Pleasure Games / Legal Attraction. Lisa Childs
Blueberries, raspberries, that sort of thing?”
“Berries?” The woman asked with what Jasmine decided was a disdainful tone. “Non.”
“Too bad. Just another champagne, then, please.”
The woman pursed her lips before settling into a bored smile. “Would you care for orange juice with that or perhaps something to eat?”
“No, thank you,” Jazz said, waving her hand dismissively. “Just the champagne.”
Before the attendant moved past, Jasmine stopped her again. “Oh, and if it’s not too much to ask...” Jasmine glanced at the seat beside her and lowered her voice. “This seat is empty.” She pulled tickets out of her purse. “I have both tickets. Would you see if someone from economy would be interested in an upgrade?”
Both delicate brows arched at this request as the woman took the tickets from Jasmine’s hands. Her full lips pursed together. “Yes, I see.” Handing the tickets back to Jasmine, she said, “I will inquire.”
“Oh, and make sure they like champagne. That’s a must,” Jasmine called, but the woman didn’t turn around. “Thanks,” she shouted. “You’re a peach.”
The flight attendant carried on through into coach, ignoring her while she made sure all carry-on items were stowed correctly.
Well, what had she expected? Friendliness? Kindness? Empathy?
Ha! So far her experience with the French was that they were aloof, intimidating and gorgeous. But, she supposed, she wasn’t even off American soil yet. Things would be better once she landed in Paris.
She rubbed the bare spot where her ring had been only moments before. Her skin was lighter where the band had circled her finger for the last sixteen months, a promise of the life she’d always dreamed of, as if her skin wasn’t quite ready to give it up.
She closed her eyes, imagining that she and Parker Wright had gotten married yesterday, as planned, celebrating their union at the Waldorf Astoria in Chicago with three hundred of their closest friends and family—Parker had a large family. And lots of friends. Well...work colleagues and friends of his parents, really. But whatever. And now they were on their way to Europe for their honeymoon. With eyes closed, she observed the physical sensation of the plane taxiing along the runway before accelerating, the seat beneath her vibrating as the plane took off.
A week in Paris, another week in the South of France, then on to Italy: Venice, Milan, Tuscany—ahh!—before returning to Paris for the final few days. She’d planned the whole thing, poring over hotel web pages and travel forums for what to do and where to stay.
“Money’s no problem,” Parker had said. “It’s our honeymoon, after all.”
Yes. It was their honeymoon and she’d booked all these gorgeous boutique hotels close to the sights, restaurants and shops—shopping was something they both loved to do. And then, after a day of exploring, she’d thought they would return to their hotel and make love—tenderly, passionately. Definitely trying new things now that they were married (like the new furry handcuffs she’d picked up and the ridged vibrator—yes, please!). As her imagination strayed to creative ways to use the toys, her hand strayed to the seat beside her, encouraging Parker to take her hand and clasp it in his warm fingers.
Instead, her hand came into contact with a large, hairy arm that was a smidge damp. Jasmine’s eyes popped open and she swiveled to face the person seated beside her. He appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties with thinning hair and a friendly face. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that stretched across an ample frame, and as he met her gaze, he pushed square glasses back onto the bridge of his nose before dipping his hand into a party-sized bag of Doritos. Jasmine noticed bright orange crumbs dotting the front of his shirt and the armrest.
“Doritos?” he asked, as he held the bag out to her.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Jasmine said, taking a handful. She waved at the glass of champagne sweating on her pull-down table. “Do you want something to drink? It’s free up here, you know.”
The man smiled and Jasmine tried not to stare at the orange residue stuck between his two front teeth. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Jazz pressed the button to signal the attendant and the woman materialized beside her seat. “Another champagne for my friend, here.”
“I’d prefer beer if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” Jasmine smiled sweetly at the man before turning her beaming face toward the French woman. “Beer for my friend. And another champagne for me. In fact,” Jazz added, indicating the first-class cabin with a wave of her hand, “Why don’t you bring out champagne for everyone!”
The woman rolled her eyes but Jasmine didn’t care. Was it the champagne making her feel light-headed and carefree?
“Toodle-oo, now.” She motioned with just the tips of her fingers, hoping to give the woman—who wasn’t even attempting the bored smile anymore—the brush-off. Then she turned to her seatmate.
“I’m Jasmine.” Jazz stuck her hand out and the man beside her took it, shaking it with a surprisingly firm grasp.
“Neil.”
“Nice to make your acquaintance, Neil. So, tell me about yourself.”
The two exchanged pleasantries: where they were from, what they did for a living, whether they’d been to Paris before.
See? Jasmine consoled herself. Look how calm I am, making nice with a complete stranger as if everything is normal.
As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down a mere forty-eight hours ago and she hadn’t received the worst shock of her life.
Their drinks arrived, though Jasmine noticed her champagne was a little on the glass-half-empty side.
Bitch.
“So, Neil, what’s in Paris? Business or pleasure?” She downed the champagne in three swallows and pressed the call button again.
Two can play this game, gorgeous French woman.
“Oh, a comic convention. It’s the biggest one in all of Europe. I’m an illustrator.” He brushed a wisp of hair off his forehead.
“Interesting.” Jasmine helped herself to another handful of Doritos. “What kind of illustrations?”
“Do you want to see?”
“Why not?”
Neil unfastened his seat belt and retrieved a bag from the overhead compartment, taking out a sketchbook before replacing the bag and sitting down. He flipped open the sketchbook to cartoons of—well, Jasmine was having a hard time focusing, to be honest.
“The cartoon is called Betty Boobs. It’s a play on Betty Boop. It’s very popular in Europe.”
Jasmine blinked and squinted. Big-chested, naked cartoon women with a bit of 1930s flare graced the pages of his sketchpad. Getting it on. Porn. The guy drew cartoon porn.
Cool.
“Neil, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you know what a beard is?” She blinked at him, forcing herself to swallow. That last sip of champagne had burned.
“You mean like facial hair?” He stroked his chin.
“No. The other connotation. Do you know it?”
His bushy brows drew together and then rose up his forehead as if filled with helium. “You mean like a gay guy who—”
“Yes.” She poked him on the arm. “That’s exactly what I mean. For example, my fiancé—well, ex-fiancé—asked me to marry him, right?”
“Okay.”