Page 76 of Sexy as Sin
“Call it special delivery,” he said.
She laughed, fortunately, and whispered, “I also thought she was some kind of model.”
“It’s a good uniform,” he agreed.
“Whatisthis airline, anyway?”
“Etihad. Based out of the Emirates. Very comfortable.”
“I’m getting that,” she muttered, and he laughed out loud
Five minutes later, he was putting his passport back in his breast pocket, and Yasmine had their hand luggage on another trolley and was asking him, “Would you like a cart for transport to the lounge?”
“No, thanks,” he said, and told Willow, “Observe my increased weight bearing. As soon as we get to Portland, I’m buying that cane and starting to use it. The crutches have got to go.” Putting more weight on his bad leg wasn’t the greatest feeling in the world, and yet it was. Progress wasn’t always comfortable.
“If it aches,” his (still hot, but he didn’t care) surgeon had told him that morning, “that means your nerves are working, and that’s good news. Discomfort’s fine. Pain’s not. You’ll want to pay attention to the difference, because I don’t need you undoing my good work. We’ll see how you’re going in two weeks. With any luck, you’ll be at eighty percent weight bearing by then. For now, shoot for fifty and increase slowly.”
He shot for fifty all the way to the frosted-glass doors with the airline’s name carved into the surface, and didn’t think about whether he’d be back here to see the surgeon in two weeks, because he knew the answer. He needed to be in the States, and he’d been here too long already. Bringing Willow back to Australia and straightening out her business would be one thing. Staying here after that? A bridge too far.
His thoughts were interrupted when their model/escort asked him, “Would you like me to stow any of your carry-ons until your flight?”
“Thanks,” he said, “but I’ll take my laptop bag.”
“What’s next,” Willow muttered, “a foot massage?”
“No,” he said, “they don’t have a spa in this airport.” He grinned at the look on her face. “Come on. We’ll sit down, and you can have some champagne. Something to eat, too, if you like.”
“After that grueling journey,” she said, “I need it.”
He was heading to a table in the dining room when he felt her touch on his arm and stopped.
“Azra’s mum,” she whispered. “Jamila Amal. And here I thought the great whites were all in the sea. Why, oh why? Back, back, back. Oh, bloodyhell.”
Brett had to laugh. “Where’s my Ocean Warrior?”
“Easy for you to say, Batman. You haven’t met her. Whoops, too late. She’s seen us. Over there. The one who looks like she has a standing appointment at the House of Dior. Oh, wait. That’s pretty much everybody here. The one who looks like she’s about to slip a stiletto between my ribs, then.”
“What do I call her?” he asked. “I don’t know Azra’s last name.”
“Jamila Amal. You don’t use her surname. Never mind. Just call her, ‘Hey, you.’ She’ll be surprised by that.”
That may have been why he had a smile on his face when he led the way over to a table near the window, where a woman in a cream trouser suit that nobody else in the world would wear on a thirty-hour journey to London, and who looked as likely to be Azra’s mother as the man in the moon, dabbed at her crimson mouth daintily with a white napkin and looked imperiously prepared to do her duty.
This was going to be fun.
He waited for her to speak first. He was fairly sure she’d read every etiquette book known to womankind. “Good morning, Willow,” she said—yes, frostily, while her dark eyes absolutely did not stray to Brett. “What a surprise to see you here. Are you traveling somewhere?”
No,Brett thought,we forge boarding passes and hang out in airline lounges for kicks. It’s our hobby.
“Yes,” Willow said. “To the United States. Ostaaza Jamila Amal, may I present Brett Hunter? Brett, this is Azra’s mother.”
“How do you do,” the woman said. She’d already summed up Willow’s clothes and priced her shoes and purse. Now, her dark gaze flickered over Brett, and he thought,Go on and look.One thing he generally didn’t worry about was his appearance, which was why he was so immensely relieved to be out of the PJ pants. When she’d catalogued the dark-blue bespoke suit and the silver-blue Turnbull & Asser tie, and, he was sure, identified the shoes as Bruno Magli and the watch as IWC, because that was some laser-beam focus, her gaze went back to Willow, and she said, “I assume you know where my daughter is, and that you feel proud of yourself. I only hope, for your sake, that she’s safe.” Guns blazing, then.
“She’s safe,” Willow said. “Brett offered his driver to make sure she stays that way, in fact, so please don’t worry. She misses you, though.”
The “driver” idea gave her pause, but she rallied. Made of stern stuff. “Strange, then,” she said, “that she doesn’t answer my calls, or care about disappointing her family.” She gave another glance to Brett’s crutches, and then to the well-dressed man holding an elaborate silver coffeepot with a long, curved spout, who was hovering near the table in a long-suffering, here-to-serve sort of way.
Manners won. “Would you care to join me?” she asked.
