I settle into my seat for the flight from Philadelphia to Miami, crossing my arms over my chest. I let out a long exhale and rub absently at the slightly reddened spot on my arm. Some oblivious asshole in the boarding line splashed hot coffee on me because he was too busy making deals on his cell phone to watch where he was going.
Welcome to First Class. It's so not relaxing.
But since I didn't book the tickets, I didn't have a choice in the matter. It's just one more shining example of my grandfather's character. Affluent, snobby, and more concerned with appearances than substance.
I rest my head against the window covering, chest tightening, and ask myself again whether I'm making a huge mistake.
"Champagne?" A flight attendant appears in the aisle, a perfect glass of bubbly extended over the unoccupied seat next to me—which I'm hoping will stay empty.
I offer her a tight smile and shake my head. I made my decision, but that doesn't mean it's something to celebrate.
My father was against it, which is another issue I'll have to deal with. But in the end, curiosity and compassion got the better of me. They've always been my two defining traits, and have sometimes gotten me into trouble.
I'm just hoping this time is the exception.
I look up as a well-dressed man settles into the seat next to me. Armani suit and Ferragamo shoes. Exactly what I would expect in First Class. The flight attendant is there instantly, before he even sits down, to collect his suit jacket and put it in the narrow closet a few rows in front of us. His long-sleeve shirt is crisp white and looks like it was pressed five minutes ago. There are actual cufflinks at his wrists.
I'm wearing light-wash narrow leg jeans and ankle boots - it's February and the streets in Philadelphia are sloshy with melting snow - and one of the brushed cotton cuffed-sleeve t-shits I often wear under my suit jacket for work. It's one step up from casual wear. The coat I don't expect I'll need in Miami is folded and stashed in the overhead compartment.
I don't wear designer suits, not even in court. I've never cared about expensive clothes. Not that I could afford them anyway on a Public Defender's salary.
But I guess that's all about to change.
I've just taken a job as the head of the newly created criminal law section of the elite Miami law firm founded by my grandfather, who decided after completely ignoring me for all twenty-five years of my life to make me the heir apparent to his legal dynasty. Apparently at the age of seventy while recovering from heart surgery he has recognized his own mortality and prefers to pass on his legacy to an actual descendent. Which would be me.
I'm curious. And if what he told me about my grandmother - whom I've also never met - is true, then maybe it's time I forgave them for things that happened before I was born. Decisions that nonetheless altered the course of my life.
It's not an easy ask.
My seat mate declines the glass of champagne offered and, after a slight nod to me in greeting, opens a laptop and begins working.
He's wearing an unusual ring on his right hand, and I can't help staring at it as his fingers move over the keyboard. It's what I think they call a signet ring. Heavy and gold with some kind of symbol or lettering engraved on the face, with small, deep red gemstones embedded along the sides. It's on the pinky finger of his right hand; clearly not a wedding ring.
For some reason, the ring conjures up images of 19th century noblemen using an impression of the ring's engraving to seal important documents with wax. You would think it would be out of place on a modern executive wearing a business suit. But somehow, it suits him.
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.
"So I guess you're just struggling here in first class," I joke, and he laughs.
"The company plane was deployed on other business. Usually, I prefer it to flying commercial. It saves time. And ensures privacy."
I feel like he just threw cold water in my face. I mean, I didn't want to talk to anyone either.
"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you," I say stiffly. And dammit, I can feel myself flushing again. He was the one who started the conversation. If he wanted to be left alone, he shouldn't have said anything to me in the first place. Even if I was staring at his ring.
I shift away from him in my seat, but he extends his other arm as he leans toward me. The gold Rolex on his wrist catches the light from the window and then he captures my chin lightly between his fingers and thumb, so I have no choice but to look back at him.
"I said usually. Not this time."
I want to pull away. This is ridiculous. But I can't manage to tear my gaze from those eyes. The blue color is deeper now, and every nerve ending in my body seems to have focused in on the pad of his thumb lightly tracing the line of my jaw.
"I thought you wanted your privacy, Max." My voice sounds cool, calm, but inside my heart is racing. There's a current vibrating in the air between us.
"Privacy can be overrated," Max says, and his gaze finally drops from mine, lowering to my mouth. My lips part slightly, and I have this crazy urge to lean a little closer and put my mouth on his. What would it feel like to be kissed by a man like him?
"Hadley." He looks up again and it's almost like he knows what I was thinking. His thumb brushes lightly over my bottom lip just once, then he settles back into his seat. But his other hand is still beside mine on the armrest, barely grazing the side of my hand.
I seriously must be losing my mind. And I know I'm out of my depth. The last guy I dated – if you can even call it that - was George, a CPA one of my coworkers fixed me up with. We had a few casual dinners where he mostly talked about his job, and I mostly tried to look like I was paying attention. When he walked me to my door after our second date he politely asked if he could kiss me goodnight, and I just as politely declined. And that was that.
I know already that Max Bennet is nothing like George. He's nothing like any other man I ever met. He radiates confidence and understated power. With an edge that's almost dangerous, I think, then dismiss the thought as ridiculous. He's obviously a wealthy executive. Probably some kind of venture capitalist; he's only dangerous to companies he's planning to acquire.
I snap out of my thoughts, realizing too late that he's asked me something and is waiting for a response.
"I'm sorry – I guess my thoughts wandered."
His lips quirk in an almost smile, and I hurry on before he can speculate just where my mind was wandering to. "What was it you were asking me?" I prompt.
"I asked what brings you to Miami. And how long you plan to stay."
"Work," I tell him, which is only part of the reason, and not the most important part. But the rest is way too complicated to share with a stranger on an airplane. Especially one who sparks these quick pulls of arousal just by looking at me.
"I haven't decided how long I'll be staying," I add. That much is true.
"Perhaps you'll find something here that interests you," Max says, his voice low. I wonder why the simplest comment seems to be charged with a deeper meaning.
He's doing that thing again where he strokes my palm with his thumb, but this time I don't pull my hand away until the flight attendant comes by offering drinks again. I say yes, relieved and at the same time disappointed by the interruption. I accept a little plate of cheese and crackers and fancy sugared almonds. Mostly because it gives me something to do with my hands.
"Maybe I could get used to First Class," I tell him, and he laughs and asks the flight attendant for bourbon, straight up, which she pours into an actual glass - not the plastic kind they serve in coach.
"So tell me, Hadley, how do you usually travel?"
The way he focuses when he looks at me makes even a casual question seem like something he's actually interested in, instead of just idle conversation.
"Cheaply and infrequently," I tell him. "But apparently my new job has some unexpected perks." Also unwanted perks, I think to myself, but I don't mention that. I'd sound petty complaining about being provided a First Class ticket, especially now that I'm availing myself of the champagne and gourmet snacks.
"And what job is that?"
"Lawyer. I'm starting next week at a firm in Miami. Reese and Associates."
He looks mildly surprised, but I can't tell if that's because of my profession or because of the firm.
He nods slowly. "Andrew Reese's firm. Impressive."
"You know it?"
"Just by name. I've never done business with them." He looks over at me with that slight smile teasing the corner of his mouth that seems even sexier now that I've been imagining what his mouth can do besides talk. "But that might change. Now that I've met their newest attorney."
"I hope not."
He raises an eyebrow.
"I'm a criminal defense lawyer, Max," I elaborate. "So no, it's best if you don't need my services."
"Interesting." He takes a swallow of his bourbon, then swirls the remaining amber liquid in his glass, studying it for a moment. "I didn't know that firm handled criminal law."
"It does now."
"I'll keep that in mind, Hadley." He frowns slightly. "In fact, I received a disturbing call last night about one of my employees who will probably be arrested. Nothing to do with my business. But it's still going to need to be handled."
"Really? What kind of case?"
"I need to investigate it a little further. But I may be in touch with you – professionally - once you start your job next week."
"That would be fine," I tell him. Whatever kind of case it is, bringing in some new business my first week on the job has to be a good thing.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim leather case, extracting a card that he hands to me. It's charcoal gray with the name Maxwell Bennett and a phone number embossed on it. No company name or title, and no address.
"Meanwhile, that's my personal number," he says, "if you'd like me to show you Miami. Or anything else."
I study the card and raise my gaze to his. "I'll keep that in mind, Max."
I'm not at all sure I'll call him. Something about him is setting off all sorts of warning bells in the sensible side of my brain.
But I'm pretty sure my subconscious will have me dreaming about him tonight.
All of which may not matter at all. Depending on how the meeting with my grandfather goes, I could very well be on the next plane back to Philadelphia.
It's a relatively short flight, but still, I'm surprised when I hear the Captain announce that we are approaching Miami International Airport and instruct the flight attendants to prepare the cabin for landing.
"Well," I start, and then feel stupid when I can't really think of anything to say.
Max leans closer, his fingers brushing my jaw again, tilting my jaw toward him. "It seems we're running out of time," he says.
"For what?" My voice comes out a little high pitched, and I'm annoyed with myself.
His face is just inches from mine. Max Bennet is about to kiss me. I should brush his hand aside. Turn away from him. Ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing.
I don't do any of these things. Instead, I lean closer.
"I take what I want, Hadley," he says, voice low, his lips so near I can feel his breath. "But you can stop me with a word."
He waits one second, two seconds, but I'm frozen. My lips part, but there's nothing I want to say. His mouth tilts slightly, and in the depths of his eyes, I see something almost feral.
Then his mouth is on mine.
If I expected a gentle brush of lips, I was wrong. I don't know what I expected. I only know it wasn't this.
It wasn't this explosion of feeling, of want, or the complete lack of control as I free-fall into the kiss. I clutch his arm, gripping that finely pressed shirt and wrinkling it as I let go of all restraint and kiss him back intensely.
The hand behind my neck angles my head slightly to deepen the kiss, while his fingers on my jaw trail lightly down my neck to the front of my shirt. His knuckles graze my breast, sending a sharp stab of desire through my entire body. I have a vague thought that I'm glad we're already sitting down because my legs have gone weak.
Then he releases me, sitting back in his seat again, and I take a moment to catch my breath. He's watching me, for what I'm not sure.
"You do that very well," I tell him, and I congratulate myself on keeping my voice even, calm. As if kissing a stranger on a plane is nothing out of the ordinary.
Perhaps for him, it's not.
He takes my hand and raises it to his lips, holding it there briefly without breaking the connection in our gaze before lowering our joined hands to the padded space between our seats.
"If we were on my private jet, I would be able to show just exactly how interesting I find you, Hadley Jones."
"I think this was enough of a demonstration," I tell him, my lips still tingling from his mouth on mine. My mind races thinking what else that mouth might be capable of.
He's frowning now, and I realize he's staring at the little burn on my arm. I try to pull away, but he catches me by the wrist and rotates my arm to see the reddened area better.
"What happened to you?"
"It's nothing," I tell him, tugging my arm away. "Some executive type walked into me and spilled his coffee when we were boarding. Can you believe he didn't even apologize? Just kept on talking on his phone."
Something changes on Max's face. It's hardened, and for a moment, he looks different. Dangerous.
"Typical First Class passenger, which is why I don't like to fly First Class. Not that I could afford it, anyway." I know I'm babbling, but I can't seem to stop.
"He's here in First Class?" Max says. "Point him out to me."
"What? No. So you can confront him and make a scene? No."
"I don't make scenes," Max says, his voice low and calm, which somehow makes it more serious. "I fix problems."
"There's no problem. I'm fine. Really."
He searches my expression and seems to register that I really don't want to make a big deal out of it. Finally, he relents, nodding.
"Fine. It wasn't my intention to upset you."
"Yeah, well, just don't go around beating someone up because they got clumsy with their coffee. Or you might really need to hire my services." I'm joking, but Max looks at me like this is actually a thing that could happen.
"I'll keep that in mind," Max says. "And I look forward to seeing you again soon on a professional level." He pauses. "For that matter involving my employee."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"You don't want me as a client?" He lowers his voice. "Worried about a conflict of interest once I've had you in my bed?"
A hot stab of arousal shoots right to my core at his words, and I know I'm blushing.
"You're presuming a lot from one kiss," I tell him, but he probably doesn't believe me. Hell, I don't believe myself. I let myself imagine for just a moment what might have happened if we had been traveling alone on his private jet instead of a commercial airline.
My pulse races, but I have my court face on, revealing nothing.
"Am I? Then I'll only say I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again soon. On a professional and a personal level."
For a moment, while my gaze is locked on the depths of those incredibly blue eyes, I feel . . . almost disoriented. Like there's something powerful and unspoken passing between us.
I'm worried that I should stay as far away as possible from Maxwell Bennett.
And even more worried that I won't.