Managed (VIP #2)(14)

“Sunshine, 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 dick biscuits to continue with casual sex. Even if I hadn’t, Gabriel isn’t exactly offering. I’ve never met a more standoffish, prickly 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 space 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 assume 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 passes.

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*ck.

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. Amusement 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.