Crash Landing. Lori Wilde

coughed, tugged at his collar. He felt like she’d taken an endoscope and shoved it down his throat and could see everything that was happening inside his gut. Exposed. He felt totally exposed and he didn’t like it, not in the least.

      She glanced at him. “Are you all right?”

      “Fine,” he said tightly and coughed again.

      “Sometimes the high altitude—”

      “It’s not the altitude.”

      “Maybe if you took off your tie.”

      “I’m fine.”

      Momentarily, she held up both palms, before her beautiful hands settled back down on the yoke. That smile of hers could seriously blind a guy. It was unnatural to be that happy.

      Gibb took off his tie, undid the top button of his dress shirt. Instantly, he could breathe better.

      She laid an index finger over her lips. “Shh, I promise that I won’t tell anyone if you take off the jacket, too.”

      “I’m good.”

      “As you wish.”

      A long silence began as they passed over blue water and a lot of land. He hadn’t been this knocked off balance since the last time a corporate spy ripped him off.

      She was back to humming, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy.” It ought to be illegal for anyone to be this cheerful.

      He stared out the side window, studied lush green ground sliding by. How many times had he flown over a place like this, oblivious to the lives of the people below? “How did you know?”

      She startled as if she had forgotten that he was in the plane with her. “Know what?”

      “That I wasn’t born wealthy.”

      She clicked her tongue. “You work so hard. Too hard.”

      “Rich people work hard.”

      “Old money knows how to relax, new money scrambles. You scramble like you’re afraid someone will take it all away.”

      “Now you sound like a fortune cookie.”

      She seemed to take no offense at that. “Maybe. And you spend money heedlessly. I saw you give Stacy that limitless black credit card. She is at the spa every day splurging on treatments with your money. People who are born rich tend to be frugal.”

      “That’s a generalization.”

      “True.”

      “So what if I work hard and spend easily?” Stop being defensive. You don’t owe her an explanation. “I still don’t see how you drew your conclusion.”

      “In two weeks time you never took off the suits.”

      He ran a hand over the sleeve of his silk Armani.

      “Not once.”

      “I took them off to go to bed.”

      “But not when people could see you. I had to ask myself why. Why does this handsome, successful man drive himself so hard? He’s supposed to be on vacation and he never takes off the suit. What is he so afraid of?” She paused. “And then it hit me.”

      “What did?”

      “You never felt loved for who you were.”

      Goose bumps spread over his arms at the same time the hairs on the nape of his neck lifted. He tried to laugh, but he just exhaled harshly.

      “So you drove yourself hard in order to get recognition. Status became everything.”

      His throat worked, but no words came out.

      “You became adept at charming others. You adopted whatever image worked. It’s why you wear expensive suits—status, attention getting, uniform of the wealthy.”

      Gibb’s mouth dropped open. How did she know!

      “You came to feel that it was not okay to be who you really were, that in order to be loved, you had to take on the feelings and identity of those whose love you wished to win.”

      He wanted to deny it. He felt the need to contradict her, but he was so floored that he simply couldn’t find the words.

      “Deep down inside,” she went on, “you believe that no matter how much success you achieve you’ll always be a failure. You feel like a fraud.”

      He planned to say, “Hell, no, you’re crazy, you’re nuts,” but instead Gibb simply nodded and said, “Empty.”

      “This friend of yours that you’re flying to see. The one you want to stop from getting married. He’s known you a long time?”

      “Yeah.” Gibb grunted.

      “Before you were rich.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “He’s the only one who knows who you really are, isn’t he?”

      Was the woman some kind of psychic or just perceptive as hell? “How…how can you possibly know this?”

      She met his gaze. “Why, it’s written all over you. Anyone who bothers to look past the suit can see it.”

       4

      BESIDES FLYING, Sophia’s one great talent was the ability to read people quickly. She couldn’t explain her skill. It was intuitive. Perhaps it came from being the youngest of seven, where in order to get her way, she had to figure out what everyone else’s angle was and use it to her advantage. Or maybe it was simply because she loved people, and found them fascinating.

      Unfortunately, she’d learned the hard way that most people did not enjoy being sized up. Usually, she kept her opinions to herself, but something about Gibb had loosened her tongue.

      Now he sat there scowling at her as if she’d given him a bad tarot card reading. For many hours it would be just him and her together in this tiny cockpit.

      “You should be proud that you are a self-made man,” she said, trying to smooth things over.

      “But you see, I’m not.”

      “If you weren’t born rich and you’re not a self-made man, then where did you get your money from?” she asked.

      “My mother married a rich man. He adopted me.”

      “And he died and left you all this money?”

      “No, James is still very much alive.”

      “He simply gave you a billion dollars?”

      “Of course not. I earned my own money.”

      “Then you are a self-made man.”

      Gibb shook his head. “I couldn’t have done it without James’s connections.”

      “So you are in the same business he’s in?”

      “No. He’s in real estate, I made my first few million creating a game app for phones when that industry was just taking off.”

      “Like Angry Birds?”

      “Something along those lines.”

      “What is the app called?”

      “Zimdiggy.”

      “Oh! I’ve played that game. It’s fun. I love all the detailed levels. Have you invented more game apps?”

      “I sold out to a big gaming company, then I became a venture capitalist. I’m not really an idea guy.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “I’m more of a moneyman, backing other people’s inventions. I seem to have a knack for predicting the next big thing and I’m not afraid to take