A Werewolf in Manhattan (9 page)

Aidan groaned. “Ice on the wings. I’d forgotten about that. We could end up with ice on the wings, and we’d go down like a rock.”

“Okay, then politics. The world situation.”

“Terrorists. Somebody could be on the plane with a bomb, and we’d never know. On a train or a bus, you have a fighting chance, but up in the air—”

“How about my love life? We could talk about that.”

Aidan opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at her. “You’re going to tell me about your love life?”

“See? You’re already distracted.”

“Go on.” It did help to focus on her. He couldn’t very well take her with him on every future flight, but for now, she was a great solution. “What about your love life?”

“You know that boyfriend I told you about?”

“Yes.” He knew way more about Dougie-boy than she could imagine.

“We’re taking a break from each other.”

Ah.
It shouldn’t have mattered to him at all, but a surge of excitement told him it mattered, all right. “Since when?”

“Yesterday.”

“Emma, if this has anything to do with me, that’s not good, because I—”

“It does and it doesn’t. It does because I had such a great time on Wednesday night that I realized Doug and I might not be right for each other. So I thank you for that. We needed to take a break.”

“Look, if you’re thinking we might hook up, there are several reasons why that wouldn’t be a good idea.” All he had to do was figure out which ones he could tell her without making her suspicious about his family.

She laughed. “You are so right about that. Several I can think of.”

“What do you mean?” He’d thought he’d have all the reasons on his side.

“Well, I’ll be the first to admit that my next lover will be physically more like you and less like Doug.”

“That’s flattering.” He sincerely doubted her next lover would be physically anything like him.

“I can’t deny that I’m very attracted to you physically. But I’m looking for someone who recycles the Sunday
Times
.”

“I do that.” Why he felt the need to mention it was beyond him. Besides, he only left instructions for his maid to recycle it, which might not count for as much in her book.

“I’m glad you do. Recycling is a small thing, though. I need someone who rides the subway and flies coach, someone who has to think twice before he buys a ticket to a Broadway play and has to save for months in order to afford a tropical vacation. The truth is, Aidan, gorgeous though you are, you’re too rich for my blood.”

Aidan tried to remember if any woman had said that to him in his life.
Nope.
None had. He had the impression that for most women, his money was an aphrodisiac. They liked the luxuries it could provide—exotic getaways, fine food, sensual spa treatments. He wouldn’t date a woman who cared
only
about money, but enjoying the thrills money could buy wasn’t a crime. Except to Emma, apparently.

“I do believe I’ve shocked you, Aidan.”

“Could be.”

“Distracted you pretty well, too, didn’t I? Look out the window. We’re airborne.”

He leaned past her to check that out, and sure enough, they’d lifted above the layer of winter clouds suspended over New York City. Leaning closer to her wasn’t such a good idea, though. Her scent filled his nostrils, and he remembered the way her lips had felt pressed against his on Wednesday night.

Turning slightly, he gazed into her eyes as a wave of lust moved through him. “Too rich for your blood, huh?”

Her breath caught, and her lips parted slightly. “Yes.”

“And all along I thought you were too rich for mine.” With a supreme effort, he leaned back in his seat and stared straight ahead while he fought against the arousal that was making the backs of his hands prickle and his tailbone ache. Shifting at thirty thousand feet would not be a good thing.

Chapter 6

Emma wasn’t always so quick on her mental feet, but she’d executed a nice two-step that time. She’d managed to tell Aidan the exact truth and restore her sense of dignity in one fell swoop. Nice work if she did say so.

She still didn’t know where he stood. Those mixed signals continued to be mixed.
No matter.
He knew where she stood, and that was a safe and sane distance away from him.

Discovering he was afraid of flying had given her another boost of confidence. Up to now she’d thought he was a perfect specimen, with no faults to speak of. A fear of flying didn’t make him any less manly or yummy, but it did make him human.

Unsnapping her lap belt, she leaned over and pulled her computer case out from under the seat in front of her. Now would be a good time to flip open her laptop and present a picture of the working writer. She doubted she’d get much done sitting next to Aidan’s hunky self, but he wouldn’t know whether she was working or composing a letter.

Best of all, he wouldn’t be inclined to start a conversation while she was typing. She was happy with the current balance of power, and another discussion might upset it. He affected her more than she wanted him to know, but the good news was that it cut both ways.

After booting up her computer, she had to come up with something to type and decided she might as well brainstorm ideas for her next book. She’d never considered whether werewolves would mind flying, but logically they wouldn’t be very well suited to it. So far as she knew, no furry creature enjoyed the change in air pressure, the noise, or the smell of jet fuel.

She could create a plot that would require her hero to overcome his resistance to flying in order to save the heroine from something or other. Maybe she was a bush pilot in Alaska. That worked. She could crash-land in a remote area populated by a pack of werewolves. Maybe she’d be hurt in such a way that she’d have to teach the hero-werewolf how to fly or she’d be forever stranded there.

As the story outline took shape, she found herself on a roll. Instead of being distracted by Aidan sitting next to her, she was inspired by his solid presence and his scent. Yes, his actual scent, which she still couldn’t identify, despite all these close encounters.

Aidan had taken out his computer, too, and was looking through some files. One quick glance told her it was some sort of spreadsheet. At some point she admitted that this was very nice, riding up in first class, where a person could get a glass of juice anytime. She liked having room to work on a laptop without being squished, and she most especially liked sitting beside a man who smelled as good as Aidan.

But she’d meant what she’d said. Despite enjoying the heck out of this experience today, she was only gathering material for her research. She wrote about rich people, as well as middle-class and poor people. Hanging out with Aidan temporarily would help her write a more realistic rich person.

From the corner of her eye, she studied his hands. They looked strong and supple, with a light dusting of hair over the backs. His nails were neatly trimmed, maybe by a manicurist. He had no cuts or scratches on his hands and no visible calluses, which made sense. He was a businessman, not a laborer.

His cheeks were perfectly shaved, too, and his hair trimmed as if he had it done every few days. Wallace Enterprises probably had a barber on staff. The rich, or at least this rich family, appeared to be well-groomed.

“Like what you see?” His cheek creased in a smile.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

“That’s okay.” He glanced at her. “My ego loves it.”

“I have a research question, in case I want to create a character who’s rich.”

Laughter danced in his golden eyes. “The PC word is
wealthy.
”

“Is that so? Then why was there a TV show called
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
?”

“Easier to market, maybe, but trust me—the word people with money actually use is
wealthy
.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with
rich.
It’s short, to the point, punchy. Hemingway would have liked it a lot better than
wealthy.
”

Aidan powered down his laptop and closed the cover. “Are you sure about that? Because if you use
rich
to mean that someone has a lot of money, what can you use to describe a thick wedge of chocolate cake with dark chocolate frosting?”

“Decadent.”

“You’re using three syllables when one syllable would do.”

“Okay, then.
Moist.
And thanks a lot, because now I want some of that, and there goes my diet.” She loved talking words, but she didn’t meet too many men who would debate language choice with her.

“
Moist
isn’t good enough. A sponge can be moist, but it sure as hell isn’t rich.”

“How about
intense
?” The conversation was becoming something of a turn-on.

He shook his head. “Not the same. If I tell you the chocolate cake is rich, then you can almost taste it.”

“I guess.” She remembered not long ago, when she’d told him he was too rich for her blood, he’d countered that she was too rich for his. Now that comment took on a whole other meaning, one that she’d do well to forget about. She had no doubt that if they ever ended up in bed, the experience would be exceedingly rich.

Good thing the world included chocolate, which she’d always found a decent substitute for hot sex. “You don’t suppose they have any chocolate cake on the plane? I’m getting a real craving, here.”

He reached up and pressed the call button. “Let’s see.”

But alas, they soon discovered the galley wasn’t stocked with cake.

Aidan glanced at his watch. “We land in thirty minutes. Can you wait forty-five for that cake?”

“Obviously you haven’t looked at the schedule. We go straight from the airport to a radio interview. There’s no cake time in there.”

“Sure there is. You’ll have your cake and eat it, too.”

“That’s cute, Aidan, but we’re not going to cruise along Michigan Avenue looking for a deli and end up being late for the interview. I’m a big girl, and I’m supposed to be dieting. I can live without cake.”

“But you don’t have to.” He gave her a slow smile. “You’re with me.”

Dear God, that smile was turning her into a pile of goo. She barely had the breath to respond. “What do you mean by that?”

“As I said, cake is rich. I’m wealthy.”

“And proud of it, I see.” She didn’t want to be impressed by his cool confidence tinged with a certain amount of sexy arrogance. She didn’t want to feel like Cinderella at the ball. But that pretty much described her situation. She could fight it, and him, or she could sit back and enjoy the view from the pumpkin coach.

The second option made more sense. But she’d have to be careful not to enjoy it too much.

The flight attendant came by and asked them to stow their computers for the landing, and she noticed that Aidan tensed up. Most people who were afraid of flying tended to dread the takeoff and landing the most.

If she drew him into another conversation, he might forget that they were in a descent. She’d meant to ask him something else before they got into the semantics of wealthy versus rich. What had it been?

Oh, yes. His hair.
“I never asked my research question,” she said.

He glanced over at her. “You’re trying to distract me from the landing, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I appreciate that.” Once again, his fingers gripped the armrests. “Go for it.”

“Does your family have a hairstylist on retainer?”

His quick grin told her she’d hit on a subject that amused
him
. “You mean like the Hollywood stars who have somebody following them around with a pair of scissors and a blow-dryer?”

“Well, yeah. What’s so funny?”

“I’m trying to picture my dad putting up with that, or my mom, for that matter. But there is a salon on the ground floor of the building where we have our offices.”

“A building your family owns, I assume.”

“Right, but we rent out most of it, and one of the tenants is a top-notch salon. We go in when we need to. No big deal.”

“What about your fingernails?”

“Why? Are they dirty?” He lifted both hands and inspected them.

“Just the opposite. They look manicured.” She congratulated herself on getting him to let go of the armrests.

“I trim them myself, but that’s all I do. The whole family has strong nails and teeth.”

When he’d lifted his hands she’d noticed his watch. “Is that a Rolex?”

“No, it’s a Blancpain.”

“Huh. I’ve never heard of that, which probably means it’s superexpensive. Hundreds, probably.” When he didn’t respond, she figured she was low. “Thousands?”

“Well, I didn’t buy it, but I’d guess it cost a little under eight hundred.”

“Dollars?”

“Thousand.”

She gasped.
“No.”
Then she glanced at him to see whether he was kidding. “You’re making that up.”

“Nope. It was a birthday present from my folks, so I don’t know the exact cost, but there are a limited number of these made, which makes them pricey.”

“Pricey? You’re wearing the equivalent of a really nice Brooklyn apartment on your wrist, and you call it
pricey
? I call it outrageous!”

He unbuckled the strap and handed it to her. “If you take a closer look, you’ll see why it costs so much. There’s a calendar on it, as well as a lunar-phase dial, and the—”

“Keep it away from me.” Emma held up both hands. “I don’t want to lay a finger on a watch that’s worth eight hundred grand.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Take it. You said you wanted to do research on how the wealthy live. One thing we tend to do is buy limited-edition watches like this.”

“Why?” She took the watch, handling it like a live bomb. The strap and metal case were seductively warm.

“Because we value the workmanship and the tradition of watchmaking. At least that’s what my dad said when he gave it to me. He expects me to pass it on to one of my kids.”