Flown By The Billionaire (2 page)

Dropping all pretense, the smile quickly
slipped from my face. I glanced down at the pale fingers that were
entwined in my lap and shook my head. “Please, Mr. Joice,” I
pleaded, lifting my face back to his and fixing my eyes on him. “I
need this job. And I will be the best crew member that you have
ever had.”

Smiling sympathetically, his face softened.
“All right,” he nodded. “Let’s give it a go.”

For a moment, I wasn’t able to believe what
I’d heard and sat with my jaw hanging open. “I…are you…?”

Paying minimal attention to my stunned
expression, he continued. “You’ll be working for a man named Mr.
Race. He flies a lot for business; at least once or twice a week.
We’ll start you off on a temporary two-week contract. And after
that time, if you, Mr. Race, and I are all happy, we’ll fix you up
with something more permanent.”

I barely absorbed his explanation. “Thank
you,” I gasped, my lips spreading into a wide grin. “Thank you so
much,” I added. “I promise you won’t regret this.”

Just five days later, I was dressed in my
flight attendants’ uniform: a white blouse that hugged my bust; a
scarlet 1950s-style neck scarf tied to the left of my chin; a black
pencil skirt, which came to my knees; tan hold ups, and a pair of
black court shoes with a three-inch heel. My hair was tied in a
ponytail in the middle of my head, with just a couple of loose
strands framing either side of my face.

I met Mr. Joice at the main office and he
walked me down to the plane I would be working in. It was named,
‘Make a Wish’ and was one of the most luxurious things I’d ever set
my eyes on. The cabin was divided into two sections; the front was
like a small living room with a couch along one side, a mahogany
coffee table in front of it, and four large seats that reclined all
the way back to create a narrow bed. The section beyond that was
lined with seats like a traditional jet. All were white leather and
had plenty of leg room. Gold cushions adorned each seat, as well as
the larger chairs up front.

“Usually, Mr. Race doesn’t have a full
house, but if he does, you’ll have someone else with you,” Mr.
Joice said, as he walked me down the length of the cabin, showing
me the full bar and the miniature cooking facilities that was
located at the rear of the plane. Or at least, I thought it was the
rear of the plane. He reached for a small handle and pushed open a
door, which lead to a bedroom, complete with double bed and artwork
hanging over the headboard.

“Is that an Altman?” I asked, staring at the
oil painting of a blue jug sitting beside three tomatoes.

“Huh?” he asked, turning to look at the path
of my gaze. “Oh, I haven’t the faintest,” he admitted with a shrug.
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Race.”

I nodded, but dismissed the notion. I had no
intention of firing questions at Mr. Race; I would do my job, be
efficient, and make sure that he had the best flight possible. I
certainly didn’t want to appear nosey. No, I would mind my own
business and let him get on with his. He’d be far too busy to
discuss art with me.

As is so often the way when you hear about
someone before you actually meet them, I had an image of Mr. Race
in my mind. An obviously wealthy, successful business owner; I
pictured him in his fifties, maybe even sixties. I guessed he’d be
a little hefty from too much fine wine and food, and would no doubt
have an air of confidence about him.

So, when a man in his mid-thirties;
muscular, handsome, and little shy, boarded the plane, I assumed he
must have been Mr. Race’s assistant. I watched Mr. Joice walk
briskly toward him, shake his hand and then turn to me.

“This is Ms. Cannagh,” he stated.

Politely, I moved forward and forced a
nervous smile at the brown-eyed man. “Good morning,” I greeted,
offering him my hand.

He reached out, taking it gently and giving
it a quick squeeze. “It’s a pleasure,” he said. “Please call me,
Alex.”

“All right,” I nodded. “I’m Melissa.”

“Great,” he smiled, releasing my hand and
turning to Mr. Joice. “Have you given her the tour?”

As the two shared a brief conversation, I
listened passively, my eyes moving over Alex’s perfectly-fitted
charcoal three-piece suit with white dress shirt, maroon tie, and a
crisp white pocket square.

“So, umm, Melissa,” he said, turning to face
me. “If you wouldn’t mind greeting the other passengers at the
door, they should be arriving,” he paused long enough to lift his
left arm with a jerk that tugged his sleeve away from the black
leather-strapped watch he wore, “in around five minutes.”

“Okay,” I eagerly responded, keen to make a
good first impression. “Will Mr. Race be with them?”

A strange lopsided grin pulled at the right
side of Alex’s face. His eyes moved from me to Mr. Joice, who was
laughing softly. Finally, his gaze shifted back to where it had
begun. “I am Mr. Race,” he explained, still wearing the same
unbalanced smile.

“Oh,” I mumbled. “I’m so sorry, I just
assumed that…” I babbled. “I mean, I thought that Mr. Race would
be….I’m really terribly sorry, sir.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” he
chuckled. Slipping his hands in the pockets of his pants, he
shrugged. “And there’s no need for the ‘sir’.”

“But Mr. Race-” I began to protest.

“I told you,” he good-naturedly interjected,
“call me Alex.”

“I’d rather not,” I quietly admitted,
realizing as the words slipped from my mouth that if my goal was to
make a good first impression, arguing with the boss within five
minutes of meeting him probably wasn’t the best way to go.

He was no longer smiling. Instead, he
studied me curiously. “Listen,” he said. “I like to keep things
informal because I’d like you to view me as an equal. But, at the
same time, I keep things professional. John will tell you,” he
added, nudging an elbow toward Mr. Joice.

As it happened though, Mr. Joice’s testimony
wasn’t actually called for.

“If it makes you uncomfortable to address me
by my first name, I’ll accept that,” he continued smoothly. “But
you were happy to call me ‘Alex’ before you knew who I was.”

That was a rationale I could not argue with.
When I thought he was just another employee of Mr. Race’s, I would
have been content to be on first-name terms. So what was my
problem; some kind of inverted snobbery? No, it wasn’t that. But at
Blue Rock, I had always called senior members of staff Mr. or Ms.
so-and-so. It was embedded in the company culture and seemed
disrespectful to do anything else.

“So,” he softly sighed, when several seconds
swept past without my reply. “What’s it going to be, Ms. Cannagh or
Melissa?”

“Melissa is fine,” I offered quietly,
nodding. I wasn’t comfortable, but if it was the way he preferred
things, I’d just have to get used to it.

Thankfully, the rest of my first day went
much more smoothly. The plane flew from Teterboro Airport to
Chicago, where Alex Race and some of his board members had a
meeting with a company they were in merger talks with. The flight
took a little under two hours, and I was simply on hand to provide
snacks and make cups of coffee. The five men and two women
discussed business matters openly, but I tried to make myself as
discreet as possible, drifting in and out and making a conscious
effort not to listen to the details of their discussions.

I also tried not to stare too often at Alex,
who was an incredibly attractive man. At a little over six feet and
muscular without being too bulked up, he was the very definition of
tall, dark and handsome. It became apparent as I got to know him
better, that he was more than just physically attractive. He was
polite to everyone and endearingly lacked an ego for someone of his
success level; he was also intelligent and humorous.

Trying to deny that I was attracted to him
would have been ridiculous, but I did repeatedly attempt to push
the feelings aside. Nevertheless, I’d find myself blushing when I
caught him looking at me from the other end of the plane, and I
felt painfully shy when he was flying alone and would ask me to
come and sit with him.

I did try to make conversation. “Is that a
Nathan Altman in the bedroom?” I asked, standing even though he’d
asked me to take a seat in one of the large lounge-style chairs
near the front of the cabin.

“Yes,” he smiled, loosening his tie and
leaning back into his own seat. “Are you a fan of his?”

“Umm,” I responded hesitantly. “Yeah,” I
shrugged. “He’s produced some interesting work. I like some of his
early Cubist stuff.”

His eyes lighting up, he nodded. “You
studied art?”

“Only for a year in college,” I dismissed.
“I enjoyed it, but my parents didn’t think it would lead to a
proper career. Of course, they weren’t happy with the career I
ended up in, either,” I added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Financial services, right?” he asked,
sitting forward and resting his elbows on his thighs.

“Yeah,” I replied, realizing that I’d done
exactly what I’d sworn not to do and begun to talk about myself.
“Anyway,” I quickly added, “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about
that. Can I get you another coffee?”

“No, I’m fine,” he responded. “Please, sit
down. We’ve got another hour until we land and I don’t want to sit
here talking to myself.”

“Shouldn’t I be working?” I suggested,
pointing to the rear of the cabin.

“There’s nothing to do,” he shrugged.

Relenting, I sat down in the chair opposite him and,
as he carefully steered the subject back to art, we began to
talk.

***

As the days turned to weeks, our
conversations became more frequent. Alex was often flying alone and
he’d usually ask me to sit with him on both the outbound and return
journey. Perhaps inevitably, conversation did turn to private
matters and I found myself telling him about my experiences at an
all-girls’ school and my time at college.

He, in turn, told me about the boarding
school his parents sent him to. And then, suddenly, our chat took
an unexpected turn. As we were sitting next to each other on the
couch, his body slightly turned toward mine and elbow propped on
the back of the seat. “I met my wife when we were both freshmen in
college,” he sighed.

“Oh,” I blurted, unable to disguise my
surprise. “I didn’t realize you were married.”

“I’m not any more,” he explained. “We’re
divorced,” he breathed, his eyes drifting to the floor in
thought.

“I’m sorry,” I offered, not knowing what
else to say.

“It’s okay,” he responded, forcing a smile.
“These things happen. And I don’t suppose we were really
well-suited in the first place. My parents wanted me to marry her
and…” he drifted to a stop, before shaking his head. “Anyway, it
doesn’t matter. I do miss Fin, though.”

“Fin?” I repeated.

“My son,” he explained, smiling as he
reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet. Opening it, he
offered it to me and I gently took it between my finger and thumb.
The little boy in the picture must have been about three; he was a
miniature version of his father, with big brown eyes and dark hair
that was a little messy.

“He looks lovely,” I said, giving the wallet
back to him.

“Thanks,” he grinned. “He’s not always that
sweet,” he added laughing. “But…umm, I miss the little guy
anyway.”

“You don’t get to see him much?”

“No, not as much as I’d like,” he softly
announced. “Things between me and my ex are strained, so she makes
it as tough as she can for me to see him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, sincerely.

Looking up, his eyes met mine and remained
there for a long moment. “Thank you for sitting here and listening
to me,” Alex murmured softly. “I umm…” he began, his right hand
moving forward and settling on my knee.

It wasn’t an advance, it wasn’t a remotely
sexual touch, but the very fact that he’d touched me caused me to
jump as though I’d been hit by lightning.

Snatching his hand back, he quickly
apologized. “I’m sorry,” he stated. “I didn’t mean to…I mean,
I…”

“It’s all right,” I responded getting up.
“It wasn’t your fault, I was just startled.”

“Melissa,” he urged. “The thing is,” he
added, his head dropping for a second before returning to me. “I’m
not going to pretend that I don’t like you,” he said, “because I
do, and if we’d met under different circumstances, I think that…”
He didn’t complete the thought. Instead, he changed tact. “I don’t
ever date people that I work with, it just makes things messy.”

“Absolutely,” I concurred, nodding. “I
agree.”

“I know you need this job, so I promise from
now on, I will behave more professionally,” he concluded.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t disappointed,
but I was grateful. We’d reached an agreement, and despite the fact
an attraction remained between us, knowing we’d agreed not to act
upon it eased my mind…somewhat.

The truth was, I thought about him all the
time when I wasn’t at work. When we flew alone together, I found
myself focused on minuscule things; like the way his hands wrapped
around a coffee mug, the movement of his throat as he swallowed,
the handful of hairs that strayed from his side parting and crept
onto his forehead, and the way his fingers tapped lightly on the
keyboard of his laptop when he was focused on his work.

Sometimes, I would feel the heat of his gaze
and wondered if he was looking at small aspects of my movement. It
was impossible to say, because he never let me catch him.

What was most difficult about that period
was that in order to help retain a professional distance, Alex had
stopped asking me to sit and chat with him. His friendship was
something I quickly came to miss. I’d been able to talk to him in a
way that I couldn’t talk to anyone else in my life - I’d never been
able to talk to anyone as I had him.