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Malachi’s smile shifted. Breathing in sharply, he let his eyes linger on the almost ludicrous swell of the woman’s bottom against the navy fabric of her skirt. He felt his body stir—
Will there be anything else?
Surely that was one of the advantages to owning your own plane? Sex with a beautiful woman at forty-one thousand feet? It certainly beat an in-flight movie and a packet of peanuts. He let his gaze drift over the woman’s body. She was very beautiful. And desirable. But he would never sleep with her. Not only because she worked for him—that, of course, put her off limits—but because she was just too available. There was no excitement, no challenge in bedding a woman like her.
He didn’t miss a beat.
‘No, thank you, Victoria. Just the coffee.’ His intonation was perfect, polite but neutral, making it clear that while he might remember her name that was the beginning and the end of their relationship.
He turned his attention back to his security chief. ‘It all looks good, Mike. I’m going to chill for ten minutes, so enjoy the rest of the flight.’ It was a dismissal, but again done with exactly the right blend of warmth and efficiency. Leaning back in his seat, he heard the door shut and, reaching forward, clicked the phone on the desk. ‘No more calls, Chrissie.’
Closing his laptop, he breathed out slowly. Now he could enjoy the view!
He didn’t really understand why but it was something of a guilty pleasure for him, watching the sky stretch out and away—a giant, vaulted ceiling of blue. Was it something to do with the colours? He frowned. Maybe. Or maybe it was because the serenity and calm was so unlike the chaotic debauchery of life with his parents.
He shifted in his seat, feeling it for the first time: that soft pressure, like a finger pushing against a bruise. A memory of eyes that exact colour, widening, changing from light to dark, cool to hot—eyes that set off a jangling alarm inside his head.
He gritted his teeth. He tried never to think about Addie. His wife. But this time of year, this month—tomorrow, in fact—always made him unusually tense. He had to dig deep to calm himself, to stop his nerves from ringing.
He jolted forward in his seat. The ringing wasn’t inside his head. It was his phone. Mouth hardening, he stared at it in disbelief and then, frowning, snatched it up. ‘This had better be good,’ he said tersely. ‘Or at least entertaining enough for you to have disturbed me—’
There was a short, tense silence, and then he heard his personal assistant breathe out nervously.
‘I’m sorry, Mr King—I didn’t want to do the wrong thing. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but she said it was important so I put her on hold. Is that okay?’
She! In other words, his mother. Gritting his teeth, Malachi felt a surge of irritation. But he couldn’t really blame his assistant. Serena King could make a broken nail sound like a diplomatic incident if she chose.
Imagining his mother’s likely mood, he grimaced. Please let it not be something too sordid. Or illegal. ‘It’s fine, Chrissie. I’ll speak to her now,’ he said slowly.
Better just to take the call, for Serena would not take kindly to being fobbed off after having been kept on hold. And her unkindness was not something he wanted to provoke.
‘Yes, sir.’ The girl hesitated. ‘And Happy Anniversary for tomorrow, Mr King!’
Suddenly his jaw was clenched so tightly he could feel his teeth vibrating. His whole body was on high alert, his mind rewinding their conversation.
There was only one other person aside from himself who knew that tomorrow was his wedding anniversary. And it certainly wasn’t his mother. He’d made damn sure that his parents had been kept well away from his marriage.
He breathed out slowly. ‘I think we might be speaking at cross purposes.’
Glancing down, he saw that his hand was curled tightly over the armrest, the knuckles protruding whitely against his s
kin. With an effort, he splayed the fingers apart.
‘Who exactly have you got on hold, Chrissie?’
She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again, her voice was high and nervous. ‘I—I’m sorry, Mr King,’ she stammered. ‘I thought you understood. It’s your wife. Ms Farrell!’
Malachi stared across the cabin. Outside the window the sky had clouded over. Everything was the same pure white as newly settled snow. The same pure white as the dress Addie had worn when she’d spoken her wedding vows. His throat tightened. His motives for marrying might have been a little self-serving—even a little manipulative. But either way, she’d promised to love and cherish and honour him. Only her promises had been as fragile and tenuous as the clouds breaking apart outside the window.
Why now? he wondered. Why, after all this time, had she chosen this moment to get in touch? For a moment random thoughts collided in his head—irritation, curiosity, disquiet—and then abruptly he sat up straighter.
‘What a charming surprise,’ he said smoothly. ‘You’d better put her through.’
The phone line clicked and his stomach tensed as, for the first time since their wedding, he heard the light, clipped voice of his wife.
‘Malachi? It’s me. Addie!’
‘Apparently so,’ he drawled softly.
