by Barbara Lohr
Chad had turned, hands resting on his linen slacks. “One more thing. If you lose…”
“Never in a month of Sundays, sir.”
His cousin wore the look of serious southern cogitation. “If you do not measure up…”
The glove had been thrown. “Name it.”
Chad’s Cheshire cat grin returned. “Just have to do it again, my man.”
“Again?” The word stuck in Mallory’s throat.
Looking happy as a clam at high tide, his cousin slowly nodded. “Yes, indeed. There seem to be a bevy of beauties ready to see the world.”
Only took two shakes of a gator’s tail. “Done, and there will be no second time.”
The leather desk chair squeaked when Chad leaned back, arms behind his head. “Enjoy Italy.”
“Ciao.” Mallory could almost feel the soft leather of the steering wheel in his hands. He'd been to Italy a few times. Might be fun to go back.
Chad fixed him with their mothers’ blue eyes. “Now, understand. If you get bumped off this trip, you will have to get right back on that horse. If your sprits waver, remember your father’s will.”
He snorted. “Chad, I am not that desperate. I expect my legal team to come through for me with a hair-raising rebel yell.”
Chad’s eyebrows rose. “When the lawyers let you down, fall back on your intuition.”
Mallory’s stomach twisted. “Right, like that’s helped me in the past.”
For just a second, his cousin’s cynicism slipped. “Just have a good time, buddy. Okay?”
Mallory exhaled slowly, eyes flitting back to the computer screen. “Let the games begin.”
Chapter 2
Travelers shoved carry-on bags into the overhead bins and settled in for the long flight to Milan. Climbing into the middle seat of row twenty-six and plopping down, Amy smiled at the gray-haired woman next to the window. Bracketed by the arm rests, she felt hemmed in and frustrated.
Where was her travel chum? One good shove, and she jammed her green backpack under the seat in front of her. In her last e-mail, Mallory had said her flight from Savannah would land at JFK two hours ago—about an hour before Amy’s own flight from Chicago. After hitting the ground, she’d stalked the waiting areas.
No slender, dark-haired woman searching for her travel chum. No Mallory.
Stomach churning, she struggled to stay calm. Digging into her backpack, Amy found the bar of Lindt dark chocolate. No rice cakes for her on this trip. Her eyes settled on the entrance to the cabin while she savored the bitter taste. This far back in economy class, she could hardly see it.
Smelling faintly of lavender, the older woman next to her turned another page of her novel. Amy swallowed the last of the chocolate square, her stomach still rebelling. If Mallory didn’t show up, she’d go it alone. After all, she'd gone solo to that teachers’ conference in Washington, DC, two years ago.
Both McKenna and Vanessa, high school friends, had encouraged her to call any time. They’d applauded Amy’s decision to make plans with another woman on Travel Chums.
“Way to go.” McKenna had chortled as they sat in Petersen’s Ice Cream Parlor two days before Amy’s flight. “Too bad it’s not a man.”
“Good grief, McKenna. I’m not you!”
Vanessa had just looked at her with soulful eyes. “Have a good time, Amy. You deserve it.” She’d just come through her own trial-by-romance.
Thank goodness the wedding cancellations were all wrapped up. Felt terrible to lob the cleanup to her sister. Last time she checked in with Caitlin, her sister had sounded so preoccupied.
Grabbing her cell phone, Amy switched it to airplane mode. So darn hot in here. Reaching up, she twisted on her air jet.
The woman next to her looked up and smiled. “A bit warm, isn’t it, dear?”
“A bit.”
Her seatmate went back to reading. Grabbing the inflight magazine from the seat pocket, Amy flipped blindly through the pages before giving up and rolling it into a tight cylinder. Was Mallory the type who was late for everything? That would be a problem. But she’d seemed so sincere in the e-mails. Jason and Amy planned to share the costs of the wedding, including the honeymoon. When Amy asked if Mallory could forward her a small deposit requested by one of the hotels, Mallory had complied, although the check had come from a Miriam Schuster. The two must be sisters. Amy would thank Mallory from the bottom of her heart—when the woman got here.
Flight attendants closed the overhead bins with crisp efficiency. Amy tightened her seat belt and grabbed another magazine. At least she didn’t have to bother with glasses anymore. Her mother and Aunt Em had given her laser surgery as a wedding gift, one present she couldn’t return, although she still found herself putting on her glasses sometimes. And her hair? She patted the tortoise shell claw clip to make sure it was still in place. The blonde highlights, courtesy of Ramon, were a bit much, but McKenna had insisted on the lighter streaks as an un-wedding gift.
“Time for a lift,” McKenna had chortled. “I’m having some accent streaks done myself.”
Amy wasn't so sure. Her hair was now more blonde than dark honey. Shock and excitement shivered through her every time she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Who was that woman? Apparently, a woman who might be traveling alone. Amy took another bite of chocolate. She really didn't want to drive through Tuscany by herself. There was the whole issue of the stick shift.
A flurry of activity at the front door caught her attention. A tall man with a thick mane of dark hair that needed a trim had gotten on. After joking with the stewardess, he ambled down the aisle, scanning the numbers above the rows.
With a convulsive gulp, the chocolate slid down her throat.
Her sister Caitlin would call this guy a “hottie.” With his broad brow, tousled hair and smoldering eyes, the newcomer was a combination of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights and Edward in Jane Eyre. Amy had taught both novels, knowing full well that she’d never meet a man like this.
If ever there was proof of life, this man was it.
When his eyes swept her way, Amy dropped her gaze and unzipped her windbreaker. Since her concentration was zero, she jammed the magazine back into the seat pocket. Mallory might be right behind this latecomer, who held a carryon in front of him with long capable fingers. Nice hands. Jason’s hands had been compact and efficient, good with a football or umpire’s whistle. That was about it. He never liked to hold hands.
Amy popped the last square of chocolate into her mouth, tearing up as locker room memories raced through her mind like mental paper cuts.
But she was here to forget about Jason.
Humming under his breath, the dark-haired stranger stopped at her aisle. She heard the notes of what sounded like “Arrivederci Roma.” Amy had borrowed Dean Martin’s Italian CD from her mother and had been playing it since she began planning this darned honeymoon. Good grief. The newcomer’s spicy scent made her think of exciting places she’d always wanted to visit. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for him—and her wandering thoughts—to pass.
“Miss, I just do wonder, could you by any chance be Amy?”
Her eyes flew open. “Yes.” She gripped her knees with both hands. Had Mallory sent a friend, a guy-for-gods-sake, without consulting her?
“Pleased to meet you, Amy. I’m Mallory.” His head dipped politely.
She shot to the edge of her seat. “But you’re a man!”
Towering over her, Mallory angled his carryon into the overhead compartment. “Well, yes, I am.” Only, it sounded like “Ah-am.” He shrugged out of a navy sport coat and folded it, tucking it into the bin overhead.
She could barely breathe. How could this be?
The slight lift of his brows indicated that she was blowing this way out of proportion.
Hunching forward, Amy struggled out of her windbreaker. “How could you be a man?”
“Trust me, it comes naturally.” His breath was warm on her cheek as Mallory—a male Mallory, apparent
ly—helped her with her jacket. Bunching it up in a ball, Amy clasped it to her chest.
Sinking into the seat next to her, he snapped the seatbelt closed.
“There’s been a terrible mistake.” She could barely get the words out.
“Now, dearie, it will be all right.” Setting her paperback aside, the woman next to the window patted Amy’s hand with a knowing smile. “Men. But everything works out in the end.”
Not in my world. Amy’s head swiveled between the woman and Mallory. How could she continue with this trip-of-a-lifetime to the Italian Riviera, Florence and Venice…with this Mallory? She’d pictured chatting it up in the evening with a woman. They’d discuss art, literature and the great Italian food. Maybe they've even confide in each other about men, the rotten kind.
What had she missed in the few emails she’d sent Mallory through Travel Chums? Lord knows, she’d been a hot mess. Had she checked male instead of female when she signed up? Her mind was revving up faster than the engines.
No matter how Mallory angled his body, his legs bumped the seat in front of him. Broad shoulders expanded, and he flipped up the armrest between them. Amy shrank into herself.
An attractive stewardess edged down the aisle, checking to make sure all carry-on baggage was stowed away.
Leaning forward, Mallory directed his blue eyes to the tall brunette. “Now, when do you think that drink cart will be making the rounds? I am as thirsty as a June bug in July. Yes Ma’am, I most certainly am.” His words had that soft southern drawl, apparently the kind women liked.
The attendant drew closer. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.” Then she nodded at Amy. “Anything for you, miss?” Her tone had leveled.
Amy massaged her forehead with one hand. “Do you have any aspirin?”
“Be right back,” the attendant promised, but her eyes were on Mallory.
The thrust of the plane during takeoff pressed Amy against the back of her seat. Woozy, she clutched the armrests. When one of them moved, she realized she was gripping Mallory’s forearm. He patted her hand with a warm palm, and heat surged through her.
Jerking her hands away, Amy knotted them in her lap. “Sorry.”
“You're fine. Yes, you most certainly are.” His low, sultry tone reverberated in her chest.
“Trust me, I’m really not.”
Next to her, Mallory got comfortable, as if he had been the one to make these reservations six months ago. He rolled up the sleeves of his blue oxford cloth shirt, revealing strong forearms patterned with dark hair.
But she didn’t want to think about his arms, long legs, or anything in between. She had to get her mind straight. The plane gained altitude, and an attendant took them through safety measures. What was this man thinking? Yes, she needed someone to share the expenses, but she sure hadn’t been looking for a man.
Bless their hearts, Caitlin, her mother, and Aunt Em had all offered to go with her after the announcement of the canceled wedding. But one week of pity was more than Amy could bear. Besides, she hadn’t told them everything. Hadn’t she hurt them enough? They didn’t know this mess was really her fault.
Now what was she going to do?
“Your aspirin.” The perky stewardess handed a packet to Amy, along with a small bottle of water.
“Thank you.” She ripped the foil open.
“Drink cart coming soon?” Mallory asked.
The stewardess beamed. “On its way.”
Amy downed a mouthful of water.
“Amy, I can assure you. This is going to be a memorable trip.” Mallory’s smile exuded confidence.
“Did you actually think I’d be looking for a male travel chum?” Amy would appeal to his sense of reason. “I only booked one room.”
Mallory’s eyes widened. “Are you saying you expected a woman?”
“Of course.”
Cheeks flushing, he pursed his lips. The man looked as surprised as she felt.
Amy leaned toward him until they were almost nose-to-nose. “I'm not that kind of woman, Mallory. I teach at a Catholic high school.” Her voice wobbled. She pressed her lips together so tight they throbbed.
Her travel chum’s blue eyes softened, like he was really trying to understand. A frown had replaced his confident smile. “Do you mean teachers don’t have fun?”
“I’m not…I wouldn’t…just not that kind of woman,” she sputtered.
Mallory's frown deepened. Totally clueless.
The muscles in her back knotted. “That is just so, so…” Her voice shook as she searched for the word that would brand him for what he was. “Southern!”
“Sa-va-yah-nah,” Mallory supplied, drawing out the name into four syllables. Then his clouded eyes brightened. With an efficient rattle, two flight attendants trundled the drink cart toward them. Mallory turned to her as if they were best of friends, or more. “Finally, refreshments. How about something to relax?”
“I am relaxed.” The tension in her back winched tighter.
“Nonsense, why, you are just as stiff as my wrought iron fence. Let me help you with that.” Mallory began to knead her shoulder gently with one hand.
Heat shimmered through her body until she could feel it in her stomach…or thereabouts.
The stewardess reached their row. “And what would you like?” she asked the woman next to the window.
“I’ll have a scotch.” Tucking her paperback into the seat pocket, the older woman turned. “I’m Ethel.”
“Delightful. I’ll have the same. Make it a double,” Mallory said. “Ethel, I am Mallory. And you, Miss Amy? What would you like?”
“Amy. Just Amy. Ice water,” she gasped, twisting away from Mallory and sliding lower in her seat. Maybe she needed something stronger. “Um, make that a Bloody Mary, please.” Although Mallory's eyebrows rose, he said nothing.
While her seatmates sipped and chatted, Amy mentally ran through her options. She could return to the states, but the thought of giving up this trip crushed her. Or she could drive alone to Rapallo on the Italian Riviera. Financially, that would put a crimp in things. Plus, she'd be a nervous wreck. There was the whole issue of driving the rental car by herself. Jason had insisted on a stick shift. In one of her, well, his, e-mails, Mallory has assured her that the manual transmission was not problem.
Should have tipped her off.
Time passed slowly. Passengers settled in. She couldn't concentrate enough to read. Finally, dinner was served. At least now she had something to do. While Amy nibbled her tuna salad, Mallory and Ethel chatted about everything from football to politics. He was probably the only man she’d ever heard discuss political issues without getting into an argument. The man seemed reasonable.
Reasonable and hot.
And he sure did seem like a gentleman. But traveling together? Same bathroom, same bedroom? She wanted to be sucked right out of that plane.
From time to time, she peered over Ethel’s shoulder through the small window as the plane traveled through the graying sky. Below them, white clouds mounded like thick swirls on a wedding cake. Amy’s eyes filled, and she turned back to her tuna.
After the stewardess made a final sweep through the cabin, Mallory settled back. His cologne reminded her of the woods at dusk—definitely not the soapy smell of Jason emerging from the locker room.
That locker room.
Reaching up, Amy turned her air jet on full blast. She was taking this trip, no matter what.
Eventually, the cabin darkened and the movie began. Slipping on her headset, Amy did some deep breathing. How hard could it be to drive a stick shift? She’d tackle that challenge first before the issue of sharing a bathroom. Her stomach fluttered as she sneaked peeks at Mallory—his clothes, the way he handled himself. Didn’t she tell her students that characters were revealed through actions and dialogue?
Did rapists and murderers wear tasseled loafers and talk about football players and their abuse of power? She didn't think so.
Tension drained from her body,
like someone had pulled the plug in the bath tub. For just one week, she’d become the type of woman who would travel with a handsome stranger. For just one week, why not “let loose,” as Caitlin put it? Amy’s shoulders squeezed together in excitement.
How totally not her. Now, just how would she go about that?
Chapter 3
He was going to kill Chad.
Knees embedded in the seat in front of him, Mallory silently cursed the cramped quarters of economy class—and his cousin.
Seemed that Chad had purposely stacked the deck against him. Again.
In the darkened cabin, Mallory’s mind rearranged the pieces on his chess board. Arriving late had obviously been a good idea. He'd hidden out in the First Class Priority Lounge for the two hours between flights. Took a shower, watched some golf on TV. Not a good idea to give Amy any time to decide he wasn't her type.
Her type? He hadn’t expected his gender to be a surprise. The high school teacher was as alarmed as Scarlett when she heard Atlanta was burning. He'd deal with his cousin later. Right now, he had to ease Amy into her comfort zone. Reassure her that he would, of course, be a gentleman.
His right eye began to twitch.
A little uptight, but Amy Shaw had a certain appeal. How often did he come across a woman not starved almost beyond recognition? By the time of their divorce, Rhonda’s cheeks were sunken and her hips jutted from her Dolce and Gabbana slacks like shale ledges.
Amy’s generous curves bloomed in a ripe and appealing fashion. The glasses from her photo were gone, and her green eyes sparkled when she got upset—which seemed to be often. And her hair? Well, it most certainly was not brown. Tied back, her honey-colored hair was shot through with blonde, but not the metallic platinum that had been Rhonda's choice.
Was Amy Shaw attractive? Yes. Was she a prickly pear? Most definitely.
Chad had set the bar high. Mallory didn’t know quite how to play this, but he sure didn't want to be crossing this ocean again the following day if his travel chum decided to continue on alone. How could he convince Amy he was prepared to treat her like a sister? That would probably be the best tactic. Give the poor woman a berth as wide as the marshes that cushioned Savannah from coastal storms. Could separate rooms be in the budget, whatever that might be?