Kathleen O'Reilly - Hot Under Pressure

You’re a wimp, Ashley.

As she contemplated her own human needfulness, the stewardess pulled out the life vest to demonstrate the life-saving effects of the floatation device. Ashley imagined the floatation device bobbling alone in the ocean, her hands aching with cold from the water of the Great Lakes, her face dimming to a pale blue, her lungs weakening ever so slightly. Her hand locked onto the armrest because she knew that Lake Michigan had an ambient temperature of fifty-nine degrees Fahrenheit in April, which didn’t sound too bad, but she’d seen that damn Titanic movie. She didn’t want to live it.

“First flight?” asked hot man, the nice smile returning, which did have the unexpected effect of calming her fears…somewhat.

“No, sadly, I became a platinum passenger last year. I’m merely a coward at heart.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the hazel eyes flickering more toward green—a warm, earthy green that did more to distract her than a muscle relaxant ever could, and reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in a long time.

“Don’t be. It’s a family trait. Yellow-bellied, lily-livered Larsens, that’s us.”

He smiled again, and she felt the tell-tale heart-thud again. She unlocked her gaze from the captivating green of his eyes, and drifted to where Junior was most likely planning his latest nihilistic techniques.

Ask his name.

No.

It’s only a name, a polite introduction. Not an invitation to the mile-high club.

I don’t care. Shut up, Valerie.

I’m not even here.

I know. I swear when I get back on land, I’m going to see a therapist. It’s the only answer.

Don’t be a wimp, Ashley.

I’m very self-aware. I’m a wimp.

Why do I even try?

Because you’re sadistic, and you revel in my pain. It makes you feel superior.

I’m not even here.

“Don’t talk to me,” muttered Ashley, wondering if hearing her sister’s nagging meant that she was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The wind was certainly blowing in that direction.

“I’m sorry?” asked hot-guy.

“Oh, not you. I hear voices.”

His brows rose—charmingly, of course. He really had a great smile. It wasn’t a full-bodied smile, just a quick rise on the right side of his mouth where his mouth smashed headlong into a tiny dimple. “Part of the phobia?”

“No, my psychotic sister. Do you have a psychotic sister?” she asked, firmly believing that everyone should have a psychotic sister.

“No.”

“You are so lucky. I always thought a brother would be cool. As long as he doesn’t nag.”

“Your sister nags?”

Ashley nodded. “Like a mother.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing again, and she noted how rare it was to hear a man apologize. Jacob had never apologized. Not once.

Right at that precise moment, Junior stabbed hot man in the hand with a particularly lethal twisty straw, and he yelped, his hand diving toward the armrest, trapping hers in a death grip of pain.

Ashley yelped, too, Junior laughed hysterically and Mom politely looked in the opposite direction, as if all were right with her world. Muscle relaxants could do that to a person.

Hot man’s hand lifted from hers, and Ashley’s normal blood flow resumed. He looked at her, the hazel eyes no longer wicked—now they showed true fear. About time he appreciated the seriousness of their situation. Four hours next to the toddling terror of the skies, who was now demanding macaroni and cheese, obviously oblivious to the plebian limitations of airplane food.

“He just broke out from the pen,” Ashley whispered confidentially. “Wanted in four states. I saw his mug on the post office wall.”

Hot man leaned in close and she could feel the whisper of his breath.

Ah, yearning loins, aching to be filled. Thy name is lust.

Shut up, Valerie.

“Stabbed you, too?” he asked.

“Nope. Butt-fondling in the third degree.”

“Really?” He grinned. “A mastermind of crime with discriminating taste.”

He’s flirting with you, Ashley. That’s definitely flirting.

Shut up, Valerie.

“So, why’re you going to L.A.?” asked Ashley, flirting in return. “Vacation. Business. The fresh air?”

“Business,” he answered, kicking his feet toward the computer case in front of him. “I’m a business analyst. You?”

“Buying trip. Clothes.”

His eyes raked over her, noting the bunny slippers, and she felt the twinge again. The loins were definitely starting to yearn. “You like to shop that much?”

“I own some boutiques,” she spoke, the words stumbling out of her mouth like pebbles. She’d bought the stores as a post-divorce present to herself, but what had been an impulsive plan to reinvent her life, hadn’t quite blossomed as she’d hoped. As a kid, she loved to shop for clothes, loved to put together outfits that seemingly didn’t belong, but then somehow worked. Unfortunately owning four disjointed clothing boutiques required more than stylish élan. Ashley’s business sense hadn’t magically appeared as Valerie had believed, and a good eye for color and style couldn’t compete with designing ads and balancing the budget. In fact, in the past few months, usually when she was paying the bills, she thought about selling the stores, worried that she couldn’t cut it. It was when the rent got raised for the second time in as many years that she worried she was like some people on those television reality shows. Thinking they could sing, but when their mouths opened the world’s worst sounds emerged, and the home audience is sitting there wondering why the heck these types ever, ever had the wonky idea that they belonged in the limelight.

There were certain similarities.

Ashley’s smile fell, the plane moved slowly back from the gate and she felt the familiar lurch in her stomach.

“Scared?”

“I’ll be fine,” replied Ashley, and she would. Business problems, personal problems, fashion problems, in the big scheme of things, they didn’t amount to much that couldn’t be overcome. In the end, Ashley was a survivor. When she was working on a new store window—surrounded by encouraging mannequins draped in subtly fitted, beautifully crafted, casual couture—the dream returned. She could do it. All she needed was to keep the faith.

She gave hot man a weak smile, and he covered her hand, a grip that was supposed to be comforting.

If you’d only twitch the thumb, a tiny caress…

Shut up, Valerie.

He had large hands, warm hands, with long, long fingers that looked so full of possibilities.

“Everything all right?”

“Peachy.” The engines start to roar.

Quickly she took out the air-sickness bag.

Just in case.

DAVID MCLEAN hadn’t been excited about a side-trip through Chicago to see his brother. Ex-brother. Chris had lost any claim to family bonding after he’d slept with David’s wife. Yeah, nothing like a little wife-sharing between brothers. Four years, and it still pissed him off.

Still, in the face of pink bunny slippers and shoved in close quarters with a young psycho in training, David felt something unfamiliar tug at his face. A grin. Yes, that was definitely a grin.

The woman was just nervous enough to be unthreatening. He liked her. Her hair was dark, nearly black, and she had soft brown eyes and a nose that was too big to be called pert. But it gave her a little something extra—character. And she had a nice mouth, plump lips that were always held slightly parted, like a kid viewing the world for the first time, or a woman in the beginning throes of climax.