Sophie Weston - The Independent Bride

Well, all that was a long time ago. These days he tried to look like a smooth businessman at all times. He went to the softly lit first-class bathroom to freshen up.

But on the point of shaving off the morning’s beard he stopped. He’d been on duty at that damned conference for over a week. All that time he had been shaving twice a day, listening to boring papers, making small talk with elliptical officials and never, ever exchanging a word with anyone that wasn’t about business. He was tired of behaving.

Arrested, Steven considered his mirrored image. He ran a thoughtful hand over the dark stubble. He looked like a gunslinger in an old movie, he thought, amused. Not a chairman. Never a master of an Oxford college. Above all not a professor. No one who met him for the first time today would think of calling him Professor.

‘Go for it,’ he told himself.

He put on a clean shirt but left it hanging defiantly outside his trousers. The piratical look would give the perfect flight attendant a shock, he thought. Excellent!

He was grinning as he came out of the small washroom. In fact, he was so distracted that he walked straight into another body.

‘Oh, excuse me,’ said the body, flustered, and dropped a washbag.

Steven dived for it chivalrously. The body was a tall woman with an untidy bush of hair and a tired face. As he handed the bag back to her he thought that she looked as if she had not closed her eyes since they left New York.

‘My fault,’ he said compassionately. ‘Sorry about that.’

She shook her head, hugging the bag to her breast. ‘Don’t be. I shouldn’t be up here anyway.’

The aroma of coffee had been joined by the smell of hot rolls. Passengers in the first-class cabin were still resting peacefully, but presumably other people were being shaken awake. A continental breakfast was clearly imminent somewhere. He made the obvious deduction.

‘Do I take it you’re an invader from economy class?’

‘Yes.’ She eyed him warily.

Steven was impatient. Did she think he would call an attendant and complain? So much for his piratical appearance! It obviously took more than a missed shave to make him look like a free spirit.

He said ruefully, ‘Good luck.’

He realised that he was blocking her path. He began to move aside with a word of apology—and the plane banked.

Two things happened simultaneously. The jet-enhanced sunrise lit the cabin with gold. And the woman staggered. Her eyes flared, as if she had suddenly been recalled to herself, but it was too late. There was nothing to hold on to. She tipped forward, dangerously off balance, and began to tumble.

Steven caught her. Well, of course he caught her. He was a gentleman. And anyway, that was what he was good at, thought Steven wryly. It was what he was designed for, with his rugby player’s build and his judo-honed muscles. Strong and stable. He was not charming, and he had never been handsome, but by golly he had always been good at stopping women falling on the floor.

So good that he almost managed to repress the leap of the senses that hit him fair and square.

For in the blazing dawn she was suddenly amazing—no longer a tired woman with tangled hair. She was a golden-skinned goddess with a wild red mane. More than red—flame and scarlet and crimson and bronze, flickering like living fire. As it brushed his mouth it smelled of leaves. In his bracing arms her body felt unbelievably soft…Steven swallowed.

Ouch! One rejection of the morning razor, one lurch of a plane, and he was into seriously politically incorrect territory.

Hold on, there, Steven Konig. You’re not Captain Blood and never have been.

He restored her to her feet fast.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said the goddess, flustered.

She did not seem to have noticed his reaction.

‘My pleasure,’ said Steven. He could have kicked himself the moment he said it. It sounded as if he had been hanging around just waiting to get his hands on her.

But the goddess did not seem to be on political correctness patrol just now, thank God. In fact the goddess was looking adorably remorseful.

‘Did I hurt you?’ The soft voice had an accent he did not recognise, and Steven was good at accents.

‘Of course not.’

Steven was charmed that she should ask, though. It was a long time since anyone had asked if they’d hurt him. The brilliant and influential Steven Konig was not supposed to have any vulnerabilities at all.

But his golden Venus was still worried about him.

‘That was so clumsy of me. I just wasn’t concentrating.’

‘I was standing in your way. Don’t worry about it.’

She gave him a shy, grateful smile. His flame-haired Venus was shy?

‘No, it was my fault. I had stuff on my mind. Sorry.’

‘I know the feeling.’ And for some reason he found himself telling her a truth, suddenly. ‘I end up taking stock of my life when I’m on a plane. Coming down can be a shock. Brace yourself for landing; here comes your life again!’

She laughed. She had exactly the right sort of laugh for a goddess. It was a warm gurgle, as warm as that amazing hair and full of delighted surprise. Steven felt as if he had been given a prize.

‘You are so right,’ she said with feeling.

He beamed at her. Flustered and rumpled and honest, she was the sweetest thing he had seen in a long time. He had a sudden urge not to let her go.

‘Is this your first time in England?’

And at once thought, How stupid; that accent could even be English.

She was shaking her head but she did not crunch him. ‘No. But I haven’t been here for years. I’m going to have to do the Tower of London and St Paul’s Cathedral all over again. If I have time.’

‘Time? It’s really a business trip, then?’

‘You could say that.’ She had a dimple at the corner of her mouth when she wanted to smile and was trying to repress it. Steven stared, fascinated. All goddesses should have dimples, he decided. Made them more human. More approachable.

He said on impulse, ‘If you’re doing the sights, you should certainly take a trip out to Oxford. The old colleges are pure fairytale.’

She let herself laugh aloud then, and the dimple disappeared. He would have objected but her dancing eyes made up for it.

‘That’s a great marketing job you’re doing. Has the town got you on a retainer?’

‘City,’ he said automatically. ‘No, but I live there.’ He smiled into those warm brown eyes. It was a heady feeling. ‘The place is a jewel. You ought to see it if you haven’t.’

She shook her head. ‘No. Well, not that I remember.’

He was intrigued. ‘Amnesia?’

‘I wish.’ This time the dimple flickered only for a moment. She gave a sharp sigh. ‘I was born in England, but my mother died when I was five and my father took me to Peru.’

He was fascinated. ‘And you’ve never been back?’

‘Well, not seriously. Once with the school for a few days, a long time ago. But it wasn’t easy—’ She stopped. Then said explosively, ‘Hell, why cover it up any more? There was a family feud. The Other Side lived in England.’

He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. ‘Big stuff. I didn’t know people still had family feuds. Not having a family myself, I suppose I wouldn’t.’

The dimple reappeared. ‘Congratulations.’

He laughed aloud, enchanted. ‘So, this trip is of the nature of a peace summit?’

She jumped. ‘Not really. Though I’ve thought about it,’ she admitted cautiously. ‘But I’d have to do a lot of tracking down. I don’t know where to start.’

The goddess had a chin that Napoleon would have been wary of—and a voluptuous, vulnerable mouth.

Distracted, Steven said, ‘I bet you’ll find a way. I bet you could do just about anything you set your mind to.’