Page 1 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
ENIGMA
My dedicated fans who inspire me to continue writing.
I hope you enjoy Isaac’s story.
Our enigma.
CHAPTER1
Afrigid breeze causes the hairs on my arms to bristle and goosebumps to form on my nape. It isn’t just the plummeting evening temperatures causing this reaction to my body. It’s fear.
When I press my hands against the railing, I relish the coolness of the stainless steel on my sweat-drenched palms.
Snapping my eyes shut, I take in a lung-filling gulp of air. “You can do this, Isabelle,” I chant to myself.
Millions of people do it every day.
I’ve spent the majority of my time today at airports. To say I’m fearful of flying would be an understatement. I’m petrified. My flight this morning was on a Boeing 777 from San Francisco to New York. I gripped the armchair so tight for the entire eight-hour trip, my French-tipped nail nearly snapped off.
There’s no logical reason for my fear of flying. I’ve never been on a plane that plunged from the sky or lost loved ones during a disastrous flight. My fear is just something embedded deep inside me. I want to say I’m generally fearless, an adventurous person who regularly takes calculated risks, but when it comes to flying, I’m a quivering bundle of nerves.
Gritting my teeth, I push off the railing before I lose my nerve and collide straight into a wall of hardness that sends me sprawling onto my ass. I wince in pain when my right wrist jars hard on the rigid gray marble-tiled floor.
“I’m used to people falling at my feet, but not quite as undignified as that,” says a deep, thick voice from above. Although his tone is stern, it also has a hint of amusement behind it.
Mortified, I raise my eyes, drinking in black polished dress shoes, a well-filled, impeccably tailored three-piece suit, and one pair of the most exquisite eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. The pain zinging my wrist no longer exists as my eyes roam over the magnificent creature in front of me.
More features come into focus—plump lips, powerful jawline, thick, luxurious hair long enough to run your fingers through, but not too long to be unkempt, and an ideally placed dimple in a chiseled chin. The very definition of a man is standing in front of me, and the visual is riveting.
Shifting his head to the side, he arches a brow. He assesses me as vigorously as I perused him. His penetrating glare has my heart rate quickening. Now I wished I had taken my roommate’s advice and dressed more professionally instead of for comfort, but when your backside is going to be planted in a seat for a minimum of sixteen hours, you want it encased in comfort, and there’s nothing more comfortable than my black Juicy Couture sweatsuit.
No, I didn’t pay two hundred dollars for a pair of sweatpants. I found these beauties at the thrift shop in San Francisco nearly two years ago. They have faded a little, now more a charcoal gray than their original black, but they still get the job done. I’ve removed my jacket and am wearing a white, fitted cotton shirt that has risen to my stomach during my tumble.
After yanking down my shirt to a more respectable level, I return my eyes to the mysterious stranger. Once he has finished his perusal of my body, his mouth etches into a firm line, and his eyes narrow.
Clearly, he’s a man who prefers class over comfort.His apparel does scream wealth and superiority, not to mention his composure, which exudes importance and authority. Grimacing with embarrassment, I scamper from the floor. My heart leaps when he grips my elbow to assist me with steadying my footing.
“Thank you.”
I glance down at the contents of my satchel strewn on the floor from our collision.My bag is full of the necessities a girl needs for traveling—lip gloss, a Snickers chocolate bar, loose change for snacks, a Kindle loaded with my favorite books, and tampons.Oh God.
In a scurry to grab my possessions, I bob, he dips, and we headbutt.
“Fuck,” he curses.
I manage to keep my curse word inside my head, even though it feels like I’ve suffered a grueling left swing from Oscar De La Hoya to my right eye.
My hand shoots up to rub the sting as I move toward the hard, plastic chairs lining the hallway of the airport. My vision blurs, and my footing becomes unsteady as the first signs of a headache form.
Plopping down on the chair, my eyes lift to discover the suit-clad gentleman gathering my satchel contents from the floor. Tampons included.Great!
Once he has collected my items, he places my bag on the chair next to me. His masculine scent engulfs the air when he crouches down in front of me. Seeing him displayed directly in front of me has the depths of his eyes hitting me full force. It’s not just their unique gray coloring that has my brows scrunching, it’s their intensity.
“Are you okay?” The rasp of his voice sends an exciting thrill through my body and causes butterflies to flutter in my stomach.
Unable to establish words through my dry, gaped mouth, I nod. He removes my hand covering my eye to run his index finger along the area pulsing with pain. Now, instead of feeling the sting of pain, I’m feeling the zap of his touch.
He raises two fingers in the air.“How many fingers am I holding up?”
