Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  “I don’t know,” Brett said. “I’m not an architect, just the money guy. Sometimes, you get inspired, I guess. And you’re right that buildings—homes, hotels, whatever you’re creating—have to fit into their spot in the world. It’s important. Your eye’s happier when they do, and so is the rest of you.”

  “His design was in the reject pile, did you know that?” How sexy was a man who listened to you like his mind was tuned to your station? “Too mad, and too hard to build. Somebody picked it out and put it back on the stack, though, at least that’s the story. It was nothing anybody had ever built or even thought of, and it turned out to be heaps too expensive and to take heaps too long, but in the end, it happened anyway. Eventually, the fella won a big prize, whatever the top one is for architects, but he never saw the Opera House finished. And still, he created one of the only buildings almost everybody in the world would recognize and be able to place, other than the pyramids, and one that says everything about the country it’s in. Advance Australia Fair, like the ship is sailing out to meet the challenge, with the song rising up into the wind. Imagine knowing all your life that you’d done something that wonderful. Of course, no pressure on your next job.”

  He laughed. “Good point. That would be something, though. That’s a mind that can take a leap. To see beyond what everybody else does, to have a vision and then put all the pieces together . . . that’s rare. There’s a restaurant in there, by the way. I’ve seen pictures, and it’s as spectacular as the outside. We could check it out on our way back. Have you ever been to an event at the Opera House? I’m guessing that’s not a terrible experience, either. A person could even try an opera for the first time.”

  “Brett.” She had to laugh. “Have I told you how rare you are?”

  “No.” His smile was warm, and all for her. “Not me. I’m a property developer. Always looking at the practical angle.”

  “I don’t care. You’re rare anyway. You’re always so focused on me, I don’t get enough chance to step back and tell you. And it’s not just that when I tell you I love something, the first thing you think is, ‘How can I give her that? How can I make it happen?’ It’s that when you’re around, you make everybody feel better. They feel safer, somehow, because whatever’s happening, no matter how bad it is—you’ve got it. When I saw you in the water that day, I only thought, ‘What’s that boofhead doing in the sea in a tie?’ for a minute. After that, I started sending people in to you, because I knew you’d go out and get them. And that’s not even mentioning how you make me feel. Every now and then, I step back and say, ‘Keep your head, mate.’ And then you smile at me again, or you cut me flowers or look at my accounts for me or take the people I love for a special dinner in a gorgeous spot, and I forget to do it.”

  Willow went quiet, though, once they descended the stairs to the tarmac and made their way through the private jet terminal to a shiny black Audi sedan with a matching black-suited driver. On the other hand, she’d just told him that he made her feel special, so he was going to keep on with the plan. Once he was in, he was in all the way. When you jumped off the cliff, there was no turning back.

  Oddly enough, the thing that seemed to have rattled her most had been when she’d reached into the luggage compartment for their bags and he’d said, “You don’t need to do that. They’ll be brought along. Just grab your purse.” She’d jumped and drawn her hand back like she’d been scalded. He’d said, “Never mind. It’s everybody’s first time once,” she’d laughed, and the flight attendant had smiled and gone about collecting the bags, but he’d wondered. Was he only making her uncomfortable, when what he wanted was to thrill her?

  When his assistant, Brenda, had told him over the phone on Friday, “I can get you in two First apartments on Etihad, though not adjoining. Or . . . I know you wouldn’t normally do it, but you did say to go with the best option, and there is another one . . ..”

  If he’d been wrong after all—too late now.

  At that moment, the driver pulled to a smooth stop outside Terminal 1, and had Willow’s door open before she could reach for it. As Brett grabbed his crutches and followed her out, a perfectly groomed brunette in a chocolate-brown skirt suit came forward and asked, “Ms. Sanderson and Mr. Hunter?”

  “That’s us,” Brett said.

  “Welcome,” she said. “I’m Yasmine from Etihad. Come with me, and we’ll get you checked in.”

  Behind them, a brown-uniformed guy stacked their baggage onto a trolley, and beside Brett, Willow looked more bemused than ever, then murmured, “I thought we were going regular freight. Does everybody get an escort?”

  “Call it special delivery,” he said.

  She laughed, fortunately, and whispered, “I also thought she was some kind of model.”

  “It’s a good uniform,” he agreed.

  “What is this airline, anyway?”

  “Etihad. Based out of the Emirates. Very comfortable.”

  “I’m getting that,” she muttered, and he laughed out loud

  Five minutes later, he was putting his passport back in his breast pocket, and Yasmine had their hand luggage on another trolley and was asking him, “Would you like a cart for transport to the lounge?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, and told Willow, “Observe my increased weight bearing. As soon as we get to Portland, I’m buying that cane and starting to use it. The crutches have got to go.” Putting more weight on his bad leg wasn’t the greatest feeling in the world, and yet it was. Progress wasn’t always comfortable.

  “If it aches,” his (still hot, but he didn’t care) surgeon had told him that morning, “that means your nerves are working, and that’s good news. Discomfort’s fine. Pain’s not. You’ll want to pay attention to the difference, because I don’t need you undoing my good work. We’ll see how you’re going in two weeks. With any luck, you’ll be at eighty percent weight bearing by then. For now, shoot for fifty and increase slowly.”

  He shot for fifty all the way to the frosted-glass doors with the airline’s name carved into the surface, and didn’t think about whether he’d be back here to see the surgeon in two weeks, because he knew the answer. He needed to be in the States, and he’d been here too long already. Bringing Willow back to Australia and straightening out her business would be one thing. Staying here after that? A bridge too far.

  His thoughts were interrupted when their model/escort asked him, “Would you like me to stow any of your carry-ons until your flight?”

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ll take my laptop bag.”

  “What’s next,” Willow muttered, “a foot massage?”

  “No,” he said, “they don’t have a spa in this airport.” He grinned at the look on her face. “Come on. We’ll sit down, and you can have some champagne. Something to eat, too, if you like.”

  “After that grueling journey,” she said, “I need it.”

  He was heading to a table in the dining room when he felt her touch on his arm and stopped.

  “Azra’s mum,” she whispered. “Jamila Amal. And here I thought the great whites were all in the sea. Why, oh why? Back, back, back. Oh, bloody hell.”

  Brett had to laugh. “Where’s my Ocean Warrior?”

  “Easy for you to say, Batman. You haven’t met her. Whoops, too late. She’s seen us. Over there. The one who looks like she has a standing appointment at the House of Dior. Oh, wait. That’s pretty much everybody here. The one who looks like she’s about to slip a stiletto between my ribs, then.”

  “What do I call her?” he asked. “I don’t know Azra’s last name.”

  “Jamila Amal. You don’t use her surname. Never mind. Just call her, ‘Hey, you.’ She’ll be surprised by that.”

  That may have been why he had a smile on his face when he led the way over to a table near the window, where a woman in a cream trouser suit that nobody else in the world would wear on a thirty-hour journey to London, and who looked as likely to be Azra’s mother as the man in the moon, dabbed at her crimson mo
uth daintily with a white napkin and looked imperiously prepared to do her duty.

  This was going to be fun.

  He waited for her to speak first. He was fairly sure she’d read every etiquette book known to womankind. “Good morning, Willow,” she said—yes, frostily, while her dark eyes absolutely did not stray to Brett. “What a surprise to see you here. Are you traveling somewhere?”

  No, Brett thought, we forge boarding passes and hang out in airline lounges for kicks. It’s our hobby.

  “Yes,” Willow said. “To the United States. Ostaaza Jamila Amal, may I present Brett Hunter? Brett, this is Azra’s mother.”

  “How do you do,” the woman said. She’d already summed up Willow’s clothes and priced her shoes and purse. Now, her dark gaze flickered over Brett, and he thought, Go on and look. One thing he generally didn’t worry about was his appearance, which was why he was so immensely relieved to be out of the PJ pants. When she’d catalogued the dark-blue bespoke suit and the silver-blue Turnbull & Asser tie, and, he was sure, identified the shoes as Bruno Magli and the watch as IWC, because that was some laser-beam focus, her gaze went back to Willow, and she said, “I assume you know where my daughter is, and that you feel proud of yourself. I only hope, for your sake, that she’s safe.” Guns blazing, then.

  “She’s safe,” Willow said. “Brett offered his driver to make sure she stays that way, in fact, so please don’t worry. She misses you, though.”

  The “driver” idea gave her pause, but she rallied. Made of stern stuff. “Strange, then,” she said, “that she doesn’t answer my calls, or care about disappointing her family.” She gave another glance to Brett’s crutches, and then to the well-dressed man holding an elaborate silver coffeepot with a long, curved spout, who was hovering near the table in a long-suffering, here-to-serve sort of way.

  Manners won. “Would you care to join me?” she asked.

  Willow looked poised between two equally unattractive options. Bolt, and despise herself as a coward, or stay and fence with a duelist who’d been practicing a long, long time.

  She chose, as Brett could have predicted, to stay. “Thank you,” she said, and took a seat. “Brett’s recovering from a broken leg.”

  “I am,” Brett said, sitting down beside Willow and propping his crutches against the window. “Australian medical care is excellent, although I don’t recommend finding that out the way I did.”

  The night before, in the car, Willow and Azra had told him what Azra’s mother had said to them. First, Willow: “In case you didn’t know it, you’ve been trying me on for size before you throw me back, like a fish you hooked and found you didn’t want after all. Isn’t that an appealing portrayal of the dating scene? I hope I’m a salmon, at least. What a shock to find out you were a blobfish instead, and that’s why they keep screaming when they pull you out.”

  Azra, then, with a laugh that was clearly the release of built-up pressure: “You forgot the dirty hands. ‘Like a fish they hooked and weighed in their dirty hands.’ My mum. So eloquent.”

  “And here I have such clean hands,” Brett had said, and the two of them had laughed some more.

  Yeah, he was just as glad to be sitting here now to take care of that.

  “So you’re off to the States,” Azra’s mother said, when Willow didn’t talk, because she couldn’t think of what to say, and Brett didn’t talk, because outwaiting people was a useful skill.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m American, as you can probably tell from the accent. I’ve met Willow’s family, and now I’m taking her home to meet mine. An important step, wouldn’t you say?”

  The guy with the silver pot was pouring coffee, thick and black as mud, into elaborate, handle-less cups, which Willow was eyeing with a whole lot more enthusiasm than Brett felt. “May I offer you something from the bar?” he asked.

  Brett inclined his head at Azra’s mother, who said, “Nothing, thank you,” in a repressed sort of way that probably concealed some regrouping.

  “Champagne for the lady,” Brett said, consulting the drinks menu. “Billecart-Salmon Brut Reserve?” He looked the question at Willow, who said, “Oh, absolutely. My favorite,” with an irrepressible smile. He added, “And a cappuccino for me.”

  “You’re missing out,” Willow informed him, plucking a date from the tiny white bowl on the table and taking a bite, then a sip of coffee with obvious enjoyment. “On both counts. This is the real thing. It’s even flavored with cardamom. The taste of my childhood. I can’t believe I’m here drinking it. What could the plane possibly be like, I wonder? Wait, I already know. Like a plane, but with more comfortable seats. I’ll bet the food’s good, though.”

  “It can be very civilized, actually,” Azra’s mother said, “if you have an apartment.”

  Willow stared at her, seeming to forget to be nervous. “An apartment? Seriously? We don’t have an apartment, though,” she said to Brett.

  “No,” he said. “Not exactly.”

  “Oh.” She tried not to look disappointed, and he smiled.

  “It’s rather fine,” Azra’s mother said. “A door that you can shut is the ultimate luxury, surely. And, of course, a seat that makes up into a bed, though one would expect that from any airline. The shower is a nice touch, though. One must book it ahead, and it’s not individual, of course, but it’s well worth it. The reason I always fly Emirates or Etihad. Privacy is always worth paying extra for.”

  She pronounced it in the British style. PRIH-vah-see. He wondered if women could be wankers.

  Willow was in about four places at once. Glad to have Brett by her side for this confrontation. Crikey, but the man was smooth. Sneakily pleased that Azra’s mother would have to wonder about that “meeting my family” thing. Look! He’s not throwing me back, she wanted to say, even though Brett had only said it for effect. Furious that Jamila Amal was trying to make Brett look small with all her talk about apartments and showers and doors. And, of course, thrilled to experience the taste and texture of real coffee. The way to her heart was definitely through her stomach. Also, she was nervous as billy-o at all of this. Brett might be smooth. She wasn’t. Which was five places at once, actually.

  And then somebody else turned up. It was like a parade, and the entire place, and everybody in it, matched. The lounge was decorated in dessert colors. Chocolate, coffee, and cream, with splashes of rich purple like plum sauce and pale green mint. The seats were mint-green leather, and the tables were exotic woods lacquered to a rich sheen. She was never going to be able to go back to the plastic seats in the Qantas departure lounge again. Spoiled for life.

  The man beside the table now was the worst yet. He was wearing white gloves, cream trousers, a waistcoat, and a chocolate-colored jacket. With tails. Seriously, he was in tails, as if they were going to a royal wedding instead of getting on a plane. Even without Jamila Amal, this was the most ridiculous airline experience she’d ever had.

  “I beg your pardon,” the man said, his voice accented not with Arabic, but with British English. “Ms. Sanderson, Mr. Hunter, I’m Ewan Forrester, and I’ll be your butler for the flight. You have your choice of boarding first or last today. Which would you prefer?”

  Brett looked at Willow, and once again, she wanted to giggle. Pretty strongly this time. The expression on Jamila Amal’s face . . . but they had a butler? This was so over the top. “Last,” she said, “if it’s my choice.”

  “It’s your choice,” Brett said.

  “Very good,” the butler said, then handed Brett a small paper tote bag with “HW” embossed on the outside. The bag was in a shade of blue so discreet, it probably had its own name. It even went with Brett’s suit and tie. Azra would have approved. “Your parcel, sir. When it’s time to board, I’ll be back to escort you onto the plane. Meanwhile, would you prefer a private room, or are you comfortable here?”

  “We’re good here,” Brett said. “Thanks.”

  Ewan inclined his head and swanned off like he was in a costume drama on BBC
One, and Willow couldn’t hold back anymore. She snorted, then had to clap her hand over her mouth as Brett laughed. “Don’t mind me, mate,” she told him. “I’ll just sit here and be overwhelmed.”

  Jamila Amal might be icy-cool normally, but she wasn’t looking that way now. Brett set the little bag on the table and asked her, “Do you mind? This thing’s been burning a hole in my virtual pocket for a few days, ever since I thought of it. It’s come all the way from Hong Kong. You could say this trip is a momentous occasion, though, and I find that I need to commemorate it.”

  “Oh, please.” She waved a manicured hand. “Go ahead.”

  Brett wasn’t smiling, not quite, as he pulled a square, flat leather box in the same discreet blue out of the bag. “You look beautiful today,” he told Willow, “but something’s missing.” He set the box in front of her. “Open it and tell me what you think.”

  She did. Of course she did.

  It was a necklace, but saying that wasn’t enough. It was a necklace. Three gorgeous blossoms made of cleverly arranged diamonds, in a waving column, with a few tiny leaves carefully picked out in more diamonds around them, and trailing down the bottom. Like the Opera House—absolutely pleasing, and absolutely organic. More perfect because it was so delicate, only three or four centimeters long from the petal tip of the largest blossom to the bottom-most minuscule leaf. And exactly what she’d have chosen if she’d had every necklace in the world to choose from.