Gabriel guides me to the black Rolls Royce Phantom waiting at the curb, the driver already opening the door.

Gabriel gestures for me to enter. But then frowns. "You're not going to bounce on the seats and cry who-eee, are you?"

I glare at him. "I'm not completely uncouth, you know."

Okay, I might have done so had he not mentioned it.

"I've been in a plane with you for seven hours," he reminds me as he follows me into the car.

I have to grit my teeth, because, who-f.u.c.king-eee!, the car is fine. I want to rub my cheeks against the b.u.t.ter soft leather and play with the array of b.u.t.tons so badly my fingers twitch.

Gabriel eyes me for a long moment as the driver shuts the door with a soft thud. "Go on," he says in a cajoling voice. "Give it a little bounce. You know you're dying for it."

With his heavy-lidded stare and deep rumbling tone, he makes this sound illicit. I cross my legs, and his eyes track the movement. His lids lower just a bit more, and a s.h.i.+mmer of unwanted heat licks under my s.h.i.+rt.

"I'm good," I tell him with false lightness.

He grunts in response. The car pulls away from the curb, all smoothness and power, and I sit back in my plush seat with a sigh. Whatever happens from here on out, I'll have this small moment of complete comfort.

We sit in silence as the car heads toward London. I can't look out the windows without being disoriented; it's just wrong to be driving on the left side of the road. I keep expecting to crash into an oncoming car.

Gabriel is already back on his phone. This time he's talking to someone named Jules, peppering him or her with questions-is his house ready, have certain contracts arrived, and so on. The cool-yet-even tone of his voice soothes me in the cozy quiet of the car.

I lean my head back and let my eyes close-until I hear his last line of questioning: Is the hotel room ready and sufficiently prepared for Ms. Darling?

Hearing him discuss my lodging arrangement drives home the fact that I'm truly interviewing for his company. And I can't decide if I'm disappointed or excited. Perhaps a bit of both.