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Zoe felt his gaze on her back as he followed her, and was absurdly glad she’d taken pains with her appearance. She’d worn one of the sharper uniforms in her work wardrobe, a black skirt and a thin dove-gray wrap sweater, and had twisted her dark brown hair into a low knot on the nape of her neck. She chastised herself for caring what she looked like for this passenger—it wasn’t the behavior of a woman who was a month away from marrying the man of her dreams.
“Here you are, sir, seat 4A. My name is Zoe and I’ll be seeing to your needs during the first half of the flight.” Standing so close, she had to look straight up at the tall man. The proximity unnerved her and suddenly her small talk seemed laced with innuendo.
“Zoe—pretty name.” He was unbuttoning his shirtsleeves, rolling them up, revealing powerful arms that were tanned and covered with light-colored hair.
“Th-thank you. Would you like a cocktail before we take off?”
“A vodka on the rocks would be great, thanks.”
Zoe was relieved to step into the tiny galley to prepare the drink. To her dismay, her heart thudded against her breastbone and her face felt warm.
“Lucky dog,” Erica whispered in her ear. “You always get the hunks.”
“Trade me sections,” Zoe said earnestly.
Erica squinted. “Why?”
Zoe’s mind raced for an excuse. “Uh…I’m getting a vibe from Mr. 4A.”
Erica leaned backward to glance at the topic of conversation.
Zoe grabbed her friend’s arm. “Don’t look! He’ll know we’re talking about him.”
Erica grinned. “So? What kind of vibe are you talking about? He certainly doesn’t look like a perv.”
“No, he’s not a perv. He’s…um…”
“He’s hot.” Then Erica gasped. “Oh my goodness—you like him, don’t you?”
Zoe scoffed. “That’s crazy. I’m getting married in a month, remember?” Feeling out of sorts, she touched Erica’s arm. “Look, just do me this favor, okay?”
Erica shrugged. “Fine with me. But I warn you, the couple in 8A and B seem to be on the verge of a divorce.”
Zoe picked up the drink she’d poured. “Thanks. I’ll deliver this, then check in with your warring couple.”
Exhaling in relief, she walked back to Colin Cannon’s seat where his big body took up every inch of the generous space, his long legs extending to the bulkhead in front of him. The man was vast and unrestrained, like his mother country.
As he lifted his head, he raked his gaze over her legs and every inch of her until he made eye contact. At his appreciative stare, a vacuum seemed to develop around them—her ears popped as if the cabin was changing pressure. There was something about this man that spoke to her…confused her. With a mere glance, he made everything female deep inside her open and expand. Her breathing increased, her throat tightened. Swapping sections with Erica was definitely the right move, she decided. There was something…unmanageable here that she dared not explore.
Her hand shook slightly as she gave him the drink—with good reason. When his fingers brushed hers, a current of awareness shot up her arm. Strangely, a sense of déjà vu tickled her memory, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Nor did she want to.
“Mr. Cannon,” she said, “as it turns out, I won’t be taking care of this section after all.”
Disappointment flashed across his face. “Did I scare you off?”
Zoe swallowed. “It has nothing to do with you, sir.”
He looked as if he didn’t believe her, then lifted his glass. “Cheers, then.”
She nodded and walked away, troubled by the regret that plucked at her…as if she had turned her back on a life-changing encounter. Something wonderful…or something dangerous. When she stole a glance over her shoulder at the golden-haired Aussie, he was still looking at her with those intense green eyes.
Zoe turned back and manufactured a smile for the young professional couple that Erica had warned her about. Indeed, Jill and Jeremy Osbourne were shooting daggers at each other and trading barbs in tones that did not bode well for the long trip ahead of them. Worse, they seemed determined to draw Zoe into their squabble.
“What do you think about a woman who packs twenty-three pairs of designer shoes for a ten-day trip?” Jeremy Osbourne asked, his words wrapped in sarcasm.
“What do you think about a man who brings his laptop on his second honeymoon?” Jill Osbourne asked in a matching tone.
“Is this your first trip to Australia?” Zoe asked cheerfully.
“Yes,” they said in unison, both sounding miserable.
“I wanted to go to Hawaii,” the woman said, her voice accusing.
“I thought this would be an adventure,” her husband retorted.
“And you expect me to believe that this trip has nothing to do with the fact that your biggest client is in Sydney?” his wife shrieked.
“My job pays for your shoes!” he returned.
“Sydney is a romantic choice for your second honeymoon,” Zoe soothed.
“Are you married?” Jill Osbourne asked.
“In one month,” Zoe said with a smile.
“You still have time to reconsider,” the woman said pointedly.
“It’s certainly not all it’s cracked up to be,” her husband agreed with a shake of his newspaper.
The tension between the couple was palpable. They knew every button to push and continued to antagonize each other over a sumptuous meal of surf and turf. The rich red wine only seemed to fuel their long-running argument. Zoe bit her tongue and wondered why they bothered staying married if they provoked each other so bitterly. If she and Kevin ever argued like that…
She shook her head. She and Kevin would never end up like that. Would they?
They had been together for nearly six years, engaged for half that time. They knew each other so well, sometimes she felt as if they already were married. It was comforting to be so…comfortable. She couldn’t imagine her and Kevin being at each other’s throats the way this couple was. They infected everybody around them….
Instilled doubts.
Which was silly, because no marriage was perfect, was it? She had a healthy grasp of Kevin’s idiosyncrasies, and vice versa. It was good, wasn’t it, that they were friends first, lovers second? And it was good that they didn’t agree on everything—it meant that they both had to compromise. Not that they would end up like this feuding couple…or her own quarrelsome parents…or Kevin’s.
Her anxiety level was driven higher by the fact that she felt the Aussie’s gaze on her as she moved about the first-class cabin, especially when they stopped in San Francisco to refuel and most passengers took advantage of the opportunity to stretch their legs. He paced the aisle, his big body taking up much of the available space. Even first class wasn’t designed for men of his size. She wondered vaguely if he was a professional athlete. Colin Cannon had descended from a pretty spectacular gene pool, and despite the immaculate suit, his body wasn’t that of a man who sat behind a desk for most of his day.
Their eyes met and a shiver of feminine appreciation traveled up her spine. She was as aware of him as if they were sitting next to each other, knees touching. It was strange, feeling as though everyone else on the plane were extras in a private little drama between the two of them. How could she feel such a powerful connection to a person with whom she’d exchanged only a few words?
She couldn’t, she decided, dragging her gaze from his. It was an illusion brought on by the thin air, fatigue and nerves over the unfinished wedding details that still needed to be handled. She tried to put the man out of her mind as the final and longest leg of their flight got under way, tending to the passengers in her section, including the high-maintenance, sniping couple.
By the time her shift had ended somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, the Osbournes had, mercifully, fallen asleep along with most of the other passengers. The cabin was dark except for the lone reading light illuminating the man in 4A. He appeared to be immersed in some sort of thick, bound report, his head bent in thought, his hands moving occasionally to mark a page.
She wanted to ask him what business he was in or if he needed a blanket, anything to hear the pleasing inflection of his accent. Her body tingled, strained toward him, even with multiple rows of seats dividing them. It was an alien feeling. She never flirted with passengers or took advantage of the many opportunities to hook up with single and married men during her travels. She had always been faithful to Kevin, had never even considered getting herself into a situation that could get out of hand.
Until now. There was something so compelling about this man. Zoe half wished she hadn’t traded sections with Erica. Perhaps during the flight she would’ve learned something about him that would’ve rendered him less appealing. He could be married…with a house full of kids…involved in shady business dealings…a male chauvinist…with objectionable views on the human condition.
As if he sensed her attention, he turned his head and smiled, then gestured her over.
Zoe had no choice but to comply. Her heart rate increased with every step. She stopped next to his seat and leaned close so their conversation wouldn’t wake the other passengers. “Yes, Mr. Cannon?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Zoe, but I left something in the pocket of my suit jacket and I didn’t see where you hung it.”
He smelled of some lingering, unidentifiable spice that warmed her lungs. “I’ll get it for you,” she murmured.
“Thank you.” His mouth curved into a smile that extended to his remarkable, sexy eyes that simmered with just enough merriment to dispel any idea she might have had that he was dangerous.
The coat closet took her out of his range of sight, which gave her a few minutes to compose herself. She was behaving like a schoolgirl, allowing a man’s physical presence to affect her. This wasn’t like her. She put her hand to her forehead and acknowledged the elevated heat. Maybe she was coming down with something. She exhaled slowly. Yes, with a little rest and a couple of aspirin, she’d be back to herself again.
Zoe found Mr. Cannon’s jacket and pulled it out of the closet. When she folded it over her arm, though, something fell out of the inside breast pocket and landed by her foot. A black jeweler’s box—ring size. She scooped it up and looked all around to make sure she was alone. Stroking the velvety surface, she fought the urge to peek inside. An engagement ring, perhaps? It seemed likely, since Mr. Cannon wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
It was the crazy, unreasonable pang of jealousy toward the unknown woman that brought her back to earth. This was insane—she should be thinking about the engagement ring on her own finger rather than worrying about the possible romantic liaisons of a perfect stranger.
Disgusted with herself, she dropped the box back into the coat pocket and carried it to him. He nodded his thanks and reached into a different pocket to remove a PDA device. “I hate this thing,” he said ruefully, “but I can’t live without it.”
Apparently his mind hadn’t been on whatever was in the box—just like hers shouldn’t be.
“Mr. Cannon, the crew is getting ready to change, so if there’s nothing else, I’ll say goodbye.”
Interest lit his eyes. “You’re going off duty?”
Dismayed by the way her body responded to his slightest signal, she moistened her lips. “Yes. Enjoy the remainder of the flight.”
She straightened and moved down the aisle to confer with the attendant who would be taking over her section. Erica walked up, wearing a frown. “Gee, that hunky Aussie is a dreamboat, Zoe, but he’s kind of boring. Although he did seem to watch you pretty closely….”
“I didn’t notice,” Zoe said lightly.
Erica looked intrigued. “If you say so. How was the married couple?”
“Still married, miraculously.” Zoe retrieved her shoulder bag from storage. It was silly, but she was the tiniest bit glad to know that Colin Cannon hadn’t hit on the vivacious, blond Erica—he wasn’t a player after all.
Not that it mattered to her.
A few minutes later, she sank into the assigned coach seat she would occupy for the six hours remaining in the flight.
She should’ve gone to sleep immediately. Her body was tired and her lower back ached. But her mind refused to shut down, not ready to turn away from the Aussie in first class whose green eyes had scoured her body with unabashed sexual interest. It was flattering…made her feel vibrant and desirable. Because as much as she was sure of Kevin’s love for her, he wasn’t exactly the passionate type. Sex ranked somewhere below fantasy football and training for his next long-distance bike race. They hadn’t slept together in weeks because of their schedules and all the wedding preparations. She’d convinced herself it was okay—it would make the honeymoon even sweeter.
But she was lonely…and Kevin’s inattentiveness had left her feeling as if she’d sprung a leak.
Before her mind spun off in a dangerous direction, she pulled out the three-ring binder that contained all the details of “Zoe and Kevin’s Wedding.” Inside were pages and pages of samples and order forms and receipts and schedules. Still to be decided was the seating arrangement at the rehearsal dinner and the reception, the music mix for the band, the decorations for the head tables, gifts for the wedding party and the marriage license.
As well as roughly one thousand other details.
From her bag she pulled her mail that she’d bound with a rubber band. Lately her box was crammed with brochures from photographers, caterers, florists and travel agencies. But scattered among the advertisements were contracts that needed to be reviewed and signed, and invoices that needed to be paid. She flipped through the envelopes and fished out a bill from the bridal shop, a reservation form for the limo service and a contract from the videographer. There were cards from friends and relatives who couldn’t make it to the wedding—she and Kevin would open those later.
She glanced at the next envelope, which had a return address of Jacksonville, Florida—something from Covington Women’s College? Then she smiled. It was probably a copy of the alumni newsletter, featuring a notice of her upcoming wedding. Grateful for a little light reading, she opened the envelope. But instead of a newsletter, she pulled out a cover letter enclosing a purple envelope that seemed distantly familiar. Intrigued, she scanned the letterhead—Dr. Michelle Alexander.
Zoe frowned. Her former college instructor?
Dear Ms. Smythe,
You were a student in my senior-level class titled “Sexual Psyche” at Covington Women’s College. You may or may not recall that one of the optional assignments in the class was for each student to record her sexual fantasies and seal them in an envelope, to be mailed to the student in ten years’ time. Enclosed you will find the envelope that you submitted, which was carefully cataloged by a numbered code for the sake of anonymity and remained sealed. It is my hope that the contents will prove to be emotionally constructive in whatever place and situation you find yourself ten years later. If you have any questions, concerns or feedback, do not hesitate to contact me.
With warm regards,
Dr. Michelle Alexander
Zoe laughed to herself. The Sexual Psyche class had been called Sex for Beginners by all the students. She remembered the class, the smothered giggles and eye-opening lectures, the confident, curvy instructor. She also remembered the confess-your-fantasies assignment, but she couldn’t recall what she’d written.
Fingering the purple envelope, Zoe was suddenly nervous. She was on the verge of getting married. Was this really the best time in her life to review what sexual desires had once stirred her soul?
2
ZOE STARED AT THE ENVELOPE holding the letter she’d written to herself ten years ago and scoffed at her fears. What was she afraid of? The purple envelope wasn’t exactly Pandora’s box—it wasn’t likely to unleash some sort of unforeseeable chain of events. Instead, she’d probably get a good laugh over her schoolgirl musings.
She glanced at the passengers sitting on either side of her—the woman to her left was awake, but reading a book. The woman to her right was juggling a sleeping toddler. With her privacy assured, Zoe slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope and pulled out two folded sheets of stationery. The handwriting was hers, neat and slanted. Pulled along by nostalgia, Zoe read the letter she’d written for her eyes only.
Dear Zoe,
It’s me—your twenty-two-year-old self writing to say that when you get this letter, I hope you have everything in our life figured out. I hope you’re married to a great guy and contemplating a family. I say this because I hope between now and then, you will have explored the world and yourself, and will be satisfied that your choices are good ones.
Dr. Alexander asked us to write down our sexual fantasies because she says that unless we know what turns us on physically, we can’t ask for it or expect it from our partners. And that we’ll never be truly fulfilled in a long-term relationship unless our partner knows and understands our innermost fantasies, no matter how outrageous they might be. She says that the strongest emotional connection comes from an intense physical connection, and a strong physical connection is the foundation for intimacy and fidelity. If someone is getting everything they need from one person, Dr. Alexander says, they’ll have no need to stray.
I like the sound of that because fidelity is very important to me. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want someone to be with me and not be completely happy…like my parents. Arguing is their only form of communication. I want to ask them sometimes why they stay together because they obviously don’t like each other. I hope they’re not together for my sake because they’re miserable, and I’m miserable when they fight.
Anyway, I haven’t had that much experience with sex. I’m not a virgin, but so far, to be honest, sex has been disappointing. Every time I’ve gone all the way with a guy, I hoped it was going to be the way I imagined sex would be—mind-blowing. Like a drug, something you can’t live without. But it never is.
Maybe it’s my fault. Because I’m outgoing and I speak my mind, I think guys assume that I want to take control. I’ve never told anyone that what I really want is to give up control. What I really want in my secret of secret places is to be tied to a bed…to be handcuffed…to be strapped down. And to be made love to six different ways.
Zoe looked up from the letter, her face heated. The words made her squirm in her seat—it must have taken a great effort for her to write them ten years ago. And if she remembered correctly, a great relief. With no small amount of trepidation, she continued reading.
It sounds dirty, which is why I’ve kept this to myself. I’m not looking for someone to mistreat me—I don’t want that kind of man in my life. But someday I hope I’ll meet the right guy to share my fantasy, someone I trust not to hurt me, someone who won’t judge me, who won’t think any less of me for wanting to explore the darker side of sex, the pleasure and the pain. Someone who knows when to stop, and when to push beyond. Someone who is also looking for that deep emotional and physical bond that Dr. Alexander described to us.
So, Zoe, wherever you are, I hope you found that guy. For both our sakes.
Zoe glanced up from the letter, her heart thudding. Her mind sifted through the internal revelations unveiled in what was supposed to be an innocent letter written by a naive college student. Instead it planted seeds of troubling thoughts. What if the naive letter writer had had more insight and wisdom than her grown-up self? She put her hand over her mouth, shaken by the prophetic words she’d written as a young woman.
“Are you okay?” the woman next to her asked kindly.
Zoe turned her head and registered that the woman was beautiful—short, spiky black hair with a pink streak and oddly colored eyes. Maybe violet? It was hard to tell in the low lighting. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I hope that isn’t bad news,” the woman said, nodding to the letter.
Zoe hastily refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. “No. Just a note from an old friend, that’s all.”
