The Independent Bride. Sophie Weston
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took a deep breath. ‘Will you tell me something, Ed?’
‘If I can.’
‘When we went out together—was I a mercy date?’
He hesitated just a fraction too long.
So her grandmother had not lied. Pepper had hoped against hope that it was one of Mary Ellen’s snaky tricks. But clearly it was the simple truth.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘Goodbye, Ed.’
It was a night when Pepper despaired. She had never felt more lonely in her life.
It was also the night that she decided. She had to go somewhere nobody would care that she was Mary Ellen Calhoun’s granddaughter. And if that looked like running away, tough.
She put her life in order faster than she would have believed possible. She got rid of furniture. Gave away her books and CDs. Said goodbye to the two or three people who would care and was out of the apartment before Mary Ellen could send in someone in uniform to evict her.
So this was where she found out whether she deserved her prize for problem solving, Pepper thought wryly now, as one by one even the partying entrepreneurs in the row behind fell asleep.
If she did, she would survive in London. She would set up Out of the Attic in England instead of the States.
And find Prince Charming?
Pepper closed her eyes. No need to get over-ambitious, she told herself. I think you can say goodbye to that one. There, at least, Mary Ellen had proved to be right.
And I never want another mercy date if I live to be a hundred.
In the first-class section, Steven Konig came awake the moment the smell of coffee began to waft through the cabin. Everyone else was still slumbering under doused lights. But the flight attendant saw him stir. She came over.
‘Professor?’
He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
‘It starts with my alarm call now, does it?’
She was bewildered. ‘I’m sorry, Professor?’
Steven said wearily, ‘Could you just lay off Professoring me until I’ve had my orange juice?’
She did not understand. ‘No need to move just yet if you don’t want to, sir,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve got more than an hour until we land.’
He smiled at her, shaking himself free of the airline blankets and pillows. ‘No, that’s fine. I’ve got work to do. And I always like to see the sunrise.’
She nodded and went back to her galley. No one else in the business class cabin stirred. The smell of coffee intensified.
When did I last wake up to the smell of coffee? Steven thought. That holiday in Tuscany with the Cooper family when I’d just got the Chair of Business Innovation? Five years ago? Six? Become a success—give up someone making you coffee in the morning!
He gave a dry smile and ran his hand over his chin. He had a heavy beard. Years ago, Courtney had told him that she went to bed with Don Juan and woke up with the Pirate King. That was when she’d still been in his life and they were laughing about their secret love affair. Before she’d decided that rich kid Tom Underwood was a better bet than a man who had to put himself through his PhD as a petrol pump attendant. It hadn’t mattered to Courtney that Tom was his best friend. But then it hadn’t mattered to Courtney that Steven loved her, either.
Well, all that was a long time ago. These days he tried to look like a smooth businessman at all times. He went to the softly lit first-class bathroom to freshen up.
But on the point of shaving off the morning’s beard he stopped. He’d been on duty at that damned conference for over a week. All that time he had been shaving twice a day, listening to boring papers, making small talk with elliptical officials and never, ever exchanging a word with anyone that wasn’t about business. He was tired of behaving.
Arrested, Steven considered his mirrored image. He ran a thoughtful hand over the dark stubble. He looked like a gunslinger in an old movie, he thought, amused. Not a chairman. Never a master of an Oxford college. Above all not a professor. No one who met him for the first time today would think of calling him Professor.
‘Go for it,’ he told himself.
He put on a clean shirt but left it hanging defiantly outside his trousers. The piratical look would give the perfect flight attendant a shock, he thought. Excellent!
He was grinning as he came out of the small washroom. In fact, he was so distracted that he walked straight into another body.
‘Oh, excuse me,’ said the body, flustered, and dropped a washbag.
Steven dived for it chivalrously. The body was a tall woman with an untidy bush of hair and a tired face. As he handed the bag back to her he thought that she looked as if she had not closed her eyes since they left New York.
‘My fault,’ he said compassionately. ‘Sorry about that.’
She shook her head, hugging the bag to her breast. ‘Don’t be. I shouldn’t be up here anyway.’
The aroma of coffee had been joined by the smell of hot rolls. Passengers in the first-class cabin were still resting peacefully, but presumably other people were being shaken awake. A continental breakfast was clearly imminent somewhere. He made the obvious deduction.
‘Do I take it you’re an invader from economy class?’
‘Yes.’ She eyed him warily.
Steven was impatient. Did she think he would call an attendant and complain? So much for his piratical appearance! It obviously took more than a missed shave to make him look like a free spirit.
He said ruefully, ‘Good luck.’
He realised that he was blocking her path. He began to move aside with a word of apology—and the plane banked.
Two things happened simultaneously. The jet-enhanced sunrise lit the cabin with gold. And the woman staggered. Her eyes flared, as if she had suddenly been recalled to herself, but it was too late. There was nothing to hold on to. She tipped forward, dangerously off balance, and began to tumble.
Steven caught her. Well, of course he caught her. He was a gentleman. And anyway, that was what he was good at, thought Steven wryly. It was what he was designed for, with his rugby player’s build and his judo-honed muscles. Strong and stable. He was not charming, and he had never been handsome, but by golly he had always been good at stopping women falling on the floor.
So good that he almost managed to repress the leap of the senses that hit him fair and square.
For in the blazing dawn she was suddenly amazing—no longer a tired woman with tangled hair. She was a golden-skinned goddess with a wild red mane. More than red—flame and scarlet and crimson and bronze, flickering like living fire. As it brushed his mouth it smelled of leaves. In his bracing arms her body felt unbelievably soft…Steven swallowed.
Ouch! One rejection of the morning razor, one lurch of a plane, and he was into seriously politically incorrect territory.
Hold on, there, Steven Konig. You’re not Captain Blood and never have been.
He restored her to her feet fast.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the goddess, flustered.
She did not seem to have noticed his reaction.
‘My pleasure,’ said Steven. He could have kicked himself the moment he said it. It sounded as if he had been hanging around just waiting to get his hands on her.
But the goddess did not seem to be on political correctness patrol just now, thank God. In fact the goddess was looking adorably remorseful.
‘Did I hurt you?’ The soft voice had an accent he did not recognise, and Steven was good at accents.