Zero Control

Dougal couldn’t deny that his instincts were telling him she wasn’t what she seemed, but did he trust his powers of deductive reasoning? Getting close to her was the only way to find out, but something told him if he flew too near the flame of her hot blue eyes he was going to get singed.

He clenched his teeth to keep from scooping her into his arms and carrying her away to some secluded corner of the expensively decorated airplane and stripping off her clothes in a hungry effort to discover if her flesh tasted as sweet as it looked. He wanted to cup his palm around her breasts, to thread his fingers through that mane of lush black hair, to press his mouth against her ripe, rich lips.

“Is there something you need?” she asked.

You.

“No,” he answered mildly.

He could almost hear her heart thumping, could feel his own heart slamming against his chest.

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.” Behind him, the flight attendant closed the door, but he didn’t look away.

Roxie broke their stare. Ducking her head, she scurried toward her fully reclining, plush leather seat beside the window. Leaving Dougal feeling as if he was flying into the eye of a storm, and his instrument panel had just frizzed out.

2

ROXIE’S BOSS, PORTER LANGLEY, the owner and founder of Getaway Airlines, had seriously underestimated Taylor Corben. Roxie doubted that Porter realized how much money the woman lavished on her airline, nor did he have any idea that she was hiring gorgeous macho men as tour guides. Of course, that was the very reason Mr. Langley had sent her on this trip—to get the lowdown on Eros. Her boss hungered to follow in Taylor Corben’s footsteps and open his own destination resort in Ireland, along the lines of Eros’s version in Stratford.

The lavishness of the accommodations was the first item going into her report, after she got her hands to stop sweating and her pulse to quit pounding, following her encounter with the hunk in Renaissance attire. The way “Shakespeare” had stared at her caused Roxie to fear that he’d guessed her secret.

She was a mole.

Roxie hadn’t been happy about the whole go-spy-on-the-competition assignment her boss had cooked up, but she was loyal to the bone when it came to people who’d given her a break, plus she desperately wanted the head of public relations position that her boss had dangled in front of her. Pulling off this little piece of corporate espionage would cinch her promotion.

The job was not only one she coveted, but the bump in salary would also allow her to put her kid sister, Stacy, through college. Roxie didn’t want Stacy to end up like her, forced by circumstances and lack of money to give up on her dreams of becoming an actress.

She peered out the window. Even though she worked for an airline she wasn’t a comfortable flyer, and heading to London twisted her stomach. Crossing miles and miles of ocean held little appeal.

She blew out her breath, ran her palms over the front of her thighs and then dug her BlackBerry from her purse to distract herself. She started to type in her impression of the big man in the Shakespeare costume and the lavish interior of the plane—mahogany wood paneling, cocktail bar at the back of the plane with a gleaming granite countertop, opulent carpeting—but then he came over and strapped himself into the last empty seat on the plane.

The seat right beside hers.

Unnerved, Roxie shut off her BlackBerry and returned it to her designer knockoff handbag she’d picked up at a yard sale. She definitely did not fit with this crowd, but her childhood had taught her to be someone else whenever she was in a dicey situation. Slip under the skin of an invented character. For the duration of this trip she was a smart, sharp, infinitely calm, corporate spy. She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

Inhaling, she caught a whiff of his spicy, masculine cologne and felt herself come undone. Fear revved her pulse rate. Did he suspect she was not typical of Eros’s well-heeled clientele?

Play the game. Be the role.

To boost her confidence, she reached up to run her fingers over the gold-and-silver comedy-tragedy mask necklace she always wore. It was the last gift her parents had given her before they were killed two weeks after her eighteenth birthday.

“Hello, again.” His deep voice rumbled, rolling over her ears like a gathering storm.

She felt something shake loose in her chest, a tearing-away sensation like a boat breaking free from its mooring and drifting out to sea.

Be cool. You are an expert spy. Think Mata Hari, Antonia Ford, Belle Boyd.

“Hi,” she said casually.

“I’m Dougal, by the way. Dougal Lockhart. Sorry about stonewalling you earlier. It’s part of the flirtatious role-playing Eros requires from tour guides.”

Role-playing she understood. It was how a shy girl from Albany made it in New York City. “So I deduced. Are you sitting here for the entire flight?”

Oh, damn, her voice had come out high and reedy.

“Yep. Does that distress you?”

“You’re the one who should be distressed,” she countered. When she’d first started working for Porter he’d coached her on how to go on the offensive diplomatically whenever she found herself backed into a corner, but the skill didn’t come easily. By nature she was open, expressive, a people pleaser, and she had to fight against her tendency to be overly accommodating. It was only when she pretended to be someone else that she was able to change her behavior.

“Oh?” He cocked his head.

“I gotta warn you,” Roxie amended. “I’m a nervous flyer. I get fidgety.”

“And yet you’re traveling alone.”

“I am.”

“Vacationing by yourself?”

Was he fishing for details? Fear hopscotched through her and she dug her fingernails into her palm. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s brave.”

“I like traveling alone,” she lied. “I’m accountable to no one’s agenda but my own.”

“Touché.” His gaze skimmed over the naked ring finger of her left hand. “I take it you’re not married.”

“Astute conclusion.”

“Snarky.” His eyes twinkled. “Unexpected but engaging.”

“I’m happy I could provide you with some free entertainment.” She took a peek at his ring finger. “You don’t look married, either.”

“Astute conclusion.”

“Now you’re just mocking me.”

“Trying to keep your mind off takeoff.”

“I appreciate the effort.”

“If it would help any, feel free to grab hold of my arm,” Dougal invited.

She dropped a glance at his strong forearm, poking from the rolled-up sleeves of his puffy white shirt. His forearms were ropy with muscles and thick, dark hair. She curled her fingers into fists and forced herself to breath normally.

“I’ve got to warn you, I tend to babble when I’m nervous.” She scrunched her shoulder blades together.

“Babble away.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Not at all. I have earplugs.”

She had to laugh. Strange as it seemed, she was having fun.

The plane taxied from the gate.

“Quick,” Roxie said. “Say something to distract me. Takeoffs and landings freak me out the most. That and looking out the window when we’re over water.”

“Looking out the window freaks you out?”

“Sort of.”

“So why the window seat?”

“Because looking out the window keeps me from feeling claustrophobic.”

“You’re claustrophobic, too?”

“Only when I feel closed in.”

He laughed again, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling. “You’re funny.”

“I’m happy that you find my terror amusing.”

“It is a seven-hour flight. I have to take my amusement where I can find it.” The teasing expression in his eyes warmed her from the inside out.

The plane rushed down the runway, gathering speed, the tarmac whizzing by in a gray-black blur. Roxie gripped the armrest.

Dougal held out his palm. “I’m here if you need a hand to hold on to.”

Gratefully she took it, but the minute his fingers closed around hers, Roxie realized she’d made a grave mistake. His grip was firm, his palm calloused. His scent, a complicated aroma of spicy cologne, leather and sunshine invaded her nostrils.

Madness.

The plane was airborne, soaring.

Treetops fell away. Vehicles crawling along the freeway in rush-hour traffic glimmered like spotted stones. The early-morning sun burned orange against the clouds. Roxie jerked her gaze from the window to stare at the man beside her.

The warmth inside her kicked up to a sultry simmer. A labyrinth of emotions pummeled her. Overwhelmed, Roxie had to remind herself to breathe. What was going on here? Why was she feeling so…so…what was she feeling?

Attracted.

Yes, that was the word. She was attracted to him and the feeling scared her.

He held on tightly to her hand, and she closed her eyes so he couldn’t read what she was struggling to hide.

The landing gear came up with a bump. Her eyes flew open. The sound never failed to send her heart lurching into her throat. Dougal squeezed her hand. A sexual tingle shot all the way up to her shoulder.

Think about something else.

But that was difficult to do, considering how delicious he smelled and how his quick-witted banter reminded her just how long it had been since she’d had sex.

Roxie tried to concentrate on the luxurious surroundings. The state-of-the-art flat-screen television sets at each seat were so sophisticated they’d make a techno geek weep with happiness. There were the elaborate meal menus that could send a gastronome into paroxysms of epicurean delight and the butter-soft, oversize leather chairs with enough legroom to satisfy the long-legged man beside her.

“How long have you been a tour guide?” She searched for something neutral to talk about, something that wouldn’t inflame the feelings burning through her. Or result in her inadvertently giving herself away.

“I just started,” Dougal explained. “In fact, this is my first trip.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“You seem so self-confident.”

“It’s all an act,” he confided. “Inside, my knees are jelly.”

“You fooled me.”

“How so?”

“You don’t look like you’re scared of anything.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” The way he said it, the penetrating expression on his face made her feel as if he’d whipped off all her clothes and she was sitting there stark naked.

“What did you do before you took this job?” she asked.

“Variety of things.”

“You seem a little old to still be finding yourself.”

“Some of us are late bloomers.”

“Late-blooming jelly knees? I’m not buying it.”

He stroked his bearded chin. “No?”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three. You?”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”

“You brought up the topic,” he pointed out.

“I guess I did. How old do you think I am?”

“That’s so not fair. If I guess that you’re older than you are, then you’ll never speak to me again and that would be such a shame because you’re definitely a woman worth speaking to. So let’s see. You’re sixteen going on seventeen?”

Okay, so she was flattered. Roxie didn’t get this kind of talk from men very often. Mainly because she avoided situations where such talk could spring. To be honest, she avoided men and any hint of romantic relationships, but she wasn’t dumb. She knew it was part of his tour guide please-the-customer shtick, so she relented and let him off the hook. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“And you’ve got your life all figured out?”

She shrugged. “I guess.”

He reclined his seat, crossed his ankles. “What do you do for a living?”

“Executive assistant,” she said, wanting to lie as little as possible.

“Is this your first trip to Europe?”

“Yes. You?”

“Been many times. Twelve years in the Air Force.”

“I guess that’s why you became a tour guide? You know your way around the world.”

“I’ve been around the block a time or two.” He narrowed his eyes, his smile turned wicked and for a moment he looked positively hawkish. A calculating raptor analyzing the habits of his prey just before he swooped in for the kill. Suddenly she felt like a field mouse who’d ventured too far from home. What on earth had made her believe she could pull off something like this?

“Do you like music?” he asked.

“Sure.” She shrugged. Act nonchalant, sophisticated. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Not everyone. I ask because Eros Airlines has satellite radio piped in. Listening to music might help you relax.”

He leaned over her to reach for the console containing the small flat-screen television. She tried not to notice that his broad chest was mere inches from her lap. He opened a drawer, pulled out a headset and handed it to her. “What do you want to hear? I’ll dial it in for you. Rap, country, classic, pop? You name it, we’ve got it.”

“Emocore,” she said.

The corners of his mouth turned down in a surprised, “Who knew?” expression. “Seriously?”

“You got something against emocore?”

“Matter of fact it’s my favorite, but I really don’t like the emo label,” he said.

“It’s dumb, I know. Why don’t they just call it poignant punk rock? Who are your favs?”

“Rites of Spring, Embrace, Gray Matter.”

“Oh, oh, don’t forget Fire Party and Moss Icon.”

“What do you like about it?”

“Emo is so raw, you know. Primal.” Roxie pressed her palms together. “But it’s also deep and expressive and soulful.” Some people thought the music was loud and chaotic, but to Roxie the sound represented a part of herself she was afraid to explore any other way. The part of her that longed to flaunt convention, throw back her head and just howl at the moon.

Dougal shook his head. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for an emo fan.”

“Same here.”

They grinned at each other.

Dougal shifted in his seat, angling his body toward her. “Okay, so what’s your favorite food?”

“Italian.”

“Me, too. What dish do you like best? Lasagna?”

“Always a crowd-pleaser, but my hands-down fav is chicken Marsala.”

“No kidding? It’s my favorite, as well.”

“Wine, mushrooms, chicken in cream. What’s not to love?”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

“Brownies.”

“With nuts.”

“Absolutely.”

“Pecans or walnuts?”

“Either will do, but I like walnuts best.”

Roxie narrowed her eyes. “You’re just telling me what I want to hear. That’s your job.”

He grinned, shrugged. “I like seeing you smile.”

“Ha! I knew it. Flatterer.”

“Doesn’t mean that I’m lying. Slap some Fugazi on the MP3 player. Whip up a batch of chicken Marsala. Promise walnut brownies for dessert. Sit you across from me and it’s the stuff of dreams.”

Sudden silence sprouted between them, and Roxie felt an anxiety of a wholly different kind. “You can let go now,” she whispered.

“What?”

“My hand. May I have it back? We’re in the air. My takeoff terror has passed.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He let go of her hand.

She dropped her hot, damp palm into her lap and averted her gaze. Her pulse galloped. “Thanks,” she said. “You make a good distraction from fear of flying.”

Now all I need is something to distract me from the distraction.

The captain turned off the Fasten Seat Belt sign, and Roxie, anxious to put as much distance between herself and Dougal as she could get, decided to visit the lavatory. A splash of cold water in her face to calm her racing pulse. She unbuckled her seat belt and got to her feet. “Excuse me, may I slip by you?”

Dougal moved his long legs into the aisle just as the plane lurched. Roxie hissed in her breath. The plane pitched again, thrusting her forward onto his lap. His arms closed around her, Roxie’s fanny snugged against his thighs. She peered into his face, glanced away, and then looked back again.

Sharp, dark eyes stared straight into her, holding her motionless. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice sounding husky and strange as if someone was tightening a wire around his throat.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Turbulence. It’ll be fine.”

A sudden stillness settled over her. She sighed deeply and all the air fled her lungs. She felt a million different things at once. Safe, desired, happy, confused. The shock of recognition passed through her. He was a stranger and yet it was as if she’d known him her entire life. How could that be?

In that split second of surprise, she felt as if she’d met her match, identified the other half of life’s jigsaw puzzle. She was like a lost traveler, wandering in a foreign land, who’d stumbled upon a field of flowers indigenous to her homeland. No, not just the flowers of her homeland, but the same glorious mix that once grew in her own backyard. She gave no thought to whether he was friend or foe. Her impulse was simply to rush to the sweet smells of home.

Roxie’s heart surged toward Dougal, and she knew in that moment she’d totally lost all control. How in the hell was she going to pull off corporate espionage when all she could think about was pulling off Dougal Lockhart’s clothes?

“YOU CAN LET GO OF ME NOW,” Roxie said.

Dougal loosened his grip, and she struggled to get to her feet. The plane lurched again sending her right back into his lap, and a small gasp of surprise escaped those perfect pink lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist again. “Maybe you should just sit tight until we get through this turbulence.”

Even as he said it, he had to clench his teeth to fight off his stirring erection. Getting a boner with her on his lap might be totally natural, but he was certain it would alarm her. It alarmed him. He was supposed to be in charge of passenger safety on this plane, not coming on to a guest.

He took a deep breath and immediately inhaled her heavenly scent. Her delicate aroma encircled his nose, played havoc with his brain cells. The fragrance, coupled with her body heat, slicked his mind with desire and he couldn’t think of anything but her.

Bad idea. Okay, no more breathing.

She wriggled in his lap, and Dougal swallowed a groan. This was crazy. He had to put a stop to it. “Um, maybe we should get you back into your seat.”

“But you said—”

“Buckle you down tight. That’s what you need. Buckled down.” Why had he said that? Now he had an image of her, seat belt resting against her lower abdomen, the buckle right at the level of her—

Stop it!

Before she could feel the erection he could no longer control, Dougal transferred her quickly into her seat, settled back against his own chair, plucked a glossy magazine from the pouch on the side and plunked it into his lap as camouflage. He prayed she hadn’t spied the overt evidence of his desire. He cast a glance over at her. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

His pulse jumped. Her gaze searched his face for a long moment. Stunning blue eyes, full of innocence. She smiled coyly, lowered her gaze and then turned to look out the window.

What was that look all about?

The plane jerked, shuddered. Several of the other passengers gasped out loud. Roxie splayed a hand at the base of her throat.

He rested a palm on her shoulder. “You hanging in there?”

The tremulous glint in her eyes told him she was frightened, but the firm jut to her chin suggested she was toughing it out. Her vulnerability tugged at him.

“Are you sure it’s just turbulence?” she whispered.

Until Roxie had asked the question, he was almost positive the lurching of the plane was nothing more than turbulence, but now she had aroused his suspicion. Could there be something amiss with the aircraft?

He thought of the death threats Taylor had received. Immediately his mind conjured disturbing scenarios. Taylor had hired him because she feared someone might tamper with the planes, and he’d agree with her that the possibility existed. To that end, he’d been with the pilot when he’d done his preflight check, and Dougal had personally searched the private jet, but he wasn’t a mechanic. An expert saboteur could have rigged something up that neither he nor the pilot had detected.

The plane vibrated.

This time the collective let out more than just gasps.

Concern for passenger safety got Dougal’s mind off his attraction to Roxie and back on his job. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood.

“Is something wrong? You look worried.”

“I’m going to speak with the pilot about the turbulence.” He gave her a reassuring smile.

“Thank you.” She exhaled an audible sigh.

Dougal made his way up the aisle toward the cockpit. He was forced to pause and brace himself each time the plane pitched like a boat in a tropical squall. He tapped on the cabin door with a coded knock and the copilot let him in.

“Problems?” he asked, shutting the door behind him.

“Something’s wrong with the autopilot,” said the pilot, Nicholas Peters, a heavy-browed, stern-faced man with jowls that hinted at Russian ancestry. “Every time we try to switch over the plane pitches.”

Uneasiness rippled over Dougal. “Any idea what’s causing the glitch?”

Peters frowned, shook his head.

“Do you think someone could have tampered with the autopilot?” Dougal recalled the detailed schematics of the plane’s electrical system that had accompanied the most threatening of Taylor’s letters.

“It’s not likely,” Peters hedged. “I’m ninety-nine-percent sure it’s nothing more than a stuck valve.”

It was that one percent Dougal worried about. The pilot’s reassurance didn’t lessen the thread of anxiety pulling across his shoulder muscles. “Should we turn back?”

“Not necessary,” said the copilot, Jim Donovan. “We can fly manually. We’ve already contacted the control tower and reported the problem. They gave us the thumbs-up to continue on to London. It just means Nick and I’ll have to work a little harder on the transatlantic flight. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

That might be true, but Dougal was calling Taylor when they got to England and having her put a team of mechanics on the Bombardier, just to make sure there’d been no sabotage. Yes, he might be overreacting, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

“To keep from alarming the passengers, we’ll blame it on turbulence. I was just about to make the announcement when you came in,” Peters said, and then he hit the button that allowed him to deliver the message throughout the cabin. “Ladies and gentleman, sorry for the bumpy ride. We’ve hit a bit of turbulence, but we’re taking her up a few thousand feet, and all should be clear from here on out, so sit back and enjoy the ride.”

“Let me know if anything comes up that needs my input,” Dougal said.

“Will do.” Peters nodded.

Dougal made his way back down the aisle. Roxie looked at him with eyes that could break a man’s heart. He stood there for a moment as if held in place by a wire strung from the middle of his back into the plane’s ceiling, staring back, blood thick as paint chugging through his veins.

“Everything’s okay,” he said, forcing himself to slide into the seat beside her once more and noticing she had a death grip on the armrest. “You can relax.”

Take your own advice, Lockhart.

“Thanks for checking,” she murmured. “I feel better now.” Soft, light, feminine, seductive, she possessed the sexiest speaking voice he’d ever heard.

Do not start that again, stop being so aware of her.

Far easier said than done. She wasn’t the kind of woman you could choose to ignore.

“No problem,” he croaked.

“Not everyone would have taken the trouble to reassure me.”

Dougal could hardly think. Talk about eye candy. Perfectly arched eyebrows the same bewitching ebony shade as her hair. Long, lush lashes. A straight, slender nose with delicate nostrils. Her strawberry colored lips tipped up in a slight smile. Fascinating.