by Liz Schulte
Inside the large heart box, instead of chocolates, she found herself the new owner of three DVDs. “Oh you are so, so funny.” Karee held up each one. “Airplane, Hot Shots, and Airport. I should have never told you about my dream.”
“Oh come on! That’s a hot dream. But I’ve saved the best for last.” Vee gave her the envelope, excitement in her gaze, her grin wide.
Karee opened it and found a plane ticket. “No. This is a first class ticket for the new Arros Air luxury romance plane.” She looked at Vee. “I thought you were going to handle the story on that? It’s a romance cruise in the sky, Veronica. Other than my battery powered friend, I don’t have a date for an event like this.”
“I can’t go,” she said flatly. “Maximillian is going for Max-Out. The bastard. I can’t be trapped on a plane with him. Besides.” She wiggled her brows. “This may be your best shot and fulfilling that little fantasy of yours.”
“I’m not that desperate.”
“Yes, you are.”
“February 14th, huh? You know I have the V-D.”
“This may be your only real shot at getting an STD that isn’t magical.”
“You’re awful.” Resignedly, Karee put the ticket in her purse. “I’m only writing the story, Vee. I won’t be making anyone’s mile high fantasies come true. Not even my own.” She could just see one of the other magazines turning her into the story. Ugh.
“It’s a fantasy cruise, Karee, at 30,000 feet in the air. So, try to enjoy yourself. They don’t call it the friendly skies for nothing!”
Her pulse did not stutter. Her mouth did not go dry. Her mind did not consider the possibilities of such a ridiculous assignment. She wasn’t turned on AT ALL by the idea of hot sex at 30,000 feet in the air. No, nope, nada … this fantasy might appeal to her subconscious dreaming self, but having it literally come true…not happening.
“Fine,” said Karee, unable to articulate her acquiescence. “I’ll go. But only because I have no planes that day.” As usual.
“Such a sacrifice,“ Vee snickered. “And all in the name of journalism.”
“Well … if it’s for journalism … I suppose I have no choice.” Excitement and anxiety mixed inside her like a Molotov cocktail. She understood why Vee wouldn’t want to face Max, and somebody needed to cover the event, but she wasn’t sure if she was prepared to be thrust into a romantic setting full of couples when she had no one. “I’ll make it work,” she told Vee. “But for now, I have an art show to get ready for.”
Vee waved a hand. “Work, work, work.”
Karee smiled. “And that’s why you pay me the tiny bucks.”
Chapter Two
At the art show, the speeches from publicists, bigwigs, and art critics had ended just a few minutes ago, and with a snip of red ribbon, people surged into the large room that housed the Monet collection. However, the focus wasn’t the Impressionistic paintings lining the walls, but the gourmet spread at the end of the room, featuring prawns, stuffed mushrooms, baby quiches, chocolate-dipped fruit, and a champagne fountain.
“I’m Bret,” said a handsome man as Karee accepted the glass of champagne he offered.
“Thank you.” Karee blinked in surprise. She wasn’t used to gaining male attention—at least not fancy events like this one.
“Are you here with anyone?” he asked. “I don’t want to tread on a lucky man’s territory.”
Pleasure surged through her at the compliment, making her feel tingly and warm. Jeez. It really had been too long since she’d allowed herself to flirt, much less date. And this guy, wowie zowie, he was gorgeous. He had short blonde hair, melted-chocolate eyes, and a muscled physique. He was only about three or four inches taller than her. Without the three-inch stilettos, she was 5’ 8”, and with the ankle abusers strapped on, she and Bret were about the same height. He wore khakis, a light brown Oxford shirt, brown loafers, and a gorgeous brown leather jacket. He looked like unwrapped chocolate.
“Too be honest, I’m bored out of my skull, my dress is itchy, and if I have to hear one more canned comment from a publicist, I’m going to scream.” She leaned close to him and said in a low voice, “I am seriously thinking about stealing a tray of quiches and making a break for it.”
Bret’s eyes widened and he laughed. “Well, itchy or not, that’s a helluva dress.”
The red beaded mini cut-off mid-thigh. It was strapless, low-cut, and the sewn-in bustier gave her some seriously great cleavage. Her only jewelry was a pair of one-carat diamond stud earrings that she purchased for herself as a birthday gift last year. No bra was necessary, so she wore only a pair of red thong underwear, hose, and the Jimmy Choo heels that tortured her feet, but made her legs look sexy.
“So, Bret, what do you—”
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a loud male voice. Every head turned to the center of the room where a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a purple crushed velvet tuxedo stood next a six-foot-tall block of Styrofoam.
“Mad Max!” exclaimed Karee. She looked around for Vee and found her on the opposite of the room watching Max’s show. Veronica, dripping in diamonds, was dressed in a pink Versace sheath. Her pale blonde hair was upswept, glittering with carefully placed gems. Her friend shook her head as if to say, “Show your sword and ready your shield.” Her narrowed eyes moved from Karee to Maximillian and if looks were laser beams, ol’ Max would be a pile of ash.
“In honor of the Bellagio’s unveiling of this fabulous Monet collection, the staff at Max-Out Magazine would like to bestow this gift to the hotel.” Two burly men dressed in gray jumpsuits pulled apart the Styrofoam. The material squeaked and crunched, but revealed its prize without too much fuss.
The voluptuous nude woman appeared to be an elaborate ice sculpture. Droplets of water slid down her crystalline skin, but Karee realized the moisture was stationary. Then Max patted the statue’s round little butt and the thumping of his signet ring revealed the naked beauty was made of glass.
Her expression was the typical “oh baby, do me” look that graced the faces of Max-Out’s models. She had huge breasts, an impossibly thin waist, and a very detailed vulva, complete with Brazilian bikini wax. Her arms were extended in front of her flat stomach, holding something rectangular that was covered by black plastic. Karee couldn’t decide between feeling outrage or incredulity.
“This is Moana,” said Max, grinning broadly. “That’s spelled m-o-a-n-a. And she’s here to add some beauty to this otherwise ugly display of artwork.”
His statement garnered a few chuckles, but most gazes were riveted to the rectangle of black poised between Moana’s hands. Not even Bellagio’s publicists had moved, though Karee had no doubt security would be called in at some point.
With great ceremony, Max ripped off the plastic. The sign read: “I Melt For Monet.”
“Clever,” said Karee, not really meaning it. The idea must’ve fallen flat for most of the people in the room, too, because the silence reeked of disapproval. The wave of rancor rolled through the crowd so heavily that not even Max could ignore the sudden tension.
“Oh come on, people! She melts for Monet.” He pointed to a droplet. “See?”
“I see that your little joke has just about as much class as you do,” said Veronica. “In fact—” she joined him in the center of the room and peered through the side of the stature “—I can see right through it.”
People laughed and the tension broke. Conversations started again and most everyone turned away from the spectacle. Max looked uncomfortable, his expression almost sheepish. He probably wasn’t used to his brilliant schemes backfiring.
Karee turned to her new companion, smiling, and opened her mouth to render a scathing opinion of Mad Max. Well, so much for successful flirting. Her mouth snapped shut and her heart dropped to her toes.
Bret was gone.
* * *
On the morning of February 14th, Karee found herself ensconced in a room so pink, it was like was sitting in a pile of cotton
candy. The bed took up half the space; it was covered with new (not washed, new, or so insisted the flight attendant) pink silk sheets. With shag carpeting, an awesome heart-shaped Jacuzzi, and a large pink cabinet that looked like a mini-bar, it might have been a Las Vegas hotel suite instead of a Boeing Business Jet.
Other than working on her articles for Love and thinking about the disappearance of Bret, the man with no last name whom no one knew … she’d spent way too much time preparing for this day. It made her wish she had someone to share it with.
For an unfathomable reason, she’d been unable to stop thinking about the man at the Monet event. He’d been cute, flirtatious, and so enigmatic. Had something she’d said or done turned him off? One minute he’d been flirting, then Max pulled that awful show of crassness, and Bret had disappeared. Damn that Max Rutledge. She vowed to put something awful into his drink if she ran into him on the flight.
Did it really matter that she hadn’t been able to talk longer to Bret? After all, she didn’t really want to date anyone right now. But eventually she wanted a loving, long-term relationship, even though the very idea of commitment scared the shit out of her. To love someone, to risk for someone … only to lose him … no, she couldn’t bear it.
Any armchair psychologist could point out that her parents’ deaths had affected her so deeply she kept emotional distance from all other human beings. Work had become her friend, lover, and keeper. She would never admit to Veronica that she was lonely, that she might just be willing to make the leap for love. Truth was, she was probably ready to risk a little heartache, if she met a man worthy of the sacrifice.
Arros Air had told her that she’d have to share the room with another reporter, couples booked all the other suites, and space was precious. She’d told them there was no way in hell she’d share a room with a stranger, and they unceremoniously told her she could cancel her ticket. No refund.
She’d sucked it up and reluctantly agreed. After all, Vee was counting on her.
Just for something to do, she walked to the pink cabinet and opened it. It wasn’t a mini-bar. It was a sex shop in a box. Holy crap! Vibrators, nipple clips, handcuffs, flavored gels—what the hell was that? She picked up the plastic-encased device and read the label. Oh no way. She was not sticking that thing anywhere near her—Karee’s gaze found a packaged pink vibrator and grabbed it. She also discovered a metal tin of honey dust with its own little feather duster.
Well, she had some time … why not use it?
* * *
“Brunette. Red dress. Killer legs. Hang on a sec, Max.” Bret Jernigan plugged the headset into his cell phone, inserted the ear bud, and made sure the tiny mike hovered near his chin. “Her first name was Karee. Ring any bells?”
“Nope.”
Bret looked out the limousine’s tinted window.
“Speaking of beautiful women, we got some great photos of Bellagio security trying to haul Moana out of the room. One guy slipped and got a big handful of glass tit. I wouldn’t be surprised if he got a bruised palm from her nipple.”
“I can’t wait to see the pictures.” Not. Bret had joined Max-Out Magazine three months ago. He’d been a freelance journalist for a number of years, but the lifestyle wore thin. Too much travel, too much living on fast food, and too much uncertainty about paychecks. Taking the magazine job meant a permanent home, a substantial salary, affordable health insurance, and the chance to settle down in other ways, too. He hadn’t had a long-term commitment since college and he had to admit, if only to himself, that it would be nice to have someone to share his life with. “Are you sure you don’t want to go on the trip? I thought you wanted to handle the story personally.”
“I changed my mind,” Max said. “My motivation for going cancelled. And by motivation, I mean torturing Veronica Martori. She’s not on that plane anymore, so neither am I.”
Max-Out was an ideal workplace. If Bret could change anything, it would be to lessen the manic attention Max paid to his ex-girlfriend, Veronica Martori, who ran some sort of chick mag based in Las Vegas. He hadn’t had time to check it out, but Max’s opinion was that the periodical was an ode to all things estrogen and therefore must be avoided.
And yet, Max’s need to get this Veronica’s attention—or maybe it was his need to get her goat—was his main motivation for creating such elaborate jokes. Bret had missed Max’s last practical joke at the Bellagio, coming aboard just days after it happened. He’d thought unveiling Melting Moana at a classy museum event was too tactless even for Max-Out, but he sure wished he’d been there to witness strippers swimming naked in the pristine blue lake in front of the hotel.
Max claimed the crazy stunts were publicity efforts for Max-Out. Yeah, right. Maximillian didn’t need to do anything special for attention—he was one of the richest bachelors in the world and had made People’s Most Beautiful list no less than five times.
“Bret? You there?”
“Sorry. I got distracted. You were saying?”
“You missed all the fun with Moana last night. Where’d you disappear to?”
“Slight case of food poisoning,” Bret lied. He’d felt a little strange flirting with Karee, especially after what his boss pulled. Bret had seen Karee’s unfavorable reaction to Moana and let cowardice rule the day. He hadn’t felt like explaining that he not only knew the guy making an ass of himself in front of Las Vegas’s rich and famous, he was the managing editor for the magazine said ass owned and operated.
He’d felt instantly attracted to the lady in red, not only because she had a body that would give Moana a run for the money, but also because of the wit and intelligence that had shone her gray gaze. She was someone he’d be able to laugh with, someone who was impetuous. She also had confidence in spades, as evidenced by the wowzer dress she wore, but he suspected she had a streak of practicality that tamed the adventuress.
Damn. He wished he’d at least gotten her last name or maybe even a phone number. Who was she? Who did she work for? Maybe the Las Vegas Review Journal or Nevada Magazine. He was still learning who was who in the Las Vegas media. He hadn’t recognized many faces last night; most of the people attending were journalists and, of course, Las Vegas’s upper crust.
“Hel-lo, Bret.”
“Oh, sorry. What did you say?”
“Never mind, Romeo. Check in when you’re finished with the Arros Air thing.”
“You got it, boss.” Bret ended the call and tucked both phone and headset into his jacket pocket. As managing editor, he shouldn’t have participated in the lottery for this assignment. He had more to worry about than … he chuckled. Than what? Enjoying a romantic cruise a luxury airliner? They had matched him with another reporter. He only hoped it wasn’t some guy who farted in his sleep.
Oh, well. It would make a good story for their readers.
Chapter Three
The limousine pulled into the parking lot at McCarran Airport. Most of the small airlines couldn’t fly into McCarran; they used the airport in North Las Vegas and bused tourists to and from that location.
After the security officer buzzed open the gate, the limo pulled onto the runway. In minutes, the limo arrived at the Arros Air Boeing Business Jet, one of the most opulent jets made for corporate travel. Less than 100 were in use in the world and for good reason: The BBJ cost roughly $100 million—without upgrades or made-to-order cabins. This particular jet had been outfitted for rich couples, and it took the idea of sumptuous to a whole new level. Indeed, the brochure he’d bragged about the king-sized bed and the hot tub for two.
Bret Jernigan had to admit that his jaded reporter’s soul was impressed so far, but if a human being just wanted to screw around, why not just get a hotel room? The luxury liner would be just another decadence that only the top ten-percenters could afford. Since his boss fell into that category, he decided to keep his opinion out of the article.
The limo driver opened his door and Bret exited, tipping the guy a $20. No luggage needed for this flight. They
would fly around a while, supposedly to allow couples enough time to indulge their sexual appetites several times, then the BBJ would return to McCarran.
As he walked up the steps to get on the luxury jet, Bret almost had second thoughts.
Dressed in a gold-stripped black pantsuit, a woman met him at the entrance. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Jernigan. I’m your flight attendant, Meddie.” She sported a heart-shaped tag on her lapel that declared she was, indeed, Meddie.
Probably no more than five feet in height, her most interesting feature was the hair that fell in ringlets to her shoulders. It was the blue-black of a raven’s wing, except for several random strands around her face—those were emerald green.
Her face was pale perfection: cherry lips, high cheekbones, and almond-shaped eyes nearly the same bright shade of green as the colored ringlets. She was almost too pretty. How odd to feel both repulsion and fascination at the same time. He fought an insane urge to look away from her—as if to stare at her for too long was like gazing into the sun. Eventually, he would go blind from the indulgence. He noticed the thin scar around her neck and couldn’t help but ask, “What happened?”
Her fingers touched the line that circled her throat. “Are you familiar with the Greek myth of Perseus and Medusa?”
Bret cast around the memories of his high school literature classes. “Medusa was some sort of evil creature with snakes for hair. Anyone who looked directly at her was turned to stone. Perseus was the hero who cut off her head.”