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I'm taken aback by her boldness. No one speaks to me this way, certainly not a complete stranger. Yet, despite my irritation, I can't help but admire her confidence the quickness of her wit. She's unlike any woman I've ever met.
"I don't have time for delays," I say sharply. "My business in New York is urgent."
She arches one perfect eyebrow. "More urgent than the hundreds of other passengers trying to get home?"
I have no response to that. She's knocked me off balance left me grasping for words. An unfamiliar feeling. I'm accustomed to a strict hierarchy, where those in the lower ranks do not speak their mind, and definitely do not call out anyone higher up in the pecking order. But this woman is a worthy opponent, countering my anger with cool logic and well-aimed barbs.
The boarding call sounds interrupting our verbal sparring match.
"See," she mutters. "We didn't even have to wait the whole hour. Looks like they tried their best."
She gives me one last pointed look, then turns and leaves. I watch her go, a strange mix of irritation and intrigue swirling inside me. Against my better judgment, I hope this won't be the last I see of this maddening beauty with the mysterious green eyes.
I settle into my first-class seat, stretching my legs out and trying to relax. This debacle of a travel day has set me on edge. As the other passengers file in, I close my eyes, longing for a stiff drink and a few hours of uninterrupted peace.
Then I detect a subtle, familiar scent - vanilla and something richer, spicier. My eyes fly open, and I find myself staring at dark cascading hair and an hour glass figure.
It's her. The woman from the gate.
As if sensing my stare, the woman turns. Her eyes widen when she sees me, then narrow. "You."
My lips twitch. "Fancy meeting you here."
She sniffs. "I'm afraid this is my seat."
I glance at my boarding pass. "What a coincidence. It seems we're sitting together."
Her gaze could have cut glass. "The only thing we'll be doing together is tolerating each other's presence until we land."
"Come now, is that any way to speak to your seat companion?"
Without a word, she takes the seat beside me, smoothing her dress and crossing one long, slender leg over the other. She doesn't acknowledge my presence further.
I enjoy my bemusement in silence. What twist of fate has landed her right next to me? In first class, no less?
I observe her discreetly from the corner of my eye. Everything about her - from her quality tailored, but understated clothes, to the graceful yet easy way she carries herself - whispers old money. Not nouveau riche or a kept woman, but class that goes back generations.
My curiosity gets the better of me. "What takes you to New York?" I ask casually, as if we are old friends.
If we are to sit together for the hours to come, I'd like to break the ice.
She regards me with a hint of wariness. "Business," she says after a moment. "And you?" She offers me a way in for the conversation to move forward.
"The same."
We lapse into silence again. I sip the pre-flight champagne and try to come up with an approach that will get past her defenses. She's clearly intelligent and not easily impressed by status or wealth. I'll have to use more subtle means of persuasion.
The game, it seems, is on.
I decide to start with a bit of humor to catch her off guard.
"You know, you never apologized for scolding me earlier," I say, affecting a wounded tone. "My ego may never recover."
Her lips quirk upwards slightly. "Somehow I suspect your ego will survive."
"You don't know that. I'm very sensitive."
"Oh, I'm quite certain you have a thick skin. You strike me as the type of man who is used to getting his way. You told me so yourself. Given you get what you want, just wish for a soothed ego."
