The Wedding Fling. Meg Maguire
you the only woman flyin’ with us this afternoon.”
“Oh. Right.”
More tapping. “And you’re all checked in. How about Mr. Cosenza?”
She flinched. “He won’t be coming.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yes, change of plans.”
“I’m afraid the tickets are non-refundable.”
“That’s fine. Sorry if it’s any extra trouble for you.”
“Not at all. You got twenty minutes before you take off. Help yourself to coffee or tea.” She nodded to a counter with carafes and a jumble of mismatched cups.
“Thanks.”
Leigh filled a rainbow mug and took a seat across from the other passenger. He wore jeans, and a linen shirt with the top few buttons ignored, his tan and the state of his overgrown brown hair telling her his vacation had been going on for some time. He seemed like a man with no place to go, in no rush to get there.
He caught her staring. His eyes were as blue as the water beyond the windows, and Leigh didn’t look away quickly enough to appear polite, so she smiled instead and gave a tiny wave. He smiled in response, then turned back to his paper. Leigh tried to keep her gaze on the ocean, though she stole a glance at her fellow traveler every few seconds.
Something about his ease attracted her. Leigh had been surrounded by L.A. people for so long—a species whose males preened as diligently as its females—that this man’s lack of styling struck her as refreshingly exotic. He was also nothing like Dan, which didn’t hurt. Taller, she suspected, generally bigger, more fair, with those bluest of blue eyes.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Leigh let herself imagine how it might feel to kiss a man who wasn’t Dan. What would he taste like? What would his skin smell like? How would his stubble feel, after she’d spent two years with a studious shaver? The fact that she could wonder such things had her breathing easier. She was hurt, not ruined.
The stranger folded his paper and called to the woman behind the desk. “Just the one, Jackie?”
“Just the one.”
“Right.” He turned to Leigh. “You ready to go?”
She blinked. “Go, like, take off?”
“Unless you feel like swimming.”
“No, I’m ready.” She drained her cup and rose to place it on the coffee counter. She looked to the man as she picked up her suitcase. “You do this a lot? Do you work on one of the islands?”
Another smile, one that gave him a dimple. “I do.”
Jackie broke in. “He’s your pilot, dear.”
“Oooh.” Leigh offered a dopey grin. “Sorry. I thought you were a passenger.”
“Only if you feel like doing the flying. In which case I’ll happily take a nap.”
She laughed. “No, no, you do the flying.”
“Okay then.” He gave Jackie a salute and headed for the rear door, Leigh following him into the sunshine.
“You’re American,” she said.
“Guilty.”
“Where are you from?”
“In some former life I recall living in New York City.” If he’d ever had a jarring city accent it was gone now, and his voice matched his looks. He was easy on both the eyes and ears.
“Wow. You’ve made quite a lifestyle change.”
He stopped short a few paces from the building and turned, crossing his arms over his chest, seeming suddenly taller. “Before I let you board, we have a little issue to clear up.”
Apprehension tightened her middle. “Oh?”
“You’ve put me in a tricky spot.”
“Did I? I’m paying for both tickets.”
He shook his head, his smile more mischievous than warm, shifting all the flattering assumptions she’d too hastily made about him. “Your mother left about ten messages demanding I don’t take you off this island.”
Leigh frowned, feeling a touch of panic.
He leaned closer. “Bit of an awkward position for me. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
Her attention jumped everywhere, from his face to the plane to the water. “Can I bribe you?”
He straightened, expression brightening. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
She rifled through her purse, hiding her irritation. “A hundred?”
He accepted the colorful Barbadian bill and pocketed it.
Leigh released a breath, as relieved as she was annoyed. Her shopping trip had taught her that prices here were highly negotiable, a bit of island culture she might need to get savvier at, lest the locals fleece her at every opportunity. This latest swindle set her back about fifty American dollars, but no price was too high, not in exchange for getting her where she needed to be.
“So we can go?”
“We can.” He led her down the long aluminum dock. The plane was small, its bottom half painted a cheerful aqua, top half gleaming white and emblazoned with the name The Passport.
Leigh’s unscrupulous pilot looked over his shoulder. “The rumor mill at the resort said this is your honeymoon.”
“It is.”
“Think you may have forgotten to pack your husband. Or did he get misplaced in transit?”
She smiled to cover the pang she felt. “Change of plans.”
WHEN THEY REACHED the plane, Will took Leigh’s bag and stowed it in the cabin. She traveled light, for a celebrity. He pictured her faceless fiancé back in L.A., sitting on a bed beside a pile of clothes and swimsuits that also hadn’t made the cut. Poor bastard.
Will hopped back down to the dock. “Just you and me, so you have a choice—sit back here or play copilot.”
“Which is better?”
“Tough to beat the view in the cockpit.”
Tough to beat a chance to have her as his captive audience, as well. He might not get many chances like this again, and he was secretly pleased when she said, “Okay. Sure.”
He secured the cabin and she followed him to the front, fumbling her way up the short ladder that connected the float to the cockpit. She settled into the far seat, taking in the console and instruments. When Will buckled himself in and donned sunglasses, she followed suit. She squinted at his license, displayed in a plastic frame mounted above the windshield.
“William Burgess.”
“Captain William Burgess,” he corrected officiously. “But Will is fine.”
“Leigh Bailey.”
He offered his finest pilot’s handshake, decisive and confident, qualities a person ought to value in a man charged with transporting her across sea and sky.
As Will prepped for takeoff, Leigh reached out to touch the panel of a gauge on the console. Scowling, he snatched her hand away and set it firmly on her knee.
“Don’t get handsy,” he said, pulling a cloth from a compartment and buffing away whatever fingerprints Leigh may have left on the glass. He might not dress like a captain, but this plane was more than his meal ticket—it was his baby. And he didn’t let strangers poke and prod and leave smudges on his baby.
Leigh frowned, looking annoyed. “Sorry.”
After a brief safety spiel, Will started