Zero Control. Lori Wilde

Sorry about stonewalling you earlier. It’s part of the flirtatious role-playing Eros requires from tour guides.”

      Role-playing she understood. It was how a shy girl from Albany made it in New York City. “So I deduced. Are you sitting here for the entire flight?”

      Oh, damn, her voice had come out high and reedy.

      “Yep. Does that distress you?”

      “You’re the one who should be distressed,” she countered. When she’d first started working for Porter he’d coached her on how to go on the offensive diplomatically whenever she found herself backed into a corner, but the skill didn’t come easily. By nature she was open, expressive, a people pleaser, and she had to fight against her tendency to be overly accommodating. It was only when she pretended to be someone else that she was able to change her behavior.

      “Oh?” He cocked his head.

      “I gotta warn you,” Roxie amended. “I’m a nervous flyer. I get fidgety.”

      “And yet you’re traveling alone.”

      “I am.”

      “Vacationing by yourself?”

      Was he fishing for details? Fear hopscotched through her and she dug her fingernails into her palm. “What’s wrong with that?”

      “Nothing. It’s brave.”

      “I like traveling alone,” she lied. “I’m accountable to no one’s agenda but my own.”

      “Touché.” His gaze skimmed over the naked ring finger of her left hand. “I take it you’re not married.”

      “Astute conclusion.”

      “Snarky.” His eyes twinkled. “Unexpected but engaging.”

      “I’m happy I could provide you with some free entertainment.” She took a peek at his ring finger. “You don’t look married, either.”

      “Astute conclusion.”

      “Now you’re just mocking me.”

      “Trying to keep your mind off takeoff.”

      “I appreciate the effort.”

      “If it would help any, feel free to grab hold of my arm,” Dougal invited.

      She dropped a glance at his strong forearm, poking from the rolled-up sleeves of his puffy white shirt. His forearms were ropy with muscles and thick, dark hair. She curled her fingers into fists and forced herself to breath normally.

      “I’ve got to warn you, I tend to babble when I’m nervous.” She scrunched her shoulder blades together.

      “Babble away.”

      “You’re too kind.”

      “Not at all. I have earplugs.”

      She had to laugh. Strange as it seemed, she was having fun.

      The plane taxied from the gate.

      “Quick,” Roxie said. “Say something to distract me. Takeoffs and landings freak me out the most. That and looking out the window when we’re over water.”

      “Looking out the window freaks you out?”

      “Sort of.”

      “So why the window seat?”

      “Because looking out the window keeps me from feeling claustrophobic.”

      “You’re claustrophobic, too?”

      “Only when I feel closed in.”

      He laughed again, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling. “You’re funny.”

      “I’m happy that you find my terror amusing.”

      “It is a seven-hour flight. I have to take my amusement where I can find it.” The teasing expression in his eyes warmed her from the inside out.

      The plane rushed down the runway, gathering speed, the tarmac whizzing by in a gray-black blur. Roxie gripped the armrest.

      Dougal held out his palm. “I’m here if you need a hand to hold on to.”

      Gratefully she took it, but the minute his fingers closed around hers, Roxie realized she’d made a grave mistake. His grip was firm, his palm calloused. His scent, a complicated aroma of spicy cologne, leather and sunshine invaded her nostrils.

      Madness.

      The plane was airborne, soaring.

      Treetops fell away. Vehicles crawling along the freeway in rush-hour traffic glimmered like spotted stones. The early-morning sun burned orange against the clouds. Roxie jerked her gaze from the window to stare at the man beside her.

      The warmth inside her kicked up to a sultry simmer. A labyrinth of emotions pummeled her. Overwhelmed, Roxie had to remind herself to breathe. What was going on here? Why was she feeling so…so…what was she feeling?

      Attracted.

      Yes, that was the word. She was attracted to him and the feeling scared her.

      He held on tightly to her hand, and she closed her eyes so he couldn’t read what she was struggling to hide.

      The landing gear came up with a bump. Her eyes flew open. The sound never failed to send her heart lurching into her throat. Dougal squeezed her hand. A sexual tingle shot all the way up to her shoulder.

      Think about something else.

      But that was difficult to do, considering how delicious he smelled and how his quick-witted banter reminded her just how long it had been since she’d had sex.

      Roxie tried to concentrate on the luxurious surroundings. The state-of-the-art flat-screen television sets at each seat were so sophisticated they’d make a techno geek weep with happiness. There were the elaborate meal menus that could send a gastronome into paroxysms of epicurean delight and the butter-soft, oversize leather chairs with enough legroom to satisfy the long-legged man beside her.

      “How long have you been a tour guide?” She searched for something neutral to talk about, something that wouldn’t inflame the feelings burning through her. Or result in her inadvertently giving herself away.

      “I just started,” Dougal explained. “In fact, this is my first trip.”

      “Really?”

      “Yep.”

      “You seem so self-confident.”

      “It’s all an act,” he confided. “Inside, my knees are jelly.”

      “You fooled me.”

      “How so?”

      “You don’t look like you’re scared of anything.”

      “Looks can be deceiving.” The way he said it, the penetrating expression on his face made her feel as if he’d whipped off all her clothes and she was sitting there stark naked.

      “What did you do before you took this job?” she asked.

      “Variety of things.”

      “You seem a little old to still be finding yourself.”

      “Some of us are late bloomers.”

      “Late-blooming jelly knees? I’m not buying it.”

      He stroked his bearded chin. “No?”

      “How old are you?”

      “Thirty-three. You?”

      “Anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to ask a woman her age?”

      “You brought up the topic,” he pointed out.

      “I guess I did. How old do you think I am?”

      “That’s so not fair.