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The woman at the airline counter gives a long-suffering sigh. "Have you tried calling her phone?"
"Her phone?"
"Yes, sir. Surely, she has a phone, and you could call her to find out if she did make the flight?"
He seems to consider that, then pulls out his phone. "Thank you," he murmurs, then turns in my direction.
My heart begins to race. My pulse ratchets up. I should move toward him, tell him I’m here. Instead, I spin around and head back the way I came, just as my phone begins to vibrate in my handbag. Shit, I took my phone with me… Well, of course I did. It’s the only means of communication I have at the moment. I pull out the phone, stare at the name on the screen, which reads Alphahole.
It continues to vibrate, and I stare at it while continuing to walk away from him. I stumble into someone else’s luggage, and the phone drops to the ground. Shit, shit, shit.
I bend to pick up the phone, just as it stops vibrating. I pick it up, then jump when it begins to vibrate again. I stare at the screen, then drop the phone back in my handbag. I head toward the opposite side of the airport to the counter. I’m not sure where I’m going, but it doesn’t matter. As long as I can get away from him, that’s all that matters. Please, please don’t let him notice me.
My phone starts vibrating again, and I ignore it. Yes, it’s my fault that I’m in this situation. But he’s also to blame. He couldn’t give me a few minutes and hear what I had to say. He didn’t even give me a chance to apologize before he took off in his car, telling me our marriage was over. Jerk. He didn’t even turn to glance at me before he got into his big ass Ferrari and pulled away, literally leaving me eating his dust.
The phone continues to vibrate, damn it. I pull it out of my handbag, only it slips from my hand and falls to the floor. "Goddamn!" I bend to pick it up as a pair of custom-made Italian loafers comes into my line of sight. Oh, shit. I raise my gaze up the pair of legs in fitted slacks that mold to powerful thighs, and between them a tented crotch. No, no, no, don’t look there; not now, not when you’re trying to escape him. I grab my phone, straighten, then turn and begin to walk away.
"Aurora," he calls after me, "stop."
52
Aurora
Is he crazy? Of course, I’m not going to stop. The last thing I want is to see him, after that very public humiliation when he left me.
I increase my speed, and his footsteps keep pace. Oh, hell. He is going to catch up with me, and that’s not what I want. I drag my suitcase behind me as I begin to run. His footsteps pound behind me and seem to get closer. My bag slides down my arm, and I yank it up and over my shoulder.
"Aurora, please wait; please give me a chance to explain myself."
Isn’t that what I asked him, almost word-for-word? I should feel vindicated that I’m giving him some of the same treatment he gave me, so why does it all feel wrong? I dart down the corridor, swerving around a man with a suitcase, then past a family with the children engrossed on their tablets.
"Aurora! Flower, please stop!"
His voice sounds too close. Damn it, he’s going to catch up with me, and I … I’m not ready to face him yet. Where can I hide? Where can I conceal myself so he won’t find me? I glance around, and there… I spot the sign for the ladies’ room, shoulder open the door, burst inside. I pause in front of the row of sinks, my breath coming in pants. I slap my handbag on the counter as a woman finishes washing her hands. She shoots me a curious look before she brushes past me and out the door. The door snicks shut, only to open again. Heavy footsteps sound, and I whip my head around to find Christian poised inside the doorway.
"Get out," I snarl. "This is the ladies’ room."
He glances around the space to make sure it’s empty, then turns and locks the door.
"Hey," I gape at him, "what the hell do you think you’re doing?"
He merely walks over to stand behind me. I take in his reflection behind me in the mirror.
His hair is mussed up. Flecks of blood dot the front of his shirt. Other than that, he looks the same. Tall, broad, sex oozing from every pore. Damn it, it’s not fair that at the end of this gone-to-shit day, I feel tired and faded while he still looks hot. And so damn edible. His chest rises and falls; his gaze narrows as he holds mine in the mirror. Those blue eyes grow cold as he glares at me. A shiver runs down my spine. Damn it, I’m not supposed to find him so hot when he’s clearly pissed at me.
He folds his arms across his chest, and his biceps flex and stretch the fabric. The buttons of his shirt barely seem to be able to contain his muscled chest.
The silence stretches, and the tension in the air seems to rise with every second. I hold his gaze for a beat, another, then flick my eyes in the direction of the doorway.
"Don’t even think about it," he says in a hard voice.
A ripple of anticipation shimmers over my skin. My nerve endings pop. Every last cell in my body seems to be alive and waiting, waiting for him to do something. For him to punish me for what I did. For him to show me who I belong to. For him to tell me he has forgiven me. That he has come for me because he loves me. Because he can’t live without me.
"You defied me," he says in a casual tone. Oh god, that is not good. When he gets so quiet and tries to come across as unthreatening, that’s when I know he’s really angry with me.
I tip my chin up and force myself to meet his gaze again in the mirror. "I fail to see how you drew that conclusion, considering you’re the one who told me to leave."
"And you conveniently didn’t get on the previous flight out, I see.”
