Page 4 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
Her manicured brow shoots into her auburn hair before her eyes turn down to my ticket. “1A.” She points her French-tipped nail to the 1A marked on my ticket. “1A.” She extends her long, skinny finger to the 1A displayed on the overhead compartment two seats down from where I’m standing.
After rubbing my arm soothingly, she saunters back down the aisle, snubbing my shocked expression. I stand mute, frozen in both fear and shock until the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign illuminates a few seconds later.
I shove my jacket and satchel into an overhead compartment, then skedaddle to my assigned seat. I may be scared, but I’m not flying without a seat belt. When I move my eyes from the fluorescent lights lining the aisle, I’m confronted by an intense gaze that has me clumsily tripping over my feet.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
“A beautiful woman falling at my feet twice in one day. This has to be a new record,” Mr. Holt banters when I crash into his thigh.
I greet him with a grin before scampering past him to take my seat, which is next to his. When I plop into my chair, my hands lurch out for my seat belt. My nerves have me jittering so much, I have trouble fastening the silver clips together.
Sensing my struggle, Mr. Holt stills my shaking hands before he clasps my belt. He tugs on the light gray strap, securing my belt firmly around my waist.
“Thank you.”
He smirks before dropping his gaze to my white-knuckled hold of the armrests. “Scared of flying?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You do know recent studies have shown—”
“Traveling in a car or a truck is one hundred times deadlier than flying. Yes, I’m aware of that. It still doesn’t help.”
“Actually, I was going to say recent studies have shown the endorphins released during sexual activities can overtake cortisol and other fear-induced chemicals.” He glances at me with entrancing, wicked eyes. “You should consider testing the theory out.”
My pulse quickens.Is he propositioning me?
Before I can form a response, our intense stare-down is interrupted by a radiant voice above. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Holt?” When I raise my eyes, I’m met with a beautiful blonde flight attendant who is appreciatively glancing at Mr. Holt. “Perhaps I can take your jacket?”
Mr. Holt’s gaze remains on mine as he stands to remove his suit jacket. I lick my dry lips when his suit-covered crotch that’s straining to hold in the enormity of his, umm, manhood is shoved into my peripheral vision.
When my perverted gaze returns to his face, the situation becomes ten times more heated. He has a mouth-watering smirk formed on his sculptured lips, revealing he spotted my ogling glance. Mortified at being busted staring at his crotch, I divert my eyes, catching the mad glare of the flight attendant in the process. She plays the part of a scorned woman well.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holt?” Although her eyes are narrowed into slits, her tone doesn’t allude to her anger. Her performance is remarkable—a genuine ten out of ten.
Mr. Holt hands her his suit jacket. “Teeling 30-Year-Old Single Malt Irish Whiskey.”
“Excellent selection, Mr. Holt.”
When Mr. Holt retakes his seat, the flight attendant walks away. She barely gets two feet away before Mr. Holt’s hand shoots out to snatch her wrist. “Are you going to ask Isabelle if she’d like something to drink?”
I’m unable to see his face, but if the flight attendant’s pupils are anything to go by, he’s infuriatingly angry.
The flight attendant’s feared eyes drift to me. “W-would you like something to drink?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
With the somersaults my stomach is doing, I can’t trust it to hold down anything.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Holt cranks his neck to face me. His intense eyes have me swallowing harshly, but unlike the flight attendant, I’m not scared by his angry glare. I’m turned on.
Unable to speak through the lump in my throat, I nod. Spotting my agreeing gesture, Mr. Holt relinquishes the flight attendant’s wrist. She scurries down the aisle, her steps as wobbly as my heart rate.
After offering Mr. Holt a grateful smile, I lean my head on the leather headrest. When I take a breath to settle my nerves, a strong aroma overwhelms my senses. Expensive cologne, body wash, and a smell I can’t quite identify make an enticing, mouth-watering scent I’d happily spend hours smelling.
My eyes snap shut when the plane jerks toward the runway.Here it comes, the one part of flying I fear the most.After tightening my grip on the armrests, my teeth gnaw on my bottom lip.
The closer the plane gets to the end of the runway, the more my heart palpitates. I’m on the verge of a debilitating panic attack.
