Sex and the Billionaire Crime Boss

Ch. 1: First Class

He looks up suddenly, catching me staring, and I blush and turn my head to gaze out the window. But not before getting a look at the face that goes with that impeccably dressed body.

He's movie star handsome, with looks that could be as easily cast as the dashing hero or the irresistible villain. His hair is a rich dark brown, and his eyes are strikingly blue. I think I catch a flash of humor in them before they become unreadable.

I turn to stare out the window, watching the ground slip away as the flight takes off.

I can feel him studying me.

"It was my father's ring." His voice is low, smooth. Sexy.

I shift in my seat to look directly at him again. "I'm sorry I was staring. It's an interesting ring." I pause. "He's gone then? Your father?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"I'm sorry. I lost my mother," I say, and briefly touch the thin gold chain around my neck. "This was hers."

"My condolences," he says, and the eyes I found so unreadable a few moments ago now seem warmer.

"No, it was a long time ago."

Something flickers in his eyes. "Not all wounds heal with time," he says, and I get the impression he's talking about something other than grief.

He extends his hand. "Max Bennett."

"Hadley Jones," I say, as his hand envelops mine. But instead of a quick handshake, he holds onto my hand lightly but firmly, moving his thumb slowly against my palm. A quick spark of arousal shoots through me and I jerk my hand back, then blush again, a little embarrassed.

If he notices, he ignores it. I look down at my hands in my lap and for just a moment wish I was the sort of woman who spent time and money on fancy manicures. My nails are nicely tapered and have a sheen of clear polish. It's not that I bite them or anything - I gave up that habit years ago. My hands are practical, just like my life.

Now I feel a twinge of annoyance at him for making me feel self-conscious. For making me, even for a moment, wonder what it would be like to actually be the kind of woman who routinely flies First Class and takes extravagance for granted.

I'm used to working long hours and eating meals at my desk. I'm not sure how to handle casual flirting with a sexy stranger whose suit probably costs as much as my monthly rent for my Philadelphia apartment.

"Are you visiting Miami, or do you live there?" I ask him, looking for something to fill the uncomfortable silence. At least it's uncomfortable for me – this guy looks like nothing makes him uncomfortable.

"I'm returning home from a . . . business trip," he says, and I wonder about the slight hesitation. "What about yourself?"

"I'm considering relocating to Miami," I tell him, adding almost as an afterthought, "I don't typically travel First Class."

The corner of his mouth twitches in a hint of a smile. "Neither do I," he says, and a short laugh escapes me before I can stifle it.

"I find that hard to believe," I tell him, and he raises an eyebrow.

"Somehow I can't quite picture you traveling coach," I say, glancing at the long legs stretched forward in the ample room first class seating provides.

"I usually fly private," he explains.

"Ah. As in you charter a plane?"

"As in, I use the company jet."

"Your company?" I can't help but ask, because I'm curious. "Or the company you work for?"

"It's a family business," he replies, which doesn't exactly answer my question.