At the Billionaire's Beck and Call? / High-Society Secret Baby: At the Billionaire's Beck and Call? / High-Society Secret Baby. Rachel Bailey
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near, it felt as if his voice was caressing her skin, filling her senses, stirring her blood.
In an attempt to stem the tide, she blinked slowly. “There’s nothing to tell.”
He turned in his seat, squaring his shoulders to her, a teasing glint in his eye. “I can’t believe there’s nothing. You must have something you can tell me.”
His body was close, so close, making her think of the night they kissed, and it made her a little light-headed. She could almost feel his hard chest under her palms again, his warm breath on her cheek.
She swallowed. “There is nothing about my life you would find interesting.”
“I beg to differ.” He folded his arms, waiting.
Her pulse picked up speed. How would he react if she leaned over and kissed him now? He hadn’t tried to kiss her since the night in her building, but he’d made the offer in his office that he’d be ready and waiting if she changed her mind. And every so often she’d caught him looking at her. Perhaps he might return the kiss and she could sink into the heaven she’d found in his embrace….
He still sat with his arms crossed over his broad chest, waiting, but something in his expression changed. Deepened. As if he was reading her mind. Slowly, his arms unraveled and he reached across to smooth a wisp of hair that had escaped her French twist.
The breath stalled in her lungs. Her body heated. The feel of his hand finally making contact with her skin again—one simple touch—aroused her more than any other man could achieve with a concerted effort.
For one uninhibited, perfect moment, she leaned into his palm as it lingered on her cheek. She watched his pupils dilate and his chest expand with his indrawn breath.
Then she shored up all the willpower in her possession and moved away from his hand. Ryder Bramson was dangerously attractive. She wasn’t the only one to notice—the tabloids loved to run pictures of him. What she felt wasn’t anything more than what any woman would feel sitting beside him. And her father was counting on that to help him gain a son-in-law and sell his company.
Ryder must know his own appeal to women, too. And his plan mirrored her father’s—he wanted her to marry him so he could buy Ashley International. He wouldn’t be above using his appeal when the stakes were high.
Such a simple trap.
One she couldn’t afford to fall into.
Heart still racing, Macy looked down at her lap, and smoothed her hands over her taupe linen trousers, ironing out the wrinkles from sitting. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ryder’s hand drop and she fought with herself not to reach for it, to reach for him.
Without saying a word, he leaned back into his seat, looking out the window, just as the seat belt light went on and the copilot ducked his head out the door.
“We’re ready for takeoff, Mr. Bramson.”
“Thank you, Brent,” Ryder replied.
Macy needed to get them back onto a professional footing. Needed to be able to talk to her boss without her imagination pulling her in futile directions.
She cleared her throat and grabbed the first topic that came to mind. “The retail space we’ll be seeing has only recently come onto the market.”
Ryder searched her face, his gaze resting on her mouth for a moment, then nodded. “Tell me why you think it’s better for our needs than the others on your list.”
Macy relaxed. She was back on solid ground—business. She could do this. Work side by side with a boss she was attracted to.
If she could just survive the plane trip without losing her head, she’d make it.
Ryder checked his watch. They’d be landing soon.
He’d had a fruitful discussion with Macy about potential policies and directions that Chocolate Diva Australia could take, but there had been something different about her. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it was almost like she was on edge.
Had it just been from when he’d given into sweet temptation and smoothed her hair from her face, or was it more?
As they prepared to land, the seat belt sign lit up and Ryder buckled himself in. Macy had no need to—she’d been buckled in the whole journey—but she reached for the armrests. Her grip was a little tighter than necessary. Looking across at her, he saw the slightest tension in her jaw, the empty look in her eyes as she stared straight ahead. As if she was anxious but trying to cover it from him.
“Not fond of landings?” he asked.
She shrugged casually, belying the rigidity of her body. “They’re not my favorite part of the flight.”
She didn’t elaborate, and knowing Macy she’d never admit a weakness. But her body language drew him in. “Had a bad experience with a landing?”
Her eyes flicked to his then back to the front. They were starting to slowly descend now and her knuckles whitened on the armrests. “No.”
He placed his hand over hers and stroked the back with his fingers. Then something clicked in his brain. Her mother had been relatively famous, with her acting career just taking off, when she’d been killed in a plane crash. He kicked himself for not thinking ahead and connecting the dots. For not realizing this could be hard for her.
The world had seen the images of the crumpled plane, had been flooded with photos of her mother on a movie set one week before her death, and had moved on. But this was Macy’s private pain—completely removed from the public circus. He was almost reluctant to pry into something so personal. But another glance at her clenched hands and he knew he couldn’t leave her as she was.
“Your mother? “ he asked softly.
She nodded once, still staring ahead, her body radiating tension now—as if his insight had given her permission to feel the fear more fully.
He peeled her fingers from the armrest and gripped her hand tightly in his, his heart ripping open for the little girl whose mother hadn’t come home. For the woman here and now. He wanted to shield her, gather her against him and tell her she’d be all right.
But he couldn’t let her see that—his pity would only make her feel more vulnerable, a fate worse than death to Macy.
He cast around for a way to take her mind off the situation. Something … distracting. She desperately needed a life raft. No question, she’d hate grabbing onto it, but she needed one nonetheless. And he was the only one here.
He looked at the scenery out the window, and found an idea. “Have I told you about my ideal Australian holiday?”
Her eyes darted to his, confused, then back to the front of the plane.
“Obviously I’ve failed to mention it. Perhaps I’ll get time for it after we’ve finished with the business from your project.” He settled into his seat, bringing her hand—still wrapped in his—to lie on his thigh. He liked it there. “You might like to come with me. It starts with a field of grass surrounded by mountains.”
Her eyes turned to him, lingered a moment this time, a corner of her mouth twitching before she returned her scrutiny ahead.
“We’ll be there alone with a picnic basket. No one for hundreds of miles. The grass is peppered with bluebells and the sun is warm.” He tried to assess her reaction. How thick should he lay it on? “Surrounding the field is a rainforest and—”
Without turning, she interrupted, a reluctant smile on her face. “What planet has rainforest and a field of grass with bluebells growing beside each other?”
Okay. Perhaps he’d gone too far. But at least she was smiling. “I said it was an ideal holiday, Macy. Work with me.”
The tension in her shoulders relaxed a little. “Okay, keep going.”
“As