Page 3 of Devoured By You

I chuckled. “Jillian Tilly Rowe. Not even my parents would be that cruel.” I winced. The last time I’d spoken to my parents had been the day they’d discovered I was a romance author. Porn, my God-fearing mother had called it. She’d given me an ultimatum: give up writing “that disgusting smut” or forgo a relationship with them.

I’d chosen my characters. They rarely let me down. Unlike my mum and dad. Nor did they sit in judgment on every decision I made.

Either Blay didn’t see me flinch, or he chose not to probe. Instead, he said, “Jilly Tilly Rowe,” laughing heartily at his joke.

“Tease me all you like. I’ll never tell.”

“Then you leave me no choice. To me, you’ll always be Tilly.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Always? You mean for the next nine hours until we land in Miami and we never see each other again?”

“Did you notice we’re in the air?”

I hadn’t. For the first time in my life, I’d gone through takeoff without clutching the armrests once.

“You’re a miracle worker.”

He held a hand across his stomach and performed a seated bow. “One of my many talents.”

“What do you do for a living?”

One shoulder lifted. “Oh, this and that.”

“Ah, a man of mystery.”

“As we’re on a flight from London to Miami, I think that should be international man of mystery, don’t you?”

I wrinkled my nose. “Like Austin Powers.”

“I don’t have the teeth to pull off Austin Powers.”

“Nor the velvet suit.”

He smoothed a hand over the arm of his jacket. “Were they velvet or suede?”

I shrugged. “Potayto, potahto.”

“That’s a very American saying from a very English girl.”

“I write mainly American characters.”

“Why’s that?”

“America is such a diverse country. It gives me a wealth of opportunity. I could write cowboys, or Wall Street types, or Hollywood playboys, or Texas oil barons.”

“And do you?”

I laughed. “No. I write pretty dark romantic suspense that could be set in any location. I love a good kidnapping.”

His eyes heated, and he ran his gaze over me, a slow appraisal that made my fingers and toes tingle and my stomach do several somersaults.

“Is that an invitation?” he murmured.

I stroked my bottom lip, drawing his eyes to my mouth. I wouldn’t say I was an expert flirter, but I didn’t completely suck at it, either. A little frivolity on an otherwise boring flight would make the time go faster. We were both adults. And single.

Right?

I risked a glance at his left hand. No ring.

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