Bene doesn’t cook, gets tipsy after a single glass of Chianti, and has the most contagious laugh I’ve ever heard. I’ve often suggested to her that she ought to go work for a hospital to help patients recover. She’s perfectly happy to just ‘spread the noise,’ as she describes teaching music. I love her to death but I still remember it took me a while to warm up to her.
The seatbelt sign went off with a piercing Bing! That brought me back to the present and to Gabe Miller, who was observing me silently.
“I just witnessed several days of weather forecast unfold with your expressions,” he said quietly, wonderment in his voice. “Clouds gathering quickly over a perfect blue sky. Darkness and rain pouring down while a couple of distant thunderclaps rumbled. Finally the smell of wet earth as the sun breaks through, warming everything up. I’m now waiting for a rainbow . . .”
I smiled slowly, granting his wish. “What do you do? Write greeting cards for a living?”
“No, I own an off-road specialty shop for cars, trucks, and four-wheel drives. My father writes the cards.”
“No, he doesn’t.” I frowned, half-believing him. Nobody reads me like that.
“Where did you learn to make rainbows like that?”
“Boot camp,” I blurted, dead serious.
Surprise caught his features and brightened his eyes, as if he didn’t expect me to make him laugh. And when he did laugh, it was a rich, velvet sound. His happiness reached out to me like a glittering aura. Shiny bits of joy sprinkled over me. I liked that. I liked how the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened, how his lips stretched with his smile, how his five o’clock shadow made a man out of him, not a boy. But most of all, I liked how I felt about it: glad I had made him laugh. I don’t know why it struck me as so important but it was.
“Where are you from?” he asked, laughter fading in his voice. “I hear an American accent, but there is something else mixed with it.”
“Europe. My mother is Italian and my father French. And you?”
“Australian. Sixth generation, both parents from Adelaide.”
“Is that where you live?” A hint of hope sparkled in darkness, like the twinkle of the first evening star. Ouch, ouch, here we go.
“Yes, just outside, on the hills.”
“That’s where I’m going.” My heart quickened awaiting his reaction.
“You’re flying into Adelaide?” He arched an eyebrow, but his tone remained enigmatic.
“Yes, I’m visiting a winery called Umeracha.”
“Work or leisure?”
“Both.” I smiled. “I’m fortunate enough to have a job that is also a passion. I absolutely adore food, and I freelance gourmet articles for magazines. So I get to cook, eat, travel, and make a living.”
A soft-spoken flight attendant interrupted the conversation to offer a snack and drinks.
Gabe Miller asked for Scotch, water on the side. I ordered a glass of Merlot and they promptly brought a bottle.
“This ought to be interesting,” he said. “It’s going to be a long flight, and usually I end up being stuck next to boring executives fidgeting with their laptops the entire time.” He leaned close to top the wine glass the flight attendant had adequately mid-filled already. “You’re definitely not boring.” He lightly toasted my glass with his.
Golden speckles dappled the cobalt of his pupils. These were no ordinary eyes; they were predatory eyes. I wondered if he would mind if I spent the entire flight counting those golden sparks.
I shook my head and leaned back in my seat. “So, you travel a lot?” I sipped the strong wine and pushed my black case under the seat in front of me with the tip of my shoe. Mmmh . . . good wine. I held the glass up to check the color and swirled. Good legs as well.
“Twice a year to California to check out new top-of-the-line accessories at an international off-road show in Anaheim, then Osaka in the fall, and Montreal in the spring. I don’t think I travel as often as you do but it’s enough for me.” He shot me a tired look. “I hate flying. If I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t. I like Australia and exploring by car. I’ve seen a lot, but there is still plenty left.”
“So you were in California this time?”
“Roight. How about you? First time in Oz?”
I absolutely loved how he said “roight.”
“No, I have been once before to Barossa, never to Adelaide.” The velvety wine bouquet warmed my stomach, liquefying my usual reserve and skepticism.
“Oh, you’ll like it. It’s a great place. You can still see the styles of the first settlers reflected in the buildings, but there are plenty of parks and nature around to respect the environment.” His sensuous mouth broke into a quick grin.
I took another sip.
“I’ve never heard of the winery you mentioned, but I don’t really know much about wine. It’s becoming a successful business in South Australia,” he observed, “although, I must admit I don’t know much about the subject.” He paused and trapped my gaze with his spellbinding eyes. They crinkled at the corners as his lips curved. “Got plenty of time if you’d care to enlighten me.”
Lethal.
I cleared my throat, searching for my business voice. I could do this. My father had been making wine since before he could walk. Back in France, his family has been making wine since the crusades. He brought his craft to Tuscany when he married my mother and applied it to the local grape varieties. Grapes are my compass. I can forecast the weather by observing the stalks, the leaves, the soil. Following family tradition, I learned how to walk stomping my stubborn legs in a vat filled with sun-ripened grapes. My brother eagerly imitated my every move, both of us turning purple, giggling ecstatically, blessing the mosto with our joy. Yes, this was familiar territory for me. Simply put: my own back yard.
“Well, you seem to have all the ingredients for producing high-quality wines: perfect climate, excellent soil, fewer competitors than California or even South America, where production is focused more on large scale than quality.”
“Do you believe then that quality is more important than quantity?” he asked. Amusement warmed his voice.
“Absolutely,” I replied with conviction, although a speckle of suspicion that he might not be talking about wine anymore tickled my warning sensors.
I ignored it. “Think about it like this: which is more satisfying, a delicious meal with a single, well-matched bottle of wine or that same meal with several low-quality bottles? And honestly, price is irrelevant more often than not. I would prefer the perfectly paired meal.”
“Do you apply this parameter only to food, or does it happen to spill into other areas of your life?” His voice had dropped dangerously low.
I looked at him squarely. “That depends . . .”
He raised an eyebrow, folded his arms across his chest, and invited me to elaborate. I glanced at the wine bottle label, trying to find a way out of this spiraling trap. He unfolded his arms and swiftly stirred his Scotch. I watched his strong hand, the tumbler, and a single stubborn ice cube slowly drowning in ambered malt.
Add patience to his already long list of good qualities, I thought, still stalling.
“You’re blushing, Porzia,” he breathed.
Flames blazed across my cheeks. I raised my head and locked eyes with him. “Say my name like that one more time and I’ll catch fire,” I blurted.
“Porzia,” his voice issued, low and time-stilling, like an inquisitive caress beneath my skirt.
Accidenti. Who did he think he was dealing with? I nearly burst out of my seams but held my own and managed to give him back a taste of his own medicine. Thinking of dark, rich chocolate mousse rolling over my tongue, I whispered his name, “Gabe—mortals often wrongfully believe monogamy to be a sign of absence of libido. That is not necessarily the case.”
I sipped my wine.
It was his turn t
o catch his breath. His eyes swirled into a darker shade of troubled skies. “Touché!” He raised his right hand and touched his heart.
“You speak French?” My heart just about leaped into the wine glass I had just managed to drain.
“A little,” he said. “Is it important?”
Panic bled my cheeks white. Had I been thinking of Xavier? It would explain my overreacting.
“I believe that in order to do well in business you need to give back. So every time I travel back to Canada or Japan, I try to learn more of the language. I’ve found it helps in your travels to be able to speak the local language.”
“Yes, it does.”
“What else besides English do you speak? Italian? French?” he inquired.
“That’s it. A little Japanese, but I don’t get over there often enough to be fluent, although I’d love to.” I remembered the red kimono.
The acrylic smell of airline meals and heated plastic trays wafted through the pressurized cabin. Static on the movie screens launched the featured programs. I was surprised to see we had been flying for over an hour already. A few passengers had fallen asleep. The pilot’s voice came over the intercom giving out flight details and wishing us “bon appétit.”
CHAPTER 4
I politely declined dinner. I reached for my carry-on and found my snacks, realizing that besides coffee at the airport, I hadn’t eaten in ages. I was famished. The wine had stirred a light buzz and food sounded delicious, especially the two focaccia sandwiches with prosciutto, mozzarella, and pesto I had packed. I set them on the tray along with a clutch of grapes, Belgian endive and cucumber sticks from ziplock bags, and a handful of Baci chocolates Benedetta had added at the last minute. To bless her would be redundant.
I eyed Gabe and debated whether I liked him enough to share my treasure. He was poking suspiciously at his food with a fork. I offered him a sandwich. “Here. This is going to beat anything they might try to pass for food around here.” I nudged it toward him.
He reached over and lifted it to his tray. “Thanks,” he said, unwrapping his sandwich. “It smells great, what is it?”
“Panino. Italian for sandwich.” I handed him some grapes and vegetables. I had not yet decided if I liked him enough to share the chocolates.
Gabe reached for the Merlot and poured me another glass, then took his remaining Scotch and toasted my wine. “Cheers.”
“Salute!” I added, raising my glass to meet his.
We ate in comfortable silence, enjoying the food until a flight attendant appeared balancing two enormous brownie sundaes. He grinned and almost dumped one on my lap. I stared at the heap of ice cream, steaming brownie, and melting fudge syrup. I sighed, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is just too much for me.”
“How about you take one back, mate? And leave us two spoons?” Gabe offered.
“Yes, sir, no worries.” The flight attendant bounced away with the other dessert and Gabe’s untouched airline meal.
My spoon, precariously hanging on the edge of the tray, didn’t make it and fell, tumbling backwards under my seat until, even with my head between my knees, I couldn’t see it anymore. I raised my head, bumped the tray, managed to save the wine bottle, and felt grateful Gabe had grabbed my full glass before it spilled. I settled back somewhat, took my wine glass back without touching his fingers, swallowed disappointment, and was about to ring to have a new spoon brought to me, when Gabe reached for his and smiled wickedly. He scooped some ice cream, brought the spoon up to my mouth, and waited, tempting me.
This man has initiative. I lowered my eyelids to stare at the perfect bite: a little chunk of brownie covered in vanilla ice cream laced with thick fudge and a melting dollop of whipped cream. Not a single nut in sight. I bit. I closed my eyes for a minute and savored the richness. It tasted heavenly in my mouth. Gabe chuckled and took a bite himself. Several blissful minutes of perfect bites followed, from my mouth to the frosty glass to his mouth.
The mood coated us with intimacy. Silence lingered around us, a willing accomplice. We exchanged not a single word.
Attraction and wonder glimmered in his eyes.
I thought of calm lights reflecting gold before sunset. Holding his gaze, I exhaled and let my guard fall. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I had been shielding. He sensed the change and looked at me with such intensity I thought about warding myself again. I handed the empty sundae glass to the flight attendant, who had magically appeared at my elbow, and wondered how or what the hell I knew about warding and shields.
Good that the ice cream was gone. It would have melted in such intense heat.
Clearing his throat, Gabe reached for his bag. “Do you like music?” he asked. I watched him mess around with a portable CD player.
“Yes, I do.” I held my breath. As if on cue, the cabin lights dimmed slowly.
He reached over and placed small earphones on my head. He hit the play button and I recognized the first notes of one of my favorite Depeche Mode songs. He unfolded his right leg, leaned forward, and gently brushed a lock of hair off my face. His fingertips lingered just enough for me to shiver.
I didn’t resist when his arms lifted me over his knee and pulled me until my back met his chest. I tilted my head, brushing the curve of his chin with my hair, and nestled in. Purrs tickled my throat.
His left hand brushed my hair away from my neck, exposing the earphone. He traced my ear with his hot fingertips, drawing a line from my earlobe down the base of my neck, and I shivered. In a caress, his fingers trailed down my shoulder, along my arm, and finally entwined with mine. His right hand slid under my right elbow and found my waist.
I closed my eyes against the intensity. I was on fire.
The music washed over me, and I relaxed my back against his strong chest. I exhaled, and his chocolate-scented breath mingled with mine. When I squeezed his hand, his grip tightened in response.
I listened to the lyrics, realizing Gabe had chosen that specific song on purpose.
Seized by fear, I couldn’t turn to look into his eyes.
What kind of world did he want me to see?
I shoved doubts out of my head with a firm push, and since my heart had already settled, I surrendered, relaxing against his chest completely. Several songs unraveled—all from different musicians, some just instrumental versions of classics.
Gabe never said a word. He just held me against his chest, comfortable in the darkness around us at over thirty-eight thousand feet altitude. I covered his right hand with mine and he began to caress my fingers. Quick electric shocks climbed up my arm, like flames flickering over my skin. It was as if he could hear the music spilling from the earphones, and he moved his fingers along my hand to the rhythm. My own heartbeat echoed that same pulse, matching the rhythm. I felt his head move backwards to rest against the seat and his hand slowed down and finally stilled as he drifted to sleep.
I absolutely refused to think. I used the music as a shield to keep me from stirring my rational brain from its ice cream-induced hibernation.
Yeah! Let’s blame the ice cream. Fight one weakness with another.
But was this weakness? Is it weak to allow yourself to be real and do as you feel instead of hiding behind pretense when your entire being screams otherwise? How many times do we make scalding-hot eye contact with a stranger and fail to act upon it? We hide behind worn-out panels of decorum. The excuse of fear, the terror of being hurt restrains us from life.
Joséphine used to say that to feel pain is better than not to feel at all. I find myself agreeing with her more often than not.
I lifted my feet to the side, kicked my sneakers off, and readjusted my legs to rest on Gabe’s. He must have felt extremely comfortable to fall asleep with me in his arms. Or maybe he was just exhausted.
I felt sleep crawl over me like a familiar blanket, but I didn’t give in.
I had so many questions. Benedetta calls this “jerking off mentally.” Why was I even bothering?
Because I’m human, a tiny voice whispered inside me.
Why can’t I just be grateful I had the chance to feel this, if only fleetingly? Why can’t I stop doubting and just ride the high tide?
Because I know the low one will follow. I wondered if magic was at work already, steering me in the right direction. I shook my head. Too much had happened in my life for me to believe in fairy tales with happy endings. After Steve, I started thinking that Gretel and the witch should hook up after killing, peeling, boiling, and eating Hansel. It would make a great sequel.
The music stopped with a soft click. I rubbed my eyes, lifted the earphones off my head, and slid my feet into the complimentary slippers. Gabe didn’t wake as I moved out of his arms. I stood and walked to the lavatory.
Funny how we use the word ‘lavatory’ only on airplanes because any other time it would be considered an odd word, perplexing. Maybe they use it in Australia, I thought. I’m often prone to random mind-wandering, especially during uncomfortable or stressful situations. But was I really nervous?
Among The Cloud Dwellers (Entrainment Series) Page 4