Page 64 of Bedding his Innocent Mistress

“Yes, madam?” She smiled politely, pretending not to notice the pallor of Saphire’s skin and the eyes that were bloodshot from far too much crying.

“Another champagne, please,” Saphire murmured, crossing her legs and consulting the map shown on the screen that was recessed into the seat in front of her. The flight looked to be still at least an hour out of Athens and God, how she wanted to land.

Despite its decadence, the plane was beginning to make her feel claustrophobic. She sucked in a deep breath and, when the hostess returned a moment later with a crystal flute, Saphire took it as though it were a lifeline.

The bubbles burned a little as she drank; she didn’t care. She threw back half of it in one go and then squeezed her eyes shut on the stingingly acidic sensation.

How would she explain any of this to her parents? Two months after marrying a man they’d never approved of – a man she had insisted was the love of her life because of his trustworthiness and kindness, a man she’d thought would always do the right thing by her if only because he worked for her dad – she stood on the brink of … of what? Divorce?

The thought left her with a cold ache in her gut. How could she leave Jordan? They’d been dating for ten years before he’d suddenly suggested, out of the blue, that they make it official. The wedding had taken place a week after that and had surprised all of their friends and family, despite the amount of time they’d spent as a couple. Had they been surprised not because of the speed with which Saphire and Jordan had married, but rather that they’d married at all? Had they all known that Jordan Arana was sleeping with the bride’s best friend?

Had everyone known, and chosen to keep it secret?

She pressed back into the comfortable leather seat and angled her head so that she could look towards the window. Only a man was between her and it, and his eyes were resting on her face with undisguised appraisal.

Saphire hadn’t noticed him at all until that moment. They’d been flying for a while, but she’d been in such a state of shock that she’d barely computed her surrounds. It was a testament to good luck alone that she’d managed to get through customs and onto the flight in time.

“By my count that is your third glass of champagne.”

She arched her brows, refusing to notice that he had a face like a movie star’s. No, it was better than that, because it wasn’t ‘pretty’ or soft. There was nothing in his appearance to suggest that his stunning good-looks were a result of vanity or effort. It was a naturally chiseled face, with slashed cheek bones, a swarthy tan, eyes that were so dark they looked almost black and thick brows that perfectly framed his slightly mocking expression. His hair was dark too, cropped close to his head, giving him an air of strength and virility that Saphire instinctively recoiled from.

“Should I be impressed at your basic grasp of mathematics?” She retorted sarcastically, reaching for the glass once more and finishing the rest of it easily. She hiccoughed quietly as she placed the flute back on her tray table, keeping the fingers of one hand curled around the elegant stem.

He pressed his own call button without taking his eyes off her face. Saphire dreaded to imagine how she looked. Her hair, a polished shade of ebony, was always smoothed into a shimmering curtain but today it was flyaway and wild. Her makeup was minimal – just what she’d been able to scrounge from the bottom of her handbag as she’d instructed the cab driver to take her to the airport. At least her clothes were decent; she’d worn a Prada dress for the intended-lunch with her mother before realizing she’d left her cell phone at home and doubling back to collect it. She’d only been out of the house half an hour – Anita must have been practically waiting in the driveway for Saphire to leave, to have had enough time to peel her clothes from her slender frame and step into Saphire’s bed. Bitch.

She shuddered as recollections of her husband and best friend’s tangled limbs flailed enthusiastically into her mind, like two octopuses happily scarpering along the depths of the ocean. The hostess appeared and the man lifted his gaze to her face. “Macallan, two cubes of ice.”

“Right away, Mr Konstanides.” The attendant’s eyes dropped to Saphire. “And for you, madam?”

Saphire had decided to quit while she was most definitely not ahead, but at the attendant’s query she said, a little groggily, “I’ll have the same. No ice.”

“She will also have two ice cubes.”

“No, she won’t.”

His smile showed true amusement. “Scotch is meant to be enjoyed with ice. It will show a richer flavor.”

She blinked and then pursed her lips. “No ice.”

Her companion raised a brow but wisely said nothing. Instead, he shifted his weight in the chair, so that he was a little closer to her. He smelled good. Something unrecognizable spiraled through Saphire’s gut and it quickly gave rise to reluctant curiosity. He was so different to Jordan; Jordan, a high-flying lawyer and the son of a distinguished politician and a supermodel, was handsome, polite, wealthy, and oh so very civilized, in a sort of uptight way.

This man was … she frowned. He was all those things too. Certainly the former. Gorgeous, virile, obviously wealthy if his suit, watch and the fact he was in the same first class cabin as she was, could be any guide. But there was a sort of feral animalism to him; something uncontained and restless that was at odds with his urbane demeanor.

“Where do I know that name?” She pondered, her brain a little too fogged by champagne and grief to sort through the information she had stored at her fingertips.

“Which name?” He prompted. His voice was like honey and caramel, thick and rich with a satisfying spice in the crispness of his vowels.

“Konstanides.”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of the airline,” he prompted with an air of unconcern that was almost definitely assumed.

“Yes!” She jabbed a finger at his broad chest and smiled proudly. “You have the same name as this …” she waved her hand around the cabin, “As this plane person. People.”

His smile was sardonic; it sent a shiver trembling down her spine. “Fancy that.”

“The people who own the plane, I mean.”

“Not just this plane; presumably they own the airline too.”

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